A Time Like No Other (2 page)

Harry handed the reins of his bay to a lad at the front entrance of the house, wending his way through the tangle of open carriages, gigs and broughams that were standing on the gravel drive. Coachmen muttered oaths, flustered by the confusion, for there seemed to be no one in charge of ordering their places on the drive. There were a couple of equally flustered servants, a groom or perhaps a gardener doing their best to make some sort of order out of the press but then that was typical of the Frasers, their servants as hapless as they themselves had been. It was said that until Lally married Chris and took the woman whose arm she clung to at the interment to her new home there had been nothing but chaos in the Fraser house. Servants, most of them unpaid, lolling about the place, pots unwashed, beds unmade, gardens untended, the dairy smelling of sour milk, but all as happy as the lark, comfortable and time-wasting. That is until this woman who now stood at the entrance to the house had taken control and brought order where there had been confusion. Since she had returned from the church she had tied a pristine white apron over her black dress and on her head where there had been a deep-brimmed black bonnet was now a fluted white cap. She was greeting the mourners and directing them to the drawing room. She was tall, stately, immensely dignified, her face quite expressionless. As she indicated the way he was struck by her proud, easy carriage, her clear skin and excellent teeth, and wondered where she had come from. Servant to Lally Fraser’s own mother until the day she died, he had heard, and the one who had brought her up as if the girl were her own. Lally’s mother had been known as a somewhat odd woman who had mixed with a literary crowd, artists and writers and admirers of Goethe, Schiller, Herder and such, which was not to the taste of the plain-spoken, strait-laced manufacturing folk of the district. They supposed that was from where she got her daughter’s fancy name.

Lally was seated on a sofa by the enormous fireplace in which a fragrant applewood fire blazed and beside her a thin thread of a woman nodded and murmured at the ladies and gentlemen who approached Lally with their condolences. This was the aunt, or rather a distant cousin, who had, on the death of Lally’s mother, taken her to live in a modest villa in Skircoat on the southern perimeter of Halifax. The woman to whom Lally had clung had gone with her. A maiden lady, was the cousin, Harry had heard, who had had no control whatsoever over her unconventional young relative.

Two young maidservants were moving about the room offering sherry – no decent wine then – and on a table were the refreshments. Lally toyed with a glass of sherry, smiling vaguely as each of the mourners came to pay their respects. Sympathy oozing, ladies held her hand for a moment and gentlemen bowed over it, wondering, Harry was certain, what to say to a widow so young and helpless. It was not to be borne, they whispered among themselves, thinking no doubt of the man just buried in the ground and his two baby sons who were upstairs. In whose care? they wondered, for it was well known that the Frasers had been unable to pay the wages of even the most inexperienced nursery maid. The house was probably mortgaged to the hilt and there would be debts, gambling debts run up by Chris who, at twenty-three, had believed he had all the time in the world to pay them off.

The house had indeed once been a priory, an Augustine priory, parts of it dating back to the thirteenth century and added on to it was an eighteenth-century mansion. It was extremely beautiful, built from the honey-coloured sandstone quarried in Yorkshire and dissected by tall flat windows across its front. A cluster of trees stood before it, old oak trees which looked as though they had been planted when the monks glided about the now derelict cloisters, the stables part of the main building with an arch that led through to the stable yard. There was a small, overgrown formal garden enclosed by ragged box hedges and to the side of that a paddock in which several animals grazed, among them the black gelding that had flung Chris to his death. An ancient donkey, a small pony and a lovely chestnut mare, probably the animal Lally rode, lifted their heads to stare at the visitors at the front of the house. A small lake lay directly in front of the old house on which ducks paddled, darting in and out of the weeds that surrounded it. The grass, a vast stretch of parkland as far as the eye could see, was uncut but an air of peace and serenity prevailed, in marked contrast to the character of its owner who had been buried this day. The front door was massive with worn stone steps leading up to it and across the facççade of the old house a mantle of creeper ran wild like everything else on this dilapidated estate.

