Angel Meadow Read online

  “Shall I take it, ma’am?” she asked Nancy. God forbid that one of the family should carry anything when there was a servant about, but Nancy smiled and shook her head, looking down into the red, angry face of Rosie’s baby. It was as though she were looking at Rose herself.

  “Just a minute, girl,” Millicent shrieked, making them all flinch. Mrs Hayes edged away from her towards the safety of the drawing-room and Dulcie turned, ready to run for the kitchen, for Miss Millicent seemed to have lost her mind.

  “Millicent, will you—” Josh began.

  “If that child goes up those stairs, Joshua, I shall follow to pack my bags. I will not live another hour under the same roof as three bastards, probably four since I would imagine your wife does not know her own father.” Her face creased in a sneer. “I presume you will continue with my allowance so that I may rent a place of my own somewhere?”

  “Just as you like, Millicent.” Josh shrugged as though it were a matter of complete indifference to him whether she stayed or went, but through his mind swept the thought that it would be a damn sight easier on them all if she went. “Now then, Dulcie, accompany your mistress to the nursery while I see to Mother,” for Emma Hayes was in a state of collapse on the threshold of the drawing-room.

  Millicent drew herself up, her face suddenly old, plain, grey with shock, for she had genuinely believed she had called her brother’s bluff. She had no intention of leaving her comfortable home, not for anyone, least of all a wretched brat related to her detested sister-in-law, but still she fought on, using her last weapon with a smile of triumph.

  “If that is your last word, Joshua.”

  “It is, Millicent,” Joshua replied, beginning to lead his wife tenderly towards the clucking sympathy of the waiting parlourmaid, before attending to his mother.

  “Very well, I’ll have Mother’s bags packed with my own, since I cannot leave her alone in this den of iniquity.”

  If he had not been so confounded Josh Hayes might have smiled. Three innocent children who, according to his sister, had turned her home into a place of sin and licentiousness, and now, because of it, Millicent was prepared to remove herself and his mother to some other place where they would not be tainted with it.

  But he had not counted on Emma Hayes, nor her horror at the thought of being torn away from everything and everyone she loved – particularly her grandson – and living alone with her cold-hearted and unbending daughter. She placed a hand on his arm as he reached her quickly, convinced she was about to fall, but from somewhere Emma scooped up her courage and the words to amaze them all, especially Millicent.

  “Oh, no,” she said in a strong, determined voice. “No, Milly, I cannot go with you. This is my home. Nancy is mistress here now, but it is my home and I would prefer to stay here with her, and the children, if you don’t mind,” she finished politely.

  “Mother! ”

  “Leave her alone, Millicent.” Josh’s voice was dangerous. “One more word and I personally will pack your things, call a cab and escort you off the premises. Now then, Dulcie, go with Mrs Hayes and the baby. Mother, come and sit by the fire and ring for Ellen to bring some tea and perhaps we’d best send for one of the other maids to see to the nursery’s needs. See, Mother, take my arm.”

  Within five seconds the hall was empty but for the still, frozen-faced figure of Millicent Hayes who remained where she was even as Ellen brushed past her with a polite, “Excuse me, Miss Millicent.” The bewildered figure of Tilly ran up the stairs in obedience to the request that she was to go at once to the nursery, and her brother, having seen his mother settled, dashed across the hall and up the stairs to his wife.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there and hated. She was conscious of the servants hurrying here and there, and their curious glances, but it meant nothing to her. She hated. That was the sum and substance of her in those few minutes. Hatred, jealousy, bitter and corrosive, venom, a biting thirst for vengeance, implacable and relentless. It was like her own blood pumping through her, her hatred of Nancy Brody, strengthening her, keeping her alive, urging her on to do what she became increasingly aware was to hurt her brother’s wife. To get her own back, as she and her brothers used to say when they were children; and somewhere there was an answer, a step to take, a plan to be made, and she would find it, make it, and survive!

