A Time Like No Other Page 22

  ‘No, I’m not. You still insist on looking upon yourself as coming from a class lower than mine.’

  ‘Because I do.’

  ‘If you did would it matter? I am extremely fond of you, Susan, no, don’t look like that, it’s true, and it is my dearest wish that you and I be friends but you will insist on keeping your distance as though I were superior to you. Jack is . . . I am as fond of him as I am of you and if he is to be brought up with my children then you must rise with him. This is a simple dinner party with some friends who are not . . . not high and mighty. My brother-in-law has returned home from his travels and Harry thought . . . anyway John is to be invited.’

  Susan made a small sound in her throat and Lally wondered if John’s feelings for Susan might be reciprocated. It was eighteen months since the death of her young husband and he would hold a special place in her heart for ever but John Burton was the friendliest, kindest, most easy-going man she had met – though Mr Harry came a close second – and she could not help but be flattered. He was not particularly handsome but what did that matter? He was of medium height, barely taller than she was, with rough fair hair that always needed cutting, kind hazel eyes, cheerful and boyish, and she felt he was badly in need of a woman’s care. But that did not mean she had the cheek to think it might be her! Nevertheless he had a balanced and tolerant mind which did not consider her to be beneath him, talking to her of many things besides the children’s health, telling her of his own plans for the many men and women and their children who came to him in ever increasing numbers, medically speaking, that is.

  But as for sitting down at table with him and a group of grand folk and eating a meal that would probably be totally foreign to her . . . well, it was laughable. In her black dress and her rough hands which were taking their time to become smooth, even with the creams Mrs Sinclair gave her to rub in each night, it was absolutely out of the question.

  But she had not taken into consideration Lally Sinclair’s determination and when Dora slipped back into the nursery and Mrs Sinclair rose to leave she had no conception of what she was in for.

  She soon found out! Every evening when the dinner table was set by Jenny or Tansy, Lally took her into the dining room and explained to her every piece of cutlery and its function, how it was laid out, the wine glasses. ‘Of course if you don’t wish to you need not drink wine, in which case all you do is put your hand over the glass as it is offered to you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Mrs Sinclair. I don’t know why I let yer drag me inter this lovely room an’ expect me ter—’

  ‘And don’t talk to me in that way, Susan. I know perfectly well that you are doing it on purpose hoping I will relent and let you cry off.’

  ‘I’ve not cried on, Mrs Sinclair. The whole thing is ridiculous. I’m a mill girl.’

  ‘You are not. You are my children’s governess, my friend and of great value to this household.’

  ‘I’m a servant and the other servants . . .’ Susan began desperately, staring round the elegant and comfortable dining room with its enormous oval-shaped table which could be made even bigger with extra leaves when there were guests; at the dining chairs covered in a rich blue velvet, at the paler blue silk curtains and walls, at the central chandelier hanging like icicles from an acanthus leaf-strewn central rose. At the tasteful pictures, many of which seemed to be scarcely more than a blur of pale colour but which, when studied, declared themselves to be figures, flowers, trees, animals.

  The maids had been astonished when Mrs Sinclair had ordered the room and the table to be set as though the dinner party were to take place this very night but she had explained she wanted a rehearsal, which was daft since she had seen the place set out dozens of times since she had come as a bride to the Priory. But still she was the mistress and who were they to disagree. Mrs Stevens had a look about her that said she might, though, when she got the mistress alone! There were cherry logs burning in the huge marble fireplace and the serving table at the end of the room opposite the wide windows was ready with everything needed for a dinner for ten guests, candles lighted, flowers, hothouse roses grown by Barty’s caring hands, even exquisite finger bowls.

  For a moment Lally thought she had gone too far, since it seemed to frighten Susan to paralysis then her face softened and a look of such delight spread across it she looked almost beautiful.

  ‘Oh, Miss Lally . . .’ she breathed.

  ‘Lally . . .’

  ‘Eeh, I never saw owt ser lovely.’

  ‘Say that again, Susan, properly.’

  ‘I have never seen anything so lovely in my life.’

