Orphan of Angel Street (29 page)

Margaret assumed this thoughtful pause was his way of justifying his initial doubts about Mercy, of asserting his control of the household.

‘James – darling . . .’ Margaret came round the bed. ‘Perhaps we could invite Mercy to share our dinner with us tonight? You complain that you don’t know what she’s like because you scarcely ever see her!’

She turned her back to him, inviting him to button her up. She was dressed in a rather matronly frock, blue, with a maroon paisley pattern, which accentuated her already considerable curves. She had tried to pin up her hair, though wisps of it were already escaping down her back.

‘You look nice,’ James offered, even though he didn’t quite feel it was true. Surely a woman should have more instinct about what clothes would suit her?

‘Oh, thank you!’ She turned her head, startled. It was a long time since he’d paid her a compliment.

James smiled. Things are getting better, he thought. It was days – no, more than that – since he’d come home and found her weeping and incapable, her clothes all anyhow, some of the buttons left unfastened. And she was definitely smiling more. He stood up and before doing up the dress he slipped his hands inside. Feeling her soft, curving form he wanted her with such a reconciliatory stab of desire that for a moment he felt like weeping. Perhaps all could be well again. He pulled her closer to him.

‘James,’ she murmured, reassured by his sudden affection. She turned and faced him. James smiled, the skin crinkling round his eyes.

‘My love – You seem more . . . yourself.’

‘I am! I do feel better. Except . . .’ She stopped, chewing her lip.

‘What?’

I want her out, she felt like shouting. Get rid of that wretched Radcliffe woman who rules my life and all will be well. But she didn’t want to sour the moment.

‘Nothing.’ She brushed her hands down the lapels of his jacket, her expression sweet. ‘You didn’t answer my question about Mercy.’

James laughed. ‘You’re a strange one, aren’t you? Why eat with us? She’s a servant! Still, I suppose she’s not so much younger than Lizzie. A replacement sister for you, eh?’

‘Yes.’ Margaret’s face was bright. ‘Just like that.’

Her beloved sister Lizzie had left her father’s Warwickshire farm as she had done, to marry another farmer and settle outside Carlisle. Margaret missed her sorely. ‘So may she?’

James’s spirits were high, and he could feel the pleasant sensation of wanting her increasing in him. ‘Oh, all right, if it keeps you happy. How’s our boy today?’

Margaret’s face fell. ‘He’s all right. From what I’ve seen of him. That woman took him out in a terrible rainstorm. She’s obsessed with this fresh air business. I hope he didn’t catch his death.’

‘’Course not. Toughen him up. She knows what she’s doing.’

Margaret tried to demur, but she could see James was barely listening. Such close proximity to his wife after the deprivation of months of union with her was overcoming him. Cautiously he ran his hands over her enlarged breasts. The feel of them was extraordinary.

‘Oh, my love,’ he whispered, leaning to kiss her soft mouth. He was overcome with need for her.

‘James, we must go down – they’ll be waiting for us.’

‘Let them wait.’

Gently, she moved away from him. ‘Let us think about – that . . .’ A blush spread over her face as she appealed to him. They never spoke of the physical things which happened between them. ‘Later – please?’

‘Very well.’ He struggled for composure, unsatisfied desire bringing him for a moment to the edge of violence. But he must control himself. Self-control was vital, was the mark of civilized behaviour. He turned from her, clearing his throat hard.

‘They want me?’ Mercy was in the kitchen with Emmie and Rose. She often gave a hand in the evening while Mrs Parslow was plodding round on her big flat feet amid the steaming saucepans.

Rose was grinning. ‘Ooh,’ she teased. ‘Miss La-di-dah. We are going up in the world!’

‘Better go and put a clean frock on,’ Mrs Parslow commented, testing the potatoes to see if they were boiled. ‘You can’t sit in there with them unless you’re clean.’

‘But I haven’t got another clean frock!’ Mercy was all nerves at the thought of eating a meal in the presence of Mr Adair.

‘Ah well,’ Mrs Parslow said dryly. ‘You’ll ’ave to do then won’t you? Go on – best get on in there.’

Mercy rushed to wash her hands and then went timidly to the dining room. Why have they asked me? she wondered. Was it to tell her whether she was going to be allowed to stay or not? If they were going to turn her out, would they have asked her to eat dinner with them?

