The Other Cathy (10 page)

The myopic eyes glinted. ‘Chance, tha’s saying it was?’

Rebuked, Emma went on, ‘Well, anyway, how did you come
to be on that lonely track, Ursly? You must have been heading
somewhere.’

‘I never got there, then.’

The old woman rose stiffly and made the tea in an earthenware pot, putting it aside to draw.

‘You never got where?’ asked Emma, cunningly.

‘Where I were a’going, o’course!’ But her next words were serious enough. ‘It’s nobbut useless dwelling on what’s long
past and done wi’, that’s what tha’s been telled, eh?’

The seemingly innocent remark touched so close to the nub
of Emma’s visit that her heart gave a sudden flurry. Ursly en
quired what was troubling her, but she had a strong feeling
that the old woman knew the answer already – or was she up
to her guessing games again? In any event, Emma could no longer bottle up the questions she longed to ask. She began in a nervous voice, ‘Seth told me the other day that you warned
him about bad trouble coming from somewhere far off. Were
you referring to Matthew Sutcliffe?’

Ursly calmly poured the tea into two kitchen cups, and
passed one to Emma. There were no saucers and Ursly’s own cup had lost its handle. ‘But tha pays no heed to what I says, eh dearie? Like wi’ little Cathy’s birth, when you telled me I were talking nonsense. We’ll have to wait and see, eh? We’ll
see what we shall see!’

‘Please answer me! What is it you know about Mr Sutcliffe? It’s important to me, Ursly. He claims he is an innocent
man, wrongly convicted. He swears that he did not kill my
father.’

‘And tha wants to believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to think,
’
said Emma wretchedly.
‘And tha longs for me to advise thee to put thy trust in
him?’

‘I want to know the truth, the truth! Should I hate him or  —’

‘Or what, dearie?’

Challenged, Emma was thrown into a panic. She snatched
up the hot tea and drank so deeply that she scalded her mouth. The brew was dark and bitter, one of Ursly’s herbal mixtures. But it was strangely soothing, and in a few moments she felt
calmer.

‘He told me that during all those years he spent as a con
vict, his sole aspiration was to return to this country and be
revenged on the true culprit, to see that justice was done.’

Ursly was scornful. ‘And what manner o’ use will that be to him? He’s served his sentence, and by all accounts come back home a rich man. There’s nowt to be gained by raking
over old grievances, and no good’ll ever come on’t. Better for
him to leave things be, and enjoy spending his brass.’

‘Then you do believe he is innocent!’  

‘   What I believe, and what tha believes won’t make no dif
ference in the end. The path ahead is already laid down, wait
ing to be trod.’

‘But where does it lead?’ Emma asked anxiously.

The old woman cackled and picked up the pestle and mortar
again.

‘Why ask me that, dearie, when tha scorns my powers? Tha’ll find out in good time, and happen it’ll be sooner than
tha thinks. Now tha’d best be off before thy aunt finds tha’s
been out riding alone, and tells thy uncle. Thank’ee kindly for
the gages.’

While Emma was visiting Ursly on the moor, Matthew rode through the valley to Bythorpe. Leaving his horse in the care of a groom at the Waggoners’ Inn, he walked on to the farther outskirts of the village, where Blanche lived in a pretty Queen Anne house, discreetly out of sight of the grime and dinginess associated with the mill. He paused outside the wrought-iron gate, gazing beyond at the well-tended lawns on either side of
the flagstone path edged with colourful herbaceous plants.
Past a weeping ash tree he glimpsed a gazebo built into the boundary wall, its red brickwork almost concealed by the
clinging ivy, its upper windows overlooking the lane at the rear. For a full minute he stood motionless, lost in thought, then with a sigh he proceeded through the gate to the front
door, immaculate with white paint and surmounted by a grace
ful fanlight. He lifted the lion’s-head knocker. The door was
opened by a maid servant in a black stuff dress and a white
cap and apron whose neatness was the strongest feature in her favour, for, as Chloe had once forthrightly remarked, she had been chosen for her age and plain looks. Blanche was acutely conscious of her own two-score years.

Matthew raised his hat and bade the servant good afternoon.
‘
Is Mrs Hardaker at home?’

‘I will ask madam. What name shall I say, sir?’

He smiled. ‘Please tell your mistress Mr Sutcliffe would be grateful for a few minutes of her time.’

She showed him into the drawing room to wait, where he
stood appraising the gracious apartment that was furnished
in a style so typical of Blanche, with two sofas and a settee
upholstered in purple and gold, three pairs of cane chairs and
several tapestry footstools. A grand piano was open near the
windows, and he idly counted six tables scattered about the
room. Above the Adam-style fireplace hung the portrait of her
deceased husband. Though lean of flesh, William Hardaker
had possessed his family’s impressive broad frame, and more than the usual measure of good looks, but the perfection of the
features was spoilt by the petulant set of the lips. He was a
man who had thought of himself first in all things, and
Matthew had never had much regard for him.

Meanwhile, in the parlour Blanche had been thrown into a
fluster. Instructing her daughter Priscilla to continue the water-colour painting she was working on, she hurried upstairs to her boudoir, followed breathlessly by the maid
servant. From the wardrobe she selected her newest gown of
coral silk, rapidly shedding the serviceable dark poplin day
dress she had been wearing. Her hair, mercifully still a fine
rich honey colour once the few grey threads were plucked out, she decided to have rearranged, the sides plaited and
looped to expose her prettily-shaped ears. There was no need
to rouge her cheeks, for they were becomingly touched with
natural colour prompted by the thought of the man who
waited for her below. He had already waited for over twenty
minutes, Blanche realised with a spurt of apprehension. She
made haste to go down to him. Outside the drawing room she
took a deep breath, then throwing open the door she stood
poised on lie threshold, a hand to her throat.

