Angel Meadow Read online

Page 40


  “Mr Bellchamber, I don’t quite know what duties a lawyer can perform on his client’s behalf. That is why I am here. To find out.”

  Mr Bellchamber raised his eyebrows in surprise, his mind for a moment grappling with what kind of duties this dried-up, unyielding woman might require of him. She could not be the victim of some man’s broken pledge, a breach of promise case, for surely no man, no hot-blooded man which, despite his age, he was, could have proposed to her in the first place. She came from a wealthy family, a well-known Manchester family, which might attract a certain type of man but he was of the opinion that once this woman had brought a man to heel he would never be allowed to escape.

  “Tell me what you have in mind, ma’am, and I will do my best to carry out your wishes.”

  Bending her head she opened the plain black reticule she carried. She fumbled for a moment inside it then lifted out an envelope. It was sealed. She placed it on his desk but before he could reach to take it she put up her hand.

  “Just one moment, Mr Bellchamber. Before you open this envelope I want to ask you something.”

  Mr Bellchamber leaned back in his chair again. “Of course.”

  “If I were to ask you to find someone, is it . . . would it be in your power to do so? I mean have you in your employ a man . . . a certain kind of man who is experienced in this kind of thing? I am not familiar with the work a lawyer does.” She wrinkled her nose distastefully as though she had no wish to; as though Mr Bellchamber conducted some low task such as clearing ash-pits or delivering coal.

  Mr Bellchamber hesitated. He felt a distinct inclination to tell this arrogant woman to take her envelope and her business elsewhere, but her brother was a valued client and Mr Bellchamber could not afford to offend him.

  “It would depend on what you meant to do with this person,” he answered, indicating the envelope on his desk.

  “Do with him! Surely that is my business, not yours?” His client was deeply offended and the lawyer could see the tussle she was having with herself. She would dearly love to snatch up her envelope and tell him to go to the devil, but if she was serious, which it appeared she was, then she would have to find another lawyer, one who did not work for her brother and might not be so easily persuaded.

  “I mean this person no harm,” she said coldly, swallowing her ire. “In fact, just the opposite.”

  “Very well, I’ll take your word for it.”

  She clearly wanted to smack him in the face, but she controlled herself as he reached for and slit open the envelope. He read the name on the sheet of paper inside, then looked up at her.

  “Have you any idea where this man might be?”

  “None.”

  “That will make it more difficult and more expensive. My . . . chappie is an expert. He has done work for me before but he is not cheap. He will expect a certain remuneration each day, plus his expenses. Then there is my fee.”

  “Your fee!”

  “I don’t work for nothing, Miss—”

  “But what are you to do besides put that note in his hand?”

  “Ma’am, I do believe that unless you trust me with this I cannot help you.” Mr Bellchamber stood up, his face cold and his client subsided, beaten but not liking it.

  “Very well,” she said icily. “I agree.”

  “Thank you. Now if you could tell me where this person was last seen it would help.”

  “In an area known as Angel Meadow.”

  It had not been difficult to get the man’s name out of Mary Brody.

  It was a month since Rose Brody’s death and both Mary and Nancy had recovered somewhat from the appalling shock of it. Ciara Rose had settled well in the nursery where a young nursemaid by the name of Minnie had been employed to help Nanny Dee with the three children. The baby was thriving. A pear-shaped pewter feeding bottle with a hole in the side through which the milk was poured had been found in the same box in which the baby garments had been stored. It was old-fashioned but would suffice until Nanny could get to the chemist in Higher Broughton for a more up-to-date glass one with the necessary india-rubber teats, Nanny said practically. The pewter bottle had once been used to feed the infant Arthur, Emma had whispered fondly to Nancy, since she herself had no milk when he was born and what a pretty baby Ciara – was that how you pronounced her name, as though there were an H after the C? – was turning out to be. She put a gentle finger to the baby’s cheek, deciding for the hundredth time that it had been a good day when Josh had married this lovely woman who had brought such joy into Emma’s life, despite the irregularity of it. She loved babies, particularly her grandson, and was often to be found in the nursery with one or other of the children on her lap.

