A Time Like No Other (12 page)

But she had hesitated, ready to hoist herself into the saddle and the maister was at her back and, to Sam’s disappointment, helped her up. She looked down at him, looked into his blue-green eyes and at his wavy ginger hair, just as though she were about to say something else but instead she put her heels gently into the mare’s side and urged her into a trot.

‘Goodbye, Harry, until tomorrow.’

‘Goodbye, Lally.’

‘Goodbye, Sam.’ Then she was gone leaving the men in the yard staring after her, including Harry and Sam.

The following evening the pair of them were smiling at something Lally had said when the front doorbell rang. It had been nothing extraordinary, something about the lad who had held her horse when she had visited Harry’s offices the day before.

‘How can I possibly know personally all the people I employ, Lally? Hundreds of them. I might perhaps recognise many of them by sight but their names, no. The boy you mention probably works in one of the sheds as a “piecener” or “scavenger”, twisting together the broken threads or retrieving the waste that collects beneath the machines and what he was doing in the yard I cannot imagine. You seem to have a strange interest in the scamp.’

He leaned forward, the light from the lamp falling on his amber-skinned face and she wondered how his flesh came to have such a healthy colour when he worked indoors all day. He was dressed meticulously in the black and white evening dress that was the fashion, a black dress coat, a white waistcoat with embroidered borders, black trousers, silk stockings and black pumps. His stock was an immaculate white but his black bow tie was endearingly crooked. In fact she wanted to lean over and straighten it for him but something held her back. He looked his best though he would never be as extraordinarily handsome as his brother. He was too serious, his chin too square, his mouth too big, his expression too arrogant. But he was an interesting dinner guest. He described to her the growth of the woollen industry, and to her surprise she was quite fascinated. How he and his father had competed with other firms to produce goods, particularly in the ladies’ dress trade by anticipating the ‘frock fashion’ and acquiring in advance the colour and designs of the forthcoming season’s fashions. How wool must be bought at the right time to determine the price of the end product and the overall profitability of the firm. He described the coming of the factory system and of machinery and steam power, the thousands who had poured into the textile towns from the countryside looking for work and his own efforts to alleviate the suffering of children employed by mill-owners, the little ones, some no more than six or seven who were beaten to keep them awake. He did not approve of child labour but many families relied on the wage these children brought in so he set the age limit at ten years of age and had even started a school in the yard at the back of High Clough where for an hour a day the children learned to read, write and do simple sums. Some of the factory owners insisted on strict factory discipline and lateness, drunkenness, talking and sleeping on the job were punished by fines. Harry was not one of these but he was strict.

‘That boy who held my horse looked as though something could be made of him,’ she was saying and it was at that moment that the bell rang.

‘Who on earth . . .’ she began, standing up, her napkin in her hand and at once Harry rose to his feet, ready to curse whoever it was who had come to disturb this wonderfully pleasant evening. She had seemed pleased to be in his company, ready to listen to him describe the mill, what was done there and by whom, which was how they had come to be discussing the boy. They had talked at length about the farms and the progress that was being made and he had brought the conversation round to an exhibition of art which was to be shown in the Town Hall to which he said he hoped she might like to accompany him and she had appeared to be genuinely interested.

She had on a gown of the palest gold, a shimmering thing with a full skirt and a well-fitted bodice, her arms and shoulders bare, her skin flawless, translucent in the candlelight. She wore a thin gold chain about her neck and on her wrist was the bracelet he had given her for Christmas. He resolved to find her a necklace to match the bracelet, a lovely collar of gold and turquoise that he would place about her neck before kissing her just beneath her soft chin. Sweet Jesus . . . if only he could tell her how he felt! He liked to think she had dressed this evening for his benefit and though he hardly dared bring himself to hope, surely this was a promising beginning to a relationship – a friendship that could develop into something stronger. He castigated himself silently for his inability even to
think
in warmer terms but her smile was a lovely, encouraging thing to see and, encouraged, he was able to convince himself that at last she was looking at him, not as an elderly brother, or cousin, or even friend, but as a . . . Dear God, he dared not think further than that.

