A Time Like No Other Page 11

  ‘Dear God, Lally, I’m sorry . . . that was unforgivable . . . to take advantage . . .’

  ‘It took two of us, Roly,’ she murmured. ‘The blame was not all yours . . .’

  ‘I am a man and should know better. Sweet Jesus, you are the wife of my dearest friend.’

  ‘Widow.’

  ‘That does not excuse what I did. I can only plead . . . you are so sweet and were . . . upset. I have never seen you cry, even when you took some terrible tumbles when we . . .’

  His voice trailed away miserably. He did not know what to say or do. He had never been in such a tricky situation before, since the women he made love to were either of another class who were easily rewarded, or the willing wives of gentlemen who themselves had mistresses. Lally was a woman from his own society, a lady, and therefore beyond his reach and yet he had thrown her to the ground and taken her like a common whore. Well, perhaps not that, for she had been as eager as he but nevertheless he was caught in a situation from which he did not know how wriggle. He was very fond of Lally, very fond indeed and she was fond of him but her true love had been Chris. But she was a woman, a passionate woman who had been deprived of the enchantment of physical love for many months and had been easy prey! God in heaven, how that made him feel the lowest, most base creature that could be called a man but it was done now and she seemed calm about it.

  ‘You must not feel badly, dear Roly, I wanted it, needed it and now let us forget it ever happened. The customs of our society would have it that a woman does not share the . . . the physical feelings of a man but it is not true. I have been . . . deprived of love ever since Chris died and you . . . how can I describe it without being crude but you will know what I mean. Now then, let us forget it happened, or if we can’t forget look on it as a . . . happy interlude between two friends. So, help me up on to my horse and let us get home. I think it might be wise if you were not to come to the Priory again before your trip. Biddy is . . . she might suspect there is something different about us and . . . So, when you come home I hope you will visit me, as a friend, and in the meanwhile I will set about guarding my sons’ inheritance which I have sadly neglected these past weeks. Roly.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t look so tragic. We have shared a moment that was . . . pleasing to us both. Now let’s get home.’

  She bade him farewell at the back of the house, just where the woods ran down to the rear of Cowslip Farm, waving to Elsie Graham who was in her yard feeding her hens. She appeared to feel nothing but a strange langour which she supposed came from Roly’s lovemaking and which she remembered from what seemed a long time ago. Chris . . . oh Chris . . . !

  She took the children for a walk that afternoon, Alec in the baby carriage that she and Chris had ordered from Hitchings Baby Stores in London when Jamie was born with no thought of the price or where the money was to be obtained. It was large, high-backed and had three wheels, just like the one Her Majesty the Queen had bought for the royal princes and princesses. How proud they had been of their baby son and how enthusiastically they had taken to parenthood, wheeling their son about the grounds until Chris had grown bored, since he preferred the rough and tumble of the nursery floor.

  Jamie, two years old now and fast becoming the ruler of the household, demanding and getting the adoring attention of all the servants, swooped and dived about the garden, stopping every now and again to crouch down to study a leaf, a worm, something that aroused his boy’s curiosity while his brother, who could crawl now and according to his devoted nanny was ready to walk, wailed his frustration at being trapped in the baby carriage. She took them to see the horses in the paddock, Blossom, the cob who pulled the gig, Merry, her own chestnut mare, Ebony, Chris’s coal-black gelding and Jeb, the dale pony. They all four ambled across the rough grass to greet the newcomers and Jamie, delighted with them and demanding to ride Ebony, climbed on the fence and was ready to jump into the paddock with the intention of climbing on the gelding’s back.

  ‘Me ride, Mama,’ he demanded. ‘Me ride Papa’s horse,’ for Lally had told him of his dead father and he had accepted the truth easily, since he was a child of the nursery and Chris had been a distant, exciting figure in his young life but hardly to be missed.

  ‘Not yet, darling. Ebony’s too big for you but soon Carly will put you on Jeb’s back and teach you to ride. You will come with Mama up on to the moors and we will—’

  ‘Now, Mama, ride now. Me can ride . . .’

