A Time Like No Other Page 21

  The buck stood in the clearing deep in the woods at the back of Folly Farm, almost invisible in the undergrowth and closely growing oaks, hawthorn and larch. His head was up, his antlers proud and strong and his ears twitched. His nostrils quivered, searching for signs of danger, of some threatening aroma that would alert him to the presence of his enemy, of man, of those who, for many months now, he had managed to avoid. He knew they were about but his cunning was greater than theirs. Hearing and scenting nothing to alarm him, he bent his strong neck and sank his teeth into the juicy leaves of the tree under which he stood. The breeze blew away from him towards the east and the two men who froze in the bushes in that direction both lifted their guns, barely breathing, fingers on the triggers, their caps dragged with the peaks at the back so as not to impede their view. They had been after this stag for months now and there it was in their sights, unaware of their presence, waiting for the death shot and its final arrival on the counter of a local butcher who would pay dearly for its carcass.

  A sound lifted the magnificent animal’s head, a sound from some way off but enough to explode him into a leap and a run which carried him through the woodland and out of sight of the two men who lay on their stomachs, their guns still at the ready but with nothing to aim at other than the quivering leaves of the trees and shrubs that had been disturbed by the buck’s passage.

  ‘Bugger it! . . . bugger it! . . . bugger it!’ one of the men said, rolling over on to his back, his face a mask of fury, while the second man swore even more obscenely, lifting his fist into the air and hitting out as though he would dearly love to murder whoever it was who had disturbed their quarry.

  Then they heard the sound again but this time more clearly. Children’s laughter, children shouting, a dog barking in excitement and the faint cry of a woman. Slowly they got to their feet and without a word moved silently through the wood until they reached its edge, and the field in which Sean McGinley had planted hay that was ripening luxuriantly in the summer sunshine. It would be ready for harvesting in a few weeks and when it was cut would be stored for winter feed for Sean’s milk herd. The growing crop waved gently in the tiny breeze and sighed as though in great contentment at the care Sean and his son Denny had lavished upon it. Proud they were of their continuing success with their farm, thanks to Mr and Mrs Sinclair, but mostly to Mrs Sinclair, once Mrs Fraser, for it was she who had provided them with the brass and the encouragement to work all the hours God and daylight allowed.

  The two men watched as the squealing boys, Mrs Sinclair’s boys, not even waiting to open the gate but climbing over it, hurled themselves into the arms of Polly McGinley at her front porch, yelling to see the ‘kittings’, the piglets, the chicks but first could they have one of Mrs Polly’s gingerbread men of which they were inordinately fond and which they knew she made especially for them, or so they imagined. The baby was lifted out of the perambulator and cuddled by Polly, behind her Kate, who was enormous with her second child but wanted a ‘hold’ as soon as her mother-in-law would allow it. Jack had clambered from the perambulator and was making a valiant attempt to follow Jamie and Alec who could not make up their minds whether to run into Mrs Polly’s kitchen for the gingerbread men, or make for the enclosure where the chicks and the hens clucked and pecked, the pig pen and the new piglets, or the small barn where the new mother cleaned her family of week-old kittens in an ecstasy of purring. There was so much, so many delights, it was hard to know where to start.

  Mrs Polly made the decision for them.

  ‘Inter’t kitchen wi’ the lot o’ yer. Gingerbread men first an’ a glass o’ milk and when yer’ve got that down yer Sean’ll tekk yer ter see’t animals. No, Master Jamie, not on yer own. Them animals is valuable, that means they’re worth money. Yer know what money is, don’t yer? Yes, well, I’m not ’avin’ ’em all excited wi’ you playin’ wi’ ’em so yer’ll do as yer told. See, Master Jamie, run ter’t bottom field an’ fetch Sean,’ with a glance at Lally to see if she would allow her precious son to do such a thing but it was not far and Sean could be seen from the window. With a nod from his mama, Jamie darted from the door and ran across the yard, jumped the dry-stone wall, scorning the gate as usual, and ran shouting across the field.