  ‘So you’ll do it for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Then let’s sit down and practise what will happen on the night of the party then we will go and find you something to wear.’

  Lally said later to her husband, despite the difficult moments which had nothing whatsoever to do with Susan, that it had all been worthwhile if only to see the look on John Burton’s face when, as he entered the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks, he found Susan Harper seated demurely beside their hostess on the sofa at right angles to the fireplace.

  Though autumn was creeping slyly over Yorkshire it was not cold yet and the doors to the winter garden were open and at the far end the doors to the garden had been left wide. The fragrance of the roses drifted in, mixing with the scent of lavender which edged the borders, and the beautifully perfumed Arabian jasmine in the conservatory. The drawing room was bright with candles, with flowers raided from Barty’s garden.

  A pale pink rose bud, which exactly matched the colour of the sash about her waist, was pinned in Susan’s smoothly brushed chignon. She sat rigidly beside Lally, her hands clasped tightly together and at once John knew she was terrified. Lally smiled at him as she rose to her feet, her expression saying she was relying on him to put her unexpected guest at ease.

  ‘Sit here next to Susan, John, while I have a word with Thomas and Ginny,’ who had just entered the room, and behind them stood the tall, lounging figure of Roly Sinclair. Though she had not arranged it and was not sure how she would manage it, the arrival of John Burton, the Brackens and Roly almost at the same time smoothed the way as though it had been planned. John sat down next to Susan and at once began to put her at her ease by telling her how lovely she looked and how pleased he was to see her here just as though she were really one of Lally’s friends from what was known as polite society. Ginny and Thomas, Ginny bubbling with that vitality which at once diverted everyone’s attention to her, greeted Lally with great enthusiasm and Lally began to feel that she might have found another friend, for Ginny was so fresh and innocently vivacious.

  And behind them, a pretty young woman on his arm, was Roly. Ginny and Thomas turned to him after greeting Lally and in the polite geniality the moment of meeting Roly was passed over without friction.

  ‘Lally,’ he cried, after Ginny and Thomas had moved into the drawing room, ‘how wonderful to see you after all this time and still as lovely as ever. It really is grand to be home among my family again. Tomorrow I must ride over and have a look at my new niece. Now then, this gorgeous creature on my arm is Miss Beth Johnson.’

  Miss Johnson simpered and for an awful moment Lally thought Roly had brought one of his actress friends but he continued lightly, ‘Miss Johnson’s aunt and uncle are Mr and Mrs George Bracken who I know you are acquainted with . . .’ so she is perfectly respectable, he was telling her. Behind Roly and Miss Johnson Harry glowered, seemingly unaware that Emily Watson and Edward Jackson, who were to be married in the spring, having handed their outer garments to Tansy, were waiting to be greeted by their host.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Johnson. Are you staying with your aunt and uncle?’ Lally asked her politely. She knew she must make an effort to usher Roly and Miss Johnson into the drawing room where to her great relief Susan and John were deep in conversation with Ginny and Thom
as. She must get to Harry who looked as though he might smash his fist into Roly’s smiling face as his brother turned towards him. Dear God, this was going to be harder than she thought. Why had she ever imagined that she could get through an evening with Roly all smiles and insouciant chatter and Harry silent and brooding on his need to do some damage to his brother.

  ‘Harry, Oliver and Mary have arrived. Now Oliver, you must tell us all about your trip to Venice . . .’ For Mary and Oliver Watson were newly married.

