A Time Like No Other Page 2

  ‘Mr Sinclair?’ she murmured, allowing her hand to remain in his, aware that beside her Aunt Jane was looking on with disapproval, for after all there were many Moorend folk waiting to offer their condolences, standing behind the tall man who was holding Amalia’s hand for longer than was proper.

  ‘The same, Lally. Roly is abroad and so I came in his place. Would you care to come and sit in the conservatory with me for a moment or two?’ He smiled round at the company, none of whom, even if the occasion allowed it, dared argue with Harry Sinclair, one of the wealthiest, most influential men in the district. His grandfather had built the house in which Harry still lived. His grandfather had been a merchant in his younger days, travelling to Lincolnshire with a string of packhorses for the sheep shearing, choosing his wool then bringing it back to the Pennines to distribute to the workers, combers, spinners and weavers in their cottages. Later, being an astute man of business, it struck him that it would be more profitable to keep the wool for himself, guiding it through all its processes and employ the cottagers to weave it for wages. The hills around Moorend, bare, brown uplands, had a plentiful supply of swift-flowing moorland streams which were needed to drive the waterwheels and his first mill was built and the men and women who had once woven their ‘piece’ and weekly taken it to the Piece Hall in Halifax, with no wool at their disposal were forced to work for Martin Sinclair or starve.

  Harry and Roly, his grandsons, had three mills now, High Clough, West Heath and South Royd. Their looms no longer depended on water for their running power. Power-loom weaving of woollen cloth and the combing of worsted by machinery had presented technical difficulties but these were quickly overcome and when Harry’s father died the woollen trade, which was now concentrated in the West Riding of Yorkshire, grew and prospered. Old towns like Halifax and Leeds were vastly expanded while new towns like Huddersfield were created out of mere hamlets. Robert Sinclair, old Martin’s son, had built the magnificent High Clough Mill which had good lighting, warmth and ventilation and was the biggest in the area. Robert and then Harry Sinclair built West Heath and South Royd in the same manner and during the four years since 1850 the wool textile trade experienced its most rapid expansion.

  Though Lally and Chris Fraser had been as light-hearted as children during the three years of their marriage, laughing their way through the days, romping their way through the nights in the depths of their big bed with no thought for their future or that of any children they might have, since they were barely out of childhood themselves, certain parts of the old house had been fairly well kept. The conservatory was one. Constructed in the early part of the century by Chris’s grandmother who had been a lover of plants, it was, like the rest of the house, somewhat neglected but still had white cane chairs, a fretwork glass ceiling, dozens of plants, a glowing terracotta tiled floor strewn with children’s toys for it was a favourite place at all times of the year. The colour in it, the plants seeming to bloom with scarcely any help, provided a lovely setting and it was here that Biddy often sat with eighteen-month-old Jamie.

  Harry guided Lally to a seat, as she still seemed in a state of shocked confusion. The mourners, left in the drawing room, exchanged glances, wondering whether it was time to take their leave but neither Harry nor Lally seemed to notice them.

  ‘What will you do now, Lally?’ Harry asked casually, bemused by her fragile beauty which was enhanced by the stark black of her gown. The background of lush foliage, a hibiscus, he thought, though he was no gardener, its frilly-petalled crimson flowers hanging down like Japanese lanterns, gave out a subtle fragrance, while to her side was a jasmine plant, beautifully perfumed. At the entrance to the conservatory he could see the housekeeper hovering, keeping a watchful eye on her mistress, and though he was tempted to lean forward and take the hand of the young widow he refrained.

  ‘Do?’ she asked hesitantly.

  He knew she was still unable to think properly, and who could blame her, and he was filled with a sudden urge to protect her. An urge he had never felt before. There were no women in his life, no sisters, no mother and the only females he had anything to do with from time to time were the ones who sold their favours to any man with the money to purchase them. There was one such living in Halifax, a pretty little thing who asked nothing of him but the guineas he gave her, the relationship anything but romantic. But this one was different. He had known her for years, watched her grow up with Roly and Chris but something strange was working in him, something new and he was not sure he liked it.