  The front door burst open suddenly but she still remained frozen to the spot where her family had rooted her with their disloyalty to her and their support for the intruder. Her younger brother clattered across the black and white tiled floor of the porch, banging the door to behind him, coming to a halt when he saw her, startled, for he had not dreamed the death of Nancy’s sister – whose existence he had not known of – could affect Milly so. She looked as though she’d been delivered of a mortal blow, eyes wild, jaw clenched, her hands curled into murderous fists.

  “Hello, old thing,” he said awkwardly. “I came as soon as the mill closed. How’s Nancy, and Mother?” For as yet he knew nothing of the addition to the nursery. “Bad do, isn’t it? Poor Nancy.”

  “Damn poor Nancy to hell,” she spat between rigidly clenched teeth. “May she rot there for all eternity and all her family with her.”

  “Aye, steady on, old girl, she’s just lost her sister,” Arthur protested, wondering what the hell was up with Milly. He knew she did not care for Nancy, she had made that clear enough, nor for the bonny little girl in the nursery who was Nancy’s daughter, but surely she could not blame her for the death of her own sister.

  “Oh, yes, Arthur Hayes, lost a sister and gained a niece who is to be – yes, you’ve guessed it – fobbed off on to the rest of us. Three little bastards in the nursery now.”

  “Christ, Milly, you can’t mean it!” Not that Arthur cared a jot or tittle. In fact he quite enjoyed the liveliness of the nursery, the sound of the laughter and merriment that echoed from the nursery floor and often went up there to enjoy – and add to – the fun and games. The house was alive with children’s voices, with kittens mewing and dogs barking and the sight of Nanny Dee chasing Freddy and Kitty round the garden made them all smile.

  “Oh, can’t I? Well just go up there and see for yourself. I threatened to leave and take Mother with me but Josh wouldn’t hear of it,” revealing only half the truth.

  “I should think not.” Arthur was clearly horrified.

  “But they’ve not heard the last of it, believe me.”

  “What d’you mean by that, old girl?”

  “She’ll not cross me for much longer, that floozy Josh married.”

  “Aye, steady on, Milly,” Arthur protested again.

  “I’ll find something, see if I don’t, and when I do she’ll rue the day, she’ll rue the day . . .”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Wait and see, Arthur Hayes.”

  With that she turned and ran up the stairs, her footstep light, her back like a ramrod.

  They sat together at dinner that night, Nancy and Josh, Emma, Millicent and Arthur, the ladies in the deepest black of mourning, though it must be admitted Emma and Millicent wore it not for Rose Brody but for Edmund Hayes. So did Nancy, in respect and affection not just for her father-in-law, but for Emma, and now it was for her sister. The gentlemen were in tight black trousers and frock coats, single-breasted with a narrow collar and fastened with only one button. Their silk neckties and waistcoats were also black, the ties fastened in a small bow. They were all keenly aware of the storm that had swept through the house that afternoon but it seemed Millicent had decided to let bygones be bygones and indeed went out of her way to be pleasant to her mother and brothers, though she acted as though her sister-in-law did not exist.

  Nancy had not wanted to come downstairs, begging Josh to ring for a tray, perhaps some soup and one of Mrs Cameron’s excellent soufflés, for she had no appetite.

  Josh had knelt at her feet, leaning forward to look tenderly into her pale, weary face. They had just come down from the nursery after s
ettling Rose Brody’s daughter among its astonished occupants, none more so than Nanny Dee. Dulcie, herself one of a large family, had scooted up to the attic for the crib and the box that contained Master Freddy’s and Miss Kitty’s baby clothes and the “little mite” as she was called, since as yet they had not got their tongues round her name, had been bathed – the second time that day – smoothed all over with violet powder and dressed in the over-large petticoat and dress that Freddy, who had been a big, healthy newborn, not like this wisp, had once worn. Both Freddy and Kitty had been mesmerised by the whole procedure, hanging over the large bowl in which the tiny scrap of humanity was lowered while Nanny Dee soaped and sluiced, and the baby, who seemed to find the experience to her liking, gazed unblinkingly about her. They were fascinated by the newcomer’s hopeful sucking motion with her baby lips which Nanny had rectified for the moment with a little oatmeal gruel, thin and smooth, and were amazed when the baby had fallen asleep on Nanny’s lap. Kitty had begged to play with the infant, not to hold her like one did with a dolly, since she was scornful of such things, but to toss about and tickle as one might a playful kitten and had been seriously displeased when she was refused.

