Angel Meadow Read online

  They surged foward with wailing cries of joy, even the dog leaping to her feet in a frenzy of barking. They took her out of his arms and elbowed him aside as though he were the man come to sweep the chimney, he complained, but he stood it equably enough, letting them weep and kiss one another as women did at times like this.

  “You approve then?” he asked Annie and was surprised when she swept him into her embrace and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek.

  “Eeh, lad, if yer only knew ’ow long I’ve waited fer this day. She’s ’ad some bloody awful things done to ’er an’ she deserves better.”

  “I’m sure, Mrs Wilson—”

  “Annie, lad.”

  “Annie, and one day in the not too distant future you and I will sit down and—”

  “Nay, ’tis not fer me ter tell yer what’s what, Mr Hayes.” Her face, for a moment, showed her disapproval, not of Nancy but of him for speaking of it, then she beamed. “But I’ll say this. Yer’ll do no better ’en ’er, Mr Hayes, not if yer search the ’ole o’ Lancashire.”

  23

  “I’ll call for you at ten thirty. The train leaves—”

  “What train?” Her tone was sharp and she pulled away from the circle of his arms. They were standing in the dimly lit hallway at Grove Place and the murmur of voices from the kitchen came to them through the half-open doorway where Annie, Mary and Jennet were clearing away the remains of the meal they had all eaten together. A shaft of suffused candlelight from the parlour, restored now that the sewing-machine had been taken away, formed a halo at the back of Nancy’s head and lit her tumble of curls with soft golden streaks and Josh put his hands in it, drawing her close again. He was smiling, a narrow-eyed speculative smile she had grown to know well in the last few weeks, and it told her that he was dreaming of the day, or rather night, she supposed, when he would make her truly his wife. It made her shiver with delight, for it was something she longed for as much as he did but this was not the moment to be considering it.

  “What train?” he murmured, smoothing his hands through the tangled mass of her hair. “The train to Lytham, my darling. I told you that I wanted to take you to meet my parents and—”

  “But I meant to—”

  At once he took his hands from her hair, putting her from him firmly, but still gripping her forearms as he gazed into her face.

  “No, Nancy, no!”

  “No what?”

  “Hell’s teeth, this conversation is becoming somewhat out of hand. Don’t do this to me, Nancy.”

  “Do what?”

  “There you go again and I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me you’ve got this or that to do. Matters concerning the shop that can’t be postponed but it won’t do. We are to be married in four weeks’ time as soon as the banns have been called and I would like my family to be present. At the ceremony, I mean, as you would like yours. I don’t fancy the idea of introducing you to them at the altar so . . .”

  “Oh, Josh.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I had hoped that . . .”

  “What?” His voice became soft. “Now don’t tell me Nancy Brody is afraid.”

  She drew away from him, slapping his hands from her arms, tossing her head imperiously, for was there anything more laughable than that Nancy Brody should be afraid of meeting Josh’s parents, but . . . it was the truth, wasn’t it? It was not exactly that she was afraid, but that she felt they might not exactly approve of their son’s choice, especially after they had been told where she came from, which they would, of course. She had bettered herself and with her own efforts was as well educated, probably better educated, than Josh’s sister who had had a governess. Thanks to Jennet she spoke in their well-modulated tones. Through her reading and the visits she and Mary and Jennet had made to the art galleries and museums in the city she had a fair degree of knowledge of art and literature and could converse about such things without shaming herself or Josh. She knew she could pass as a woman of their own class, mix perfectly well at any social function, for had not Jennet taught her all a well-bred young woman needed to know, like which knife and fork to use, the rather – she thought – odd customs and conduct that the gentry applied to their way of life, the behaviour that would be expected of her as Josh’s wife. None of it had frightened her. Strewth, anyone who had ridden the runaway steeplechaser of the Brody girls’ lives, suffered tragedy, poverty, indescribable hardship, brutality and the utter hopelessness – which she had throttled at birth – that was the heritage of most of Angel Meadow dwellers could cope with a little thing like becoming part of a family who had known none of these things. Besides, Josh was not landed gentry, nor was his father, or his father before him. They were manufacturers. Not of the aristocracy but of the millocracy, having made their fortune, not in land and the inherited wealth of their forebears but in hard work and shrewd business deals.

  Still, it was a bit of a daunting task but one she knew she could not avoid. Not that she would, of course. After all, though she had an illegitimate child, so had Josh, so if his family had accepted Freddy, as it appeared they had, could they not be persuaded to accept Kitty? Not that it made any difference if they didn’t. She and Josh had spent hours talking about things that had happened in their pasts. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to stop Josh from dashing from the house, leaping on his mare and riding hell for leather for Angel Meadow to pick up the trail of the man long gone now, when she had revealed how Mick O’Rourke had forced Kitty on her. He had raged for a long time, pacing the room and refusing to be tempted into her arms, not because he blamed her, as she knew many would, but because he was a man whose woman had been forced, held down like a bitch by the scruff of her neck, taken as a dog takes a bitch.

  Then he had become very quiet, so quiet she had been alarmed, saying no more about it, kissing her gently at the door and riding off into the night, going, not towards Broughton but in the direction of town. He refused adamantly to say where he had gone and she had been forced to say no more.