The light was on over the dining table and three places had been set. Mercy thought Mr Adair didn’t seem in a very good mood and Margaret Adair was flustered and apologetic in her too-tight dress.

‘Come in and sit down, dear,’ she said as Mercy slid into the room.

The three of them settled at the well-polished table, Mr Adair at the end with Mercy to his left and his wife to his right. A few moments later Emmie and Rose carried in the food, both smirking at Mercy behind the Adairs’ backs and Mercy had to look down at the hunting scene on her place mat to stop herself grinning back. What was she doing sitting here when she should be out in the kitchen with those two clowns as normal!

‘So how are you getting along?’ Mr Adair asked her once the three of them were alone.

‘Oh—’ Mercy was startled. ‘Er – very well thank you,’ she said, unsure how to respond. ‘Very nice.’ She was watching intently to see what the Adairs did with all the implements on the table. There was a generous slice of belly pork on her plate which smelt delicious.

‘Here we are, Mercy.’ Margaret passed her the potatoes. Mercy could feel her mouth watering at the sight but the dish was so heavy that in taking it in one hand she almost dropped it.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, blushing as James Adair’s hand reached out and caught it.

‘Steady,’ he said. He smiled suddenly, a kind smile. Mercy smiled back, relieved, and for a moment his eyes dwelt on her face as if puzzled, before reaching for the other dish.

‘Swede?’

‘Oh, no, thank you.’

‘Do you not care for swede, Mercy?’ Margaret asked. ‘I must say I never liked it as a child . . .’

‘No, I don’t.’ Mercy felt her voice coming out very quietly.

She accepted greens, and they all began to eat. The food was delicious, and she was grateful when Mr Adair began to talk to his wife.

‘I had a letter today from that Kesler chap – the one in New York.’

‘Oh?’ Margaret frowned with her fork poised in the air. ‘Kestler? Isn’t he German?’

‘He’s an American by birth.’ James’s tone silenced any argument. ‘This is business, darling.’ There was a moment’s silence.

‘And what did he have to say?’

‘Well . . .’ James laid down his knife and fork, speaking with the kind of animation which only work could bring out in him. ‘He’s thinking and planning very much along the same lines as we are. That for smaller companies to survive we’ll have to get into one of the specialist niches in the market – and fast. And develop that as hard as we can. Kesler’s company is on about the same scale as ours.’

‘How marvellous,’ Margaret said.

James chewed on a mouthful of meat, then chuckled. ‘Oddly enough – in fact it seems like fate, almost – he’s also putting together a new model of racing cycle. It’s rather different from the approach Silkin and I have been working on, but Kesler’s full of all sorts of ideas about all these new aluminium alloys – lighter, you see, and . . .’

‘That sounds very exciting,’ Margaret enthused, just a little too much.

James smiled and looked at Mercy. ‘I don’t suppose all this kind of business talk is of any interest to you?’

‘It is,’ she said truthfully. ‘What is the name of your company, Mr Adair?’ She knew, actually, but thought she’d ask again.

Mr Adair looked a little taken aback at her interest. ‘Well, it’s Adair and Dunne actually. Dunne’s made the parts for the cycles, or a lot of them any rate. So my company bought them up just before the War. We still have to go out to Dunlop for the tyres, and of course your best lamp is a Lucas lamp, but there’re local firms too. Of course, during the War—’ – he was really getting into his stride now – ‘we went over to making spares for military vehicles, which wasn’t unprofitable, I must say.’ He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘But now’s our big chance to develop.’

Mercy frowned. ‘I always thought the BSA made all the cycles.’

‘Oh no.’ He laughed again, expansively. He was relaxing, flattered by Mercy’s interest. Margaret was visibly relieved. ‘The BSA are big of course. But there are quite a few firms. Some of the smaller ones have combined – take Weldless Steel Tubes, for instance. Now twenty-five years ago, they were—’

‘James, I can’t see that Mercy really needs to know all this,’ Margaret interrupted gently.

Her husband looked a little rueful, and sat back in his seat, stroking his slightly gingery moustache with one hand, his fine crystal glass in the other.

‘Factory life. There we are. You ever been in a factory?’

‘Yes,’ Mercy said simply. ‘I made grenades – Mills Bombs – for two years. Up Deritend.’

‘Did you now?’ He glanced at his wife, eyes reproachful. No one had told him he’d employed a factory hand in his house.

