Angel Meadow (52 page)

“Mother, really, where is the harm?” Millicent encouraged.

“I agree, Mother,” Arthur added, smiling at Dulcie as she placed a dish of exotically coloured and flavoured ice-creams in front of him. There was an almond soufflé waiting to be served but Mr Arthur, just as though he were no older than the children in the nursery, did love his ice-cream and Mrs Cameron indulged him, as she did them.

“Well, I suppose if it were to help Joshua and the mill there could be nothing wrong in entertaining just one gentleman, could there?” Emma asked somewhat anxiously. “Particularly if he’s as pleasant a young man as you say he is, Josh. He knows we are still in mourning and will respect that.”

Josh laughed. “Mother, he is not likely to do a song and dance, you know. In fact, he’s a quiet sort of a chap. You’ll like him.”

His mother sat back in her chair and let out a sigh of relief, then turned to Ellen to indicate that she was to serve the soufflé. She smiled round the table, picked up her spoon and for several minutes there was silence as they did justice to Mrs Cameron’s mouthwatering dessert.

“I was just thinking, Mother,” Millicent began artfully. She spooned the last of the soufflé into her mouth, swallowed, since it needed no chewing, returned her spoon to the exact centre of her plate and wiped her lips delicately on her napkin.

“Yes, dear?” Emma turned to her enquiringly, as did the rest.

“Would it be in order to invite another lady, do you think? Just to balance the numbers. I know it is not exactly to be a dinner party but surely another member of the family would be in keeping?”

“Another member of . . .?” Emma began doubtfully, her mind going to distant cousins, none of whom lived locally.

“Yes. I was thinking of Mary. She is in mourning for her sister, as Nancy is and so would not expect frivolities.”

There was a moment or two of absolute silence in which, barring Emma, every person in the room, even Ellen and Dulcie, grappled with the question of what the devil Millicent Hayes was up to now. Nancy’s sister, Mary, who, during the past three years whenever she had been included in a family function, had been icily ignored, Millicent making it very plain that while she was forced to put up with her brother’s wife, she was in no way committed to her brother’s sister-in-law. She was bog Irish, of working-class background, as Nancy was, even if she did put on the airs of a lady, and Millicent had wanted nothing to do with her. Now, here she was suggesting she come to dinner where an eligible young man was to be a guest to make up the number! What mischief was she planning?

“Well . . .” Josh looked from his sister’s innocent face to his mother and then to Nancy, his own a picture of incomprehension. His eyes signalled to his wife that if she knew what Milly was up to he certainly didn’t.

“I’m sure Mary would be happy to come,” Nancy began hesitantly, “that’s if Mother-in-law agrees.”

“Of course she would be happy to come and Mother would be glad to see her, wouldn’t you, Mother?” Arthur added enthusiastically, for though, so far, he had not made much headway with Nancy’s shy and pretty sister, he was always delighted when an opportunity arose to try. Since his father died and all social activities had ceased he had apart from her sister’s funeral, not been in her company once but now, thanks, amazingly, to his overbearing sister, it looked as though his wish might be granted.

“Well, I’m sure, that’s if you all agree, that Mary would be a delightful addition to the evening.” Like most of the older generation Emma found Nancy’s sister to be the personification of young, well-bred womanhood, even if she hadn’t been born to it. Shy, self-effacing, polite and always ready to listen to Emma’s rambling reminiscences, which was not something that could be said about many young people today. Her own daughter, though Emma was sad to admit it and then only to herself, was impatient, brusque, inclined to cut in when Emma spoke, which was very hurtful, so it would be doubly pleasant to have Nancy’s gentle sister at the dinner table.

It was evident from the moment she entered the drawing-room, her arm through Nancy’s in that diffident way she had, that Philip Meadows thought so too. Millicent, who had not met him before, had him cornered on the sofa to the side of the intricately ornamented marble fireplace. The fireplace was the heart of the room, set off by a gleaming grate and fender. It was to here that the family gravitated, for though the fire roared ferociously up the chimney, it being a chilly and damp evening, the greater part of the room remained unheated.

