Amanda Grange - Rebecca’s Refusal

Once it was done Rebecca examined the high chignon critically to make sure it was tidy. She fluffed the ringlets round her face, then thanking Susan she stood up.

“Your gloves, Miss Rebecca,” said Susan, handing Rebecca her long white evening gloves. “And don't forget your shawl.”

Rebecca took up the beautiful spider-silk shawl and draped it elegantly over her shoulders. There would be time enough later, when she had reached Mrs Renwick's house and had warmed right through, to let it slip elegantly and fashionably down into the crook of her arms.

And then Rebecca was ready. Going downstairs she found Louisa already waiting for her. Louisa's eyes were sparkling, and in her new tawny gown she looked lovely. Edward would be a fool if he did not want to marry her, Rebecca thought.

The clock chimed the hour. “I believe we should be going,” said Rebecca.

“Yes,” agreed Louisa.

They went out to the carriage.

As they did so Rebecca felt a shiver of presentiment; as though something momentous was going to happen that very evening.

Then, dismissing the presentiment as nothing more than foolishness, she turned her attention to the evening to come.

As soon as Rebecca entered Mrs Renwick's house she looked round for Joshua. She was eager to see him and discover what he had learnt from Dunn. She could see no sign of him in the hall, however, and moved on to the impromptu ballroom, but here she fared no better. After scanning the brilliantly-dressed people for any sign of him, she realized he had not yet arrived.

“Oh, my, doesn't it look lovely,” said Louisa.

The ballroom did indeed look lovely. It was brightly decorated with such greenery as could be found so early in the year, all displayed in delightful porcelain vases. Together with the highly- polished mirrors, the glittering chandeliers, and the silk-and-satin clad guests, it was a splendid sight.

The most important people in Manchester were all gathered together, Rebecca noted with interest, turning her attention to the other guests. Mill owners, politicians, and a smattering of titled and other fashionable young men, together with their wives and sisters. There were also a number of eligible young ladies, fluttering around in their white muslin gowns.

Louisa's attention was soon claimed by Edward, and Rebecca was quickly accosted likewise.

“Miss Fossington.”

Rebecca's relief vanished as she turned to see Mr Willingham. Ah, well, she would have to greet him politely.

“May I say you are looking truly exquisite this evening?” he went on, bowing over her hand.

She was made slightly uneasy by the way his eyes ran over her as he straightened up. There was something cold about him, and she had the feeling that he was looking at her in the way he would look at a beautiful painting or a fine piece of china — as though he was calculating her worth. However, she was a guest at the ball, and he was a respected gentleman, and so she ignored her distaste and thanked him politely for his compliment.

“And may I also say you are looking remarkably composed.”

Rebecca's eyebrows raised in surprise.

“It cannot be easy to be so calm after what happened this afternoon,” he said.

Her eyebrows raised still further.

“News travels fast,” he explained. “Particularly among the mill owners. My mill is in Stockport, but I still get to hear of things that might be likely to affect business, and the unfortunate attack on you this afternoon is one of them.”

“I hardly think it is likely to affect your business,” she remarked.

“Forgive me, but if the Luddites are active again, it will affect everyone's business.”

“I don't believe — ” Rebecca started to say, before stopping herself.

“You don't believe?” prompted Mr Willingham, looking at her with a deceptively bland expression.

Rebecca remembered Joshua's warning, that Mr Willingham was a skilled conversationalist, and that he was used to getting information from people without them even realizing it. She did not know why, but she felt the less she told Mr Willingham about what she and Joshua suspected, the better. So instead of saying, “I don't believe it was the Luddites who attacked me,” she said instead, “I don't believe it was anything to worry about.”

“You will forgive me if I disagree. When so much beauty is attacked, it must worry the heart of each and every gentleman.” He made her a bow as he said it. “But you must not take the Luddite threat lightly, Miss Fossington. The Luddites are desperate people, and after the daubing on your mill wall, you must take care.”

“You know about that?”

