Angel Meadow Page 21

  Her gloved hand, how he did not know, for he had made no deliberate attempt to hold on to it, seemed to linger in his, their fingers linking in a curious way and their eyes met in surprise. Her lovely face flushed a little and she seemed to hold her breath then the moment was over and they pulled their hands apart, turning away from one another with a sharpness that held them both silent for a moment.

  “Thank you, Mr Hayes,” Miss Williams said to him and he was glad to look back to her, quite bewildering her with the warmth of his smile, not recognising it as relief.

  “Thank you, Miss Williams. I wish your business every success.”

  “Thank you again, Mr Hayes. You have been most kind.”

  In an effort to cover his chagrin he almost conveyed Miss Williams to the door without her feet touching the rich depths of his carpet. Nancy was ahead of them, opening the door herself in her effort to get away from him, though she could not for the life of her have said why. A strange moment, a frisson of positive dislike from the man and yet he had given them what they wanted so what did it matter? He was merely a means to an end. He was not a man, not in the sense women mean when they speak of such things, but a tool, a tool that she would use to make what she was building. She had done with men. She had done with them on the night Mick O’Rourke had thrown her in the muck and raped her. She had no need of them, or their filthy ways. She and Jennet had reached their first goal. They were there, at the beginning of the road, at the foot of the ladder, whatever damned stupid cliché she wished to use for what lay ahead. It was all there, waiting for them, but at that moment she did not care to believe that had it not been for the man who was bowing over Jennet’s hand, it would have been like mist, there to see but impossible to catch.

  15

  He heard the laughter first, female laughter, high and pealing, young and infectious, so filled with merriment he felt the corners of his own mouth lift in an involuntary smile. The laughter seemed to come from somewhere ahead of him, though he could see nothing but the tumbled stones of the ruined castle. Among the ruins grew scattered coppices of small hazel trees sheltering against the walls, the seeds from which they had grown dropped there by birds. The dense, deep green of the leaves quivered on the branches as though disturbed by the passage of something, though he supposed it could have been caused by the slight breeze which pleasantly cooled his skin. A small dog that ran beside him, darting hither and yon in the summer grasses as the fancy took him, following every scent that promised to be of interest, hesitated with one paw raised, looking towards him questioningly, waiting for his command. He was a somewhat scruffy dog, though his owner preferred to call him rough-haired, a mixture of colours and breeds but attractive, with a good-natured face and bright, intelligent eyes.

  The horseman frowned and reined his mare to a halt, listening intently and the laughter rang out again.

  “Who the devil can that be?” he asked his companion somewhat irritably but, getting no reply, nor expecting any, he put his heels to the mare’s side and continued on towards the ruin that lay across the water meadow at the back of his home. He had hoped to have the place to himself. He had brought a blanket, a tin of Cook’s almond biscuits and a bottle of milk which was kept cool in a nest of ice. He had brought a change of small clothing, for it was usually needed and had even smuggled out a bottle of dry white wine and a fluted glass, which he knew the nursemaid would not have approved of, hiding it with the milk in the ice. He had intended settling down in the grassy ruin, which was a favourite place of theirs, and having a pleasant hour or so without the confining hand of those at the house. Now it looked, or at least sounded, as though someone had got there before him. He didn’t want company and it would hardly be possible to keep out of anyone’s way, for the ruined castle was small.

  “Damn and blast,” he muttered and was just about to turn his mare towards home when a girl with no shoes on ran out from behind a portion of broken wall, her flight so precipitous his mare shied nervously and his dog began to bark. She almost ran into him, skidding along in the tall grass in an effort to stop, gasping, not just with her exertions but with shock. It was obvious she had thought herself to be alone and the sight of him brought her to a stunned and speechless standstill.