  He told her about Evie Edward whom he admitted he had seduced and who had died giving birth to their son. He still felt guilt about that, she could sense it, just as she felt guilt that she had allowed Mick to get close enough to her so that the Irishman felt justified in taking what she would not have given.

  But that was all behind them. They were to start again, both of them, their love a joy and wonder to them both who had never expected to know it. They were to be a family with Josh’s son and her daughter; and that was another thing: her lack of closeness to her daughter, but she would face that when it came. One hurdle at a time, Nancy Brody, and this with Josh’s parents was to be the first.

  “I’m not afraid, of course I’m not but I just . . .”

  “Just what? We really do have to do it, sweetheart. My father’s a bit of a tyrant but my mother is a very kind woman. It was she who persuaded my father to accept Freddy. Particularly after I adopted him legally which, by the way, might be a good idea with Kitty. That way we will all have the same surname.”

  Her heart skipped a beat then flooded with her love for this man. He was strong and often stubborn but there was a streak of sweetness in him, a tendency to be kind which he kept well hidden but it made her want to weep at times. She laid her forehead on his shoulder and his hand went to the nape of her neck under her heavy hair. He caressed it gently, putting his mouth to her ear.

  “Have you the faintest idea how much I want you, Nancy Brody. All this hanging about in hallways stealing a hurried kiss while Annie’s not looking is not doing my . . . er . . . manhood any good. Why don’t we . . .”

  “No, Josh.” Her voice was muffled against his chest but her arms slipped round his back and her hands clung together in a vice-like grip. She could feel his body tremble a little and her own responded but, for some reason, probably to do with the way things had happened in their pasts, they had both agreed they would wait until they were married until . . . well, u
ntil they . . . but, Jesus God, it was hard. She knew that if the women weren’t in the kitchen she would take him up to her room right this minute, no matter what they had agreed, and strip him and herself down to their nakedness, the smooth-skinned warmth, the feel of male flesh against female and give in to the scalding need that bedevilled them both. Ever since that night behind the inn when his hands had cupped her breasts she had wanted it again and again and, sometimes, when they lost their self-control, both of them together, it had almost happened and she had been alarmed by the fierceness of her passion. She had believed with all her heart that she had no . . . sensuality – was that the word? – after what Mick had done to her; that no man would ever arouse her body from its slumber but, by God, Josh Hayes had done it and if it was not satisfied soon she would go mad with it.

  “Darling . . . my darling,” he mumbled into her hair. “If you don’t leave me alone I swear I’ll throw you to the ground, lift your very pretty skirt and have my wicked way with you.”

  “And at this moment I’d let you.”

  He groaned and at the kitchen door Annie coughed dramatically to let them know she was coming through. They leaped apart, their faces flushed, their breathing hard, both of them fiddling with this and that as they straightened their clothing.

  “T’sooner you two’re wed the better,” she said disapprovingly.

  “You never spoke a truer word, Annie. So, tomorrow we are to visit my mother and father in Lytham and introduce them to the bride.”

  The journey took them an hour and a half to Preston and then on to Kirkham where they changed on to the branch line which took them to Wrea Green and Moss Side and then to the imposing railway station at Lytham. The first-class fare cost them nine shillings. Lytham, besides being a fishing village, was what was now called a sea-bathing resort and as they strolled arm-in-arm, it being a fine and sunny day, along the seafront in the direction of the house that Mr and Mrs Hayes had rented, there were bathing huts, drawn there by sturdy horses, taking bathers down to the gliding, blue-grey waters of the estuary. The sun caught the ripples formed by passing sailing ships going up to the docks, gilding them to a dazzling silver and gold. Ladies sat in deckchairs, trussed up in their elaborate gowns and bonnets, protected from the sunshine by dainty parasols. Gentlemen strolled about, dressed just as formally, taking their midday exercise, and little girls ran and swooped and bowled hoops despite the confines of their wide, flounced skirts, frilled pantaloons and large-brimmed bonnets. The boys fared better, for it was the fashion to copy the sailor suits and sailor hats worn by the Queen’s sons which were less formal and therefore more adaptable for the games dear to the heart of a boy. Kites sailed the sky, dragging long coloured tails, borne on the salt breeze that came off the estuary. It was a charming scene, blue and white and gold where the sky and the sun and the sands merged into a warm summer haze and though she was increasingly tense – not nervous, oh, never nervous – Nancy breathed deep of the air, the like of which she had never known before. She had lived beneath grey-brown smoke spewed forth from a hundred mill chimneys, drawn its noxious fumes, unnoticed, into her lungs so that this was like drinking pure, spring water after a daily diet of the stagnant stuff that gathered in the alleyways of Angel Meadow and the like. It had a tang of sea-spray in it which was headier, she thought, than wine, and she had become more used to that in the last few weeks.