  “But who is she, that’s what I’d like to know?”

  “Me too,” Freddy echoed.

  “And where did she come from?”

  “Yes, where?”

  “Papa and I will explain it all to you in the morning, Kitty. I’m very tired but I can tell you her name is Ciara. Ciara Rose.”

  “I don’t like it,” Kitty proclaimed loftily.

  “Neither do I,” her echo said.

  And neither did Nanny Dee, who was used to plain, easily identified names for her children. No doubt when madam was rested she would reveal the identity of the tiny infant, but when Dulcie, who had been in the hall when the revelation came, whispered to her over the heads of the fascinated children that Mrs Josh’s sister had died that day, the mystery was solved.

  Josh had persuaded Nancy to dine with the family, convinced that Millicent, who had been in such a tear earlier, would not put in an appearance.

  “Only for an hour, sweetheart. Mother would like it, you know. She loves you, Nancy, and will be genuinely grieved by Rose’s death.”

  “Josh, I just cannot stand another scene with your sister, really I can’t.”

  “I know, my love. I don’t think she will dine with us but if she does I promise you the moment she starts, if she starts, we’ll both come back upstairs.”

  Nancy sighed. “You promise?”

  “Yes, my darling.”

  Millicent was there, keeping up a constant flow of bright conversation, gossipy, inconsequential conversation, as though to say the death of Nancy’s sister was no concern for melancholy. Brittle conversation about the comings and goings and doings of their friends and the social functions that were planned for the coming summer. There was to be an engagement party at the Colemans, had Josh heard? Oh, yes, Della, who was the same age as Millicent and had long expected to remain a spinster – though Millicent did not voice this last – had finally got Andrew Mortimore to propose and there would be a wedding in the autumn. Della, who was very fashionable, very particular about her appearance, was to have her trousseau made for her by that stunningly clever young dressmaker who worked at Kendal Milne and Faulkners. Simply everyone was asking for her. She thought she might try her herself since she was exceedingly popular.

  Emma gazed with anguish at Nancy, distressed by Millicent’s lack of feeling, ready to chide Milly for her callousness, but Nancy placed her hand on her own, giving her a small smile and slight shake of the head, begging her to say nothing, for what did it matter? Josh fidgeted and at one point, as Millicent extolled the virtues of the young seamstress, seemed ready to speak out but again Nancy shook her head. What did it matter? Millicent Hayes did not matter. Her heart was too heavy with sadness for her sister to be damaged in any way by her sister-in-law’s venom.

  Millicent tinkled on. Had Josh heard that Johnny Arkwright was back from New Zealand where his regiment, the West Yorkshires, had helped to put down those fierce savages in the Maori Wars? He’d been wounded, only slightly, but enough to get him sent home and his mother, who had taken tea with them only yesterday, said he would call on them shortly. She did hope that Joshua and Arthur could arrange to be at home when he did, for it would be nice if the whole family could be there to greet him.

  Arthur looked at Josh as though for guidance in this astonishing performance. He’d never seen his sister so vivacious and though none of the others seemed about to remonstrate with her, he thought it was really bad form for Milly to carry on like this on the very day Nancy’s sister had died.

  Josh watched Millicent, his face grim. It was as though the violent exchange between her and Nancy – violent at least on Millicent’s part – had not taken place at all. Only at the end of the meal, as Nancy placed her napkin on the table and stood up, followed by Josh, was there a reminder of it and for a split second it looked as though it might explode again.

  “I’ll say goodnight, Mother-in-law,” Nancy murmured quietly, bending to kiss Emma’s cheek and patting the hand Emma placed on her arm.

  “Goodnight, my dear. I hope you sleep a little.”

  “Thank you, but first I must go and check on Ciara Rose.”

  Emma looked mystified. “Ciara Rose?” she echoed.

  “Yes, my niece. I must see that she has settled in the nursery.”