  Of course Millicent Hayes was not privy to these delightful domestic arrangements. She never went near the nursery floor and should she meet either of the two older children it had not gone unnoticed that both of them, even the bold and outspoken Kitty, drew back fearfully behind Nanny Dee’s wide grey cotton skirt.

  “Is she a witch?” Freddy whispered, cowering at the back of Kitty but Aunt Millicent, who was Father’s sister, they had been told, had sailed past them without a glance and they were truly thankful for it!

  The news that a third baby had been added to the Hayes’ unique nursery exploded like a bombshell within the circle of their friends, causing no end of anxiety. Should they continue to ignore Mr and Mrs Joshua Hayes’s scandalous behaviour, they asked one another, since, having accepted two children with dubious beginnings, could they jib at a third! The trouble was they were all so fond of dear Emma and by casting the Hayes family from the social fold, so to speak, would it be fair on her who had no part in the matter? Joshua was the master of Riverside House now and unless dear Emma moved out, which would be vastly upsetting since it was her home, what could be done about it?

  They decided, for the moment, to do nothing, since Emma was still in mourning anyway, which gave them a breathing space.

  The kitchen also had been in an uproar on the day of the infant’s arrival. Tilly, sent first up to the nursery then down to the kitchen for the warm milk and oatmeal that were required, had told them whose child was upstairs, having had it from Dulcie who had overheard the whole thing in the hallway, so it was true, Tilly told the circle of disbelieving faces. Mrs Harvey and Mrs Cameron, neither of whom cared for gossip, were for several minutes so stunned they allowed the servants to twitter round the kitchen table like a swirling multitude of noisy starlings.

  “Her sister’s baby. Dear Lord.”

  “What next, I ask you?”

  “But will the mistress allow it again?”

  “Don’t be so soft, she is mistress.”

  “I meant the old mistress.”

  “It’s nowt ter do wi’ her, not now.”

  “Me mam’d ’ave a fit if she knew.”

  “What’s it ter do wi’ your mam?”

  “She’s a churchgoer and against . . . well, bastards.”

  “Eeh, two were enough, but three . . .”

  “Well, I suppose wi’t babby’s mam dead, poor thing, an’ Mrs Josh bein’ ’er auntie . . .”

  “Eeh, I know; in’t it sad?”

  After several minutes of pandemonium Mrs Cameron and Mrs Harvey came to their senses and at once collected up their minions and sent them about their allotted tasks, since there was still an evening meal to prepare whatever happened.

  During the next week, when the baby carriage was got out and Nanny Dee, her older charges racing about with Scrap and Freddy’s dog Button, took the infant for an airing, the servants found some opportunity to take a peep at it and admitted to one another it would be hard to turn away from such a dear little thing. Like a little rosebud in her nest of white blankets and the dead spit of Miss Kitty, who was her cousin. Within a couple of weeks it had been totally forgotten that the “little mite” had not been born in the very nursery where it seemed she was to remain.

  It also seemed that fate, the gods, destiny, chance,
by whatever name you liked to call it, was determined to shine on Millicent Hayes.

  “Mother,” her elder son said to Emma Hayes later that month, “I know we are still in mourning for Father, but would it distress you too much if I were to invite a business acquaintance of mine to dine with us? I spoke of him last week, if you remember. If you and Millicent don’t feel up to it, then Arthur and I, with Nancy, will manage alone but he’s a nice chap and would behave with great circumspection. He’s from Liverpool. He’s in cotton and will be doing business in Manchester for several days. He’s staying at the Albion on Piccadilly which has one of the best cuisines in Europe, so they tell me, but nevertheless I felt it would be pleasant for him to dine with the family. Not to mention it would do me and the firm no harm to put him in our debt.”

  “Oh, dear, Josh . . .” At once Emma was in a dither, for would it be improper, as the widow of a man in his grave only a few short weeks, to begin entertaining so soon? The irony of her dilemma completely escaped her. Upstairs in the nursery were three children whose natural parents were not married to one another and yet she was afraid of offending society by asking to dine, in her own discreet dining-room, a business acquaintance of her son.

  Help came from an unexpected quarter.

