The Other Cathy (12 page)

‘I want you to come and see my painting, mama!’

‘Not just now, dearest, presently. Run along and ask Bertha
to give you your tea in the parlour. Tell her Mama says you
may have cream with your jelly today.’

Unwillingly, her lips pouting, the child withdrew. As the
door closed with a thud, Blanche said apologetically, ‘Children
can be such a trial! Not, of course, that my Priscilla is really any trouble. When you get to know her, I am sure you will
find the dear child quite adorable.’

Matthew, still standing, nodded abstractedly. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake for me to call on you like this, alone. People
might begin to talk.’

Her eyes clouded. ‘There is no harm in allowing it to be
known that we like one another’s company. Now that I am
a widow, there is no longer the need for secrecy.’

‘I suppose not.’ With his forefinger Matthew traced the key motif on a brass oil lamp which stood upon the piano. ‘Did
no one ever suspect our relationship? Did your husband have
no inkling?’

‘Heavens, no, I made sure of that! There were times when
I had a narrow escape, though. I remember once, when I returned to the house from the gazebo, I found William home
already, much earlier than I had expected.’

‘What happened?’

She laughed. ‘I told him I had been down in the kitchen,
having fancied some warm milk after I’d sent my maid to bed.
And then again, on – on
that
night, it was a very near thing.
Soon after you’d gone, Matt, I missed my silver bracelet, and
I realised I must have left it in the gazebo. I went at once to fetch it, not wanting to risk having a servant find it there and become suspicious. Then returning across the lawn in the darkness, I almost bumped into William. He was wandering
around the garden as though in a daze. I guessed he’d lost
heavily at gambling and had taken a few too many drinks to
console himself, which was fortunate for me on that occasion
because I was able to slip into the house unnoticed. Merci
fully, he decided to sleep in the dressing room that night and I
saw nothing more of him until breakfast.’

‘How was his mood by then? Back to normal?’

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘What was normal
with William? I’d grown so accustomed to his tempers and
long sullen silences that I scarcely noticed them. Though he was a little abashed, I recall, when I pointed out that he must
have come home without his chesterfield – in that freezing
cold! He never did manage to discover where he’d left it and
he had to purchase a new overcoat, which we could ill-afford.’

Matthew nodded absently, seeming deep in thought. Then,
glancing at the clock on the mantel, he said, ‘I’ve stayed much
longer than I intended. I must be going.’

‘When shall I see you again, Matt?’ she enquired eagerly.

‘I intend giving a dinner party at Oakroyd House as soon as
the staff have settled in. For your family and a few other
notables of the district. I trust you will come.’

‘I’d be delighted, naturally. But I meant
a deux.’

‘Surely you still have a reputation to protect,’ Matthew
threw back, his dark eyes glinting so that she couldn’t be sure
how to interpret the remark. Then, after a slight pause, he
went on seriously, ‘You and I know that I didn’t kill Hugh
Hardaker. But we are not the only ones who know that. There
is someone else – if that person still lives.’

‘You mean, whoever—?’

He nodded. ‘Who was it, Blanche? Whose hand struck down Hugh Hardaker that night? I mean to discover the truth before I am done.’

Emma had been obliged to contain her impatience until Mon
day afternoon, no chance occurring before this of a conver
sation with Aunt Chloe which would appear spontaneous and casual. Today her aunt had dispensed with her usual afternoon
nap and was making preserves, one of the few tasks she re
fused to entrust to Mrs Hoad, who was consequently banished
from her own kitchen. As Emma pushed open the door from
the passage, Chloe looked round irritably.

‘Oh, it’s you! I thought it was one of the servants. I don’t
like interruptions when I’m busy.’

‘I wondered if I might lend you a hand,’ said Emma
placatingly. ‘Cathy is in the conservatory, asleep – I fear she
needs more and more sleep these days – and I have nothing
to do.’

‘There are innumerable occupations for a diligent young
woman,’ Chloe retorted. ‘I am surprised you find yourself at a loss. However, now that you are here, you might as well
help me prepare these blackcurrants.’

Adopting a suitably chastened air, Emma fetched an
earthenware bowl from the potboard under the dresser and sat down opposite her aunt at the big scrubbed table. After working in silence for a few minutes, stripping the fruit from the stalks with a small silver fork, she ventured, ‘The dinner party last week wasn’t such an ordeal as I had anticipated. It
passed off quite well, didn’t it?’

‘Hmph! That is a matter of opinion. Your Uncle Paget
made a thorough exhibition of himself, and Blanche should
have known better. Still, all things considered I suppose it
might have been worse.’ Chloe gave her niece a glance of
measured approval. ‘At any rate I was glad to see that
you
had decided to be sensible. Your Uncle Randolph has decreed
that we are to accept Mr Sutcliffe within our visiting circle, so
that is what we must do, regardless of personal feelings.’

Picking out some squashed currants and laying them aside
on a separate dish gave Emma a moment to frame her words; even so, they came out clumsily.

‘Matthew Sutcliffe swears he is innocent – he swore it at his trial, I mean. Is it possible. Aunt Chloe, do you think?’

‘My dear child, don’t you know that most accused men deny
their guilt? I have heard it remarked that our houses of cor
rection are full of innocent men!’

Silence fell again. It was difficult for Emma to voice the
question that burned like fire in her mind, but she would never
rest until she knew the answer.

‘That story of Matthew Sutcliffe’s about his father being
the real inventor of the Hardaker Condensing Engine, could
there be any truth in it?’

