A Time Like No Other Read online

  ‘He wants the mills, you see.’

  ‘What!’ Biddy was aghast.

  ‘Yes. He wants Harry out and himself in charge. I don’t understand how it is to be done but unless Harry agrees he will tell the world that Cat is his child. Dear God.’ Lally raised her face to the ceiling in supplication. ‘Once, only once after Chris died, I was lonely and missed . . . well, you are both women and know what a man can give a woman. I allowed him to . . . to make love to me and within a month I knew I was pregnant. I told Harry, I don’t know why, I suppose because I had always trusted him, but, well, we were married and I had a ‘premature’ baby. The marriage has been . . . I thought we had a chance of happiness . . .’

  ‘He loves you, lass. I told you that, didn’t I?’ Biddy’s voice was sad.

  ‘I know that now and I am . . .’

  ‘Beginning to love him? He’s a grand chap, is Mr Harry. Mrs Harper will agree, won’t you?’

  ‘I wish you’d call me Susan,’ Susan said absently. ‘And yes, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Lally. But what are we’ – none of them noticed the plural – ‘to do? Mr Harry’s not himself yet and until he is we cannot trouble him with this. John’d have my hide if—’

  ‘John, is it?’ Biddy said wryly.

  ‘We are friends,’ Susan said defiantly.

  ‘Really! But, still, that’s not the subject here. Lally, you must dry your tears and go down to your husband and Susan must see to the children, for God only knows what those naughty boys are plaguing Dora with.’ They all three stood up and with a simple gesture Lally put her arms about Susan, then Biddy, before she slipped from the room.

  ‘She needs help,’ Biddy said to Susan.

  ‘She’ll get it.’

  His face was turned to the door when she entered and at once Tansy stood up and slipped from the room. He held out his hand and she took it, kneeling by his bed and placing a soft kiss on his lips. His responded and his other hand rose to cup her chin.

  ‘I’ve missed you. Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the nursery. They were having tea so nothing would do but that I sit down and have a biscuit with them.’

  ‘And Cat?’ His damaged face did its best to smile, for the progress of the good-natured baby was of great interest to him. It seemed to Lally that he was genuinely beginning to believe that the child was his so how could she tell him of Roly’s threats to expose the truth of Cat’s paternity? Harry was coming along nicely, as Doctor John put it, and his ribs were healing so he should be able to get up out of bed before long. As long as he did not overdo it, he might even go downstairs, or upstairs to see the children in a few days providing they were not allowed to leap all over him which they were prone to do. The three boys loved him to get down on the floor and pretend to be a tiger and the shrieks of laughter could be heard in the kitchen.

  So far John had not spoken of his anxiety about Harry’s head injury. Not that he had one that could be seen. There was no wound visible but something in his skull had been . . . well, John did not quite know how to describe it. His memory had not been damaged. He knew them all, from Dulcie, the kitchen-maid who brought up the coals for his fire, to his beloved wife. He chafed at being bedfast, as Biddy described it, and though the sight of his face might frighten the children, in a few days it would be healed enough to visit them. But he never mentioned the mills, his brother, his confrontation with the Weaver brothers, indeed anything to do with what was an integral part of his life. He had been running the Sinclair mills since the death of his father, knowing not only how to manufacture cloth from the moment the wool left the back of the sheep but the machines that made it all possible. The wool textile industry had occupied a unique place in British history from the twelfth century and Harry Sinclair knew that history as he knew his own. Every machine invented, every innovation, from sorting and scouring of the fleeces, the blending, the carding, the preparation of the worsted yarn, the spinning to the weaving was bred in the bones of him and it was due to his knowledge and to his business acumen that the Sinclair mills were probably the most successful in Yorkshire. He could even darn his own socks, for the basic principle of weaving was the same. Threads sewn in one direction, then, at right angles, more threads passed over and under the first which was just like darning, his mother had told him and he had set to and darned the hole in his sock as a boy!