  They had drunk their milk and clutching a gingerbread man apiece the three boys, Jack carried in Sean’s arms, did the rounds of the farmyard with Dora in tow while Susan and Lally, Cat held in Polly’s comfortable lap, sat at the immaculate kitchen table and drank the hot, sweet, dark tea the McGinleys favoured. Kate, barely able to get about, pottered at the kitchen range, stirring a big pan of rich stew, peeping into the oven to see if the scones she had just flung together were ready and though told by her mother-in-law to sit ’ersenn down, continued in the small domestic tasks she could still manage.

  ‘Us’ll ’ave another one of our own soon,’ Polly declared, looking fondly at Kate, bending to plant a smacking kiss on Cat’s smiling face, unconcerned with the smears of gingerbread that covered the small face, the hands, what had been a pristine white apron, come from Cat’s own squashed biscuit which she was sucking with great appreciation.

  Promising to let the boys know when the kittens would be old enough to leave their mam and if their own mam would allow it, they might have one each providing they swore they would look after them, feed them, clean up after them and such. With kisses all round, a solemn handshake with Sean, for men did not go in for kisses, the group set off across the field towards the wood through which they intended to find their way home. The boys wanted to climb a tree, a tall tree, Jamie announced and was echoed, as usual, by Alec. The dogs bounded round them and it was not until they were almost at the edge of the woodland that the two animals suddenly stiffened. Their ears flattened against their heads and they began to growl softly in the backs of their throats. They moved slowly towards the first of the trees, crouched low in a most curious manner and at once the women stopped. Dora managed to catch the arm of the belligerent Jamie who struggled with her but something in the dogs’ conduct had alarmed the three women and they froze. Of course they knew there was nothing in the woodland to endanger them, for hadn’t they walked here dozens of times, even in the winter when the foliage was stiff and white and crackling, but there was something there that the two dogs didn’t care for.

  ‘Fred, Ally, come to me,’ Lally said quietly and reluctantly the dogs obeyed her, doing their best to protect all those who they considered to be in their charge, though the group was somewhat scattered. ‘Bring Jamie and Alec here, Dora,’ she told the nursemaid and only when they were all huddled together did the dogs relax.

  The two men silently backed away from the edge of the woodland. They knew they could not be seen in the thick summer foliage and they were adept at moving as quietly as any creature that inhabited the woodland. They knew every inch of it, every path and clearing and not just this wood but all of them on the estate. They made their living from it and had done ever since they were boys and could fire a shotgun. They had been waiting for an opportunity in some way to corner the bloody squire’s widow – meaning Lally Fraser – ever since he had broken his bloody neck on the hunting field, but when she had married that other sod she had not moved about as once she had done. They did not wonder why they should want this particular woman, or even what they meant to do to her when they finally had her in their grasp but even if it was just to scare her, perhaps handle her a bit – with their faces covered, of course, since they wanted no trouble to themselves – their lust had not waned. She was a fine bit of womanflesh and, besides, it would do her good to be humiliated, though they did not in their illiterate and ignorant way use such a word.

  ‘If them bloody dogs ’adn’t bin there,’ one said to the other as they strolled into the littered farmyard that surrounded their home.

  ‘’Tweren’t dogs though they were—’

  ‘Aye,’ the second one interrupted. ‘’Twere the rest, kids an’ t’other women. Ne’r mind, our turn’ll come,’ movi
ng his shotgun from one shoulder to the other.

  ‘Aye, one day.’

  17

  Roly came home in October after being abroad for over six months and it was said in the kitchens of the best people in Moorend whose servants tittle-tattled with those at Mill House, which had been unoccupied except for the staff Harry had left in place as caretakers, that the recently returned young master went through the place like a whirlwind. Mrs Cannon was made to realise that Master Roly had become used to the finest cuisine in his travels and expected it to continue; that he demanded his shirts be ironed to perfection, his boots be polished to the highest standards, his home be warm and comfortable, that in short, as he was the sole master of Mill House, his every order must be seen to the moment he requested it!

  He had travelled to all the main manufacturing towns in Europe and as far away as Russia, forming contacts that would keep the Sinclair mills busy for months, years even, building up connections with foreign businessmen, lavishly entertaining them and their wives, using not only his shrewd business acumen but his immense charm. Everywhere he went he was welcomed as a hell of a good fellow who knew what he was about, honest and trustworthy and could be relied upon to deliver on time the Sinclair cloth which was being produced by the mile.

