A Time Like No Other (10 page)

‘And you let him say it!’

‘No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. I told him to sod off and I would take my business elsewhere. When he began to argue I . . . I chased him to his carriage to the amusement of several hands who were unloading a wagon.’

‘Good for you, old chap.’

‘And I’ll do the same to you if you continue to destroy Lally’s reputation. If you hurt her you’ll have me to answer to. She is very young and though she has been brought up in the best society and knows the rules she is at her lowest ebb and cannot judge—’

‘Are you saying I’m taking advantage of her?’

‘Yes, I bloody am and you should be ashamed to—’ Harry bit off his words abruptly, aware that he sounded mean and petty and yet what he was saying was the truth. Lally was exposing herself to the disapproval of her own class who would drop her should the slightest taint of scandal touch her. And Roly knew this. He was off to America in a week where he would no doubt wine and dine many pretty women without a thought for the young woman whose position in life he was endangering. He would be away for a month or two selling the cloth from the looms of the Sinclair mills, which he did superbly and would come back with enough orders to keep the workforce busy for the whole of the following year, 1856. But Roly was not only a first-rate salesman, he also had a full working knowledge of how to run the business. He was as capable as Harry himself of taking off his expensive jacket and tackling a piece of machinery, of spinning and weaving and all the processes of turning raw wool into a ‘piece’. He gave the impression that he drifted through life, smiling his lazy smile, charming, a likeable, witty young rascal. He was never defeated, never dismayed, a young man for whom life seemed a carefree, cloudless summer day. He meant no harm but he did it just the same.

He was smiling now, that irrepressible smile of pure mischief which Harry knew he must be wary of if he were not to reveal his true feelings for Lally.

‘Why, brother, I do believe you have a soft spot for the little widow yourself,’ he said.

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. I am merely trying to protect an innocent woman from the attentions of . . . of . . . the devil take it, you
are
supposed to be Chris Fraser’s oldest friend and one would think that if that is so you would leave Lally alone at least until she is out of mourning.’ He knew he sounded like an utter prig.

Roly stood up and threw his cigar into the fire, still smiling that insufferably smug smile, and Harry felt a great desire to knock his teeth down his throat. Jealousy sank its poisonous fangs into his heart, for he knew that Roly had this way with women which he himself had never learned. He wanted to be able to meet Lally Fraser with a smile as Roly did, to put her at her ease, to make her laugh, as he had done at Christmas but all he had done since was to antagonise her and he hadn’t the bloody courage to get on Piper’s back, ride up to the Priory and engage her in the light conversation at which his brother was so superb. And he was worried that she might be having a hard time working with the tenants. She was determined to achieve what previous Frasers had failed to do. She meant to keep the estate in perfect order and had made it plain to him that she would not overlook a decaying stone, a sagging gate, a loose tile or a choked ditch. But to do that she must have the cooperation of those who rented her farms. The Weavers would certainly diddle her if they could though the others were decent enough. Had they paid her the quarter’s rents that he knew were due, having seen the account books at the beginning of this month? He could hardly ask Roly to question her, could he, so he must grit his teeth, swallow his pride and ride over to see her.

Roly was adjusting his neck cloth in the mirror above the fireplace. He bent down to stroke the large heads of the Labradors who sprawled at Harry’s feet and was rewarded by a thump of two black tails.

‘Well, brother, I’m off. Don’t wait up for me,’ he added flippantly as Harry reached for the decanter. ‘And don’t drink too much of that stuff, at least not alone.’

‘Bugger off,’ Harry said mildly, raising his glass to Roly’s retreating back.

She rose from the sofa where she had been drooping by the fire, her face lighting up at the sight of him. Biddy, on the other side of the fireplace, sighed and put down the pillowcase she was darning. When visitors called it was considered bad manners to be sewing on such a domestic item and scraps of fine embroidery were kept for the purpose, but Roly Sinclair was not considered by Biddy Stevens to be worthy of such consideration.