  ‘Will you stay on here or go back to your . . . er . . . relative in Skircoat? The one who sat beside you on the sofa. I believe you lived with her before you married Chris.’

  She looked bewildered but something was coming alive in her eyes and she was frowning as though she were not sure to what he was referring.

  ‘I’m not certain of your meaning, Mr Sinclair.’

  He smiled. He supposed he must seem quite elderly to someone of her age though there were only seven years between them. Which was why she called him Mr Sinclair.

  ‘This estate needs a firm hand, I would say. The farms on it – how many, and how many acres are involved?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Chris . . . Chris and I never talked about it.’

  No, I bet you didn’t. A couple of youngsters playing at being grown up with no thought in your heads as to where the next penny was to come from. He knew exactly how many acres there were and how many farms and even their names, for he was a man who took an interest in what went on around him: 1,300 acres, a Yorkshire manor house, a Home Farm and five tenant farms each of between 200 and 400 acres, together with areas of surrounding woodland and common. Excellent farming, because the estate lay in a sheltered valley where the soil was in good heart. It only needed a sound agent and some money to turn it into the most productive and profitable estate in this part of Yorkshire.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you, Lally.’ He leaned forward and this time took her small hand in his. As he did so his heart seemed to flip over, for it was so delicate, so fine, the nails oval and polished and perfect. The wedding ring she wore seemed too heavy for it and he wondered for a startling moment what it would look like with a dainty band of gold and an expensive diamond and pearl ring on it.

  ‘I’m not sure how you could help me, Mr Sinclair.’ She gently withdrew her hand and seemed ready to stand up.

  He was at once ashamed of himself, for the poor child was recently widowed and was still floundering in her new state. He must not take advantage of her weakened condition.

  But he could not help saying, ‘Harry, please. Call me Harry. Chris always did.’

  ‘Mr Sinclair, I . . .’

  At that moment the housekeeper entered the conservatory, moving in a stately glide to stand beside Lally. She took her hand and drew her to her feet, her expression one of suspicion and concern for her young mistress.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but people are beginning to leave and Mrs Fraser should be there to bid them farewell.’ Her eyes told Harry Sinclair that she’d have no breath of scandal touch Amalia Fraser, especially on this day when they had just buried the master of this house.

  ‘Of course, forgive me.’ Harry rose and nodded courteously. ‘I just wanted to let Mrs Fraser know that if ever she needs help or advice – business matters and such – she has only to call on me. She will need a decent solicitor and I can recommend one.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, and if the occasion should arise we will certainly take up your offer. Won’t we, my lamb?’

  ‘We will, Biddy, and thank you, Mr Sinclair.’

  She was led, as though she were a child about to move into a world of grown-ups, into the drawing room, shaking hands and murmuring and, at last, the others having departed, Harry Sinclair bowed over her hand, ran down the steps and leaped on to Piper’s back, galloping off down the long gravelled drive to the gate cut into the park wall. He knew it would not be long before he was back despite what he had seen in the eyes of the
housekeeper!

  2

  Lally left the house through the kitchen when she was sure that Biddy would be elsewhere, since she knew she would be questioned on where she thought she was off to!

  It was a week since the funeral and the world still felt unreal. She had sat in the bedroom that she and Chris had shared, curled up in the rocking-chair, her feet tucked under the skirt of the black gown Biddy insisted on putting her in each morning, the two dogs, Chris’s dogs, Fred and Ally, beside her. The two bewildered animals huddled against her wherever she went, for she was the nearest they could get to their missing master and she was glad of their warmth and devotion. She stared with unfocused eyes into the applewood fire – there was no coal and they had no money to buy any until the rents came in – and her wandering mind wondered what she was to do with the rest of her life without Chris. She actually didn’t even knowingly do that, for her mind seemed to be drowning under roaring sea waves that threatened to swamp her and she felt herself to be doomed to spend the rest of her life curled up in her chair with the feel of Chris’s thick blond hair soft under her fingers as he lay motionless on the gate on which they had carried him into the great hallway of The Priory. It was a nightmare picture of the future without him and as she slipped down the back stairs she had known that if she didn’t get away from the house even for a little while she would go out of her mind.