  Surprisingly, it was quite a success. Roly seemed to be totally absorbed with his partner at table, for Lally had hastily changed the name places and put him and Miss Johnson together. John and Susan appeared to have plenty to say to one another, Susan watchfully following his use of cutlery and Mary and Oliver Watson needed no persuasion to ramble on about the beauty of Venice. At great length they described the architecture of its main square, the Piazza San Marco, preening a little at their own cleverness, the Ponte di Rialto, which was the Rialto Bridge they explained for those not as cosmopolitan as they, and Lally could see Harry, who sat at the head of the table with Emily Watson on one side of him and Edward Jackson on the other, relax enough to smile courteously at his guests. The room looked especially lovely: the light from the flames of the fire and the dozens of candles caught the shimmer of silver and glassware and the warmth of the room brought out the fragrance of the roses. The gentlemen were resplendent in the full black and white of evening dress, a background for the ladies who were in colours ranging from Susan’s dove-grey silk to the poppy red of Lally’s satin. Susan’s gown was high-necked and long-sleeved but the neat bodice showed off her full breasts, her slender waist, the skirt falling in rippling folds to her ankles. The touch of rose pink in her hair and about her waist, the ruffle at the hem contrived a look of elegance and simple taste and there was not one around the table – apart from John who knew her place in the house – who questioned her presence as a friend of their hostess. Lally was quite magnificent, for the colour of her dress seemed to highlight the sheen of her hair and the gleaming lambency of her eyes. The other ladies wore buttercup yellow, salmon pink, emerald green – Beth Johnson! – and cornflower blue. Lally recognised the clever hand of Miss Violet Hockley in all of them, speculating on how busy the dressmaker must have been this last week or two.

  Roly continued to whisper in Miss Johnson’s ear, the pair of them laughing and exchanging glances which Lally knew would please Harry but wondered if Mr and Mrs George Bracken were aware of what a philanderer Roly Sinclair might turn out to be, for Miss Johnson, a relative of theirs, was what was known as a lady.

  The gentlemen rose to their feet as the ladies left them to their port and cigars and as Lally led them to the drawing room where Jenny was waiting to serve coffee, she could not help but notice that Miss Johnson, as soon as there were no gentlemen to admire her, languished sulkily on the sofa, answering only briefly when spoken to. Lally chatted pleasantly with Ginny Bracken, doing her best to draw Susan into the conversation and it was not until the gentlemen joined them that Susan became more animated as John made straight for her and Beth began to bridle and giggle at Roly.

  It seemed that Ginny could play the piano and with songs like ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘Strawberry Fair’ rippling from beneath her fingers it was not long before they were all singing, even Harry who put his arms possessively round his wife’s waist and though he noticed his brother and Miss Johnson disappear for twenty minutes, what did he care? His beloved wife had passed the test of giving a successful dinner party that had included his brother and he relaxed enough to tell himself that it was all going to work out between them.

  He was handing Ginny Bracken into her carriage at the end of the evening and so was not watching as his brother whispered something in Lally’s ear. Beth Johnson was still bemused by the expert kisses her escort had pressed upon her willing mouth and was equally unaware of the exchange.

  ‘Meet me tomorrow morning in the usual place. You’ll know where I mean, as will my “niece” and her “father” if you don’t turn up.’

  18

  He was lounging against the tall boulder where last year he had made love to her. His shoulder blades were pressed against the stone, his legs crossed at the ankle, his left hand in the pocket of his well-fitting riding breeches and in his right he held a cigar. He looked casual, at ease, and his threatening words of the night before might never have been spoken. His chestnut gelding cropped peacefully, throwing up his handsome head when Fred and Ally raced up the slope, shying away from the boisterous dogs, but a word from Roly steadied all three animals and Lally remembered he had always had a way with dogs and horses – and women!

  Though it was October it was mild and he wore no jacket. His sleeves were turned back and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the crisp hair of his chest. He looked extremely handsome, beautiful even with his smoothly shaved skin which was tinted a golden amber by the sun of the lands he had visited. His eyes were a clear, velvety grey, outlined by his thick black lashes and when he grinned lazily his teeth gleamed between his well-shaped lips.

  Lally felt a curious shiver go through her as he turned his startling eyes to study her. She climbed down from Merry’s back, carefully arranging the skirt of her riding habit for some reason, making sure that no part of her legs, which were in any case covered by her kid breeches, was visible, wondering deep within her why she felt so vulnerable, then chiding herself for a fool because what he had said to her last night was enough to frighten any woman in the circumstances.

