A Time Like No Other Page 12

  They sat, one on either side of the fire which crackled cheerfully in the grate, saying nothing, for they had nothing to say, at least about mundane matters and when Ivy entered with the tray bearing a pot of chocolate with cups, saucers and a plate of Mrs Cannon’s delicious almond macaroons, Harry waited until the maid had left before speaking.

  ‘Will you pour?’ he asked her politely, which she did.

  Then, ‘What is it, Lally?’ His voice was gentle now, for he could see she was deeply troubled.

  She put her cup down carefully, not looking at him as she did so.

  ‘It seems I’m to have a baby.’ The words were flat, expressionless as though she were telling him that her mare was to foal. ‘I shouldn’t bring this to you but I don’t know who else to tell . . .’ and as she spoke she wondered dazedly why this should be. Why should she turn to this one man when she was troubled, and not just troubled but desperate? Why could she not have confided in Biddy who might have been able to help her, perhaps with . . . well, she knew of Biddy’s early days and the profession she had followed so surely she might have known of some potion – something – that would get rid of the burden she carried. Why had she come here? The answer was unclear to her!

  She sat with her head bent, staring at her hands and waited, and had she looked at Harry she would have been shocked. The blow hit him just below his ribs, like the blow a prize-fighter’s fist might have struck. And it had the same effect. The air left his lungs and he felt himself begin to fold over, at the same time thanking God he was seated or he might have collapsed. He could not speak, nor hardly think. His brain became numb, the only thought remaining was his thanks to God again that he was not standing, for he knew he wanted to strike her, hit her flat across her face and knock her down since she had taken something from him that was the most precious thing he had known. Oh, he still loved her and always would but he hated her too.

  She did not speak nor look at him, but plucked at something in her lap. Then, with a jerk of her head she looked up at him and was horrified by his expression. His face was the colour of clay, his eyes wide, flat, muddy and his mouth had become a thin line of what seemed to her to be pain. She started to rise, to go to him but he put up a trembling hand to stop her.

  ‘Roly’s?’

  His voice sounded strange.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he shall be brought home and you must be married.’ His voice was harsh, gritty, as though he had sand in his throat.

  ‘Oh no!’ She stood up jerkily and he stared at her, appalled.

  ‘What . . .’

  ‘I can’t marry Roly. He doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. He won’t want to marry me.’

  ‘Bugger what he wants.’

  ‘No . . . oh, no, Harry. I couldn’t marry a man . . . force him to marry me. What sort of a life would we live? No.’

  He had recovered some of his composure. ‘Tell me this. If you don’t love one another how did you come to be in such a bloody mess?’

  ‘Oh, Harry . . .’ She sighed and sat down disconsolately. ‘It was a . . . a thing of the moment. I suppose I missed Chris and . . . what we had . . .’

  ‘In bed, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you and Roly——’ Here he used a word she had never heard before but she supposed it to be one men used to describe coarsely what went on between the sexes.

  ‘It was . . . we were fond of one another; he was leaving and I was upset and . . .’

  ‘So you——one another.’ Again he used the word and his face bore such an expression of disgust and contempt she wanted to weep. Somehow she had missed what this man felt for her, though she had not realised it at the time, and the slow death she had struck him was more than he could manage.

  He stood up abruptly and strode to the window, a jerky stride as though he were no longer in control of his legs. He stared out at the garden which was just beginning to lose its summer glory. Though he was not a man for such things as flowers and gardens he employed men who were clever and ‘green-fingered’ as they said, and it had been a picture. Dying roses still nodded in the slight breeze. A landscaped greenery had been cut from the otherwise bare hillside, fragrant with lavender and carnations and over it all the sun still shone though in his heart there was nothing but a frozen wasteland. She was to have his brother’s child and he could simply not bear it. She had loved Chris Fraser and had two boys with him but she had been pure, a married woman doing what women of their day did. A home, children, a life that was virtuous, above reproach, but this with his brother, though she had already made love and borne a man a child, two children, was obscene, dirty!