She would remember that day for the rest of her life, the day they had brought Master Chris home and Miss Lally had sat down in the rocking-chair in her kitchen, remaining there like a broken doll until she herself had taken charge.

‘Get up, Miss Lally.’

‘I don’t think I can, Biddy.’

‘You must, lass, for your children need you. Come on, my lass, you can’t sit there for ever. They’ve taken . . . Master Chris upstairs and there’s things to be done.’

‘What things, Biddy?’

‘Miss Lally, get up and do as you’re told . . .’ and she had done as she was told, for her lass, though so delicate-looking, was made of strong stuff and here she was after putting her husband in the ground getting ready to greet those who had come to pay their respects.

Lally Fraser shook hand after hand, whose she didn’t really know, since they all looked the same except some were gentlemen and some were ladies, friends of Chris’s family, she supposed. The first hand that made any impression on her was slender, brown, strong-looking as though it were not unaccustomed to manual work, but the nails were clean and well manicured. The hand extended from immaculate white cuffs which protruded from the sleeve of a black jacket. It grasped hers firmly with none of the tentativeness of others and when she looked up she found herself gazing into the eyes of a man she recognised.

‘Mr Sinclair?’ she murmured, allowing her hand to remain in his, aware that beside her Aunt Jane was looking on with disapproval, for after all there were many Moorend folk waiting to offer their condolences, standing behind the tall man who was holding Amalia’s hand for longer than was proper.

‘The same, Lally. Roly is abroad and so I came in his place. Would you care to come and sit in the conservatory with me for a moment or two?’ He smiled round at the company, none of whom, even if the occasion allowed it, dared argue with Harry Sinclair, one of the wealthiest, most influential men in the district. His grandfather had built the house in which Harry still lived. His grandfather had been a merchant in his younger days, travelling to Lincolnshire with a string of packhorses for the sheep shearing, choosing his wool then bringing it back to the Pennines to distribute to the workers, combers, spinners and weavers in their cottages. Later, being an astute man of business, it struck him that it would be more profitable to keep the wool for himself, guiding it through all its processes and employ the cottagers to weave it for wages. The hills around Moorend, bare, brown uplands, had a plentiful supply of swift-flowing moorland streams which were needed to drive the waterwheels and his first mill was built and the men and women who had once woven their ‘piece’ and weekly taken it to the Piece Hall in Halifax, with no wool at their disposal were forced to work for Martin Sinclair or starve.

Harry and Roly, his grandsons, had three mills now, High Clough, West Heath and South Royd. Their looms no longer depended on water for their running power. Power-loom weaving of woollen cloth and the combing of worsted by machinery had presented technical difficulties but these were quickly overcome and when Harry’s father died the woollen trade, which was now concentrated in the West Riding of Yorkshire, grew and prospered. Old towns like Halifax and Leeds were vastly expanded while new towns like Huddersfield were created out of mere hamlets. Robert Sinclair, old Martin’s son, had built the magnificent High Clough Mill which had good lighting, warmth and ventilation and was the biggest in the area. Robert and then Harry Sinclair built West Heath and South Royd in the same manner and during the four years since 1850 the wool textile trade experienced its most rapid expansion.

Though Lally and Chris Fraser had been as light-hearted as children during the three years of their marriage, laughing their way through the days, romping their way through the nights in the depths of their big bed with no thought for their future or that of any children they might have, since they were barely out of childhood themselves, certain parts of the old house had been fairly well kept. The conservatory was one. Constructed in the early part of the century by Chris’s grandmother who had been a lover of plants, it was, like the rest of the house, somewhat neglected but still had white cane chairs, a fretwork glass ceiling, dozens of plants, a glowing terracotta tiled floor strewn with children’s toys for it was a favourite place at all times of the year. The colour in it, the plants seeming to bloom with scarcely any help, provided a lovely setting and it was here that Biddy often sat with eighteen-month-old Jamie.

Harry guided Lally to a seat, as she still seemed in a state of shocked confusion. The mourners, left in the drawing room, exchanged glances, wondering whether it was time to take their leave but neither Harry nor Lally seemed to notice them.