The room was furnished – over-furnished – in the ornate and costly style of the day. Easy chairs and sofas of rich, honey-coloured velvet, plump and comfortable, some without arms to allow the huge skirts of the ladies to spill over their sides. It was an obstacle course of small occasional tables, scattered with ornaments which made moving about, especially in a crinoline, extremely hazardous. A multi-tiered whatnot, a cross between a bookcase and a table, stood against the wall, helping to take the overflow of books, newspapers and stray knick-knacks. There was a piano, which Millicent played, a massive grand, its heavy legs and broad sides lavishly carved. The curtains were of heavy red velvet, decorated with balls and tassels. The carpets, of bold colours of red and gold, were rich and deep and the wallpaper was of a thick flock. And in the midst of all this splendour, an elegant clutter of porcelain figurines, Chinese vases, potted palms, ornamental boxes and exotic paperweights jostled with one another for an inch of space.

On the mantelpiece were a dozen silver framed portraits in miniature of the three Hayes children when they were young and it was one of these that a simpering Millicent was displaying to their guest. She looked formidable in her black velvet evening gown, her fine bosom showing at its best. She had been at once surprised and pleased when her brother’s business acquaintance had turned out to be such an admirable young man. About Josh’s age, which was not young exactly, but evidently a gentleman, courteous and though not exactly well versed in the art of conversation, she was not put off, since the sound of her own voice gave her a great deal of pleasure. He was tall and well built. He had a pleasant and singularly sweet smile and warm brown eyes, an unexceptional face, she supposed, but he was known to be wealthy, or so Josh said, and came from a decent family, so his looks did not signify. The evening promised to be a great success. Not only would it afford her the opportunity to persuade the Irish baggage to confide any information she might have on the name and whereabouts – if she knew it – of the brat’s father, but seemed to hold out an assurance of something that might be the beginning of a new friendship, and perhaps more, with this eligible gentleman.

“My mother wanted to have mementoes of us as children,” she was saying as she handed him a silver-framed watercolour of a small boy on a pony, a very ordinary boy and a very ordinary painting. Mr Meadows smiled and murmured the appropriate remarks while Emma looked on encouragingly, since any suitable gentleman who took an interest in her daughter was welcome indeed.

Nancy and Josh sat side by side, Nancy’s hand in his in the folds of her black silk skirt, her head drooping slightly towards his shoulder, for she was very tired. It had been a particularly busy day at the shop with, or so it seemed, every lady in Manchester planning her summer wardrobe and each and every one expecting her personal and individual help in doing so. Behind them at the window Arthur hovered on the lookout for the carriage that had been sent for Mary.

“And this is me, Mr Meadows. Not on a pony, as you can see. I was not fond of horses so Father did not insist. He was the kindest of men.”

“Indeed, Miss Hayes, I’m sure he was,” Mr Meadows replied, as Millicent lifted a dainty square of lace to her eyes. “I found him most congenial to deal with in our business transactions.”

“Did you, Mr Meadows? But of course you did. He is sadly missed.”

Seeing that his mother was beginning to look somewhat distressed at this turn in the conversation and wanting to steer the talk away from his father’s death, over which Millicent loved to make a great drama, Josh stood up, gently returning Nancy’s hand to her lap. Millicent turned and saw the gesture and at once her brows sketched a disapproving frown, for she was of the opinion that any show of affection, especially in public, smacked of ill-breeding. But then what could you expect from a girl dragged up in the slums of Manchester, her sniff said.

“Another sherry, Meadows, and perhaps a drop more Madeira, Mother?” Josh asked, reaching for his mother’s glass. He looked very distinguished in the stark black and white of his evening clothes, and darkly handsome too, his maturity giving him something he had not had as a youth. His face was still moulded in the tender look he had just bestowed on his wife. They had not made love before dinner as they often did, since Nancy seemed unusually frail tonight. She had been inclined to tiredness over the last few weeks, which was not surpising in the circumstances. Her sister’s death had hit her badly and she seemed to blame herself in some way. She had made herself responsible for both her sisters from an early age and her inability to put Rose on the course she and Mary had followed had been a bitter blow to her. She was drooping now among the cushions, her face pale, but in a strange way calm and glowing from within and he wondered what it was as she smiled up at him.

Millicent had returned to her self-imposed task of showing off the family portraits to their guest, who was beginning to look somewhat strained, even glassy-eyed, Josh thought. He really must try to get the poor chap away from her, he told himself, when Arthur whirled about, his boyish face flushed.