  She was wearing her midnight-blue riding habit, the one Chris had liked so much. It had the usual full skirt with a train that could be hooked up at the side but underneath she wore a pair of skin-tight dove-grey kid trousers so that if she felt like it she could ride astride, which she had usually done when out with Chris. Her tall top hat with the dashing bright scarlet ribbon tied round it was left on her bed. Her hair was short, curls cropped close to her skull, and beneath it her pale face was elfin and her brilliant eyes, which Chris had likened to turquoise, were dulled with painful grief. The dogs were at her heels.

  The maids, Jenny and Clara, left on their own, were busy following Biddy’s directions to chop vegetables – of which there were plenty growing in the garden – ready to be made into a hearty soup for their evening meal. Biddy had gone upstairs to oversee the feeding and dressing of the babies who were in the care of Dora, Jenny and Clara’s fourteen-year-old sibling – of whom there were plenty in their large family – employed only yesterday. Their mam was glad of the work and the girl was experienced in the care of infants, for their labourer’s cottage overflowed with them since Ned Akroyd was a lusty man. Mrs Stevens, as they called her, would not be down for a while but there was to be no lolling about, she had told them and the two sisters knew she meant it. Their young mistress’s milk had dried up on the day they brought their master home and Mrs Stevens and their Dora were having the devil’s own job to get Master Alec on to the cow’s milk he lustily refused to drink.

  The two maids looked up as their young mistress entered the kitchen, their eyes wide, their faces filled with sympathy, for it must be awful to be a widow at the age of twenty. Their busy hands stilled and Jenny, who had been with the Frasers the longest, ventured a word.

  ‘Tha’ off, Miss Lally?’ They all called her Miss Lally and had always done so, for she had never looked more than fourteen even on her wedding day.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘’Appen Carly’ll go wi’ thi’.’

  ‘I won’t bother him, Jenny,’ she answered, continuing through the enormous kitchen to the back door.

  Jenny looked suitably disapproving. ‘Nay, tha’ll never go alone. Not . . .’ She had been about to say ‘not at a time like this’ but Miss Lally’s expressionless face stopped her and she wished desperately that Mrs Stevens would come downstairs, for she was the only one who seemed able to manage poor Miss Lally.

  ‘I won’t be long, Jenny,’ Lally said tonelessly, opening the back door and slipping through with Fred and Ally close to her skirt. For a moment she remembered the day Chris had brought the two setter pups home just after they were married, laughing at her delight as he tipped them into her lap. She and Chris were always laughing.

  ‘What are you going to call them?’ she had asked.

  ‘Fred and Ally,’ he had told her solemnly.

  ‘Fred and Ally!’ She had inspected them. ‘But they’re both bitches.’

  ‘I know. Roly and I had a German teacher called Frederick and a French teacher called Alphonse and these two reminded me of them, don’t ask me why. We were rather fond of Frederick and Alphonse, Roly and I. They were so easily diverted from the lesson and one day we saw them out together strolling across the top of Skircoat Moor thinking themselves unobserved. They were holding hands!’

  ‘Two men?’

  ‘Yes, there are such . . . such things, my darling. Love is not always restricted to that between males and females . . .’ and he had proceeded to tell her of this condition. Chris had educated her on many subjects! Chris . . . oh Chris . . . what am I to do without you?

  Carly was as startled as the maidservants. He had been tenderly grooming Master Chris’s gelding, Ebony, who was restless under his hand because he had had no proper exercise since his master’s death.

  ‘Nay, Miss Lally wheer’s tha’ off to?’ His weather-beaten face looked as disapproving as the maids’ as he did his best to hold in the beautiful animal.