‘What will you do now, Lally?’ Harry asked casually, bemused by her fragile beauty which was enhanced by the stark black of her gown. The background of lush foliage, a hibiscus, he thought, though he was no gardener, its frilly-petalled crimson flowers hanging down like Japanese lanterns, gave out a subtle fragrance, while to her side was a jasmine plant, beautifully perfumed. At the entrance to the conservatory he could see the housekeeper hovering, keeping a watchful eye on her mistress, and though he was tempted to lean forward and take the hand of the young widow he refrained.

‘Do?’ she asked hesitantly.

He knew she was still unable to think properly, and who could blame her, and he was filled with a sudden urge to protect her. An urge he had never felt before. There were no women in his life, no sisters, no mother and the only females he had anything to do with from time to time were the ones who sold their favours to any man with the money to purchase them. There was one such living in Halifax, a pretty little thing who asked nothing of him but the guineas he gave her, the relationship anything but romantic. But this one was different. He had known her for years, watched her grow up with Roly and Chris but something strange was working in him, something new and he was not sure he liked it.

‘Will you stay on here or go back to your . . . er . . . relative in Skircoat? The one who sat beside you on the sofa. I believe you lived with her before you married Chris.’

She looked bewildered but something was coming alive in her eyes and she was frowning as though she were not sure to what he was referring.

‘I’m not certain of your meaning, Mr Sinclair.’

He smiled. He supposed he must seem quite elderly to someone of her age though there were only seven years between them. Which was why she called him Mr Sinclair.

‘This estate needs a firm hand, I would say. The farms on it – how many, and how many acres are involved?’

‘I’m not sure. Chris . . . Chris and I never talked about it.’

No, I bet you didn’t. A couple of youngsters playing at being grown up with no thought in your heads as to where the next penny was to come from. He knew exactly how many acres there were and how many farms and even their names, for he was a man who took an interest in what went on around him: 1,300 acres, a Yorkshire manor house, a Home Farm and five tenant farms each of between 200 and 400 acres, together with areas of surrounding woodland and common. Excellent farming, because the estate lay in a sheltered valley where the soil was in good heart. It only needed a sound agent and some money to turn it into the most productive and profitable estate in this part of Yorkshire.

‘Perhaps I can help you, Lally.’ He leaned forward and this time took her small hand in his. As he did so his heart seemed to flip over, for it was so delicate, so fine, the nails oval and polished and perfect. The wedding ring she wore seemed too heavy for it and he wondered for a startling moment what it would look like with a dainty band of gold and an expensive diamond and pearl ring on it.

‘I’m not sure how you could help me, Mr Sinclair.’ She gently withdrew her hand and seemed ready to stand up.

He was at once ashamed of himself, for the poor child was recently widowed and was still floundering in her new state. He must not take advantage of her weakened condition.

But he could not help saying, ‘Harry, please. Call me Harry. Chris always did.’

‘Mr Sinclair, I . . .’

At that moment the housekeeper entered the conservatory, moving in a stately glide to stand beside Lally. She took her hand and drew her to her feet, her expression one of suspicion and concern for her young mistress.

‘Excuse me, sir, but people are beginning to leave and Mrs Fraser should be there to bid them farewell.’ Her eyes told Harry Sinclair that she’d have no breath of scandal touch Amalia Fraser, especially on this day when they had just buried the master of this house.

‘Of course, forgive me.’ Harry rose and nodded courteously. ‘I just wanted to let Mrs Fraser know that if ever she needs help or advice – business matters and such – she has only to call on me. She will need a decent solicitor and I can recommend one.’

‘That’s very kind of you, sir, and if the occasion should arise we will certainly take up your offer. Won’t we, my lamb?’

‘We will, Biddy, and thank you, Mr Sinclair.’

She was led, as though she were a child about to move into a world of grown-ups, into the drawing room, shaking hands and murmuring and, at last, the others having departed, Harry Sinclair bowed over her hand, ran down the steps and leaped on to Piper’s back, galloping off down the long gravelled drive to the gate cut into the park wall. He knew it would not be long before he was back despite what he had seen in the eyes of the housekeeper!