  Now, in a few short days, he had lost a part of himself that was himself and Doctor John Burton who, like every other doctor in the world, knew little about what went on inside the skull, wondered if he would ever regain it.

  21

  He waited a week before he rode up to the Priory, apologising to the frozen-faced Lally for not coming earlier but business had eaten up so much of his time it had taken him until now to find an hour free.

  He had caught her unprepared, entering the drawing room where Jenny had shown him, for after all he was the mistress’s brother-in-law and surely needed none of the formality of announcing that callers were usually put through.

  Lally had Biddy with her, thank the good God, she was to say later, and they were discussing the menus for the day, seated one on either side of the roaring fire for as December came in it had turned bitterly cold. They were drinking hot chocolate and if Roly was surprised to see Lally consorting in a familiar way with one of her servants, he quickly hid it.

  ‘Well, this is a cosy scene,’ he remarked, ready to raise a hand to Mrs Stevens to tell her not to stand, but as she merely sat there, as frozen-faced as her mistress and with no intention, it seemed, of standing for her betters, he could feel his own temper rise.

  ‘I’ve come to see Harry since it seems he has no intention of coming to see me. There are legal matters to attend to and we both need to be involved, so if you would summon him I’d be obliged.’ He sauntered across the room and seated himself on one of Lally’s dainty new chairs, his smile fixed. He had handed his hat, his riding whip and his warm cape to the housemaid and his manner was of a guest who is perfectly sure of his welcome and waits only to be asked whether he would prefer tea, coffee or chocolate.

  ‘I have no intention of summoning my husband, as you so delicately put it, Roly. He is not totally recovered from the beating he took and is resting but if you would like me to give him a message I would gladly do so.’

  By now Lally had got a grip on herself and her smile was as fixed as his. She looked incredibly lovely in a velvet gown the colour of the heather on the moorland in the middle of summer. Her short hair had a ribbon of the same colour threaded through it and she wore satin slippers dyed to match her gown. She had just spent an hour with Harry, sitting beside his bed, for as yet Doctor John had decided he needed more rest. She was not to know that the doctor, mystified by his patient’s apparent inability to remember the circumstances, not only of his injuries, but who he had been before them, had come to the conclusion that only bed rest, or at least to be kept to his room quietly, might do the trick. It could do no harm at least. Harry did not seem to mind which was quite frightening. It was not strictly true to say that Harry did not remember the beating he had taken, nor that he had forgotten his family and the servants, the children or who he was, but a part of him was missing and he had not even noticed!

  ‘Do you not feel able to leave the bedroom, Harry?’ Lally had asked him tentatively as she sat beside his bed. He had been reading The Times, leaning back among his nest of pillows, seemingly quite content. He liked her to be with him and with her arm to steady him he had begun to move about the bedroom and sit in the chair by the fire. He no longer needed the constant presence of one of the housemaids and Doctor John said he was making good progress. Lally had questioned the doctor, asking if he thought it might be a good idea to mention the mills and his daily routine before the beating but John decided it might be a little early yet. When he was physically restored, his broken ribs and nose mended, then they might try a little gentle probing but until then let him rest and – though he did not say
this to Lally – his complete memory would hopefully be restored.

  Harry had put the newspaper down and smiled at her, a sweet, trusting smile that told her without words that he loved her and believed in some strange way that she returned his feelings.

  ‘Would you have me out on the moors with Piper under me?’ His smile widened. ‘My love, you know these ribs of mine are still painful and the good doctor seems to feel I should stay in bed so here I shall remain until given permission to rise. It also means I see more of you which is a pleasure to me.’

  This was so unlike the strong-willed, hardworking, resolute man of business who was Harry Sinclair that Lally was beginning to be frightened. She had expected him to rail at his confinement, argue at every turn that he was not only fit to get out of bed, to sit in a chair but to go to the bloody mills. Who the devil was running them in his absence, he would be shouting and he was off to see for himself so would Carly kindly saddle Piper and where the hell were his clothes?

