A Time Like No Other Page 28

  ‘The future?’ Harry echoed, drawing away from her as though already his mind was searching for a hiding place. Lally heard the sound of Jenny and Tansy laughing as they ran down the back stairs to the kitchen passage. They had come from one of the guest bedrooms changing the bed linen, for though recently they had not had guests to stay Mrs Stevens was a stickler for the correct way in which a house such as the Priory should be run, insisting the bedrooms were ‘done out’ and the beds changed every week. Daft, they called it, but since neither of them had the laundering to do, what was it to them?

  Lally looked up into Harry’s troubled face. The cast had been removed from his nose and the bruises put there by the Weaver boy’s kicks had faded. He looked his old self except for the hesitant expression on his face. What was it that had altered his mind so that the most important part of his life had become hidden from him? He was an intelligent man, sharp, experienced in the ways of business, a man who from entering the mills as a youth and working next to his own father had learned the trade, absorbed every aspect of it so that it was a part of him and yet, though he was physically improving, he seemed to shy away from anything that was not involved in his life with her and the children, the house, even the gardens which he asked about. Doctor John told her to let him recover at his own pace, that the memory of his commercial life would return gradually as he recovered from the blow to his head but that had been weeks ago and still he clung to what she was beginning to believe was the place where he had chosen to hide.

  She could not press him, she just couldn’t. She must somehow manage to carry on without him, how she did not know, but the danger of forcing him to remember what his life’s purpose was, running the mills, was something she couldn’t chance.

  ‘The . . . the future?’ he repeated vaguely. ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  She smiled up at him and without thinking, put her arms about him and held him close to her. She marvelled at how dear this man was becoming to her. Once she had looked to him for protection, for security from the threat of scandal and he had not failed her. Now he needed her to safeguard his interests, to keep his mills running, his concerns forging ahead and she didn’t know where to start. Roly would fight her every step of the way to get what he wanted and she must gather her frail, female strength to stop him. But not only had she to do this tremendous deed, she must keep her household running, her children cocooned in the childhood safety they deserved and she must bear the child that she knew was growing inside her. Harry’s child!

  ‘Harry, there is something I must tell you. To do with the future.’

  He frowned anxiously but her smile deepened and she hugged him closer then she drew back, at the same time keeping hold of his hands.

  ‘What would you like more than anything in the world?’

  His own face lightened and his lips curled in that engagingly familiar way she had come to recognise.

  ‘Oh . . .’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Take off that lovely gown and whatever it is you have underneath and I’ll show you.’

  ‘Later perhaps, but . . . well, oh, Harry, I hope you will be pleased, I know I am, but we are to have a child. I am carrying your child. It will not be until July, I think, but that is what I meant when I spoke of the future.’

  She thought the news had alarmed him, for his face became unnaturally still. He did not frown exactly but what seemed to be a look of alarm . . . no, not alarm, suspicion drew down his eyebrows. He turned away and stared unseeingly through the window at the grey, lowering clouds that were building up across the skyline. Snow, Barty had announced in the kitchen, since he was knowledgeable about such things, and he and Froglet were busy in the greenhouses doing what was needed to protect their precious plants. From the side window they could be seen moving into the kitchen garden, retrieving the wheelbarrow that was filled with leaves gathered in the autumn and with which they would cover the celery beds and the parsnips to protect them from the cold. They had put in broccoli which needed attention and the fruit beds, peaches, nectarines and other wall trees which had been pruned earlier must be cosseted. Barty kept glancing up at the sky as though he expected to be immersed in a snowstorm at any minute.

  ‘What . . . what is it, Harry? Are you not pleased that we are to have a child?’ She moved towards him but he left her to stand at the window and she was forced to address his lean back. She wanted to put out a hand to him but he was so stiff and unbending she was afraid to touch him as though he might splinter and fall into a million pieces.

  ‘Where have you been this morning?’ His voice was harsh, crackling with some emotion she could not even guess at. It was a question she did not want to answer. What excuse could she give for visiting High Clough? Did he even remember that Roly was home from his travels? The one time Roly had called at the Priory demanding to see his brother, Harry had been in their bedroom, but who knew what might have been said by one of the housemaids or even that he might have heard Roly’s voice.

  ‘I was . . . Susan, Biddy and I were out in the carriage. We—’

  ‘And where did you go in the carriage?’ His voice was ice-coated.

  ‘What . . . what does it matter, Harry? We went for a drive and—’

  ‘A drive? In this weather?’ For the first flakes of snow were beginning their dance beyond the windows.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t . . . this morning the weather . . .’ She knew she was babbling but somehow it seemed imperative to keep the whereabouts of this morning’s drive from Harry.

  ‘My brother has returned from his travels, hasn’t he?’ Still he did not turn to her and she racked her brains to search for the reason why he should be so distant with her.

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ she managed to stutter.

  ‘How long has he been back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Really, Harry, what is all this?’ Her exasperation with this line of questioning was starting to turn to anger, for she could not even guess where it was leading.

  ‘And the child is expected in July, you say.’ He turned then and the expression on his face frightened her. Not for herself, but for him.