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked her. He stood with his hands behind his back, rigidly in control now and she wanted to weep, for herself, for him, and for the child she was to bear.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose Biddy might know of a remedy, or perhaps some woman who would—’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ he snarled, whirling to face her. ‘Let some woman with a dirty knitting needle tear your insides out, perhaps kill you, and the child.’

  ‘But I can’t—’

  ‘There is only one thing to do and you know it, or why should you come to me.’

  ‘Harry . . . ?’ she faltered.

  ‘You must marry me.’

  She rode with Sam as far as the house where he and his mother lived. He climbed up in front of her, quiet, uneasy, for the master and Mrs Fraser seemed so . . . he didn’t know how to describe it since he was only a child but their faces were turned from each other as they bade one another farewell. ‘I will call on you tomorrow, Lally,’ the master had said and Mrs Fraser had bowed her head in agreement. That was all.

  Susan Harper was astonished when her son entered the room they rented in the tumbling old house on the edge of Moorend, leading a lady by the hand. She was a lovely young lady, though she was pale and strained and her eyes had a curiously defenceless look, which Susan recognised at once, for she saw them each day in her own face when she peered into the scrap of mirror she had on a shelf above her bed.

  ‘Sam, lad?’ she questioned softly, her hand going to caress her son’s rough tumble of uncut hair. ‘’Oo’st this then?’ She smiled, one of the sweetest smiles Lally had ever seen and at once the two women, two women from totally different classes, began what was to be a friendship that would last them until death.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ Lally said. ‘Forgive this intrusion but I met your son,’ smiling down at the bright-faced boy, ‘on the track to Mill House. I travelled with him and then gave him a ride back on Merry. It’s a long way for a boy to walk . . . oh, please, I am not criticising,’ for the mother looked abject with contrition. ‘I know he has to work but Mr Sinclair is a kind master. He has sent you the . . . package. Sam has it. Dear me, how I do go on but I am—’

  ‘Wilta come in, ma’am?’ Sam’s mother asked diffidently, for this woman would not be used to the conditions in which she and her son lived. The houses had once been lived in by the rising industrialists, the woollen men who had long since built fine mansions beyond the town’s boundaries. With the influx of the Irish, the workless, the homeless, the families seeking work, the houses had been split up into rooms, even the cellars housing them, but at least she and Sam had a window in their room and could look out on to the rambling lane that led into town.

  ‘I’m Mrs Fraser. Lally Fraser. I am a . . . a friend of Mr Sinclair’s.’

  ‘Aye, our Sam told me. Me name’s Susan Harper but yer welcome ter . . . sit thee down if tha’ve a mind.’ She was obviously troubled but Lally was not to know that Susan Harper, teetering forever on the edge of poverty, had nothing to offer her in the way of refreshments and she felt it keenly. She did not really know who this lady was who had brought her lad home, nor why, but nevertheless she indicated to Lally that she should sit in the only chair the room possessed. There was a meagre fire in the ancient range as this had once been the kitchen of the old house and a
kettle simmered on it but unless Mr Sinclair had sent a packet of tea she could not even offer this lady a drink.

  Lally sensed Susan Harper’s unease. Sam’s mother was enormous, her belly swelling the clean apron she wore. She clasped her hands beneath it as though to support the weight of the child inside her, hovering at Lally’s back, ushering her politely to the chair but Lally could see the circles under her eyes and the tired droop to the soft mouth and knew that Susan longed to sit down in the chair from which she had just risen.

  ‘No, Mrs Harper, I won’t stay. I have to get back to my own children but I just wanted to make the acquaintance of Sam’s mother.’ She nearly added, ‘I don’t know why,’ she only knew that somehow, again she didn’t know why, this young woman, probably only a few years older than herself, was going to be important to her. They were both to bear a child, Susan Harper before not very long and she wished to help her. The idea that this woman who had worked in the loom gate at Harry’s mill was to return there as soon as her child was born was not one she cared to contemplate. She had taken a great liking to the engaging lad who was Susan’s son and she felt a strong desire to include the pair of them in her new life.