  “Why, Mother, it could do no harm at all and I’m sure your friends would understand. So many cotton businesses collapsed during the American civil war that surely it is only our duty to support Josh, as he prospers again, in any way we can.”

  For an astounded moment they all, including Ellen and Dulcie who were serving, turned to stare, open-mouthed, at Millicent, and at once, into Josh and Nancy’s minds at least, came the same wondering thought of what she was up to. Millicent Hayes did nothing that was not of benefit to herself but, having no conception of the hatred, the thirst for revenge, the vicious plans that seethed in her unsound mind, both jumped to the wrong conclusion. They exchanged a secret smile. Philip Meadows, of Meadows and Beswick, Cotton Importers, was a bachelor of about the same age as Josh, attractive in a homely sort of a way, and wealthy, a fact that had been mentioned when Josh had spoken of him a few days ago.

  Nancy was looking better now. After her sister’s death the shock and grief of it seemed to melt the lovely firm flesh of her face, making her cheekbones stand out prominently. The one that had been smashed by Mick O’Rourke had become very noticeable, the broken bone and the concavity of it clearly visible. She had lost her colour, her skin like marble, even her wide mouth, so full and soft, becoming pale, inclined to tremble. Before they came down to dinner they had made love, not slowly and languorously as they would have later, but in swift need, an urgent desire to be as close as two bodies can be without actually fusing into one. It had put a flush of rose in her cheeks and her eyes were as deep and golden as a cat’s.

  “Well, I don’t know, dear,” Emma faltered, turning to look round the table, even glancing at Ellen and Dulcie in her need for reassurance.

  “Mother, really, where is the harm?” Millicent encouraged.

  “I agree, Mother,” Arthur added, smiling at Dulcie as she placed a dish of exotically coloured and flavoured ice-creams in front of him. There was an almond soufflé waiting to be served but Mr Arthur, just as though he were no older than the children in the nursery, did love his ice-cream and Mrs Cameron indulged him, as she did them.

  “Well, I suppose if it were to help Joshua and the mill there could be nothing wrong in entertaining just one gentleman, could there?” Emma asked somewhat anxiously. “Particularly if he’s as pleasant a young man as you say he is, Josh. He knows we are still in mourning and will respect that.”

  Josh laughed. “Mother, he is not likely to do a song and dance, you know. In fact, he’s a quiet sort of a chap. You’ll like him.”

  His mother sat back in her chair and let out a sigh of relief, then turned to Ellen to indicate that she was to serve the soufflé. She smiled round the table, picked up her spoon and for several minutes there was silence as they did justice to Mrs Cameron’s mouthwatering dessert.

  “I was just thinking, Mother,” Millicent began artfully. She spooned the last of the soufflé into her mouth, swallowed, since it needed no chewing, returned her spoon to the exact centre of her plate and wiped her lips delicately on her napkin.

  “Yes, dear?” Emma turned to her enquiringly, as did the rest.

  “Would it be in order to invite another lady, do you think? Just to balance the numbers. I know it is not exactly to be a dinner party but surely another member of the family would be in keeping?”

  “Another member of . . .?” Emma began doubtfully, her mind going to distant cousins, none of whom lived locally.

  “Yes. I was thinking of Mary. She is in mourning for her sister, as Nancy is and so would not expect frivolities.”

  There was a moment or two of absolute silence in which, barring Emma, every person in the room, even Ellen and Dulcie, grappled with the question of what the devil Millicent Hayes was up to now. Nancy’s sister, Mary, who, during the past three years whenever she had been included in a family function, had been icily ignored, Millicent making it very plain that while she was forced to put up with her brother’s wife, she was in no way committed to her brother’s sister-in-law. She was bog Irish, of working-class background, as Nancy was, even if she did put on the airs of a lady, and Millicent had wanted nothing to do with her. Now, here she was suggesting she come to dinner where an eligible young man was to be a guest to make up the number! What mischief was she planning?

  “Well . . .” Josh looked from his sister’s innocent face to his mother and then to Nancy, his own a picture of incomprehension. His eyes signalled to his wife that if she knew what Milly was up to he certainly didn’t.