  “God love us,” he roared angrily, hanging on to his passenger, trying to calm the alarmed horse, signalling at the same time to the dog who was barking ferociously, though his tail wagged a greeting.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl gasped. “I didn’t know there was anyone else here. We were playing . . . a game and . . . I do hope you are not hurt – you or the . . . the . . . Mind you, it was not really my fault, was it? That animal has always been flighty as I remember. She almost ran down the children in the mill yard.” Her head rose. She had recovered her composure. “It seems its manners are in no way improved.”

  Living with Jennet Williams for so long had given Nancy Brody a greater command of the English language and taught her, without exactly recognising it, how to speak as the gentry did.

  For a moment Josh Hayes was speechless himself. Christ, he wouldn’t have recognised her, not at first, had she not mentioned the mill yard. Dressed in a plain gingham gown, the fabric come from his own warehouse, he noticed, the colour somewhere between rose and apple blossom with a broad cotton sash of deeper rose; her hair unconfined and flowing in glorious disarray to her waist, thick and curling, her cheeks crimson with her exertions, her golden eyes gleaming with enjoyment, she was a different being to the cool Miss Brody who, almost a year ago, had begged him to sell her his cotton. Her feet were stained green with the juices of the grass, long and slender, her sleeves had been pushed up above her elbows to reveal the creamy white satin of her arms and the neck of her bodice was unbuttoned almost down to the high, full curve of her magnificent breasts.

  He knew he was what he could only call “gawping”, like any yokel at a pretty girl and the knowledge made him even more irritable. At once his face set in stern lines of disapproval, though he didn’t really disapprove at all, and she saw it and was immediately, and with the same degree of acrimony, as displeased as he was.

  “Well, Miss Brody, I’ll disturb you no longer. Get on with your . . . game.” He was about to turn his horse, in what direction he did not know, for he had set his heart on the castle, when two more females hurtled round the corner of the wall, one of them carrying a laughing child. They were also barefoot and equally as dishevelled as Miss Brody, careering to a halt at the sight of him, their expressions comical, only the child seeming to be unconcerned. His dog barked again, since that was his position in life but this time his mare, as though she had become accustomed to these human foibles, stood her ground patiently.

  “Mr Hayes,” one of them stammered and again he was amazed to recognise Miss Williams. The other he did not know.

  “Miss Williams.” He bowed as best he could with his burden, ready to turn and bid them a polite good-day but the child in Miss Williams’s arms pointed to the one in his and smiled broadly. From her mouth came a jumble of baby words, none of them recognisable, except by Freddy, who returned the words then craned his neck to grin broadly into her face.

  “What a beautiful boy, Mr Hayes,” Miss Williams said, recovering her composure and moving forward. “And so like you. How old is he?”

  Mollified somewhat, he looked down at his son and his stern face softened out of all recognition.

  “He is almost a year. A year in July.”

  “Why, so is Kitty. She was born in July, weren’t you, darling? How odd, but they seem to have taken a liking to one another. Won’t you join us for a while? We were having a picnic and then . . . well, we became silly and started this game and . . . But please, bring your son and introduce him to Kitty. Oh, and you have a dog as well. Kitty has never met a dog, have you, sweetheart? We would like her to have one, wouldn’t we, Nancy, when we find the right house, but until then she must make do with a toy.”

  The whole time he and Miss Williams smiled at o
ne another Miss Brody stood like a frozen pillar of ice in exactly the spot in which she had come to rest five minutes since. Her face was rigid with what seemed to be displeasure. She did not speak again and neither did the third girl who was obviously her sister.

  “Oh, dear, where are my manners,” Miss Williams exclaimed. “You have not met Nancy’s sister, have you. This is Mary.” She drew the girl forward, kindly and smiling, and Josh felt himself warm to Miss Williams who evidently had a good heart. “And this little handful is Kitty, Nancy’s daughter.”

  If he was taken aback, which he was, he managed to keep it to himself.