  ‘I’m . . . not sure, Carly, but if you would saddle Merry for me I’d be obliged. I might . . .’

  ‘Wha’?’ Carly asked suspiciously, for he knew Mrs Stevens would box his ears if he allowed Miss Lally to go off on her own.

  ‘Just a ride, Carly. To get out of the house. Perhaps to the edge of Moor Wood.’

  Moor Wood. That wasn’t far. In fact if he stood by the paddock gate he could keep her in sight. For a moment he hesitated; after all the poor little woman had just suffered the worst thing that could happen to a woman and at the young age of twenty, so could you blame her for feeling as she did? She’d been stuck in that bloody big house all this time with all them women and if she felt the need to have a bit of a gallop across the park who was he to stop her? She had them dogs with her, big dogs, gentle, affectionate and kind, but let anyone make a move they didn’t like against their master, and now their mistress – as he supposed they belonged to her now – they could be fierce as tigers.

  He saddled the chestnut mare who greeted Lally with joy, whinnying a welcome, and when he opened the paddock gate Miss Lally had her out in the park and across the rough grass like a bullet out of a gun, the dogs a streak of black and white behind her. But she did not head for the trees as she had promised but raced across the parkland, leaping a dry-stone wall and vanishing from his sight. She was making for the moorland beyond Appleton Farm, the moorland that rose in a shrouded mist at the back of The Priory. He groaned, for Mrs Stevens would have his hide when she discovered that the young mistress had persuaded him to saddle her mare and not only that but to open the paddock gate and usher her through. Shaking his head, he returned to the fretful gelding who tried to bite him.

  ‘Bugger!’ he swore.

  She was sitting on an old gate when he saw her, the mare tethered beside her, the dogs lying with their noses on their paws. It was mid-afternoon but already drawing towards twilight. She was gazing out across the winter moorland, over which lay a filmy veil of soft, dull mist, but it did not quite hide the panoramic view, for the sun was not yet fully set. There was a lilac hue about the tops and a robin was singing without a care in the world, the sound mixed with the plaintive bleating of sheep on the lower folds of the hills. Her eyes were shadowed and she did not seem to hear his approach until the dogs sprang to their feet and bristled, their paws splayed, their muzzles lifted, for he had Max and Dandy with him. Piper whickered a welcome to her mare and Lally turned indifferently, giving him the attention she might have bestowed on a sheep that had wandered up from the lower slopes. For all she cared it could have been tinkers, gypsies or vagabonds, the travellers who roamed the country looking for work and who w
ould do her serious harm for the farthing in her pocket.

  It was a Sunday and he had called at the Priory to pay his respects, or so he told himself, to the widow, only to find it in turmoil with the woman, Mrs Stevens, raging at the stable lad who stood sullenly at the back door, his attitude saying that whatever she berated him for was not his fault. He ran to take Harry’s horse in great relief, touching his forelock, glad to be away from the woman’s icy anger.

  ‘Mrs Stevens, is something wrong?’ Harry asked her as he dismounted.

  ‘Indeed there is, Mr Sinclair. Lally . . . Mrs Fraser has gone off on her mare and this . . . this fool allowed it. God only knows . . .’

  ‘Mrs Stevens, you can hardly blame the groom, for Mrs Fraser is a grown woman and mistress of this house. It is not up to him—’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sinclair, but Mrs Fraser, as you must understand, is not herself.’

  ‘Of course, I apologise.’

  The housekeeper was beside herself and her grey eyes flashed at him in annoyance, for who was he to interfere. At once he beckoned to the groom to fetch back his animal and the man did so gratefully, scurrying away into the enormous stable.

  ‘I’ll find her, Mrs Stevens, and bring her back safely if the groom will tell me in which direction she went.’

  With the information he needed he had galloped off where the stable lad had indicated.

  ‘Lally.’ He spoke now to her unheeding back, his voice gentle, for this woman was grieving badly. ‘Your Mrs Stevens is in a fearful state, giving what for to your stable lad for saddling your horse and allowing you out of the yard.’