When his brother was announced he swore savagely under his breath and when Roly walked into the room, pretending astonishment at finding Lally entertaining, ready to apologise in his charming way, Harry could have hit him. As Lally hurried forward to greet him, her smile wide and eager, he could have
killed
him.

‘Harry, old fellow,’ he drawled, his arms still about Lally’s waist. ‘I had no idea . . .’

‘Naturally.’ Harry did not smile. ‘When did you get back? I did not expect you for weeks.’

‘This evening. I had finished my trip earlier than usual and as Mrs Cannon had nothing I fancied to eat I thought I would come over to Lally’s and see if she could offer me something.’ He looked down at himself ruefully. ‘I do apologise for not being dressed correctly but . . .’

‘Roly, think no more about it. We don’t mind, do we, Harry? Now you must join us. I’ll ring for Jenny to set another place.’

Harry’s face had closed up at the sight of his brother and his mouth had clamped tight over his even white teeth but neither Roly nor Lally seemed to notice. There was a great deal of running about as Jenny, who thought Mr Roly the handsomest man she had ever come across, rustled about with cutlery and napkins, setting a place for him, bringing soup and what was left of the curried chicken which Biddy had contrived from the remains of two cold fowls from the Home Farm. There was a delicious apple pie with cinnamon and thick cream, cheese and fruit, a simple meal but filling and cheap, and all the time he ate Roly entertained Lally with descriptions of what he had seen and where he had been in Amercia, turning now and again with great politeness to his brother. He did not speak of business or of how many orders he had brought back, for that would wait until tomorrow at the mill and besides would not interest Lally. She sat at the end of the table, her chin in her hand, her eyes fastened on his mobile face, laughing at his accounts of his travels and it seemed neither of them noticed Harry Sinclair who sat silently at the other end of the table.

He rose abruptly, startling them both. It was as though they had forgotten his presence in their absorption in one another. He felt as though there were a stone in his chest that was rough with sharp edges and it was hurting him badly and if he did not get out of this house, away from
her
and her attentiveness to his brother, he might do or say something he would be sorry for. His disappointment was so intense – the devil take it,
disappointment
was the most laughable word to describe what he felt – he knew he must take his leave before he made a fool of himself.

‘I must go, Lally,’ he said harshly. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. You were . . . have been most kind. No, don’t get up, Roly. I’ll see you in the morning and perhaps I might suggest that you and I, Lally, make the rounds of the farms before long. Let those Weavers see an eye is being kept on them. I’ll bid you goodnight, both of you.’

Turning from the expression on Lally’s astonished face, he crossed the room and opened the door into the hall, wondering where the devil that maidservant had put his outdoor things. He had driven over in the gig in keeping with his evening attire and he supposed someone would bring the vehicle round to the front . . . someone . . . Dear God, his pain was depriving him of his wits but he really did not . . .

The woman – what was her name? Biddy? – emerged from the kitchen door at the end of the wide, flagged hallway and at once she had him in his overcoat, murmuring that Carly was bringing the gig round and she did hope he had enjoyed his meal. Her voice was soft, sympathetic, he thought, and he wondered why. He was not to know that Biddy Stevens had fervently hoped that her lass would take to this rather stern, quiet man, for he was just the kind of husband she needed. That Mr Roly was nothing but a scamp, a charming scamp but not reliable, not what you might call a steady sort of chap who would guard and cherish Lally Fraser. He would make her laugh, listen to them even now, the sound of their merriment drifting through the dining-room door so that it seemed they might be laughing at Mr Sinclair who was blundering towards the front door as if he thought so too.

Lally beneath her merriment felt a strange sadness that Harry had left so suddenly and since she was not a foolish woman she knew it had something to do with Roly. They were brothers, equal owners of three prosperous mills but whereas Harry was straightforward, perhaps obstinate, grave, forbidding at times, Roly was blithe, merry as a cricket, fun-loving and ready to do all sorts of wicked things if he was allowed. And yet they worked equally hard in their positions of owners of the most prosperous mills in and around Halifax. Roly was tall, broad, dark and striking whereas Harry was lighter, finer, though both had the dark hair and eyes of the elder Sinclair.

