A Time Like No Other Read online

  The police constables, two of them since the Weavers were a formidable family, had gone over to Foxwell to arrest the brothers but had reported back to say the place was empty; at least the rubbish was still there but the family had gone. But what did that mean? Arty and his wife, and their innumerable daughters who had been out earning their living when Harry and Cameron had called, had been seen over towards Blackley End, begging at the crossroads and had been moved on, for though they had taken no part in Mr Sinclair’s beating, begging was not allowed in the parish.

  And so, until Harry was recovered, which might take a while Doctor John told her, for he thought Harry might have a couple of broken ribs beside the injuries to his face, it was up to her to find out what it was Roly wanted.

  Though he did not say so John Burton thought Harry Sinclair might also have some damage to his skull.

  20

  He was sitting behind Harry’s large, mahogany desk. Its embossed leather top was scattered with samples of Sinclair cloth, sheaves of paper, account books, records of sales through which he had evidently been rifling. It was a large room, richly carpeted and furnished with comfortable leather chairs, for Harry often met customers here. A big square window gave a perfect view of the mill yard and in the fireplace a cheerful blaze warmed the room. The clerk in the outer office had been ready to announce her but she had brushed past him and entered the room without knocking, seriously offending him, for it was his job to interrogate callers.

  Automatically, as a gentleman should, Roly stood up as she appeared in the doorway but she could see by the expression on his face as soon as he recognised her he wished he hadn’t bothered since she was beneath such considerations in his opinion.

  He was smoking a cigar and the rich aroma drifted across to her. He was immaculately dressed, his shirt front crisply ironed and as white as freshly fallen snow. He wore a black dress coat cut back just below waist level as far as the side seams of his trousers, the skirt at the back reaching his knees; his trousers were striped in grey and black and his cravat was tied in a flat bow at the front. He looked the picture of an elegant and fashionable young gentleman.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sinclair,’ the clerk apologised, ‘she was past me before . . .’

  He waved the clerk away. ‘It’s all right, Hawkins. Close the door after you.’

  He sat down without offering her a seat.

  ‘Well, my dear sister-in-law, this is a pleasure. What can I do for you? And may I say you look quite magnificent. You grow more beautiful every time I see you. Motherhood seems to suit you but I’m sure this is not a social call and I’m sorry I can’t offer you refreshments. As you can see I’m very busy in Harry’s absence but I should be glad if you would tell him I want to see him on a matter of business. You see—’

  ‘Harry is . . . not well.’ The words slipped smoothly from between her lips, for she had been determined she would not allow him to bait her into a confrontation. All she wished to do was to find out what was in his mind. What he wanted from her and Harry. He was sitting in Harry’s office behind Harry’s desk which did not bode well. He was arrogant, sure of himself and with what he thought of as a weapon to threaten them with, his belief that Caterina was his child, he was lounging in Harry’s chair, no doubt smoking Harry’s cigars and giving orders to Harry’s office staff.

  He shifted in surprise as she spoke, his lips parting, the expression on his face changing to consternation then as quickly as it came it faded and he smiled.

  ‘Not well! You mean he is hiding at home and sending his wife to do his dirty business? You are the one to tell him what it is I’m after?’

  ‘What are you after, Roly?’ She moved slowly across the deep carpet and seated herself in the chair beside the fire, turning it slightly so that she could see his face. She looked her best, she knew she did. She had dressed in a new gown the colour of pale sherry, the skirt wide, the sleeves tight as was the bodice, showing off the lovely curve of her breast. Over it she had on a velvet cloak the colour of dark chocolate lined with mink which she had thrown back as she sat down. It was raining and her short hair was starred with raindrops that looked like diamonds and her cheeks were pink with suppressed anger. Her blue-green eyes snapped and gleamed and though she was holding herself tight, determined not to lose control of her temper, the effort enhanced her loveliness.

  ‘Well, I should prefer to discuss it with Harry but if he is . . . unwell I shall have to wait until he is recovered.’ His voice was filled with contempt.