  From there he had moved to North America, travelling the length and breadth of that vast continent, for as he said in his weekly reports to his brother it hardly seemed worthwhile making the journey home when Harry was dealing so superbly with his side of the business which was the manufacture of the cloth. He did not word it quite like that, as it was not his way and Harry did not question it, knowing it to be true. They were to discuss building a new mill, or even mills on Roly’s return, it was rumoured in the town, for the many activities in the manufacture of wool needed more space than they had at this time, or so Harry Sinclair intimated to his business acquaintances, particularly with the orders that were pouring in. Harry and Roly Sinclair were fast becoming the wealthiest mill-owners in Yorkshire, or so their rivals whispered.

  Lally was told quite casually at the dinner table, for how else could her husband inform her, that Roly had arrived home the day before, asking her courteously if she could arrange a small dinner party to welcome him back, since it would surely be expected by their shared acquaintances in Moorend. He did not tell her that it had been Roly’s idea.

  Her heart had begun to beat an erratic rhythm the moment Roly’s name was mentioned, for it was the first time that it had been spoken since their marriage. Harry had accepted Roly’s child and treated her – astonishingly, to Lally at least – with as much affection as if he were her real father and since Roly had been absent for so long it had not appeared to be difficult for Harry. But now he was home and what problems was that going to cause? Roly, of course, did not know Cat was his but the sudden marriage of his brother to Chris Fraser’s widow must have given him some moments of wonder. Fortunately he was not aware of the exact date of Cat’s birth!

  ‘Perhaps Tommy Bracken and his new wife. Ginny, is she called? They are both young and lively and it would do me no harm with his father with whom I do business.’ This consideration was always in Harry’s astute mind. ‘And I know you like John. John Burton who has done so much for the family’s health. He seems to be becoming a family friend though I do wish he could find some young marriageable lady to bring with him. I dare say Roly will let me know who he fancies and providing she is respectable we could invite her.’

  ‘Susan.’ The name was out of her mouth before she knew it and even as she said it her heart beat even faster, for the idea was preposterous. Or was it? Susan had altered in every way since the day she had come to live at the Priory. Her speech still had a definite trace of a Yorkshire accent in it, but then did not George Bracken, a self-made man with his ‘Shoddy’ Mill and his plans to extend, have an inflection of it in his voice? His wife, a kindly soul who was devoted to him and their only daughter, had never quite become accustomed to their rise in society. Agnes and Albert Watson, the builder and his wife, were second-generation tradesmen if you like and therefore had managed to gather a sheen of gentility about them, and their family of eight had all had good schooling, at least the boys, and were perfectly able to hold their own in what was called polite society. Lally herself had a somewhat better pedigree than any of them, for her mother’s uncle had been a baronet and Chris had been of the landed gentry.

  Harry looked mystified. ‘Susan?’

  ‘Yes, why not? She is an intelligent woman and quick to learn and anyway, who would know that she was our children’s nurse, or even governess. She would not be out of place at our dinner table and I happen to believe that John Burton is madly in love with her.’ Lally spoke defiantly.

  Harry’s jaw dropped and the spoon which he had just been about to raise to his mouth dropped with it. Fortunately Jenny had a moment ago left the dining room to tell Mrs Stevens, who was still cook as well as housekeeper, that Mr and Mrs Sinclair would soon be ready for coffee in the drawing room so there was no one to hear what Harry called this insane idea. Lally fiddled nervously with her napkin, folding and re-folding it as she gazed anxiously at Harry’s flabbergasted expression.