‘Roly,’ Lally cried, ‘how good to see you. Biddy and I are badly in need of entertaining, aren’t we, Biddy?’ She held out both her hands to him and he bent his head to kiss them. Lally felt herself ready to blush, something she had never done in her life, for she was not and never had been the sort of girl who did such things. She was pleased with Roly’s gesture though and her delighted smile said so.

Biddy said nothing. She had picked up her sewing again and continued to put in the neat stitches to the worn place in the pillowcase, something that was becoming increasingly necessary as the good linen purchased when Chris Fraser’s grandmother was a bride was beginning to wear out. She sniffed disparagingly in reply to Lally’s question, her head bent, and when both Roly and Lally studied her with an expression on each face that told her she was expected to leave the room, she ignored it. She did not trust Roly Sinclair. She, like his brother, did not believe he would deliberately hurt her lovely lass, but his thoughtless commandeering of her young mistress when he was home was downright wicked. She was a young widow with two small children and until her period of mourning was over should keep to the seclusion of her own home and should she venture out in her carriage it should be in the company of another woman, preferably a relative, or with a family retainer. Such as herself.

Lally was looking exceptionally lovely this evening. Her gown was of a blue so pale that it merged into smoke-grey. It was a muslin, soft and fine with flounces rippling down her body and flowing behind her in a train, totally unsuitable for a widow, as Biddy had told her as she helped her to dress but the girl had pleaded passionately.

‘Biddy, let me wear it, there’s a dear. There’s only you and me to see it and I’m sick and tired of this terrible black.’

‘But black suits you, my lamb. With your colouring and—’

‘Rubbish, I’m not fair enough. Only those with golden curls can look good in black. Anyway, I shall wear it this evening whatever you say and tomorrow I’m going to ride over to Harry’s mill and beg him to come and do the rounds with me on the estate. I’m sure with the money that is being put into the farms the tenants will prosper but I need Harry to—’

‘Let Carly ride over there and fetch him, lass. There’s no need for you to go gallivanting about the moors . . .’

The argument had continued until Lally sat down to her evening meal, alone, for there was one thing that Biddy would not do and that was sit down with her at table as though they were equals. Miss Lally was the mistress of this house and the estate, and servants did not dine with their masters or mistresses.

But she was prepared to dismiss this rule when it came to the period after dinner when she and her young mistress spent the hours before bedtime in a companionable ‘chin-wag’ as Biddy put it. Not that Miss Lally had much to say, for as she told Biddy you had to have been somewhere, or spoken to someone during the day and she went nowhere and spoke to no one other than the children and the servants from one week’s end to the next.

‘That Roly Sinclair had enough to say when he was here t’other day,’ Biddy began, but Lally interrupted her coldly, telling her it was nothing to do with her when Roly came or how many times and it was at that moment that the man himself was shown into the room.

Lally had been playing with the boys before dinner, or rather having a rough and tumble with Jamie watched by a vastly disapproving Alec who could not see why he should be excluded from the fun. There had been a great deal of squealing, some of it coming from herself as Jamie dragged her under the red plush cloth that covered the nursery table, while Alec, who at five months was just beginning to wobble to a sitting position, fell over with a roar of rage. One of the flounces on her lovely dress was torn and her hair stood out in a halo of dark curls as a plump baby hand sank into it.

‘Oh, madam,’ Dora kept reiterating, ‘mind yer frock an’ watch bairn or ’e’ll get trodden on . . . oh, madam . . . now, Master Jamie, don’t pull yer mama’s frock . . .’ and soon all four were engaged in a glorious free-for-all which Dora described later to the other servants as a ‘right bit o’ fun’ but what that there Mr Sinclair would think to it, him bein’ a bit of a dried-up old stick, didn’t bear thinking about. They all knew what she meant, for though Mr Sinclair was only a few years older than Mr Roly you’d think he was his pa the way he acted!

The outcome of this interlude was that when Roly entered the drawing room Lally had that delightfully rumpled look he associated with a man and a woman and a dark, secluded corner where a kiss, or even more, might be had.

‘Lally, you look good enough to eat,’ he told her unwisely, tipping his head in Biddy’s direction in the hope that Lally would dismiss the servant, but Lally grimaced and shrugged her shoulders, since she knew that no matter what she said Biddy would not leave her alone with Roly. They sat down side by side and sighed.