  ‘That is what I calculated,’ she managed to utter, ‘but then women are known to be—’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ he murmured, his voice more menacing than if he had shouted. ‘The moment Roly returns to Moorend, you become pregnant. How strange it is that though you and I have been married for over a year I have not been able to get you with child yet here you are expecting what I believe is called a “happy event” nine months after Roly comes home.’

  He turned back to the window and stared out at the gathering snow, taking a great interest, it seemed, in the flakes that were sliding down the panes of glass.

  For a moment she was bewildered then, as the horror of what he had said struck her, she became appalled, ice in her veins, frozen and unable to speak. Every drop of colour drained from her face and as if a finger had smudged soot beneath her eyes, half circles of shadow appeared. Her mouth dropped open but no sound came from between her lips. Though she was dressed in a pale, eggshell blue the colour seemed too strong for her. The skin of her face was translucent, like milk that has been watered down and even her lips were colourless, as colourless as the exquisitely carved alabaster chess pieces that stood on a small table by the side window.

  ‘Harry.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, scarcely to be heard. ‘I can’t believe . . . I don’t believe . . . you can’t be accusing me of . . . Dear God, I am carrying your child and you seem to be telling me you believe . . . you’re out of your mind.’ Which was true, of course. Harry Sinclair who was known for his sound judgement, his clear thinking, his business acumen, was damaged to the extent that his normally balanced mind seemed unable to grasp the horrific words he had spoken. He was implying that, since Roly had fathered Caterina, she and his brother had resumed their relationship and the child in her womb was his.

  ‘I ask you again where have you been this morning?’ he said with black, snarling ang
er, turning on her in his pain and she thought he was about to strike her.

  She lifted her head and squared her shoulders and for a brief moment the true Harry, the real Harry saw the reality of what was happening here, what he was doing to her, saying to her and was in torment, then the jealousy and mistrust took over and he made a noise like an animal in a trap.

  ‘You were with him, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You bitch . . . you . . .’

  ‘And so were Susan and Biddy.’ To hell with John Burton, her mind was whispering in a fever of self-defence and the need to get this over. ‘We went to High Clough together. Carly took us in the carriage.’ Her voice was quiet, composed, steady with truth.

  He seemed to sag, his body folding little by little though he did not fall. His eyes grew unfocused, a kind of smoky brown and his words, when they emerged, were blurred.

  ‘High Clough?’

  ‘Yes, your mill and we intend to inspect West Heath and South Royd in the next few days. Someone must stop Roly.’

  ‘Roly . . .’ he faltered, reaching behind him for a chair. When he found it he sat down heavily. His face was quite blank but he managed to dig deep into his wounded mind for the last few words.

  ‘From doing . . . what?’

  She hurriedly crossed the room and sank to her knees before him. His hands lay flaccid in his lap and she took them between her own. She brought them to her lips, kissing them passionately then released one to brush back a lock of his thick hair that fell over his forehead. It was a gesture she might have used with Jamie or Alec when they were upset.

  ‘Oh, my darling, come back to me, help me,’ she cried. ‘He is doing his best to get his hands on your mills and he must be stopped. Susan and I went to see him. I don’t know why we took Biddy. For support, I suppose,’ she went on distractedly, ‘but he is making threats. He is determined to have your share of the mills for himself. To run them himself. He is to marry Anne Bracken who will be one of the richest women in Yorkshire when her father goes and even before that will bring Roly the cash he needs. Or he says he will split the business. Build a fourth mill then he will have two and you the same, the money for the fourth mill coming from the profits already accrued. Susan says he will, of course, take the most profitable and you will be left with . . .’

  He turned his face to the window and after several dreadful, silent seconds she began to understand that she had lost him.

  She tried one last desperate measure, one she was loth to bring up but somehow she must take it if she was to reach him.

  ‘Harry . . . Harry, listen to me. If you refuse he threatens to tell the world that Cat is not your child, but his.’

  He said nothing, nothing showed in his face. He simply sat in the chair, his lifeless hands lying in hers and it was as though a light, perhaps a feeble light but a light nevertheless, had been blown out inside him. He looked so handsome; no, that was not exactly the word since his features, unlike his brother’s, were far from perfect. His mouth was too hard though it lifted at one corner as if half ready to smile. His jaw was tense and uncompromising. His nose was slightly crooked, due to being broken and he had a faint white scar through one eyebrow. His eyes, which were the colour of treacle, were surrounded by luxuriant black lashes and normally glowed with life, with health and on occasion with good humour. He had strong white teeth. He was lean and hard and on the whole had an attractive appearance.

  ‘Harry.’ She shook his hands in desperation but when he turned his gaze back to her she wished she had left him alone. There was nothing there. Nothing of Harry Sinclair. Just a face that might have been painted on canvas.

  She rose slowly to her feet, moved to the door and out into the hallway. She was not surprised to find Susan and Biddy waiting for her.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said simply. ‘Doctor John was right. It was too soon to tell him the truth. ‘There is only myself to keep it all together and I—’

  Susan almost knocked her over so forceful was her embrace. Her arms clutched Lally to her fiercely and beside her Biddy hovered, longing to support her lass but willing to give her into Susan’s safe keeping if that was for the best.