Shyly, Mercy began to question him. One question led to another. She was interested, and she also saw her attention pleased him. Margaret was bored by his work. She didn’t know anything much, of course. How did he know what people wanted? she asked. How did they know how many cycles to make? And if there were all these other cycle manufacturers in Birmingham, why did he need an American gentleman?

He answered indulgently at first and she was just relieved he didn’t laugh at her or become impatient.

‘There are nigh on 1,500 employed in the firm altogether . . .’

‘Is that big?’ Mercy’s eyes were wide. As Mr Adair answered she felt Margaret watching her.

‘Big enough.’ James Adair sat back as Rose and Emmie cleared away the plates and brought in dishes of stewed pears and junket, and pretty ivy-patterned bowls. ‘Not big by BSA standards though. ’Course, they can design and produce a whole range. But our route will be through specialized models – racers, leisure bicycles. Now the War’s over there’s huge demand. And it happens that the most like-minded designer I’ve come across is over the water.’

For the first time Mercy eased herself back in her chair and sat comfortably, more relaxed. She was not without anxiety though, nervous in case her manners should be found wanting. And were they going to tell her whether she could keep her job or not?

As they finished their sweet, James Adair pushed his chair back, crossed one leg comfortably over the other and lit a cigar, his soft worsted jacket unbuttoned. The room was dark round them, the table a pool of light in the middle.

‘So Mercy, are you going to tell us a bit more about yourself?’

Mercy’s heart started to pound. Was this it now? Was he going to find out all about her and then decide she wasn’t suitable to remain in his wife’s company? What in heaven did he want to know? She reddened in confusion, feeling her mouth turn dry.

‘Oh James, not tonight!’ Margaret intervened.

Mercy looked gratefully at her, knowing she was being protected. ‘I’m sure we’ve tired the poor girl quite enough—’

‘Nonsense!’ James laughed. ‘She’s been lively as a cricket – full of questions. Haven’t you, Mercy?’

‘Well I—’

‘Would you like to go to your room now, dear?’ Margaret said.

‘’Er, yes – please.’ Mercy couldn’t meet Mr Adair’s eye. She stood up, gracefully smoothing her skirts.

‘You’ll join us again, won’t you?’ James Adair had stood up and was holding out his hand. Confused, Mercy took it, looking up into his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Goodnight,’ Margaret called to her.

Mercy closed the dining-room door behind her and let out an enormous sigh of relief. Well, they hadn’t said she couldn’t stay yet!

‘Good God,’ James Adair said as Mercy left the room. He spoke in irritation at himself. What did he think he was doing, shaking hands with a servant like that? He sat down, stiffly continuing to smoke his cigar.

‘That was very gallant, dear,’ Margaret teased him. ‘I see you approve after all.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said gruffly, ‘In fact, yes, she’s a great deal better than I’d feared.’

He was left with an unsettled, almost itchy feeling, the image of those large, striking eyes watching him as he’d talked.

‘So what do we know about the girl?’

Margaret thought quickly. She wanted to please James, knew that later, in private, she would have to. But in the matter of Mercy she also wanted his approval. Mercy had told her very few things, and those inadvertently, about her past life.

‘I only know for sure that she was an orphan – abandoned at birth from what she said.’ She watched her husband’s face. ‘Poor little waif. What a thing to do to a child.’

‘Poverty.’ James shook his head, leaning forward to knock ash from his cigar. ‘The desperation of poverty.’ Margaret was surprised and touched by this insight of his.

That night, after they had retired, she didn’t instantly turn away from him as they lay together, though she was quiet, listening, he knew, for sounds from Stevie’s room.

James caressed her belly through the soft organza nightdress. Felt her sigh, very slightly.

‘You, er . . .’ He felt he must ask, embarrassing as it was. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘No,’ she replied dreamily. ‘I don’t mind.’

Carefully he moved her nightdress up, at last allowing himself desire, and uncovered her breasts in the soft light.

That Saturday Mr Adair called Mercy into the parlour. Speaking very formally he said that her presence in the house and her behaviour had been satisfactory and beneficial to everyone, and that she could consider herself now employed for the forseeable future.

However serious she tried to look, Mercy could feel a beaming smile breaking out across her face.

‘Oh thank you!’ she cried when Mr Adair had finished speaking. ‘Thank you so much!’