  “I’m sure Mary would be happy to come,” Nancy began hesitantly, “that’s if Mother-in-law agrees.”

  “Of course she would be happy to come and Mother would be glad to see her, wouldn’t you, Mother?” Arthur added enthusiastically, for though, so far, he had not made much headway with Nancy’s shy and pretty sister, he was always delighted when an opportunity arose to try. Since his father died and all social activities had ceased he had apart from her sister’s funeral, not been in her company once but now, thanks, amazingly, to his overbearing sister, it looked as though his wish might be granted.

  “Well, I’m sure, that’s if you all agree, that Mary would be a delightful addition to the evening.” Like most of the older generation Emma found Nancy’s sister to be the personification of young, well-bred womanhood, even if she hadn’t been born to it. Shy, self-effacing, polite and always ready to listen to Emma’s rambling reminiscences, which was not something that could be said about many young people today. Her own daughter, though Emma was sad to admit it and then only to herself, was impatient, brusque, inclined to cut in when Emma spoke, which was very hurtful, so it would be doubly pleasant to have Nancy’s gentle sister at the dinner table.

  It was evident from the moment she entered the drawing-room, her arm through Nancy’s in that diffident way she had, that Philip Meadows thought so too. Millicent, who had not met him before, had him cornered on the sofa to the side of the intricately ornamented marble fireplace. The fireplace was the heart of the room, set off by a gleaming grate and fender. It was to here that the family gravitated, for though the fire roared ferociously up the chimney, it being a chilly and damp evening, the greater part of the room remained unheated.

  The room was furnished – over-furnished – in the ornate and costly style of the day. Easy chairs and sofas of rich, honey-coloured velvet, plump and comfortable, some without arms to allow the huge skirts of the ladies to spill over their sides. It was an obstacle course of small occasional tables, scattered with ornaments which made moving about, especially in a crinoline, extremely hazardous. A multi-tiered whatnot, a cross between a bookcase and a table, stood against the wall, helping to take the overflow of books, newspapers and stray knick-knacks. There was a piano, which Millicent played, a ma
ssive grand, its heavy legs and broad sides lavishly carved. The curtains were of heavy red velvet, decorated with balls and tassels. The carpets, of bold colours of red and gold, were rich and deep and the wallpaper was of a thick flock. And in the midst of all this splendour, an elegant clutter of porcelain figurines, Chinese vases, potted palms, ornamental boxes and exotic paperweights jostled with one another for an inch of space.

  On the mantelpiece were a dozen silver framed portraits in miniature of the three Hayes children when they were young and it was one of these that a simpering Millicent was displaying to their guest. She looked formidable in her black velvet evening gown, her fine bosom showing at its best. She had been at once surprised and pleased when her brother’s business acquaintance had turned out to be such an admirable young man. About Josh’s age, which was not young exactly, but evidently a gentleman, courteous and though not exactly well versed in the art of conversation, she was not put off, since the sound of her own voice gave her a great deal of pleasure. He was tall and well built. He had a pleasant and singularly sweet smile and warm brown eyes, an unexceptional face, she supposed, but he was known to be wealthy, or so Josh said, and came from a decent family, so his looks did not signify. The evening promised to be a great success. Not only would it afford her the opportunity to persuade the Irish baggage to confide any information she might have on the name and whereabouts – if she knew it – of the brat’s father, but seemed to hold out an assurance of something that might be the beginning of a new friendship, and perhaps more, with this eligible gentleman.

  “My mother wanted to have mementoes of us as children,” she was saying as she handed him a silver-framed watercolour of a small boy on a pony, a very ordinary boy and a very ordinary painting. Mr Meadows smiled and murmured the appropriate remarks while Emma looked on encouragingly, since any suitable gentleman who took an interest in her daughter was welcome indeed.

  Nancy and Josh sat side by side, Nancy’s hand in his in the folds of her black silk skirt, her head drooping slightly towards his shoulder, for she was very tired. It had been a particularly busy day at the shop with, or so it seemed, every lady in Manchester planning her summer wardrobe and each and every one expecting her personal and individual help in doing so. Behind them at the window Arthur hovered on the lookout for the carriage that had been sent for Mary.