  The house was set in its own gardens, surrounded by walls built of pebbles and well-grown wych elm trees planted when the house was built, moving now towards their full burnished autumn leaf. They had walked from the station, since it was not far and the weather was clement, and as Josh opened the gate for her, a small wrought-iron gate set beside the wide one which was closed except when the carriage passed through, Nancy caught a glimpse of the house through the trees. It was not big, not by the standards of Riverside House which Nancy had glimpsed from the water meadow behind it, but it was sturdy, well built from the dark red brick which was predominant in the area, the walls decorated in pleasing patterns with the pebblestones that formed the surrounding walls. A “holiday cottage” Josh had described it as, which was probably how people like the Hayes thought of it, she supposed wonderingly, being accustomed to the grandeur of their home in Higher Broughton. There was a terrace with steps leading down to a wide lawn bordered with ribbons of bright flowers, and in basket chairs on the grass an elderly lady and gentleman were drinking from delicate china cups, waited on by a pretty, white-aproned and be-capped maidservant. In a third chair sat a young woman who was obviously Josh’s sister. She had his colouring, his eyes and mouth, but what in Josh was attractive was too heavy for female features. She had his high forehead, his dark brows shadowing eyes that were heavy-lidded, narrow and a pearly grey, a strong chin that was markedly cleft and even the beginning of lines at each side of her mouth. The way she held her head was proud, stiff-necked, again like Josh, but there was a lack of humour in her which was so marked in Josh.

  Nancy knew she looked her best. She wore an elegant day dress of cinnamon-coloured silk with full white undersleeves, the colours repeated in her “chip” bonnet which was lined under its brim with white ruched muslin and decorated with a flowing knot of ribbons of cinnamon-coloured velvet. The skirt of the gown, which measured a full six yards round the hem, was held out by her crinoline. Her cream kid boots, new and the first she had ever had that were not a sensible black, peeped from beneath it as Josh led her across the lawn.

  “Josh, dearest, at last,” the elderly lady called out. “We did not know what time to expect you so we have had lunch. Could you not have said which train you were to take? Really, dear, we are not mind-readers, though I suppose I should expect nothing else from you. I know you mean well but you are so—”

  “Never mind that, Emma.” The elderly gentleman interrupted her gentle rebuking flow of words. “He is here now and I suppose we should be glad of that.” The shadowed sunlight that fell through the leaves of the tree beneath which the party sat was not kind to him. Not very long ago Edmund Hayes had been a rotund gentleman with a high colour. Now his face had slipped away into folds of slack, putty-coloured flesh, his eyes, which were heavy-lidded like Josh’s, were underscored with shadow and even his grey moustache drooped sadly about his thin-lipped mouth.

  “Yes, I’m sorry if you were expecting us for lunch but the first-class train did not run until eleven fifteen so . . . But please, let me introduce Miss Brody to you. Mother, this is Miss Nancy Brody. Nancy, my mother and father and sister, Millicent.”

  “Mrs Hayes, Mr Hayes, Miss Hayes.” She smiled just as Jennet had said she should. No more. There was a polite bend of the head from both Mrs Hayes and Millicent, though Mr Hayes continued to stare suspiciously, or so Nancy thought, up into her face.

  “Miss Brody, do sit down and perhaps you might care for a cup of tea. You must be thirsty after your journey.” Just as though they had come from some far-flung corner of the world. “See, Primrose, get Madge to help you fetch out some more chairs and bring fresh tea. Or might you prefer coffee, Miss Brody?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you, Mrs Hayes.” She sat down in the basket chair the maid placed for her beside Mrs Hayes, smiling to herself as the girl, Primrose, sketched a polite curtsey, thinking to herself the maid was possibly a shade better bred than she was herself.

  “This is a lovely house, Mrs Hayes,” she ventured, after sipping her tea for a moment. “The garden and the proximity of the sea and sands, and I must admit to finding the air quite wonderful after what we are forced to breathe in Manchester.”

  “Indeed, Miss Brody. Your home is in Manchester then?”

  “Oh, yes, I was born and bred there.”

  “Mother, before you begin to grill Nancy . . . Miss Brody, there is something you should know, all of you.” Josh looked round the faces of his family, his mother’s enquiring, his father’s narrow-eyed and watchful, his sister’s openly hostile for some reason. He leaned forward and took Nancy’s hands b
etween his own and Nancy knew that really, after that gesture, there was no need for him to say another word. He was looking into her eyes with that look of loving tenderness and desire that no one could mistake. The way a man looks at the woman who is the centre of his world, the core of his heart, his strength and saviour. She knew, for she recognised it in herself. Love was something that must grow slowly and sweetly, so it was said, and so it was with Josh and herself. All the years between their meeting in the mill yard and that moment behind the Grove Inn it had been growing, barely recognised, some gentle force that had drawn them together against all the forces of their different backgrounds and their circumstances which, though dissimilar, were strangely alike.

  “I . . . we, that is, have come to tell you that we – Miss Brody and I – are to be married in four weeks’ time. I meant to let you get to know her a bit before I said anything but . . . well, I find I cannot keep it to myself.” His boyish enthusiasm was disarming, but it seemed they were not disarmed; at least Mr Hayes and Miss Hayes weren’t, though Mrs Hayes was ready to smile and lift a wisp of lace handkerchief to her eyes if her husband would allow it.