  For she was to have a new life, that was certain. She had listened to Harry and the outline of his plans for them, for her sons and the child she would bear and, knowing she had no choice, she had agreed. She supposed she was in a state of shock, a vacuum through which she must step to reach a safe harbourage. For the sake of Jamie and Alec Fraser she must do as he wished, for if she tried to get through this on her own it would not be just her who would suffer but the innocent children she already had. She had no choice!

  ‘I wish you well, Mrs Harper,’ she murmured as she turned to go from the achingly neat but bare room. ‘I will come again, if I may. Perhaps Sam will let me know when your child is born and . . . well, I will ride over.’

  She took Susan Harper’s thin hand between her own, smiling, then ran across the lane to where she had tethered Merry. She leaped on to her back and with a wave of her hand cantered in the direction of the moorland track that would take her home.

  10

  They were married three weeks later, the bridegroom insisting on it and though the whole of Moorend was buzzing with it when it became known, the married couple were oblivious to the furore. The bride existed in a state of blind acceptance as she had done for the past three weeks. She felt as though she were under a glass dome, one of those that housed dried flowers and birds and which were so popular on chiffoniers in the best homes. She could see out but though it was made of glass no one could see or hear her.

  She was pale and slender, her pregnancy not as yet visible, as she stood beside Harry at the altar of a small church in White Cross, a village where neither of them were known. Harry had arranged for the banns to be called and on a still, fine day at the end of October, accompanied by a bewildered Biddy, they exchanged their vows in a church empty of all but the two of them, the minister and her. A carriage awaited them at the lych gate where it had dropped them before the ceremony and the three of them, in total silence, were driven back to the Priory. There were no celebrations, no toasts, no champagne.

  Though Biddy was delighted by the news that her lass was to be safe and cared for by Mr Sinclair she was aghast and suspicious of this sudden decision to marry. After all, Miss Lally had been squired around Moorend and even into Halifax by Mr Sinclair’s own brother, Roly. The talk of the parish, they had been, causing such scandal not one of their previous acquaintances had called at the Priory for weeks. Hours they had spent, laughing and talking in the drawing room, even singing at the piano which Miss Lally could play by ear, ‘Are You Going to Scarborough Fair’, ‘Early One Morning’, ‘Believe Me if all Those Endearing Young Charms’, and many others, their voices reaching the kitchen where Jenny and Clara hummed along with them as they washed up the dinner pots. They had ridden up on to the high moors, taking paths once trodden by packhorses, coming home flushed and smiling, and only the good Lord knew what they got up to. Biddy had been worried to death and even tried to remonstrate with Miss Lally but she had taken no heed, saying that it was wonderful to be with someone who made her laugh for a change.

  Now, right out of the blue and only two months after Mr Roly had gone off on his travels, and with no sight nor sound of Mr Sinclair, Mr Harry Sinclair, in all that time, Miss Lally comes home and casually announces that she and Harry Sinclair were to be wed.

  ‘What!’ Biddy had sat down heavily in the nearest chair, her hand to her heart and her face like a drift of snow.

  ‘Harry and I are to be married . . .’

  ‘Dear God, child, I heard you the first time but I’m so stunned I just can’t believe it. Only a month or two back you were—’

  ‘I know. Roly and I were . . . good friends but he would not make a good husband or father to my boys so . . .’

  ‘You’re to marry Mr Harry! Just like that! And what I want to know is how has this come about?’ She shook her head in bewilderment then moved across the room, dragging Lally round to face her. Lally was pacing restlessly about her pretty bedroom. It seemed she could not settle nor could she look Biddy in the eyes.

  ‘It’s something that . . . that is convenient to us.’

  ‘Convenient! You talk about it as if it was a business arrangement, like . . . like one firm that is going to sell out to another or summat. There’s summat be’ind this.’ As she did when she was upset Biddy lapsed into the northern brogue of her early days. She turned towards the door abruptly. ‘I shall ’ave a word wi’ Mr Sinclair,’ just as though she were to be off this very minute to the Mill House or High Clough, wherever the chap happened to be and get this silly nonsense sorted out!