‘Mr Sutcliffe, how kind of you to visit me,’ she said charmingly, and called over her shoulder to the servant,
‘Bertha, please bring tea at once.’ As the door closed behind
her, Blanche went on in a voice that was soft and warm, ‘Matthew, I was wondering if you would come. I so hoped
you would.’

He stood over by the window smiling at her, his eyes taking
in every detail of her appearance. But he did not speak, and
she continued nervously, ‘I have thought of you so often,
Matthew. Oh, you cannot know how often I wept at the
thought of what was happening to you, and where you were.
Was it so very dreadful?’

‘Let us not talk of it, Blanche. Tell me instead how you
discovered the secret of adding only one year to your age when every other woman is obliged to add two. I swear you are more beautiful than ever.’

She smiled delightedly. ‘I perceive you haven’t changed.
Matt. Even as a very young man you possessed the art of pay
ing a gallant compliment.’

‘But I deny it! I never spoke anything but the unvarnished truth to you. I adored you, Blanche. You were the sun and
the stars to me.’

With a surge of confidence she seated herself on one of the
velvet sofas, and patted a silken cushion beside her.

‘Then you had better come and make some more of those
oh-so-honest remarks. Matt.’

Seeming not to notice her invitation, he went to stand before her on the hearthrug, one elbow resting on the marble
mantelpiece.

‘I am sadly uninformed about the happenings in the Brackle
Valley. You must bring me up to date. I gather your husband
died some years ago.’

‘Yes, in 1851. William was in very poor health – when
wasn’t he? Yet he insisted on travelling to London for the
Great Exhibition. The Brackle Valley Mill had quite a large
display and he rather relished his connection with it, and the
thought of being presented to royalty. The dear Queen was
most gracious, and Prince Albert condescended to view our exhibit. It really was quite an honour. But I’m sure the excite
ment of it all was what carried William off.’

‘A tragic loss,’ Matthew murmured.

Her golden eyes regarded him steadily. ‘I often used to
wonder why William proposed to me; why, indeed, he ever
wanted to marry at all, for he had little wish to please a wife.
It was some while before the answer occurred to me. You see,
Randolph had married just the previous year, so naturally
Henrietta became mistress of the Hall in place of old Mrs Hardaker. For years, ever since William’s riding accident, he had been his mother’s pampered darling and he hated the new
regime because he suddenly became of little importance. Alas, I was too innocent to see that he was essentially a weak and self-centred man.’ She paused a split second, and added, ‘I was very young indeed when I married, of course, little more than
a child.’

Matthew nodded gravely. ‘I had rather imagined that your
marriage would never be blessed with offspring, after so
many years. But I hear that in fact you have two.’

‘Yes, a pigeon pair! Dear Priscilla – you shall meet her presently – is eleven; and there’s Cedric, who yesterday went
to stay with a friend for the remainder of the school vacation.
He boards at Repton, you know, such a fine establishment
where I can be confident he will mix only with boys of good
family. Randolph, if you please, demands that my Cedric should leave school and start work at the mill – at fourteen
years of age! He is the only male Hardaker in the next genera
tion and Randolph says it would make a man of him. But I
tell him I want my son to become a gentleman.’

‘My father,’ observed Matthew, ‘started work at the mill
when he was only six.’

The arrival of Bertha with the tea saved Blanche the trouble of responding. While she poured, Matthew enquired, ‘Is your brother-in-law in a position to insist on his wishes being car
ried out? I mean, your own income derives from the mill, does
it not?’

She laughed ruefully. ‘My income, such as it is, derives
from William’s share of the firm, willed him by his father, which Randolph cannot touch. There should be a great deal
more, but William frittered away everything his doting mother
left him. The others always resented this, and out of spite
Randolph took the chance of refusing to pay him a salary after
the old lady died. He maintained that William did not work
for it, and his dividends should be sufficient for us to live on; anything more he would only gamble away. To be fair, Ran
dolph had some justification, because it’s true my husband
was an inveterate gambler. As the years went by he got worse
and owed money everywhere. It was a nightmare for me some
times. Eventually even his brother Hugh, upon whom he had
always relied, began to refuse him.’

Matthew studied her, his eyes narrowed. ‘You are very outspoken about your husband and his family. Almost to the
point of indiscretion.’

‘And you cannot imagine what a relief it is! With you, my
dear Matt, I know it is quite safe to unburden myself.’

He smiled. ‘Then pray continue. Destroying the character
of others is such an agreeable pastime, is it not?’

In the absence of a fan she regarded him impishly over the
rim of her teacup. ‘You are thoroughly wicked! You have
changed, after all. As a young man, I remember, you were burning with honour and moral integrity.’

‘Moral integrity! Can you say that of me, Blanche?’

She flushed, but it was a pretty sight. ‘At least you were not
a cynic.’

‘Ah well, time changes us all.’ Fingering his silk necktie,
Matthew went on, ‘By the way, I was shocked by Dr Eade’s
appearance the other evening. He never used to drink more
than moderately, to my knowledge.’

‘I suppose he has some excuse, the poor wretched man!’
She saw the question in his eyes. ‘You do not know the story of their daughter, Annabella?’

‘I had forgotten they had a daughter. What happened to
her?’

‘She died of the croup, shortly after your – after you went away. Paget holds himself to blame, and I suppose, as a doc
tor, he should. He diagnosed quinsy at first, you see, and by
the time he discovered the true disease, it was too late to
save the child.’

‘Strange that he should make such a mistake, surely? I had the impression that, for all his absurd pomposity, Dr Eade was regarded as a most able physician.’