He stayed far too long in Biddy’s opinion and though she entered the dining room on some pretext or other on several occasions they lingered at the table, Mr Roly sipping the brandy, which would soon be finished, Miss Lally a glass or two of Madeira, laughing, chatting about nothing of any consequence since that was not Roly Sinclair’s way, enveloped in the fragrant cigar smoke from his cigars. He was holding her hand at one point, which she did not seem to mind and both of them were apparently unaware of her entrance.

The old grandfather clock in the hall struck twelve and Biddy entered the dining room on the last stroke. Both the maidservants had been in their beds for hours and upstairs the babies slept peacefully in the care of Nanny Dora.

‘Miss Lally, I’d like to lock up now, and Carly is waiting to get to his bed,’ Biddy said pointedly. Roly Sinclair looked round at her, his hand still holding Miss Lally’s, but at once, as though aware for the first time of the enormity of what she and Roly had done to Harry who after all had been her guest, Lally stood up, her hand, it seemed to Biddy, reluctantly letting go of Mr Roly’s.

‘Oh, dear, is it that late? Of course, Biddy, and Roly, you must go home at one. No, don’t pull a face at me. I have to be up early to be with my children.’

Biddy stood woodenly in the doorway, her stance making it quite plain to Roly Sinclair that she was not going to leave, therefore depriving him of the goodnight kiss he had hoped to get from Lally.

There was a good deal of giggling at the front door where Carly stood patiently with Roly’s chestnut gelding. Both he and Biddy had faces on them that would have killed the cat, or so Roly whispered in Lally’s ear, but at last he mounted the animal and with a merry wave set off up the drive at a mad gallop.

‘Well!’ Biddy declared, knowing that her lamb would understand exactly what she meant.

8

‘Have you the faintest idea what you are doing to Lally Fraser? Or to her reputation? There is not a family in Moorend or anywhere for that matter in and about Halifax that is willing to have anything to do with her. I dare say she does not care at the moment while you are at home to squire her about, or perhaps it is more accurate to say she has not noticed, but when you leave again on your travels at the end of the week what is she to do then—’

‘God in heaven, brother, where on earth did that come from? You make it sound as though I were deliberately ruining her, or trying to seduce her, is that what you’re implying? I have done nothing—’

‘But destroy any chance she might have of making a decent life for herself and her children in the future. You know perfectly well what society must be saying about her. A recently widowed young woman, a gently bred woman, gadding about with a young unmarried man,
alone
and only months after her husband died. You are destroying her, Roly, treating her as though she were one of your light women who have no reputation to destroy in the first place. Oh, I realise she can refuse your offers of visits to the theatre and the other entertainments you whisk her off to, but she is a beautiful woman who is too young to be widowed, a woman who has never really conformed to the dictates of her own society but has never really done anything that might cause offence to her own class. You are what is described as ‘good company’, witty, amusing, entertaining and, more to the point, very like her dead husband. I presume—’

Roly Sinclair sprang from the sofa, his face suffused with rage and for a moment Harry thought he was going to strike him. Which would have suited him fine, for the mood he was in, the fury, pain and resentment he felt had him in a state that would love a good fight. He longed to knock his brother’s block off, as they said in Yorkshire, smash him to the ground, and when he got up knock him down again. Roly was doing all the things he longed to do with Lally: taking her about, escorting her to balls and plays and concerts where, since she was in his company, in the company of one of the Sinclair brothers who were prominent members of society, she was not shunned; but just wait until he was gone again on his forthcoming business trip and the men and women who were forced to accept her and smile while she was in the company of a Sinclair would drop her like a hot potato and not one of the women would call on her. She should be in the deepest black, keeping to the seclusion of her own home, at least until a year’s mourning was up but here she was, on Roly’s arm, dressed in all the lovely colours she had favoured as a young, married woman, flaunting herself, as they would see it, in their very faces!