Chloe’s fork rattled against the bowl. ‘Mercy above, Emma,
do you disbelieve you own father? No finer man than Hugh
ever lived, let me tell you that. How could you think he would
demean himself by stealing from an employee? It is con
ceivable, perhaps, that Arnold Sutcliffe contributed a few of
the minor details, but that was no more than his job. He could
hardly expect special credit for doing what he was paid to do
as overlooker at the mill.’

It was not an altogether satisfactory answer, Emma felt. Reproaching herself yet again for her disloyalty in harbouring the smallest doubt, she considered what she knew of her
father, who had met his death when she was four years old.
She remembered him dimly as tall and broad-shouldered, a
typical Hardaker; so tall that Emma seemed almost to bump
the ceiling when he lifted her up and twirled her round above
his head, while she giggled and squealed in delicious fright.
She had grown up with the mental picture of a kind, gentle
and good man, honest to the core – that went without saying.
But was there, perhaps, another side to the picture?

‘Mama talked about my father so little,’ she said at length, with a pensive sigh. ‘I suppose I should have asked her to tell
me more.’

‘Your mother never really understood Hugh. I knew that from the start. I could have warned him. In fact, I did try to warn him the day their betrothal was announced, but he was too besotted with her to listen to reason.’

‘Aunt Chloe! You have no right to speak of my mother in
such terms.
’

‘I am in the habit of speaking my mind, child, you should
know that.’ Chloe’s face was unusually flushed and her fork
prodded over-forcefully at the soft, ripe fruit. ‘I’ve said nothing
that you could not have surmised for yourself. Your mother
was always far too ready to indulge her own wishes.’

‘Are you trying to say that mama was selfish?’

‘I’m merely suggesting that she might, with advantage, have shown a little more consideration for others. Did you not
feel it yourself on occasion? Bearing in mind that you’d lost
your father at such a tender age, what was more natural than
for you to turn with extra affection to those who had been
closest to him, his brother and his sister? Yet how often were
you permitted to visit us here at the Hall, except formally in
your mother’s company? Her conduct caused me great dis
tress, Emma, and you may as well know it.’

Emma checked the rejoinder that rose to her lips. Aunt Chloe, with no child of her own, had needed to bestow her
devotion elsewhere. So perhaps she was over-ready to imagine
herself slighted by mama; just as she stubbornly insisted that Aunt Henrietta had deliberately set Cathy against her. Yet,
looking back, Emma now realised that she had really been
aware all along of the conflict between her mother and Aunt
Chloe. It was true that mama had refused most of the
numerous invitations to Bracklegarth Hall, preferring their
own quiet life in the small house in Pinfold Lane. And visits
there by Aunt Chloe had never been truly welcomed. Later
on, after mama’s death, when she had come to live at the
Hall, Emma had felt smothered by the pampering affection
of her aunt; her independent spirit had rebelled and there
had been several stormy scenes between them! Eventually, she
and Chloe had settled down to a peaceable relationship, but
one which lacked any degree of warmth. Now, as usual when
aunt and niece had a slight brush, the subject of dispute was
hastily dropped. They spoke instead of the tartness of the
blackcurrants, due no doubt to the lack of sunshine this summer, and agreed that the jam would need a little extra
sugar above the recipe. When Emma thought sufficient time
had elapsed she returned to the question, asking, as though
idly, ‘What sort of man was Matthew Sutcliffe’s father? It must have been quite an achievement to rise from nothing
and become overlooker at the mill.’

Perhaps she had ill judged the moment, for Aunt Chloe
bristled at once.

‘There is little praiseworthy in that! The overlooker is only a step or two above the ordinary mill hand. You might as
well know, Emma, that Arnold Sutcliffe was a thoroughly un
principled man, quite lacking the common decencies. But he
got his just deserts, for the girl he married was no better than
a slut.
’

Emma was astonished by her aunt’s venom. ‘What makes
you say that he was unprincipled?’

‘Because he was!’

‘But you must have a specific reason for such a charge. Was
it something he did at the mill?’

Chloe, tight-lipped, gave Emma a severe glare. ‘You came
here to help, you said, and you’ve done nothing but hinder.
If you can’t work without chattering, then for mercy’s sake
leave me to get on in peace.’

It was apparent to Emma that her aunt would say no more on the subject. When all the fruit was picked over and ready
to go into the preserving pan and the loaf sugar crushed and
weighed out, she left the kitchen with relief and went upstairs
to prepare the respirator for Cathy’s next inhalation of creosote.

* * *

It was less easy to think of a plausible reason for a private chat
with Aunt Jane, but Emma was more than ever determined
upon it since her conversation with Aunt Chloe. In the event,
however, an opportunity was presented the following morning. When the jars of blackcurrant jelly had been covered with little
squares of tissue paper glazed with egg-white to make a perfect
seal, and carefully labelled with the date, she suggested taking one to Aunt Jane.

Chloe sniffed. ‘If you wish, but it won’t last her long! If I
know anything, she’ll gobble it up by the spoonful.’

The Eades’ residence was fifteen minutes’ walk from
Bracklegarth Hall and only a stone’s throw from the centre of
the village. It might have been an imposing house, rising as
it did well above the roofs of its neighbours, but for the
vulgarity of a profusion of architectural features which seemed
to vie with each other in ugly conglomeration.

Emma was
shown into the parlour, a small gloomy room with dark green
flock wallpaper and numerous ill-assorted prints in heavy gilt
frames. Her aunt was seated in her favourite bentwood
rocking-chair, crocheting an antimacassar. On the table beside
her was wedged a workbox, a bowl of red cherries and a silver dish of liquorice Pontefract cakes.