  ‘Before you say another word against your brother let me tell you what happened the other day. My friend Susan Harper and I were walking in the woods when we were accosted by two men, sons of the tenants from one of our farms. Ham and Jed Weaver. They were . . . insolent. The farm their father works is in a poor way. They have paid no rents for months so Harry rode over there to turn the family off and to threaten the brothers with the police but . . . it was . . . they attacked him, broke a couple of ribs, so the doctor said, and his nose and . . .’ She did not go on, for she had no intention of telling his brother that Harry, although he had regained consciousness, did not seem to know what had happened to him. He lay peacefully in their bed, allowing the attentions of John Burton, of herself, of Susan, of the housemaids, smiling at her when she entered the bedroom and holding out his hand for her to take and was so unlike his usual assertive self she had felt compelled to ride over and see what the devil Roly was up to. She had expected him to pay a call on the Priory and make clear what he had in mind for her and Harry but when he did not come she decided she could wait no longer.

  ‘Tell me what you want, if you please and I will pass the message on to Harry. He is still in no state to be concerned with your sackless nonsense,’ using a word that she had heard the servants use when some foolishness had occurred.

  ‘Does he discuss his affairs with you?’

  ‘Is it any of your business?’ It surprised her how easy it was to meet him at this level of cool hostility.

  ‘Probably not, but unless he knows what is happening, or will be happening, which apparently you are to discuss with him, there is no point in you and me continuing. I want him to sell his part of the business to me or, if he will not then we can split it. A further mill will be built to accommodate the extra work which my efforts have brought in then the four mills will be divided. Two to him and two to me or I will give him a fair price for the lot if he cares to name one and I’m sure you could live very comfortably on what I’m prepared to offer.’

  He leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag on his cigar, the picture of casual ease, a man with no concerns or worries, for did he not hold the upper hand.

  She picked up a small object from the table beside her, a paperweight, then replaced it a further inch or two along the polished surface.

  ‘Or you will spread it about Yorkshire that my daughter, Harry’s daughter, is in fact not Harry’s daughter at all but yours. That you and I had an affair and that Cat is the result. That Harry married me to cover up my immorality since the man is never to blame.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘I shall put your proposition to Harry and let you know what he has to say.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall ride up and have a word with him myself.’

  ‘No,’ she said sharply, her mind on the inert figure of her husband as she had last seen him. He was propped up in their bed drinking the draught Doctor John had mixed for him. John was of the opinion that Harry should be kept quiet. That he should stay in his bed until his ribs were healed and his face, which was a mass of half-healed contusions and multicoloured bruises, was back to normal. Until his nose on which Doctor John had moulded a rough cast was mended. And the worrying thing was that Harry allowed it. He seemed perfectly happy to be helped from the bed to the flush lavatory in the small water closet off the bedroom or to the cast-iron tub that was encased in painted tiles in the bathroom, one of the outdoor men giving him a hand. He was cheerful, lying in a contented state,
or so it appeared, but turning frequently towards the door, Tansy or Jenny, who shared the task of watching over him when the mistress was not there, reported, pleased when Miss Lally entered the room.

  But Roly Sinclair was shrewd. He had dealt with hundreds of men since the day he had entered the business and he was a good judge of character. Lally was hiding something. Her sharpness of tone when she had told him not to come to the Priory informed him that there was some underlying reason for keeping him from his brother and, though he said nothing then, he made up his mind that he would ride over to the Sinclair home and demand to see Harry who had never had a day’s illness in his life and who would never, unless it was a matter of life and death, miss a day’s work at one of his mills.

  Lally stood up and smoothed out her skirt. He did not stand when she did, his insolence once more letting her know that he held her in no respect.