  Now Roly stood up and strolled about the drawing room, picking up a delicate porcelain figurine and studying it thoughtfully as if deciding whether to buy it. He was startled when Lally stood up herself, almost flinging herself from her chair and at once Biddy did the same.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Roly?’ Lally asked him coldly.

  ‘Well, if Harry is unavailable I shall just have to go ahead with my plans without him, won’t I, my sweet?’

  ‘I am not your sweet, Roly, and I would advise you to postpone your plans whatever they are until I have had time to consult with my lawyer. I shall be at High Clough first thing tomorrow morning if that is convenient. And even if it is not! I will not have business discussed in my home. Do I make myself clear? Shall we say nine o’clock?’

  Roly was so astonished he almost dropped the figurine then his face flushed up with what Lally supposed was suppressed anger.

  ‘What the devil’s going on here, Lally? I demand to see my brother and if you do not—’

  Lally put up an imperious hand. ‘Biddy, would you mind fetching one or two of the men from the yard. I would like Mr Sinclair to leave and if he won’t go voluntarily I shall have him put out. I will not have my husband disturbed at this time.’

  Biddy began to move towards the door but Roly was there before her, barring her way. ‘I don’t know what the hell you think you’re up to, Lally, but you might be sorry if you—’

  ‘We’ll see. Now then, are you to leave or must I—’

  Roly turned from her, pushing past Biddy and erupting into the hallway. Tansy was arranging some flowers in a crystal vase on the hall table but she flinched away from the tall, maddened figure of her employer’s brother, almost dropping the vase.

  ‘My cape, hat and whip, girl,’ he snarled at her and when she retrieved them and held them out to him he grabbed them from her and flung open the big front door before she could get to it. His chestnut gelding was ready for him, the reins held by Ben who also recoiled slightly from the man who jumped down the steps and leaped into the saddle. The carefully raked gravel, done every day by Barty or Froglet, was thrown up beneath the horse’s hooves, scattering across a neatly hoed flowerbed and from the perfection of the lawn where they were raking leaves, Barty and Froglet sighed deeply.

  In the drawing room both Lally and Biddy sank tremblingly into a chair.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Biddy said, her voice inclined to tremble also.

  ‘Yes, I think we have just declared war on my husband’s brother, Biddy.’

  ‘You might say that, my lass.’

  Almost in the very centre of Moor Wood, which was north of Cowslip, the farm tenanted by the Graham family, was a cave hidden by a fallen beech tree on the bank of a tiny beck. The beck was shallow and into it ran a rivulet of fresh water. The cave was reached by a steep, pine-studded slope and stopped at an outcrop of rocks which hid the entrance. The cave was shallow and running right round it at waist height was a kind of shelf formed from the rock.

  On the shelf sat a frying pan which had evidently never been cleaned, an old kettle, two tin cups, a jar of what looked like loose tea, another of flour and, piled carelessly along the shelf, the remains of several animals, probably rabbits. There was a ravel of string and various unidentifiable objects, bits of rusty chain, some nails and a hammer. An old bowl, chipped round the edges, held half a dozen eggs. A bucket with a ladle hanging over the edge evidently contained water. There were fire-blackened stones around a small fire in the centre of the cave and a heap of old flour sacks piled in one corner. Next to the flour sacks stood two rifles and several animal traps.

  There were two men in the cave, lolling on a bed of bracken, dry and warm against the cold December day. They were unshaven and unkempt, both of them smoking a clay pipe. They were big men with matted hair and the dark skin that spoke of an outdoor life.

  One of the men stood up, ladled some water into the old kettle and placed the kettle in the centre of the smouldering fire. He reached up for the two tin cups, peering into them. Finding one not to his liking he spat into it, wiped it round with the hem of his tattered shirt then heaped a spoonful of tea into each. When the kettle boiled he poured water into each cup and then handed one to the second man.