“As I say, Miss Fossington, there is little I don't know about what goes on in and around Manchester. It pays me to know. If you are sensible, you will not ignore them.”

“I assure you, you need have no concern on my account,” said Rebecca coolly. “The whole matter was trivial, and not worth worrying about.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Even so, the Luddites are no respecters of persons and although this attack may have been trivial, the next one may be more serious.” He stopped himself, and then said, “Not that there will be a next one, I'm sure. But it is perhaps worth remembering that the streets of Manchester are not always safe, particularly if one ventures off the major thoroughfares.”

How does he know I ventured off the major thoroughfares? wondered Rebecca. Was it really, as he said, that the local mill owners came to hear of anything unusual that happened to one of their number? Or could he be having her followed?

No, of course not. The idea was nonsensical. It was true he seemed to have an interest in her, but as she was an eligible young lady with a handsome dowry, to say nothing of owning half a mill, that in itself was perhaps not so surprising. But not even the most ardent suitor would have a young lady followed, and on so short an acquaintance.

A new and even more unwelcome thought occurred to her. Was it possible that he was in some way responsible for the attacks, both on Joshua and the mill?

But no. She dismissed the idea. Mr Willingham may have something to gain by paying court to her, if that court was successful, but he could have nothing to gain by setting fire to the mill, or by killing Joshua. On the contrary, he would have something to lose. Marsden mill provided Mr Willingham's mill with the cotton it needed for weaving and dyeing, and if anything happened to disrupt Marsden mill, it would also disrupt the supply of the cotton. And Mr Willingham needed the cotton if his own business was to be run profitably.

And besides, he may not know she had wandered off the main streets at all. It may have been no more than a guess. So she replied to his comment with a polite nothing. “No, indeed,” she said. “It would not do to forget that the streets of Manchester are not always safe. It is, as you say, necessary to be careful.”

He made her another bow. Then said, changing the subject, “But all this talk of attacks and Luddites is out of place in a ballroom. You must forgive me for having mentioned it. It is only my concern for your well-being that prompted me to speak. But let us talk of other things. You have not forgotten that you have promised me your hand for the first dance, I hope?”

“No, indeed I have not.”

He glanced at the small orchestra, who were just tuning their instruments. “Before it begins, would you do me the very great favour of allowing me to introduce you to my mother?”

Rebecca readily assented. She found that she had little to say to Mr Willingham, and the diversion of meeting his mother was a welcome one. Besides, she and Louisa were engaged to take dinner with Mrs Willingham, and Rebecca was curious to see what sort of person she might be.

Mr Willingham led her over to the far side of the room, where an old woman with sharp, bright eyes was sitting. Mrs Willingham was swathed in black from head to foot, and wrapped up in a voluminous black shawl.

Mr Willingham made the introductions and Rebecca greeted his mother politely. But the same cold feeling came over her as it had done when Mr Willingham had paid her a compliment.

Willingham is ambitious, Joshua had told her, and she could well believe it. And she could also believe it of his mother. There was something cold and calculating about her. Even her continued wearing of mourning for a husband who had been dead for more than ten years seemed calculated, as though she wanted to stand out in any gathering and knew that wearing black would always allow her to do it. Of the late departed Mr Willingham she spoke only in the most scathing terms, leading Rebecca to realize she did not continue to wear mourning out of love or respect for her husband.

Rebecca made some observations on the size of the room and the elegance of the gathering, but Mrs Willingham did nothing to help her maintain a polite flow of conversation. Instead, she watched Rebecca with shrewd eyes, before finally saying, “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Fossington.”

Rebecca flushed. The sentence, whilst seeming to be polite, was an unmistakable dismissal.

“Please don't mind my mother,” said Mr Willingham, seeing her flush, as he led her away. “She is an old lady, and often in pain. It can make her rather abrupt.”

Rebecca made a polite rejoinder, but she did not altogether believe Mr Willingham, and felt he was making an excuse for his mother's bad manners.

However, the orchestra was striking up the opening chords of the first dance. She took his hand and together they went out onto the floor.