  “Oh, of course dear.”

  Though she had meant to say not one more word on the matter, at least not until the time was ripe, Millicent almost choked on the coffee she was drinking.

  “Ciara Rose! Dear God in heaven, isn’t it typical of an illiterate Irish woman of the lower orders to call her child by such an outlandish name. But then, what can you expect?” She began to laugh and, at the sideboard, Ellen and Tilly, who had served the meal, exchanged glances. “I presume it is Irish.”

  “Yes, Ciara is, I believe, and Rose was my sister’s name.” Nancy felt herself sway. She really felt very frail and quite unable to fight Millicent as she would normally. It had been an appalling day. Her sense of desolation over Rosie, her Rosie, who had once been her little sister until Mick O’Rourke got his hands on her, had taken, for the moment, her spirit, her vigorous will and even her courage, as Mick had taken Rosie’s, and all she wanted to do was escape Millicent’s vituperative tongue. She held out her hand for Josh, who was at her side at once and on his face was an expression of deep sadness for her. It had been a mistake to persuade her to dine downstairs, he realised that now, even for his mother’s sake. Nancy was still raw with pain and shock and Millicent was delighted to have the chance to rub fresh salt into that open wound.

  “Ciara! What can it mean, d’you think?” Millicent chortled in great glee. “Do you think the man who fathered the brat chose it?”

  “Millicent! That is enough. Really, your behaviour is totally unacceptable and I insist you apologise to Nancy,” her mother said, but all Nancy could hear as Josh almost carried her up the stairs was Millicent’s laughter.

  28

  The tall woman nodded disdainfully at the clerk behind the high desk in the lawyer’s outer office, frowning, until, with the swift deference she seemed to demand, the clerk leaped to his feet.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” he said courteously.

  “Good morning. I have an appointment with Mr Bellchamber at ten thirty. Be so good as to inform him that I am here.”

  “Certainly, miss. May I tell him who—?”

  “He knows who I am,” the woman interrupted coldly.

  “Of course. Might I offer you a seat while—?”

  “I’ll stand, thank you. And kindly tell Mr Bellchamber that I do not like to be kept waiting.”

  The woman, or lady, the bowing clerk supposed he should call her, was dressed in the complete mourning of a recent bereavement. She was not elegant, or even fashionable as some ladies can be, even in the deepest bla
ck, but her gown and wide-brimmed bonnet were of the finest quality. She had a taut, unbending figure, straight up and down, but with good, well-defined breasts. Her lips were tightly compressed, her chin set at an imperious angle and her eyes were a pale, suspicious grey as though she suspected him of something unlawful. She could not be called handsome by any degree since her features were too strong, too masculine. She was too tall for a woman, he decided, and too narrow of build for her height. Her hair was completely hidden by her capacious bonnet and the only word the clerk could think of to describe her was soldierly!

  Mr Bellchamber rose to his feet as she entered the room, bowing over her hand as he murmured her name, then indicating that she should be seated in the chair before his desk.

  “May I offer you coffee, Miss—” but before he could finish his sentence she had refused.

  “No, thank you, Mr Bellchamber. I am in somewhat of a hurry to get this business under way.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “And before we begin may I say . . . nay insist, that no word of this visit reach my family. You are my brother’s lawyer and it might seem strange to you that I am here without him.” For what real lady conducts business with a gentleman when she has a male relative to do it for her, she seemed to be telling him.

  “Not at all, Miss—” he began politely but again she cut him off. She had no time for the niceties, her manner implied. After all, their relationship was a purely professional one, similar to that of mistress and servant, and one did not fraternise with a servant. She was to pay this man for his services and he was in no way entitled to treat her as an equal.

  “When our business is brought to a satisfactory conclusion I would be obliged if you would send your bill personally to me, Mr Bellchamber. To no one else, you understand?” she added sharply.

  “Of course. And what is it you wish me to do for you?” The lawyer who, like his clerk, believed he had never met a more unfeminine female in all his long career, sat back in his chair, his elbows on its arms, his fingers forming a steeple which just touched his lips.