  ‘’Ow long d’yer reckon us’ll ’ave ter stay ’ere, then?’ he said, sipping his tea.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ was the answer.

  ‘What if she don’t come this way?’

  ‘Well, someone will. If it ain’t ’er, it’ll be ’im or one o’ them servants. I don’t give a bugger ’oo it is as long as it’s from that bloody family. We’ll keep outer sight an’ watch the tracks through’t wood an’ even slip across ter Tangle Wood fer they’re right chummy wi’ them bloody McGinleys. Jesus, I could slit that bugger’s throat.’

  ‘What bugger’s that?’

  ‘That Sean what’s gettin’ our farm. We saw ’im over there yesterday pokin’ round as though it were ’is already.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Don’t you be clever wi’ me, me lad.’

  ‘I were only sayin’—’

  ‘Well, don’t. It were ’er what put us ’ere. It were ’er what sent ’er old man ter chuck us out an’ someone’s gonner pay. God knows what’s ’appened ter Ma an’ Pa but we couldn’t bring ’em ’ere, could we? We’d be bound ter be noticed. No, you an’ me’ll stay ’ere, livin’ off land, snug as two bugs in a rug an’ when chance comes we’ll ’ave ’em.’

  The following morning at nine o’clock precisely a smart carriage drew up to the steps that led to the entrance of the office in the yard of High Clough. Men working in the yard, which was bustling with activity, stopped what they were doing to stare in astonishment as three ladies descended from the carriage helped by the coachman. One of the ladies was the maister’s wife, they knew that and one or two of them thought they recognised the second lady, but the third none of them had seen before.

  Mrs Sinclair looked quite magnificent, the men would say to one another after she had disappeared, though they were rough working men and would not use such words. She was in blue, eggshell blue, though again the men would not have called it that, a full-skirted gown beneath which, as she climbed down from her carriage, was revealed a whisper of white lace above her dainty boots. Over her gown she wore a pale grey fur mantle with a wide hood, the fur being chinchilla, though they did not recognise it. The price of it would have kept one of their families for the remainder of their days. She wore no hat and her hair fell in shining curls about her head held with nothing more than a narrow ribbon to match her gown.

  The second lady was equally fashionably dressed though not quite so expensively. She was also in blue but her gown and mantle were the rich blue of the sky at dusk, almost a purple blue. She wore a shallow bonnet far back on her head, the inside of the brim decorated with pale pink silk roses.

  The third lady was . . . not exactly a lady. In fact the men knew instinctively that she was a servant. One of Mrs Sinclair’s
household but what the devil she was doing with Mrs Sinclair and her friend they could not imagine.

  The whole yard came to a complete stop. There were enormous wagons ready to be pulled by the patient shire horses, the cold turning their breath to a vapour about their heads. Sinclair goods were being stowed on to the wagons which would transport them to the railway in Halifax where they would be loaded for their journey to all points of the compass, in this country and in many others; men shovelled coal on to a wagon ready to stoke the boilers. Against the far wall were stacked fleeces, each waiting to be divided by hand into its numerous qualities. Dirt, natural grease and other impurities needed to be removed before the wool would go to be scoured at the fulling mill, but not one man was concentrating on his allotted task as the three females made their dainty way towards the doorway and the steps that led up to the maister’s office.

  Again the clerk in the outer office was affronted when Mrs Sinclair and her companions calmly walked past his high desk and into the office where Mr Roly was working.

  Roly had been waiting for Lally but as she entered with the two other women he rose slowly to his feet, pen in hand, consternation on his face.

  ‘Good morning, Roly.’

  ‘Good God, what’s this? A deputation?’

  ‘You might say that. We have come to discuss the strange demand you made to me last week and to decide what might be the best way to solve it.’ She smiled, then turned to look at her companions. ‘Shall we sit, ladies?’ she asked them and they did, each choosing one of Harry Sinclair’s comfortable armchairs, arranging themselves and their skirts to their own satisfaction. Roly, still standing, watched them with open-mouthed fascination.