  She shook her head in total disbelief. ‘Well, I will tell Harry of your infantile suggestion, for it is infantile to believe you can run this business on your own, but I think I can say with perfect truth that you are wasting your time. You cannot be in two places at the same time. If you were to do what Harry does, which is produce the cloth, going each day to the mills, who is to sell it abroad as you do now?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about that,’ he interrupted her with one of those ridiculous statements men use when speaking of women. ‘I have a man in mind who could do what I do. A clever man I met in the way of business. A born salesman so with him in place I shall be my own master. I shall have no need to listen to Harry.’

  ‘You must be mad,’ she said contemptuously, moving towards the door, ‘thinking you can run a business without Harry. You are two of the wealthiest, most successful worsted manufacturers in the county.’

  ‘But I have to defer to Harry before I can produce or sell a yard of cloth.’ His face was twisted in some strange way and she realised that this had been burning inside him for a very long time and the strange thing was they none of them had noticed it. He had presented his smiling face, his charming manners, his cheerful exterior to them all – except perhaps Harry who was sharper than most – and now he had seized on the chance to put what he had always wanted into practice. To be in complete control!

  ‘Well, I can tell Harry what you have just told me but, believe me, he will think as I do. That you are mad.’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I mean what I say. Now, I have work to do so if you will excuse me. I shall be up to see Harry with my solicitor to—’

  ‘You will come nowhere near Harry, Roly Sinclair,’ she hissed. ‘He is in no fit state to discuss this nonsense and it is nonsense. I don’t know what your financial resources are but I imagine this offer, or demand you are making, will stretch them quite considerably, if it is accepted which I seriously doubt.’

  ‘My word, quite the little hell cat . . .’

  ‘Oh, go to the devil!’

  She marched down the stairs and flung herself into the carriage which waited in the yard. Carly glanced back at her furious face and, without a word, turned towards the gate and home. The afternoon was drawing in, late autumn shadows stretching across the lane. A bird was winging homewards across the thin, cool air and Lally felt a great void inside, a sense of futility, for what was to be done? Roly wanted the Sinclair mills and would do anything to get them. He wanted to call High Clough, West Heath and South Royd and the new mill he hoped to build, his own. If Harry refused and tried to force Roly to a split – since there was no way he would sell – what would it do to him and their lives together? To the children, especially Cat who was not even his child. Would he declare war on Roly, call his bluff and risk exposing the whole family, her boys, her precious daughter, herself, to a scandal that would rock the parish? How could she even ask him, report to him what Roly had said to her? In his present state he was not fit to deal with it, even if he understood, which she had begun to doubt. Until he was recovered she must keep this to herself. Oh, God . . . Oh, sweet Jesus, what was she to do?

  Susan looked up sharply when she entered the nursery on her return. Lally had not even stopped to remove her cloak, feeling the need to immerse herself in the sweetness, the laughter, the pure innocence of the children’s world after the taint of corruption from which she had just come. Susan knew at once that something was wrong. The children were eating what was known as nursery tea but Susan, having no truck with only bread and butter and plain biscuits which was what most nannies favoured, had laid out fruit – apples, oranges, bananas – with plain bread and butter, jelly and ice cream and when they had eaten their fruit they were allowed one of the delicious assortment of cakes Biddy had made that day. Lemon cake, coconut cake, snow cake, only one each, of course, but they had learned that when they had demolished what Susan considered was good for them, they might have a treat.

  Dora was there and with a nod to the nursemaid, indicating that she was to take charge, Susan rose to her feet, took Lally’s arm and led her from the nursery up the stairs to her own comfortable sitting room in the roof space of the house. Susan had a spirit stove, a kettle and all that was necessary to make tea, which she did, putting a cup in Lally’s hand.

  ‘Now then, what’s wrong? I know you are worried about Mr Harry and no wonder but what has happened this afternoon?’

  Lally began to weep, the tears running silently across her pale cheeks and dripping into her cup of tea. ‘Oh, Susan, what am I to do? I can’t manage this without Harry and how can I bother him with it when he is . . . not himself?’ Her tears continued to flow and Susan, who was not a demonstrative woman, put out a hand to her but could not quite bring herself to put her arms about her as she longed to do. They were sitting one on either side of the bright fire that burned in her grate, the coals for which were brought up regularly by Dulcie, the kitchen-maid. Dulcie was just fourteen, a willing girl new to her job and having no idea of the hierarchy of the kitchen was happy to do jobs at which the others turned up their noses.

  ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ Lally sobbed, and it was at this moment there came a knock at the door and without waiting to be invited Biddy marched in. She was aware that this was Mrs Harper’s private domain but she had just been told that Miss Lally had come in from wherever it was she had been and, according to Carly who had begged a cup of tea at the back door, was ‘fashed’ about summat that had happened at the mill! Miss Lally at the mill! Biddy was on the warpath at once, for she had been told nothing about the mill and if her lamb had gone straight up to Susan’s she wanted to know what it was all about.

  ‘Now then,’ she declared, ‘what’s all this about you going up to the mill and what’s . . . eeh, chuck, what on earth’s the matter?’ She glared at Susan as though she were the one who had made Miss Lally cry then knelt down at Lally’s knee and wrapped her in loving arms. There had been a great deal of resentment in Biddy when Susan first came to the Priory, for up to then Miss Lally had confided only in her but she had watched the growing friendship between the two young women and realised that Susan Harper was not trying to take her place in Lally’s affections. The woman had known great sorrow and Miss Lally, with that good heart of hers, had done her best to alleviate it, giving her a place in life, employment, a trust to care for her children. When Biddy saw that Susan would not usurp her, that she was extremely fond of Biddy’s lass, that she in fact was good for Lally, she had accepted her. Biddy had her important part to play in this household. She was valued and, yes, loved by her young mistress and being a generous woman had even formed a tentative relationship with the woman from the nursery. Their paths rarely crossed and Susan took care not to interfere with Biddy, her duties, or her place in Miss Lally’s affections.

  Susan stood up and moved to the window which looked out over the garden where Barty and Froglet were busy raking leaves from the rolling lawn that led to the edge of Tangle Wood. She had done her best not to interfere with the unique relationship between Mrs Stevens and Miss Lally bu
t Miss Lally would insist that she and Susan were friends, which pleased Susan, since she had never had a woman friend and was genuinely fond of the woman who had changed her life so dramatically. That was well enough but her other ideas were unworkable and Susan had yet to tell her that she did not wish to be included in any more dinner parties since she knew she was totally out of place but that was for another time.

  ‘Oh, Biddy, it’s about Cat . . .’

  ‘Cat . . . Dear God, what’s happened?’

  ‘He knows, Biddy. He knows she’s—’

  ‘Aye up, watch tha’ gabble,’ casting a glance in Susan’s direction.

  ‘Oh, Biddy, she’ll know soon enough. The whole of Moorend will know before long unless Harry will do as Roly demands.’

  ‘Now then, my lass, Mrs Harper—’

  ‘Will keep it to herself, won’t you, Susan?’ Lally directed a heartfelt appeal to Susan, who had turned from the window and was staring in dawning comprehension at the two women by the fire.

  ‘Nay, less folk who know the better, I say.’ Biddy rose to her feet and squared up to Susan as though they were about to engage in fisticuffs, but Lally caught her hand and then beckoned to Susan to resume her seat by the fireside. ‘I trust you, Susan, as I trust Biddy so if I was to tell you . . .’

  ‘Cat is not Mr Harry’s daughter, is that it? This Mr Roly is holding it over you to get Mr Harry to do something.’

  ‘You’re sharp, I’ll say that,’ Biddy sniffed, ‘how did you guess?’ Then she drew up another chair and the three women sat almost knee to knee, Lally’s tears beginning to dry up, for the old saying ‘a trouble shared is a trouble halved’ was certainly true, especially when it was shared with the two women in the world she trusted the most, the two women who loved her and whom she loved. The love between women can be as staunch and everlasting as between man and woman and these two had proved themselves, Biddy even more than Susan, to be her true friends.