Flint and Roses by Brenda Jagger Page A

so Sir Robert Peel, well aware that his own career would probably be demanded as a sacrifice, forced his Bill for Repeal of the Corn Laws though a hostile House of Commons, persuaded the Duke of Wellington, who still did not believe in it, to put it before a well-nigh hysterical House of Lords.
    â€˜God damn the traitor Robert Peel’, they said of him in the agricultural shires, the manor houses, the green and pleasant corners of our land.
    â€˜So he’s seen sense at last’, they said in the Old Swan, the Piece Hall, the factory yard. ‘And not before time, either.’
    And although Peel himself was forced, predictably, to resign his premiership soon after, the ports at last were open, bread would be cheap again, cheapening the cost of labour with it, and Cullingford cloth—Barforth cloth—could be acknowledged as the marvel it was in every corner of the world.
    â€˜We should do something for Sir Robert Peel,’ Aunt Hannah announced at the Repeal Dinner—one of many—which she had organized in celebration. We asked the poor man for Free Trade, and now that he has given it to us, and ruined himself in the process, it would seem appropriate to put aside our grievances about the income tax and write him a letter of gratitude. In fact, it is no more than common politeness and may do him a world of good—for he can’t quite like being out of office. I know I shouldn’t like it.
    And, since Aunt Hannah had a draft letter in Jonas’s elegant copperplate most conveniently to hand, it was considered, agreed, signed Barforth, Hobhouse, Oldroyd, Mandelbaum—not Winterton, of course, and certainly not Flood, since both these gentlemen would be fully occupied now in trying to sell their corn as best they could on a free market—and dispatched.
    â€˜The dear man has sent a most cordial reply,’ Aunt Hannah told us a few weeks later, ‘although I hardly know what may be done with it, since we have no town hall, no official building of any kind in which to display it’; and it was no surprise to us that when Sir Robert’s correct, somewhat stilted letter had been passed from hand to hand, it made its final appearance, neatly framed and pressed, neither at Nethercoats nor Tarn Edge but in Aunt Hannah’s own drawing-room at Lawcroft Fold.
    My mother returned home for Caroline’s birthday dance, descending upon us unlooked-for one afternoon, delighted with our surprise, although I did not miss the faint wrinkling of her nose as she entered the drawing-room, the gesture of one who, having grown accustomed to sunshine and sea-breezes, did not at all relish the taste of stale air again.
    â€˜How dark it is’, she said. ‘Will the curtains really not open any wider? No, I suppose not, but then it is so light abroad—France all sparkle, and Italy so pink and gold, that I had forgotten how grey—Ah, well, that was yesterday and now I am quite recovered from my ills and come home to introduce myself to my daughters—for really, girls we have been sadly little acquainted. See, I have brought you all a present, lots of presents—’
    And suddenly her magpie hands were full of froth and glitter pink silk and blue silk, bracelets and earrings of coral and enamel and tiny seed-pearls, feather fans and lace fans, and extravagant lengths of embroidered, foreign-looking brocade.
    â€˜I thought you would want something to wear—I always did so at your age—and, unless you particularly desire to continue it, it strikes me you may leave off your weeds now. Six months, is it not? My word, six months! Well I must stay in black for another year and more, and then run through all the shades of grey and lavender, but you are not widows, after all, but young ladies who are allowed to be vain. Goodness, Faith, these blue bows and sashes and little rosebuds will do admirably for Celia, but you are so—so grown, I suppose. Dear girl, no