  ‘Have you gone mad? Put a woman who not so long ago worked in my mill among our guests? Expect her to know which knife to use and how to converse with ladies and gentlemen who would have a fit if they knew that—’

  ‘Who would tell them? She is a dear friend of mine, or will be when I have persuaded her to get rid of her silly pride, her inverted pride and become the person she is capable of becoming. Do you know the other evening when the children were asleep and you were busy in the estate office I went up to her rooms; well, I was alone and . . . and restless, and she was reading The Times. You had informed me of much of its contents at dinner and when I showed my amazement she told me everything that was in it and I knew it to be true for you had said so. If I can get her out of her interminable black and into—’

  ‘She shows respect for her husband who has been dead for no longer than—’

  ‘Well over a year. I’m not sure of the date but Jack is twelve months old and the period of mourning for a widow is a year. There is a very pretty dove-grey silk that I never wear which would be perfectly proper with perhaps a touch of rose pink at the waist and no one would know that she was not a guest, or . . . or a distant relative who has come to stay with us.’ Her enthusiasm grew. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed and she put out a hand to grasp his, for they had long discarded the habit of sitting one at each end of the long table. Harry could feel himself yearning towards her, longing to kiss her smiling mouth, to put up a hand and cup her cheek in love but apart from when they were in the bed they shared he kept displays of fondness to a perfunctory kiss on the cheek as he got home from the mill.

  ‘Please say yes, Harry, please. I can show her the right way to . . . to go about things at the table and if she finds it hard to hold a conversation, well, does it matter? Anne Bracken is shy and if all they say about her is true, the new Mrs Bracken, Ginny Bracken, will more than compensate. When I took tea with Dorothy Bracken the new Mrs Bracken quite embarrassed her, I’m sure, since she is so lively. She’s nice though and she has no what I believe is called “side” to her. Her father is a master cutler, loads of money but hardly of the upper classes. Oh Lord, I sound such a snob but you know what I mean.’

  Harry sighed. He supposed there was no harm in persuading Susan Harper to dine with them and their guests. She only had to follow Lally’s example and keep her mouth shut but even as he thought this he wanted to smile wryly, for in his mind was the surety that nothing on God’s earth would make Susan Harper step out of what she saw as her station in life.

  He paused before he spoke, doing his utmost not to grasp his wife’s hand and bring it tenderly to his lips. ‘Very well then, if Susan agrees we will go ahead. Send invitations to all concerned and I’ll have a chat with Roly to make sure he invites some suitable young lady. Perhaps An
ne Bracken, seeing that her brother—’

  ‘Roly is hardly likely to thank you for Anne Bracken. She’s two years older than he is and as plain as a mouse. Roly likes pretty, vivacious girls who—’

  She suddenly stopped and bit her lip, for she had been about to describe herself and by the expression on his face she knew Harry realised it. He stood up abruptly then marched behind her chair and held it politely as she rose to her feet.

  ‘You go ahead and take coffee in the drawing room. I have some work to do on the farm accounts. Those Weavers are giving Cameron some trouble still and I feel a harsh reminder is needed. I am seriously thinking of turning them off the farm and those lads, what are they called, Jed and Ham, have been seen skulking in Folly Wood. They are unpredictable and as for the rents . . . well, I will see you later, my dear.’

  Harry was right. Before she sent out the invitations for the dinner party in honour of Roly’s return she tackled Susan. Susan was appalled for a moment then she began to laugh, so merrily and so unlike her usual self she quite startled Cat Sinclair who sat in her lap and into whose mouth she was spooning custard. The other children, who had been feeding themselves round the nursery table under Dora’s supervision, looked at her in amazement. Susan was kind-hearted, good-natured, given to a chuckle or two now and again but they had never seen nor heard the absolute mirth in her voice at that moment.

  Lally had sent Dora on an errand to the kitchen before she broached the matter of the dinner party and her hope that Susan would join them. After a bewildered moment Jamie, Alec and Jack continued to eat their custard mixed with stewed apple, and, as children do, barely wondered on the strangeness of their respective mothers.

  ‘Are’t mad?’ Susan spluttered after she had managed to control the hilarity that Mrs Sinclair’s invitation had induced. Lally was aware that Susan had deliberately used those words to highlight her Yorkshire working-class heritage. It was some time since she had run her words together. She had made a great effort for the sake of Chris Fraser’s sons who were, or would be, of the landed gentry and it would not do for them to pick up the way she had once spoken. She had acquired a veneer and a quality not often found in a woman of her class and Lally was often startled by the gradual change in her.