Free Flint and Roses by Brenda Jagger Page B

waiting, on what now threatened to be a rainy day, on the platform in Leeds. And clenching his watch in a hand that shook with frustration—the, unpalatable, amazing truth that he, of whom the whole of Cullingford stood in terror, could not always control his sons—toe strode back to Aunt Verity, glaring first at her and then at Nicholas.
    â€˜Good God, Verity, this is intolerable.’
    â€˜I know. You must go without him. Joel. And there may be a good reason.’
    â€˜Aye—he may have taken a fall from that thoroughbred mare I bought him and broken his neck. But it’s not likely.’
    â€˜I do hope not.’
    â€˜No—and he’ll not be at the mill either, so engrossed in his work that everything else has slipped his mind. I can guarantee you that.’ And turning to Nicholas he said curtly, his voice amounting to a snap of the fingers. ‘All right, lad, you’ve got what you wanted. Get on board in his place.’
    That, of course, should have been the end of it. Had Nicholas been less a Barforth, he would have jumped immediately on board, chuckling at his own good fortune and the retribution which must surely be in store for his brother. Had Uncle Joel been less a Barforth, he would have issued the invitation a shade more graciously, since in his heart he was probably just as willing to take Nicholas as Blaize, and had indeed tried his best to take them both. But—unlike Blaize and Aunt Verity, who would always bend, most gracefully, with the wind—they were true Barforths, hard and unyielding, who would take the wind by brute force if they could, to suit their own purposes, or the in the attempt. And, as Uncle Joel began to turn away, considering the matter closed, Nicholas said very quietly, ‘I don’t think I can do that sir.’
    â€˜Don’t you, by God!’ his father answered him, his lips barely moving, and, as those nearest to us began to press closer, eager to witness the stag-antlered combat of the Barforth males, which was becoming a legend in the Valley. Aunt Verity put a hand on her husband’s arm, her whole body flowing towards him in urgent, loving intervention.
    â€˜Not here, Joel. Please, darling—’
    But, realizing that he could see nothing now beyond his conflict with Nicholas, a man like himself, too stubborn in his pride to care for retribution. I cannot believe she hoped to prevail.
    For a very long time—or so it seemed—with curious, envious, malicious Cullingford buzzing and bustling all around them, they stood and measured one another a raw contest of wills that tightened the air.
    â€˜You’ll get on that train, Nicholas.’
    â€˜Hardly, sir.’
    â€˜Nicholas—you’ll do it.’
    â€˜I don’t see how I can, sir. Eldest sons—that’s what you decided. No exceptions, no matter what the circumstances—that’s what you told me when I asked. And I’m needed at the mill because it won’t run itself. You told me that, too.’
    And knowing of old that he would have to haul Nicholas by the scruff of his neck into that train—and wondering, perhaps, if at fifty years of age he could still manage it—my uncle snarled something very low, doubtless very obscene, and, with a gesture that struck terror certainly into my heart, strode away.
    No one spoke to Nicholas as the flags began to wave again, the train to draw slowly out of the station, Mr. Hobhouse beaming jovially from his window, Mr. Mandelbaum from his. No one spoke to him as he shouldered a way for us through the crowded station-yard to our carriages, although we all spoke heartily, quite falsely, to one another.
    â€˜I am so glad the rain has kept off,’ Aunt Verity said.
    â€˜Yes. I knew it would.’ Aunt Hannah replied, ‘I had quite made up my mind to it.’
    â€˜It would have ruined the marquee otherwise,’ I offered, trying to play my part.
    â€˜I think I have