  ‘I can ride, Jamie,’ she rebuked him absently, but Jamie did not understand, wriggling to reach the horses just beyond the fence. Screaming his resentment, he was removed and plonked in the baby carriage with Alec, who screamed in sympathy and Lally was glad to hand them over to Dora, who told Jenny privately that she did wish Miss Lally would not take the babies out and bring them back so excited they took her, Dora, hours to calm down.

  She sat that evening beside the fire in her bedroom, the pretty bedroom she had created for her and Chris when she married him and her thoughts would not be turned away from what had happened that morning. She felt a shiver pass through her and knew it was a shiver of delight. She was fulfilled, for the moment, as a woman, but she knew it would not last. She missed the times she and Chris had shared their loving in the lavender-scented bed in the centre of the room. They had loved in the pearly grey light of dawn, in firelight and candlelight and her heart ached for those times and for him. But today, for the space of half an hour, she had known great joy through another man’s body so did that make her love for Chris any the less? She was life and warmth, vital and strong, and needed a man in her life, but that did not make her promiscuous, surely.

  She sighed deeply, staring sightlessly into the flames of the fire. Roly would not come back into her life, she realised that, for it would be too much for both of them. What had happened today had parted them for ever and the sadness of it washed over her in great waves of pain.

  The door opened and Biddy came into the room, her eyes taking in the desolation of her young mistress, knowing its cause, at least part of it. But she was glad he had gone. He was not to be part of Miss Lally’s life after all and she was relieved, for perhaps with him gone Harry Sinclair might once more call at the Priory. Miss Lally needed his help. Roly Sinclair had made her laugh but would he be there when she wept? Biddy doubted it!

  9

  She knew within three weeks that she was pregnant. Her fertile womb which had quickened so effortlessly to Chris had done so again with Roly! What should have come a week ago had failed to appear and she, who was as regular as clockwork, knew the full horror of her predicament. Predicament! What a pathetic word to use to describe the terrible situation she was in. It was as though she were bemoaning the weather on a day when she had planned a garden party; that she had a head cold or was suffering any number of inconsequential occurrences come to plague her. She was pregnant. She was a woman whose husband had been dead for almost a year and she was to have a child. Roly Sinclair’s child! The worst thing that could happen to a woman was happening to her and her mind was stunned with the shock of it, the dread of it and she had no one in whom she could confide. No one to say there was no need to worry as it would all come right, for it wouldn’t come right. Her life would be in ruins, worse than it was now, for the tenants on her farms, who were, most of them at least, friendly and welcoming, would turn against her because even in their class it was a disgrace, for the culprit and for her family, to bear a child out of wedlock. It was not so long ago when a girl would be thrust from the family home, beaten from the village, forced into a life worse than death – prostitution – to support herself and her child. It would not happen to her, of course, since she had a home, she was mistress of her own destiny and could not be turned on to the streets but her life and the future of her sons would never be the same again.

  Since Roly’s disappearance from her life she had done her best to keep busy, spending hours in the estate office poring over the books on farming Harry had given her and going over the ac
counts and records of the farms on the estate. She had had Merry saddled, side-saddle, as though conscious of her different state and, wearing the riding habit, top hat, gloves and boots that were the convention of her class and gender, had visited all the farms, watching the reapers swathing across the corn harvest, the sheaves standing to dry and later being collected and formed into a rick shaped at the top like a roof. It had been a warm, dry summer and the harvest had been a great success which boded well for her rents. Those who had sheep had gathered them in and the rams had been put to the ewes and in five months’ time there would be lambs whitening the fields. Ploughing had been done as soon as the fields were free of the corn and winter wheat sown, and root crops, potatoes and mangold gathered in and on all the farms there was promise of greater profits. She watched the men on the farms getting ready for the hard winter ahead. They mended dry-stone walls, cut peat and wood, dug ditches, ploughed fields which next year they would plant and weed and harvest. They laid snares to catch predators and saw to their farm tackle which had to be kept in good trim. Broken wheels and ploughshares were taken to the wheelwright or the blacksmith on the edge of Moorend, for Jack Eccles and Bill Andrews kept forge and workshop side by side for convenience. Most of them did well, her tenants. Not that she took any credit for it, but when she voiced this to Biddy she was told not to be a fool.