  ‘I’ve come, as you see, Roly,’ she began at once, ‘simply because of the incomprehensible statement you made last night—’

  ‘Incomprehensible!’ he interrupted. His grin deepened round the cigar between his lips. ‘I’m no mathematician, my love, but I can add up the months a woman is pregnant and what has happened here makes a nonsense of it. You and I . . . er . . . were together in July of last year and it seems your daughter was born nine months to the day almost after that. Yes, I winkled it out of one of your servants who, quite unintentionally, told me the date of the birth of the child. You and Harry were married in October so, unless you and he slept together on the same day, or thereabouts, that you and I . . . er . . .’

  ‘Honestly, Roly . . .’ doing her best to sound amused though dread was icing her veins. ‘What a preposterous thing to say. I have never heard anything—’

  ‘Preposterous, is it? Then how can you account for the fact that the child was born exactly nine months—’

  ‘Perhaps Harry and I were . . . were . . . close at that time. Had that occurred to you? I have always been extremely . . . fond of Harry and naturally, when I realised I was pregnant I told him of it and we were married at once. Caterina was born six months later. Prematurely, or so everyone believes.’ She showed her teeth in what she hoped was a reasonable smile.

  Roly watched her intently, a cat watching a mouse that was trying to escape and for the first time she noticed a twist to his mouth that could only be called cruel. A lifting of one corner that turned into a disbelieving smile. He straightened his tall frame and moved towards her and she found herself backing away. His smile deepened.

  ‘You’re surely not afraid of me, dear sister-in-law?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘No, of course not, but let us say that you’re telling the truth. That you and Harry were . . . close as you so delicately put it, that does not rule out that the child could be mine. You and I made love on this very spot. No, we didn’t make love because that implies we loved one another and that’s not so. We——.’ Here he used a word so obscene she gasped. She had heard it before, on Harry’s lips. It was a word men used to describe what they did to women they did not respect. It was insulting and she was insulted. What on earth had come over Roly that he should be so coarse all of a sudden? Or perhaps he had always had it in him and she had not noticed. Caterina was his child. There was no doubt about that, for she had mad
e love to no one but him since Chris died. She could not account for the puzzling fact that in the months since Cat was born she had not quickened. Both Chris and Roly had impregnated her at once and there was nothing she longed for more than that Harry should do the same. It would cement their relationship if they had a child, a son that Harry would know was his. But so far it had not happened and it seemed, watching the curious expression on Roly’s face, that some disaster was about to take place. Roly, although he had not said so, appeared to be threatening her.

  ‘What is all this, Roly?’ she asked impatiently. ‘What have you got in your mind? Caterina is Harry’s daughter and I would swear before God—’

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps you would and perhaps you would be believed but there would be planted in Harry’s mind a doubt, and in the minds of others. I don’t know how you persuaded him to make an honest woman of you but then he has been in love with you for as long as I can remember.’

  Lally was astonished and it showed in her expression, then she remembered that she and Harry were supposed to be having an affair before Cat was born. Dear God, what a web was being woven here and she was caught in the damn thing, struggling to save not only her marriage but her reputation, her life, her children’s lives. She couldn’t even guess what it was that Roly wanted. Surely he did not expect her to lie down and let him do to her what he had done last year? But there was no doubt he was about to blackmail her into doing something that might hurt her, or Harry, and she could not imagine what it was. She had nothing he might want. That brief moment last year when they had lain together, she could find no other word to describe it, the moment that had produced Cat, must not be repeated, besides which she had the idea that that was not in his mind. He had women and to spare who would gladly share their beds with Roly Sinclair. He was rich, handsome, charming, the catch of the district. He was fun. Had he not made her life more cheerful after Chris died, taking her about, encouraging her to do the things young widows were not supposed to do but persuading her it did no harm, making her the talk of Moorend? For years she and Chris and he had been inseparable, good friends who would stand together against the rest of the world, caring not a jot for what society thought, enjoying life to the full and to hell with gossip. Chris had loved Roly as he might a brother, and so had she, but had there been a side to him that neither of them had seen? Even on the day when she and Roly had shared a moment of passion on this very stretch of tough grass beside the boulders he had appeared to be contrite, filled with remorse to have dishonoured the widow of his best friend. Had that been an act as well? Was there some secret part of Roly Sinclair that neither of them had seen?