  “Miss Brody.” Again he bowed, this time to Mary, thinking it wise to say nothing, to or about the infant. Then, as Freddy began to struggle in an effort to get to his new friend, he put his left arm firmly round his plump body, threw his left leg over the mare’s rump and slithered to the ground.

  “Oh, careful, Mr Hayes,” Miss Williams said breathlessly. “See, Mary, you take Kitty and I’ll hold Mr Hayes’s boy while he does . . . well, whatever one does with a horse. Perhaps you could tie him to a tree, Mr Hayes.”

  “She, Miss Williams. Copper is a mare.”

  “Really, she is a lovely animal, isn’t she, Mary? My, your son is heavier than Kitty, Mr Hayes,” as the child wriggled companionably in her arms, looking up into her face with that intent, wide-eyed stare of the infant.

  “Shall I . . .?”

  “No, I can manage him. See, we are just over here in the shade of the trees. We have spread a blanket for Kitty but I must admit it is the dickens of a job to keep her on it now she is crawling. She seems to find it so much more interesting to explore what is beyond it and whatever it is goes straight in her mouth.”

  Josh laughed, liking this young woman more and more, not only because she was so open and natural but because he knew there would never be the temptation to be more to her than a friend. She was not flirtatious or coy or coquettish as most young women are with a member of the opposite sex and so he could relax with her. And then there was the sympathy between them brought about by the children who seemed to be of an age, the shared interest and concern, his own pleasure at and love for his son and what was obviously a strong bond of affection between Miss Williams and this beautiful girl child who was not hers but the wooden-faced Nancy Brody’s.

  He turned to Miss Brody who had begun to follow them slowly across the grass, still having nothing to say on the matter, or indeed any matter, dragging her feet, her head down, the gleeful excitement that had been in her a few minutes ago completely gone.

  “I’m sorry to have interrupted your picnic, Miss Brody.” His voice was cold, for it was very evident she resented his intrusion into what was a family outing. “You have only to say the word and we will go. Freddy is—”

  “Does your wife not accompany you when you take your son for a ride, Mr Hayes?”

  Dear God. Dear sweet Jesus, what on earth had provoked her to say that? It was nothing to her whether he had a wife, a son, indeed a whole nursery full of children at home, though she thought him young for that, but from somewhere had sprung the stupid words, displaying an interest that she certainly didn’t feel in his personal life, or indeed in any part of his life. She had not seen him since that day in his warehouse. She had been sincerely grateful for what he had done for them, knowing that without his aid and personal intervention they would have struggled to get where they were. He had helped to smooth their path, taken away the worst of their problems and yet, for some reason, she resented him and she resented feeling obliged to him. She was being rude, petty, childish even and she must stop it.

  “I do apologise, Mr Hayes,” she said stiffly. “That was impertinent. What you and your wife do is—”

  “I have no wife, Miss Brody.” His voice was abrupt, still inclined to be unbending and certainly, his expression said, disinclined to discuss private matters with her.

  “I’m sorry, I really am. I had no idea . . .” For at once she had jumped to the conclusion that, young as he was, he was a widower.

  “There is no need, Miss Brody. Now, shall we join the others? It seems my son has taken a great fancy to . . . to . . .” His polite voice was not sure how to go on.

  Nancy’s was harsh as she finished his sentence for him. “To my daughter, and I have no husband.” Her face was like granite, pale as marble, turning away from his censure, for surely that was what she would see in his eyes, then she whirled to face him again and he could see the turmoil in her, the stormy challenge that told him she was prepared to give him no explanations and certainly no excuses.

  He had nothing to say. What could he say? he asked himself as he flung his rug on to the grass and, politely waiting until she was seated, squatted down next to his son.

