Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield Page B

end of the afternoon and half the evening, not knowing what he did. His thoughts were as muddled as a barrow load of wool roving on its way to the spinning house. His chest meanwhile was overfull of beating heart and flighty breath and urgent jabbing sensations.
    As he walked home, the sky that was losing its light seemed full of ill-defined menace. He wanted walls around him, a roof over his head, and Rose’s arms. He shrank from looking at the leafy canopies of the trees that rustled in the dark, and was relieved when he came to the door of the cottage.
    “William Bellman, what has become of you? You gave me your word you would come home, and you have been at the mill for hours.”
    Rose was too mindful of the sleeping children to shout, instead she hissed her anger. “Have you forgotten you have a home? Have you given one thought to your children these last days? Have you once thought of me? Because we think of nothing but you, and this is how you repay us!”
    Though she averted her face, hands plunged in a sink of water, he saw the gleam of tears on her cheeks.
    He glanced at the table. It was late to be clearing the meal away.
    “We waited for you. We waited though the children were hungry. We waited because you had been at the funeral and we wanted to comfort you!”
    William sank to his knees in the corner of the kitchen. His fists rose to his eyes, the way his sons’ did when they wept, but he did not weep. His shoulders shook, and the pain in his chest rose up and stabbed at the back of his throat, choking him, yet he could not weep.
    He heard the soft placing of the plates Rose was washing, and then she was crouching beside him, drying her hands on a cloth. Her still-damp arms enfolded him and he felt her cheek resting on the top of his head.
    “I’m sorry. The day of the funeral . . . He was a father to you, William. I’m so sorry.”
    She fed him morsels of bread and cheese. She sliced late plums for him. She took him to bed where they made love with sudden intensity. Afterward they fell instantly asleep in each other’s arms.
    The next morning William slipped out of the warm bed before dawn and went to the mill.
    ·  ·  ·
    The mill lost not an hour in productivity. William did his uncle’s job at the same time as continuing to do half of his own. Ned took on a good deal for him in the office, and he had Rudge and Crace and the others to do the rest. There were a few younger men he had noted: reliable, intelligent, willing, and he let them know there were opportunities. The time it cost him to train them up to what he wanted was time he could ill afford. But it was an investment. In four to six months, he would reap the benefit as they grew into the roles he envisaged for them. And who else to teach them but him? A number of others he called and laid off. Shirkers, unreliable types, men you couldn’t quite trust. If Stroud wanted men, let them first have the ones he selected for them . . .
    Every day he made himself available to whoever wanted him. Essential that all should know this was not a captainless ship. Confidence was the essence of the matter. So all day long he made himself visible. He went wherever he was wanted. He answered questions, trivial and serious, brief and involved. He spoke to foremen, clerks, weavers, shearers, fullers, dyers, porters, and spinsters. He never passed Mute Greg without a nod of the head, and if he was near enough, the donkey received a reassuring pat. All must know the mill was in safe hands.
    Only when the mill was quiet was there time to pore over the papers,to tally figures, check off orders, write letters. And when that was done, there were his uncle’s personal finances to manage. He settled small debts out of his own pocket, saw that Mrs. Lane had the housekeeping she needed, paid the gardener, spoke to the bank manager.
    “How long will this go on?” Rose asked at the end of a week when William had worked seventeen hours a day every day.