“She’s here,” he exclaimed in great excitement, so that Philip Meadows might have been forgiven for thinking royalty had arrived. Arthur was hot on Nancy’s heels as she went into the hall to greet her sister and bring her in, and when she did so both men, Josh and Philip Meadows, were on their feet. Philip still had a portrait of an awkward group of children in his hand, Millicent and her two brothers, he had been told, but as his hostess led in the pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, shyly smiling and beautifully gowned vision of young womanhood who was her sister, it was dropped unceremoniously into Millicent’s lap with barely a smile or a murmur.

Another nail was hammered into the coffin that was Millicent Hayes’s hatred of the Brody sisters. She watched, unbelievingly, her eyes narrowed to slits of pure venom as naïve little Mary Brody, who had no conversation to speak of, no breeding, no proper education as far as Millicent could make out, swept the man whom Millicent had earmarked for herself off his well-shod feet. Though he had barely had a word for the cat before she arrived, letting Millicent do all the talking, she could not fail to notice that the Irish trollop and her brother’s guest had a great deal to say to one another during dinner. It was quite disgusting the way she monopolised him, the hussy, and Millicent would have a word or two to say to Josh about it later. Of course the man was probably being no more than polite, but the smiles, even the laughter that swirled gently about the table were surely out of place with her father dead in his grave no more than a few weeks.

Neverthless, by the end of the evening Millicent Hayes had the name of the man who had fathered not only her sister Rose’s baby but Nancy’s as well, and Philip Meadows had Mary’s promise that, with her sister and brother-in-law, she would dine with him at his home in Prescot.

And in the privacy of their bedroom Nancy revealed to her husband that, at last, after almost three years of marriage, she was pregnant with his child.

29

Mick O’Rourke’s face was a picture of suspicious amazement. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe the cheek of the bloody man. He pulled his arm from his grasp, backing away with his pint of ale held defensively before him, edging along the bar until he was back to back with another chap as burly as himself. There were a group of them, all dock labourers, all big men, truculent, ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, for it was pay-day and they had been in the ale-house drinking steadily since their shift had ended two hours previously.

“Bejabers an’ what’s your game? Ye’ll be takin’ yer ’and off me arm, so yer will, yer spalpeen, unless yer want me fist in yer face,” Mick roared, thrusting his pugnacious chin forward.

“There’s no call fer that, lad,” the man said mildly, a big chap who gave the impression he knew how to handle himself, which was why Mick had flinched away from him. Mick O’Rourke was no longer the bright-eyed, vigorous youth he had been years ago. Then he had strutted like the cock o’ the north he had believed himself to be. Big, powerful, strong as an ox, well-muscled, at the peak of his young manhood, a fighter, coarsely handsome and believing it would last for ever. It hadn’t, of course. Drink had done for him. Every purse he won had been poured down his throat until he could no longer dance round the prize-fighting ring on feathered feet. No longer land the vicious punches, nor avoid those aimed at him until, at last, he was told by fight promoters in no uncertain terms to “bugger off out of it”. He was twenty-five, a powerful figure still, but gross. His muscles, once so hard a man could break a hand on them, were gone soft and flabby, his face even coarser and bewhiskered, his eyes sunk in his fleshy features. Strangely, he had kept his teeth, which were straight and strong, and his hair, which was thick and dark and curling though hanging in greasy draggles. During the years since he had left Manchester he had continued to wander from place to place looking for fights and, finding none, had taken up work as a casual labourer at Liverpool docks.

He was an Irishman among Irishmen, most of them, like him, who had never seen the green of the old country but who nevertheless spoke with the lilting brogue of those born there. He lived rough, dossing down in the straw of any cellar where space could be found for a copper or two a night, earning just enough to keep him in pipe tobacco and ale and the diet of potatoes he mainly ate, since they were cheap and filling. If he remembered Nancy Brody, or even Rose, who had trailed at his back wherever he went, since there had been so many like them in his earlier days, he would have had a hard job bringing either face to his drink-sozzled mind. It was months, almost a year since he had walked out on Rose, not knowing, nor even caring, that she was carrying his child for the fifth or sixth time and as he had been in some stage of drunkenness since, his brain and liver pickled and barely functioning, he would have looked blank had her name been mentioned.