A Time Like No Other (33 page)

‘Now then,’ she declared, ‘what’s all this about you going up to the mill and what’s . . . eeh, chuck, what on earth’s the matter?’ She glared at Susan as though she were the one who had made Miss Lally cry then knelt down at Lally’s knee and wrapped her in loving arms. There had been a great deal of resentment in Biddy when Susan first came to the Priory, for up to then Miss Lally had confided only in her but she had watched the growing friendship between the two young women and realised that Susan Harper was not trying to take her place in Lally’s affections. The woman had known great sorrow and Miss Lally, with that good heart of hers, had done her best to alleviate it, giving her a place in life, employment, a trust to care for her children. When Biddy saw that Susan would not usurp her, that she was extremely fond of Biddy’s lass, that she in fact was good for Lally, she had accepted her. Biddy had her important part to play in this household. She was valued and, yes, loved by her young mistress and being a generous woman had even formed a tentative relationship with the woman from the nursery. Their paths rarely crossed and Susan took care not to interfere with Biddy, her duties, or her place in Miss Lally’s affections.

Susan stood up and moved to the window which looked out over the garden where Barty and Froglet were busy raking leaves from the rolling lawn that led to the edge of Tangle Wood. She had done her best not to interfere with the unique relationship between Mrs Stevens and Miss Lally but Miss Lally would insist that she and Susan were friends, which pleased Susan, since she had never had a woman friend and was genuinely fond of the woman who had changed her life so dramatically. That was well enough but her other ideas were unworkable and Susan had yet to tell her that she did not wish to be included in any more dinner parties since she knew she was totally out of place but that was for another time.

‘Oh, Biddy, it’s about Cat . . .’

‘Cat . . . Dear God, what’s happened?’

‘He knows, Biddy. He knows she’s—’

‘Aye up, watch tha’ gabble,’ casting a glance in Susan’s direction.

‘Oh, Biddy, she’ll know soon enough. The whole of Moorend will know before long unless Harry will do as Roly demands.’

‘Now then, my lass, Mrs Harper—’

‘Will keep it to herself, won’t you, Susan?’ Lally directed a heartfelt appeal to Susan, who had turned from the window and was staring in dawning comprehension at the two women by the fire.

‘Nay, less folk who know the better, I say.’ Biddy rose to her feet and squared up to Susan as though they were about to engage in fisticuffs, but Lally caught her hand and then beckoned to Susan to resume her seat by the fireside. ‘I trust you, Susan, as I trust Biddy so if I was to tell you . . .’

‘Cat is not Mr Harry’s daughter, is that it? This Mr Roly is holding it over you to get Mr Harry to do something.’

‘You’re sharp, I’ll say that,’ Biddy sniffed, ‘how did you guess?’ Then she drew up another chair and the three women sat almost knee to knee, Lally’s tears beginning to dry up, for the old saying ‘a trouble shared is a trouble halved’ was certainly true, especially when it was shared with the two women in the world she trusted the most, the two women who loved her and whom she loved. The love between women can be as staunch and everlasting as between man and woman and these two had proved themselves, Biddy even more than Susan, to be her true friends.

‘He wants the mills, you see.’

‘What!’ Biddy was aghast.

‘Yes. He wants Harry out and himself in charge. I don’t understand how it is to be done but unless Harry agrees he will tell the world that Cat is his child. Dear God.’ Lally raised her face to the ceiling in supplication. ‘Once, only once after Chris died, I was lonely and missed . . . well, you are both women and know what a man can give a woman. I allowed him to . . . to make love to me and within a month I knew I was pregnant. I told Harry, I don’t know why, I suppose because I had always trusted him, but, well, we were married and I had a ‘premature’ baby. The marriage has been . . . I thought we had a chance of happiness . . .’

‘He loves you, lass. I told you that, didn’t I?’ Biddy’s voice was sad.

‘I know that now and I am . . .’

‘Beginning to love him? He’s a grand chap, is Mr Harry. Mrs Harper will agree, won’t you?’