  ‘Eeh . . . eeh no.’ Susan reverted to the speech of her early years, so great was her emotion. ‘Tha’s not alone, our Lally,’ again speaking as a northern woman will when confronted with one of her own. ‘Me an’ Biddy’s ’ere. Between us we’ll beat that bugger up at mill until maister’s ’imself again. That’s right, int’it, Biddy? Us’ll study owt what goes on at that mill an’ we’ll beat it. I’ll work in’t loom gate again if I ’ave to an’ Biddy knows all about account books, don’t tha’, Biddy?’

  Biddy, who had been Mrs Stevens to Susan Harper earlier in the day, nodded her head, not even considering how the account books of a woollen mill might be different to those she was familiar with in the kitchen.

  ‘Aye, we’ll manage, lass. That lad up at the mill can’t sell or buy anything without Mr Sinclair’s signature, and between us we’ll beat him. Now, we’d best get Doctor John up here to see to Mr Harry.’

  23

  He took to sitting in a chair facing the bedroom window, his face devoid of all expression, his two dogs at his feet. If left alone he would have remained in bed, the bed he shared each night with Lally and until the man John Burton had recommended came to get him up, bathe and dress him, Lally began to think he would moulder away there like a baby untended, since you could hardly expect the outside men to see to him and it needed a man’s strength to move him. The man’s name was Martin, quiet-spoken, pleasant, polite, a man of about forty with no family, who had been a porter at the infirmary and dispensary on Ferguson Street to which John gave some of his time. Martin had no nursing experience but he was strong and patient and what Lally liked about him was that he talked to Harry as though Harry were taking part in a proper conversation. He had attended Sunday school as a child and could read and write and as he and Harry sat by the window or before the fire he would read passages from The Times to him. They had all been appalled by the events in India brought about by the revolt of the sepoys though the reason for it was vague in most of their minds. Lucknow, Allahabad, Cawnpore were as familiar to those who read the newspapers as London, Manchester or Halifax, but the report of the butchering of those captured at Cawnpore by Nana Sahib, who seemed to be the leader, turned the stomach of the strongest. Descriptions of white women and children stripped and hacked to death then thrown down a well made the whole world shudder. But that was last year and a report that a memorial had been built at the Cawnpore well had been received with a quiet and steely satisfaction.

  Now, eighteen months later and nearer to home, Her Majesty the Queen had been proclaimed Sovereign of India. She had created her beloved husband Albert, Prince Consort, a new princess, Beatrice, was born, and the Princess Royal, Victoria – known as Pussy to her family – had married Frederick III, German Emperor and King of Prussia. All this Martin read out to Harry along with accounts of ministerial crises in the government, grave conditions in European affairs and the domestic concerns of the country. Mr Disraeli and Lord Palmerston were quoted but Harry continued to sit where he was put, gazing into the coals of the fire or out of the window at the white, frozen world beyond. The trees of the woodland stood laden along each branch with a burden of diamond-studded new-fallen snow against a sky that was cold and clear and rosy with the pink frozen sun floating in it just above the tree line. The flowerbeds were filled with frozen stalks which in summer would be a glory of colour and the lawn was a pure unbroken carpet of dazzling white to the lake. On the water the swans appeared to be a dirty grey, so white was the world. Pink flushes dappled the snow in the windless chill but Harry was immune to the glory of it as he was to all that went on about him.

  Doctor John had been appalled by his patient’s sudden deterioration. Lally had called him in at once, even as she did so knowing there was nothing to be done. The news that she was to have another child, one
that he believed was once again his brother’s, had sent him over the brink of reason and she brooded on how a man so well balanced as Harry Sinclair could be affected as he was.

  ‘Lally, I believe the blow to his skull must have damaged his . . . his brain even more than I first thought,’ John told her worriedly. They had moved downstairs after he had examined Harry, leaving Biddy to sit beside him, and sat in the drawing room where they were drinking coffee brought in by an anxious Jenny, for they were all fond of Mr Harry who was a good master. ‘I can’t understand why, almost overnight, he should become as he has. Why, he didn’t even know me and yet only the other day he was bright and cheerful and though not fully himself, recognised those about him. We know so little, if anything, about the human brain but I believed as he recovered physically he would have—’

  Lally held up her hand and, surprised, he stopped speaking.

  ‘John, there is something you should know, then perhaps it might give you some insight into why Harry is as he is. He took a terrible beating. His skull was . . . must have been severely damaged but . . . but there is something else. I might say keep it to yourself but it will be all over Moorend before long.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘So I might as well tell you now.’

  John leaned forward, his youthful, earnest face worried.

  ‘Lally . . . ?’

  ‘My daughter Cat is not Harry’s child,’ she told him abruptly and was not surprised when he fell back in consternation.

  ‘I did a foolish thing after . . . after Chris died. Roly was our friend, mine and Chris’s and . . . well, one thing led to another and Cat was the result. When I told Harry, who was already helping me with the estate, he offered me marriage. He is a wonderful man . . .’