  ‘Who d’you think encouraged them to take an interest, to plant and sow and . . . and whatever else they do?’ since Biddy knew nothing of farming. ‘Who put money into their farm buildings, new roofs and that? Fences and such like? Who took an interest and showed it, riding round the estate and . . . well, just talking to them, showing your face, letting them see that you were there for them if they had a problem? Polly McGinley was at the back door only the other day delivering eggs, saying she had a tidy little sum put away from her poultry. Made up she was and the rest’s the same. All except them layabouts at Foxwell. Polly was saying they’re still after her Sean for a loan of his plough-horse and the place hardly touched since . . . since you took over. Them lads are still taking our game and what we need is a gamekeeper.’

  Her voice became artless. ‘Why don’t you speak to Mr Sinclair about it, my lamb? He’d soon sort it out. Not that we’ve seen much of him recently what with Mr Roly here all the livelong day and most evenings. He’d be a great help to you if let, would Mr Sinclair, and now that Mr Roly’s taken off and—’

  ‘I can’t keep running to Mr Sinclair every time I have a problem, Biddy. I must learn to work them out myself . . .’ and the worst one is to come in about six months’ time. She couldn’t even tell Biddy at the moment since her head surged with sea waves of terror, confusion, roaming from place to place looking for an answer to her critical dilemma. She was surprised that Biddy had not yet become aware that the ‘curse’, which was not a curse at all, had been missed, for it was Biddy who had care of the clean and soiled clouts used each month by Lally.

  That day she had flung on a pair of breeches and the warm jacket that had been Chris’s, tied a scarf about her neck and with a shout to Carly to saddle Merry, had ridden hell for leather up the track that led to the high moorland. There were heavy, blue-black clouds hanging over the tops heralding a downpour and though the sun shone it would not be long before it vanished behind them. The track was bordered by rough, dry-stone walls, one side broken and scattered so that Merry had to pick her way delicately among the rough stones. The bracken was fading and brown with no living creature moving except the grey sheep, the ewes who had been brought down to the ram and then turned out again to await the bitter winter. No movement apart from a small dot which was coming towards her along the track and which, as it got closer turned out to be a small boy dressed in worn but neatly patched clothing. Breeches too big ending above boots that surely were third or fourth hand, so battered were they. He wore no stockings and his legs gleamed whitely between breeches and boots. His jacket was also too big, the sleeves hanging below his hands, on his head a faded cap with a badly frayed brim. A hand-knitted scarf was tied neatly and securely about his thin neck and fastened with a large safety pin at the back. Someone had put him in it and made sure it did not come loose. Someone who cared about him, and his bright eyes shone with what seemed to Lally to be well-being.

  ‘Mornin’, missis,’ he chimed, doffing his cap politely as he stood to one side of the track.

  ‘Good morning.’ She smiled, quite taken out of herself by the boy’s manners.

  ‘Sam,’ he continued, holding his cap across his chest.

  ‘Sam?’ she queried.

  ‘Aye, tha’ll not remember me, I reckon, but I mind thee.’

  She reined in the mare and turned back to him. ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘It were at mill. You was there along maister. I held tha’—’

  ‘Of course, Sam. I remember. You work for Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘I do that.’ And he said it proudly as though it were an honour to be employed by the great Mr Sinclair. ‘I’m just on me way there now.’

  ‘To the mill?’

  ‘Nay, ter Mr Sinclair’s. ’E sends me mam stuff, ’er not bein’ well, like. Bairn’s due soon an’ she can’t work. Mr Sinclair ses she’s not ter trouble ’ersenn. Me pa’s dead, yer see.’ It was said simply with no demand for sympathy.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ And it was then that the decision was made. ‘I’m about to visit Mr Sinclair myself. Would you mind if I walked along with you, and then, if it would be no bother to your mother, I’ll ride you back to your home and have a word with her. I’d like to meet her if you think . . .’