‘I wish you’d call me Susan,’ Susan said absently. ‘And yes, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Lally. But what are we’ – none of them noticed the plural – ‘to do? Mr Harry’s not himself yet and until he is we cannot trouble him with this. John’d have my hide if—’

‘John, is it?’ Biddy said wryly.

‘We are friends,’ Susan said defiantly.

‘Really! But, still, that’s not the subject here. Lally, you must dry your tears and go down to your husband and Susan must see to the children, for God only knows what those naughty boys are plaguing Dora with.’ They all three stood up and with a simple gesture Lally put her arms about Susan, then Biddy, before she slipped from the room.

‘She needs help,’ Biddy said to Susan.

‘She’ll get it.’

His face was turned to the door when she entered and at once Tansy stood up and slipped from the room. He held out his hand and she took it, kneeling by his bed and placing a soft kiss on his lips. His responded and his other hand rose to cup her chin.

‘I’ve missed you. Where have you been?’

‘I’ve just come from the nursery. They were having tea so nothing would do but that I sit down and have a biscuit with them.’

‘And Cat?’ His damaged face did its best to smile, for the progress of the good-natured baby was of great interest to him. It seemed to Lally that he was genuinely beginning to believe that the child was his so how could she tell him of Roly’s threats to expose the truth of Cat’s paternity? Harry was coming along nicely, as Doctor John put it, and his ribs were healing so he should be able to get up out of bed before long. As long as he did not overdo it, he might even go downstairs, or upstairs to see the children in a few days providing they were not allowed to leap all over him which they were prone to do. The three boys loved him to get down on the floor and pretend to be a tiger and the shrieks of laughter could be heard in the kitchen.

So far John had not spoken of his anxiety about Harry’s head injury. Not that he had one that could be seen. There was no wound visible but something in his skull had been . . . well, John did not quite know how to describe it. His memory had not been damaged. He knew them all, from Dulcie, the kitchen-maid who brought up the coals for his fire, to his beloved wife. He chafed at being bedfast, as Biddy described it, and though the sight of his face might frighten the children, in a few days it would be healed enough to visit them. But he never mentioned the mills, his brother, his confrontation with the Weaver brothers, indeed anything to do with what was an integral part of his life. He had been running the Sinclair mills since the death of his father, knowing not only how to manufacture cloth from the moment the wool left the back of the sheep but the machines that made it all possible. The wool textile industry had occupied a unique place in British history from the twelfth century and Harry Sinclair knew that history as he knew his own. Every machine invented, every innovation, from sorting and scouring of the fleeces, the blending, the carding, the preparation of the worsted yarn, the spinning to the weaving was bred in the bones of him and it was due to his knowledge and to his business acumen that the Sinclair mills were probably the most successful in Yorkshire. He could even darn his own socks, for the basic principle of weaving was the same. Threads sewn in one direction, then, at right angles, more threads passed over and under the first which was just like darning, his mother had told him and he had set to and darned the hole in his sock as a boy!

Now, in a few short days, he had lost a part of himself that
was
himself and Doctor John Burton who, like every other doctor in the world, knew little about what went on inside the skull, wondered if he would ever regain it.

21

He waited a week before he rode up to the Priory, apologising to the frozen-faced Lally for not coming earlier but business had eaten up so much of his time it had taken him until now to find an hour free.

He had caught her unprepared, entering the drawing room where Jenny had shown him, for after all he was the mistress’s brother-in-law and surely needed none of the formality of announcing that callers were usually put through.

Lally had Biddy with her, thank the good God, she was to say later, and they were discussing the menus for the day, seated one on either side of the roaring fire for as December came in it had turned bitterly cold. They were drinking hot chocolate and if Roly was surprised to see Lally consorting in a familiar way with one of her servants, he quickly hid it.

‘Well, this is a cosy scene,’ he remarked, ready to raise a hand to Mrs Stevens to tell her not to stand, but as she merely sat there, as frozen-faced as her mistress and with no intention, it seemed, of standing for her betters, he could feel his own temper rise.