  ‘No, you will not, Biddy.’ Lally whirled to face Biddy’s retreating back. ‘This is between Harry and myself. We have . . . have always been fond of one another and have come to believe that marriage between us would be in our best interests. My sons will have a father and a home.’

  ‘They’ve got a ’ome.’

  ‘A proper home where money isn’t so damned hard to find. A decent education at a decent school. Ponies of their own to learn to ride, all the things they would have had if Chris hadn’t died.’

  ‘Mr Chris hadn’t two farthings ter rub tergether.’ Biddy’s voice was savage with fear. ‘What’s be’ind this, my lass? You’ve never bin bothered about brass before, an’ neither was Mr Chris. Now, all of a sudden yer tekken up wi’ the need fer ponies an’ such. So tell me this. D’yer love ’im like ’e loves you?’

  Lally caught Biddy’s arm as she opened the door. Her face was a picture of astonishment. ‘What the devil d’you mean by that?’ Her hand was cruel on Biddy’s flesh and Biddy winced.

  ‘D’yer meant ter say yer don’t know what that chap really feels for yer? I’ve sin it as clear as day though I’ll grant yer he does his best to ’ide it. So ’appen he’s caught yer on the rebound like, though who from I don’t know. Chris Fraser or Roly Sinclair. As like as two peas in a pod they were, harum-scarum pair, and I reckon that’s why yer took up wi’ Mr Roly ’cos he was so like Mr Chris, but Mr Sinclair’s a different kettle of fish altogether so think on. There’s more to this than meets the eye, lady, an’ I mean ter find out what it is. Now, let go of me arm fer I’ve things to attend to. Just let me know when the bridegroom’s coming over to inspect his new home because if I know Mr Sinclair he’ll want to change things to his own satisfaction. He’s used to living in luxury is Mr Sinclair and when he moves in here he’ll want the very best.’

  Biddy swept from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  And so here they were, Harry moving about the drawing room picking up objects as though debating whether to keep them or chuck them away as rubbish, evidently inspecting what was to be his new home and deciding what was to be altered while the fascinated Jenny, who was serving the hot chocolate her new master had ordered, watched closely so that she might report back to the kitchen.
They had all been open-mouthed with astonishment when it had been announced that their little mistress was to wed the wealthy Mr Sinclair, Mr Harry Sinclair, with Mr Chris hardly cold in his grave, but then their mistress really did need looking after what with them boys and the farms and that. She looked like death, poor little thing, Jenny was to tell the others in the kitchen when Mrs Stevens had left the room, though her frock was lovely. The colour of apple blossom, floating about her with a short train and in her hair, which curled about it, was a little cap the same colour as her frock, decorated with pale pink petals. She had a small bouquet attached by satin ribbons to her wrist.

  ‘Will that be all, madam?’ Jenny bobbed a small curtsey.

  ‘Thank you, Jenny. It is Jenny, I believe?’ her new master said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well that will be all, thank you. We will ring if we need anything.’ He was already in command. Jenny scurried from the room, eager to get back to the others, hoping that Mrs Stevens had not yet returned from wherever it was she had gone. The new Mrs Sinclair and her husband did not look like newly weds, at least not in Jenny’s understanding though she had not been married herself. But one of her sisters had and the bridegroom had hardly been able to keep his hands from her and was obviously longing to get her to himself! Mr Sinclair’s groom had delivered a trunk only yesterday which had been placed in the bedroom that Miss Lally had once shared with her dead husband and they were apparently to share the bed, which Jenny had made up this morning while Miss Lally was at the church.

  ‘Perhaps we should order dinner,’ Harry said when Jenny had left the room. ‘You must be tired and an early meal will suit me.’ He was scrupulously polite as he had been for the past three weeks ever since he had told her they must be married. His face was expressionless, as had been Biddy’s when told of it just as though they were arranging some business affair.