  ‘Eeh, missis, she’d be made up wi’ it but theer’s no need fer yer ter do that. It’s not far an’—’

  ‘How far is it, Sam?’

  ‘No more’n five mile. I’m used to it.’ He grinned endearingly.

  She looked at his poor battered boots, at his cheerful face, his thin, ill-clad body and she felt her heart wrench. He had no complaint with the world though it treated him so poorly. He had a job, his mam had a roof over her head and Mr Sinclair was a right good chap, his manner said, and she knew the latter was true and that she could go to him in her troubles. He would tell her what she must do, as he had done in the past.

  When she and Sam walked into the yard at the back of Mill House, Harry’s groom, Ben, was currying Harry’s bay, Piper, the strong sweep of his arm smoothing the animal’s satin haunches. He looked surprised but called at once to the second groom.

  ‘Mornin’, Mrs Fraser,’ he said respectfully. ‘Enoch, get you out ’ere ter see ter Mrs Fraser’s horse. Nice day, ma’am,’ he added, turning to look at the urchin beside her.

  ‘Indeed. Is your master at home, d’you know?’ She smiled the lovely radiant smile that made men want to make her laugh, for surely a smile so grand would produce an even grander laugh.

  ‘He is,’ a cool voice from the kitchen doorway said and Harry Sinclair stepped down into the yard. He was hastily throwing on an old jacket, one he probably kept behind the kitchen door, Lally suspected. He did not smile, at least at her but as his glance turned to Sam the corners of his mouth lifted.

  ‘Harry, good morning. I just thought . . . well, I met Sam here on the moor and as he was walking to Mill House I thought I would come with him. It’s been an age since I saw you and . . . well, too long, really . . .’ She knew she was floundering but he made no move to help her out. The two grooms watched curiously and the boy moved from foot to foot, evidently sensing something though he was not old enough to know what.

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Lally. May I offer you a drink? Something to warm you before you ride home.’ It was a deliberate slap in the face, telling her that he would be the courteous host but that she was not particularly welcome.

  She did her best not to recoil. ‘Thank you, I would like that. I wanted to . . . to speak to you.’

  ‘You have a problem?’ he asked politely.

  Lord, you might say that, her anguished mind quavered insid
e her. Her heart turned over as fear overtook her again because she had thought, subconsciously she supposed, that as she had done in the past she could go to Harry with any problem, any troubles she might have and he would find a solution. It seemed it was not so.

  He turned to the boy. ‘Mrs Cannon has your parcel, Sam. Tell your mother—’

  ‘No, don’t go without me, Sam.’ Lally looked up into Harry’s face. ‘I promised Sam a ride back to his home. I would like to meet his mother, you see . . .’

  ‘Why?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Why not? If there is anything I can do for her and Sam . . . perhaps work when the . . . Sam tells me she is expecting a child . . .’ And her plight is so close to my own that I feel compelled to help her. She had a husband and though he is dead she will not be ostracised as I will be. The thoughts whirled in her head and the tension in her must have reached him, for he dropped his shoulders which he had not realised he was holding so stiffly.

  ‘Come in and Mrs Cannon will give you some hot chocolate. If you wish to talk about the farms I’ll—’

  ‘It’s not the farms,’ she blurted. Her hand rose as though in supplication and at once the love he had for her cast out the pain, the anger, the feeling of rejection he had known since Roly came home and swept her off her feet. He opened the kitchen door wider.

  ‘Come inside, and you, Sam, wait in the kitchen. Mrs Cannon will give you a drink or something.’

  The servants watched in bemusement as their master hurried Mrs Fraser through their workplace, through the door and into the passage that led to the parlour. ‘A pot of chocolate, if you please, Mrs Cannon,’ he told his housekeeper as he banged the door to behind them.