‘I’ve come to see Harry since it seems he has no intention of coming to see me. There are legal matters to attend to and we both need to be involved, so if you would summon him I’d be obliged.’ He sauntered across the room and seated himself on one of Lally’s dainty new chairs, his smile fixed. He had handed his hat, his riding whip and his warm cape to the housemaid and his manner was of a guest who is perfectly sure of his welcome and waits only to be asked whether he would prefer tea, coffee or chocolate.

‘I have no intention of
summoning
my husband, as you so delicately put it, Roly. He is not totally recovered from the beating he took and is resting but if you would like me to give him a message I would gladly do so.’

By now Lally had got a grip on herself and her smile was as fixed as his. She looked incredibly lovely in a velvet gown the colour of the heather on the moorland in the middle of summer. Her short hair had a ribbon of the same colour threaded through it and she wore satin slippers dyed to match her gown. She had just spent an hour with Harry, sitting beside his bed, for as yet Doctor John had decided he needed more rest. She was not to know that the doctor, mystified by his patient’s apparent inability to remember the circumstances, not only of his injuries, but who he had been before them, had come to the conclusion that only bed rest, or at least to be kept to his room quietly, might do the trick. It could do no harm at least. Harry did not seem to mind which was quite frightening. It was not strictly true to say that Harry did not remember the beating he had taken, nor that he had forgotten his family and the servants, the children or who he was, but a part of him was missing and he had not even noticed!

‘Do you not feel able to leave the bedroom, Harry?’ Lally had asked him tentatively as she sat beside his bed. He had been reading
The Times
, leaning back among his nest of pillows, seemingly quite content. He liked her to be with him and with her arm to steady him he had begun to move about the bedroom and sit in the chair by the fire. He no longer needed the constant presence of one of the housemaids and Doctor John said he was making good progress. Lally had questioned the doctor, asking if he thought it might be a good idea to mention the mills and his daily routine before the beating but John decided it might be a little early yet. When he was physically restored, his broken ribs and nose mended, then they might try a little gentle probing but until then let him rest and – though he did not say this to Lally – his complete memory would hopefully be restored.

Harry had put the newspaper down and smiled at her, a sweet, trusting smile that told her without words that he loved her and believed in some strange way that she returned his feelings.

‘Would you have me out on the moors with Piper under me?’ His smile widened. ‘My love, you know these ribs of mine are still painful and the good doctor seems to feel I should stay in bed so here I shall remain until given permission to rise. It also means I see more of you which is a pleasure to me.’

This was so unlike the strong-willed, hardworking, resolute man of business who was Harry Sinclair that Lally was beginning to be frightened. She had expected him to rail at his confinement, argue at every turn that he was not only fit to get out of bed, to sit in a chair but to go to the bloody mills. Who the devil was running them in his absence, he would be shouting and he was off to see for himself so would Carly kindly saddle Piper and where the hell were his clothes?

Now Roly stood up and strolled about the drawing room, picking up a delicate porcelain figurine and studying it thoughtfully as if deciding whether to buy it. He was startled when Lally stood up herself, almost flinging herself from her chair and at once Biddy did the same.

‘Will there be anything else, Roly?’ Lally asked him coldly.

‘Well, if Harry is unavailable I shall just have to go ahead with my plans without him, won’t I, my sweet?’

‘I am not your sweet, Roly, and I would advise you to postpone your
plans
whatever they are until I have had time to consult with
my
lawyer. I shall be at High Clough first thing tomorrow morning if that is convenient. And even if it is not! I will not have business discussed in my home. Do I make myself clear? Shall we say nine o’clock?’

Roly was so astonished he almost dropped the figurine then his face flushed up with what Lally supposed was suppressed anger.

‘What the devil’s going on here, Lally? I demand to see my brother and if you do not—’

Lally put up an imperious hand. ‘Biddy, would you mind fetching one or two of the men from the yard. I would like Mr Sinclair to leave and if he won’t go voluntarily I shall have him put out. I will not have my husband disturbed at this time.’

Biddy began to move towards the door but Roly was there before her, barring her way. ‘I don’t know what the hell you think you’re up to, Lally, but you might be sorry if you—’