  They all four tasted a sip or two of his wine and even several of Cook’s almond biscuits which they agreed were delicious, wondering as they bit into them what it must be like to have a woman in the kitchen whose sole purpose in life was to cook for you. The babies drank their milk and scrambled all over the patient little dog who was hardly more than a puppy himself. Josh explained that he had acquired the animal from a local farmer when his son was a few weeks old, for though he had not had one himself he believed that all children should grow up with a pet of their own. They digested this bit of information, pondering on the strange image of this young father bringing up his child on his own, making decisions in which no woman figured, and yet it was very evident that the child felt no lack of affection, for Mr Hayes, when the child allowed it, frequently held him in his lap and hugged him fondly.

  Had it not been for the children and the dog, who entertained them, made them laugh, excused them the task of making polite conversation and eased the hour they spent together into a pleasant interlude, Nancy’s quietness, coupled with Mary’s shyness, would have made the situation impossible. Of course, had it not been for his son and her daughter, he would not have considered sitting down to a picnic in the first place and at the end of the hour when he stood up and indicated that he must go, it was with evident relief.

  He got on his horse and Mary passed his protesting son up to him. There were fulsome remarks on all sides – except one – on how much they had enjoyed themselves. The dog frisked about among his new friends and the babies cried, for they did not want to part with one another.

  “By the way, what day in July was Kitty born, Miss Williams?” he asked her out of politeness, wondering why he should address the question to her and not the child’s mother. Perhaps because during the whole of the hour he had spent in their company she had made no attempt to take hold of her own child, though she seemed quite happy to retrieve Freddy when he crawled off the rug in the direction of an enticing clump of daisies, calling him a scamp and firmly kissing his round cheek. Even now Mary was cuddling the little girl to her, murmuring in her ear and kissing away the tears caused by the loss of her new friend.

  “The twenty-third.”

  His face must have shown his astonishment.

  “What is it, Mr Hayes?”

  “Freddy was born on the twenty-third.”

  Even the expressionless face of Nancy Brody melted into open-mouthed wonder. They looked at one another, the mother and the father and for a second or two, no more, allowed one another to see what was hidden deep inside them both, and which had been there since that first day in the yard. Then hers closed up and his followed and their polite murmurs of surprise, their blank-faced unconcern for such a coincidence took them over once more.

  Nodding in a gentlemanly fashion at Mary and Jennet, with one hand he took a firm hold of his son who sat before him, with the other grasped the reins and with a word of command to his two animals set off in a careful walk in the direction of Broughton Ford which would take him back to his own side of the river. His son was wailing dismally and so was Kitty.

  “Well, thank God for that,” Nancy said briskly.

  “Why don’t you like him, Nancy?” Mary asked curious
ly, for she had thought Mr Hayes to be a grand chap and so handsome and rich, too. What more could a girl ask for in a gentleman and yet their Nancy had made it very plain she was glad to see the back of him.

  “Who said I didn’t like him?” Nancy coldly defended herself. “All I feel for Mr Hayes is total indifference and,” being honest at least about this, “a certain gratitude.”

  “But how strange that his wife should have given birth to Freddy on the same day as Kitty. His wife must have been very young. I didn’t know he was even married, did you?” Jennet was busy gathering up the remains of their picnic, stuffing bags and tins and cups into a large basket and preparing to wrap the baby in a light shawl which she would fasten about herself.

  “I can carry her, Jennet,” Mary protested, for wasn’t she a big, strapping girl and Jennet no bigger than two pennorth of copper.

  “It’s only five minutes’ walk to the cab rank on Lower Broughton Lane, sweetheart. I’ll take her as far as there and then you can carry her at the other end.”

  Neither of them seemed to think it strange that Kitty’s mother made no attempt to carry her own child.

  The two-wheeled, leather-lined hansom cab had turned into Camp Street which led in to Bury New Road when Nancy let out a shriek that almost had the cabbie off his box at the back of the cab and caused the two girls to jump out of their skins and the baby to howl.

  “What?” Jennet quavered, doing her best to soothe the baby.

  “There . . . just there on the corner.”

  “What is it, for heaven’s sake? I nearly had a seizure.”

  “It’s to let.”