‘It’s quite mild out,’ Roly said innocently. ‘I noticed the daffodils and wood sorrel were thick under the trees as I came through the wood. The sycamores are in full flower and leaf and—’

‘You saw this in the dark?’ Biddy heard herself saying then bent her head to her stitching for it was not her place to question Mr Roly. They could not force her to leave the room but she should not join in the conversation. She was amazed when Miss Lally sprang to her feet and at once Roly did the same.

‘I must see them, Roly,’ Lally declared. ‘Ring for Jenny, will you, Biddy, to fetch my cloak.’ She did not look at Biddy as she spoke and neither did Roly, though he was hard put to suppress a smile.

‘What?’ Biddy gasped.

‘My cloak and perhaps a lantern. I want to take a walk; oh yes, I know it’s almost full dark but—’

‘You can’t go out at this time of night, lady. It might be April but—’

‘Biddy, I think you forget yourself,’ Lally told her imperiously. ‘Oh, never mind, I’ll get my own cloak. Wait for me in the hall, Roly.’ And she ran out of the room, her face flushed and excited, leaving Biddy with her mouth open. It quickly snapped shut into a grim line of disapproval as Roly followed Lally into the hallway. He picked up his caped greatcoat and when she ran down the stairs took her arm and guided her to the front door and out into the cool night.

They strolled arm in arm, which seemed quite natural to Lally. It was as though Roly were Chris; was taking over Chris’s role in a strange way and when he reached into his pocket and produced his cigar case, lighting a cigar and blowing the fragrant smoke into the equally fragrant April night air, she sniffed its familiarity, for the cigars were the same brand as those smoked by her dead husband.

He took her arm again as soon as the cigar was lit, drawing it through his. The two setters could be heard howling in the stable where they were shut up each night, for they could sense that their mistress was outside.

The couple did not speak as they sauntered down the slope of the springy grass to the lake where a sleepy twitter of birds could still be heard among the burgeoning branches of the trees that surrounded it. There was a full moon and they had no need of the lantern Lally had suggested. Its rays shone in a straight line across the lake, a lovely silver path which drew a breath of sheer delight from Lally, especially when a pair of swans sailed silently across it on their way to their nesting place.

On the far side of the lake they entered the woodland which soon would be dense with summer growth. Wood sorrel grew thickly, and in what seemed carefully placed arrangements in the roots of the trees there were cowslips, pale and colourless in the moonlight. As they stepped across the carpet of the woodland floor there rose faintly the smell of spring which they both unconsciously drew deep into their lungs. The ash trees were all in flower and some of the young sycamores, and through them shone the light of the moon. The dark was creeping across the sky and Lally knew that Biddy would be standing anxiously at the window watching for her to return, for Biddy did not trust young Roly Sinclair, Lally was well aware. Which made him all the more exciting to be with. It was so long, almost six months since Chris had died and it was exhilarating to see the admiration in Roly’s eyes, she who had known none all these months. She did not count the sly and acquisitive look that lingered in the eyes of the Weaver boys which she treated with contempt when she visited Foxwell Farm on her rounds, and since her widowhood and especially her ill-advised visit to the theatre with Roly, she had received no visitors. She was lonely, she supposed, which was why she did so enjoy Roly’s company.

‘I shall be off on my travels again soon, my pet,’ he told her lazily, stopping to gaze up into the branches of an enormous horse chestnut tree. It was already thick with the fat, sticky buds which were opening to reveal their downy green leaves. With its wide spreading branches it presented a towering mass of the luxuriant growth that was to come in the summer, its branches almost touching the ground. It was so low it scraped Roly’s head and when he guided her to its centre and leaned her against its massive trunk she made no protest. She was appalled to think he was to go away once again, for though she saw him no more than once or twice a week she looked forward to his visits and his cheerful, insouciant humour which made her laugh.

‘Oh, Roly, no! When?’ she questioned him.

‘Next week, I’m afraid. To New York to find further outlets for the cloth which my admirable brother turns out by the mile each week.’