Angel Meadow (53 page)

“I’ll say what’s called for, mate,” he told the man who had accosted him belligerently, making sure, nevertheless, that his fellow Irishmen were right behind him, since the man, though older than himself, had a face like a block of cement.

“Let me get ya’ a drink,” the man said genially, turning to nod at the barmaid whose mouth fell open, for Mick O’Rourke was well known in the Jack Tar and was not the sort of chap other chaps bought drinks for.

Mick was bewildered, evidently much the same thought creeping into his fuddled brain but looking a gift horse in the mouth was not one of his characteristics.

“Right,” he muttered, then swigged down what was in his pot in readiness for the next one.

“Can we go an’ sit down?” the man asked him politely, nodding at an empty table by the window.

“Wha’ for?”

“So we can talk uninterrupted.”

“Sure an’ why would we want ter be doin’ that?” Mick blustered. There were men about who had no time for women, dirty beasts whose preference was for other men, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this big chap couldn’t be one of them and if he was, would he choose Mick O’Rourke?

“Because I’ve somethin’ ter tell yer.”

“Summat ter tell me? About wha’? I don’t know you from one o’ the little people, so I don’t, an’ . . .”

“Is yer name Mick O’Rourke?”

Mick looked flabbergasted, then nervous, for he and his mates had several little fiddles going at the docks and if this chap was a scuffer . . .

“I’m not the law, Mick. I’ve bin lookin’ for yer for weeks.”

“Oh, ’ave yer, an’ why’s that?” Mick managed to splutter.

“Come an’ sit down an’ I’ll tell yer.”

It was the first week in September and in the nursery at Riverside House four-month-old Ciara Rose Hayes, as she had been christened, thrived and grew plump, doted on by all the servants from Mrs Harvey, the housekeeper, right down to Alfie, the boot boy. She was the prettiest baby she had ever seen, Nanny Dee was fond of saying, though not when Miss Kitty was about. Miss Kitty took some beating where looks were concerned, with eyes like the bluest sapphire, and as transparent, surrounded by lashes so long and so thick it was a wonder she could see through them. Kitty Hayes was six years old now, growing tall, but with the sweet plumpness of the young child still about her. She was bright and self-assertive, shouting with all her father’s arrogance and bluster to be the first, to be noticed, to be the leader, to be the most important girl in the nursery. She thought the new girl who had appeared so suddenly and so surprisingly to be “nowt a pound”, an expression she had picked up from one of the servants. She was seriously put out that she and Freddy should have this intruder thrust upon them and said so frequently in the beginning. Then, as time passed and the baby did nothing to interfere with the possessive love she had for Freddy, indeed merely lay in her crib and watched the dancing shadows on the ceiling thrown by the nursery fire, Kitty forgot she was there. She and Freddy, who shared a birthday, did everything together, though her mother, whom she viewed with a certain antipathy, had put a stop to her sharing Freddy’s bed.

Though they had Josh Hayes as a father, one naturally, the other by law, Kitty and Freddy could not have been more different in their nature and their looks. Where Kitty had a tumble of glossy curls that rioted abundantly over her skull and halfway down her back, and the bluest of blue eyes, Freddy’s hair was a mixture of brown and gold, fine and silky and his eyes, big and framed by long brown lashes, were a pale velvety grey striped with darker lines. Kitty was rebellious, sometimes lovable, always exasperating, childishly defiant of any authority, good-humoured if not crossed, with a total lack of fear, which terrified all those who had her in their care. Where she decreed they should go, Freddy followed, trusting her with his life. They each had a pony, Punch and Judy, and, should the groom who accompanied them on the rides within their childish capabilities look away for a moment, the pair of them would be off, Kitty in the lead, of course, galloping across the water meadow at the back of the house towards the narrow bridge that crossed the river and the open fields beyond. A little madam, she was, the groom gasped, white-faced with terror when he caught up with them, Miss Kitty laughing and flushed, Master Freddy pale and big-eyed but defiant in support of his sister.

“We only wanted to see what was at the top of the hill, Charlie, that’s all,” the little madam told him huffily.

“What hill?” He had almost said “what
bloody
hill” he was so frightened.

“Kersall Hill. Father mentioned it and I—”

“Never mind that, miss. You could have broken your neck, or the pony’s legs, gallopin’ ’er like that. She’s not meant fer jumpin’ nor fer goin’ like a bat outer ’ell.”

“Judy can go anywhere, can’t she, Freddy? And so can Punch and I shall tell my father . . .”

“If you don’t, I certainly will, miss, if yer don’t be’ave yersen. Poor Master Freddy looks right peaked.”

“He’s not peaked, are you, Freddy?”

Freddy shook his head, unable to speak.

“Anyway, what does peaked mean?”

“Never you mind. Now gi’ me those reins an’ we’ll ride back proper like.”

The episode was only one of many. Almost every day the pair of them, to Nanny Dee’s despair, were up to something that Miss Kitty, with her fertile imagination, her fearlessness, her careless indifference to anyone’s feelings but hers and Freddy’s, dreamed up. They had a governess now, Miss Croston, who had been chosen by Nancy for her dedication to discipline as well as her qualifications as a teacher. Miss Croston had impressed Nancy with her no-nonsense approach to the training of young ladies and gentlemen and her honesty in expressing it. Should it lose her the position, Miss Croston would not hide her belief that children needed a stronger will than their own to guide them, perhaps not a trait many indulgent parents, especially of girls, might value, but exactly what was needed in the case of young Miss Kitty Hayes. Now Freddy, without Kitty to encourage him to mischief, would have lived his days placidly, equably, sweet-natured as his mother had been, wanting to please, content with the slow, dreaming days of his happy and protected childhood. Perhaps Miss Croston might be a little severe for his gentle nature, but by God she was needed to tame the hellion Nancy’s own child could turn into at the first hint of restraint. Where did she get it, this streak of wildness that flamed her eyes to gleaming blue pools of molten lividity? Nancy often anguished. Her father had been hot-tempered and lawless, self-willed and strong-minded, and she herself had a strength and resolution that had carried her through many a crisis, but Kitty’s wilful determination to have her own way and to take Freddy with her was quite frightening at times.

But still, they were only six years old. Babies really, and Miss Croston’s firm hand on the tiller might be all that was needed to steer them into the calm waters of the well-behaved and treasured childhood Nancy envisaged, not only for Kitty and Freddy, but for her sister’s child.

Ciara Rose! What a treasure she was, everybody said. An amiable baby, no trouble to anyone, Nanny Dee remarked fondly, with a black look in Miss Kitty’s direction. She resembled Kitty, which was not unusual since they were cousins, Nanny said to Minnie, but in Ciara, even at four months, there was a brightness, a sweetness that was heartwarming, drawing the members of the household to her like pins to a magnet. There was always one or other of them hanging over her crib or her baby carriage for a sight of her delighted smile. She smiled at everything that moved, enchanted with them all, her small, pouting rosebud mouth stretching over her shining toothless gums, her small tongue quivering, her hands reaching to clutch at a strand of hair or a playful finger. She had an endless gift of enjoyment, sharing it with them all, the gardener Mr Longman as dear to her as Nanny Dee and Minnie. Her hair was a fluff of black curls on the top of her shapely skull, her cheeks were round and pink and her eyes a deep, almost purple blue and there was no doubt whose favourite she was at Riverside House. Certainly not Kitty’s, who was only concerned with Freddy in any case.

And at Christmas, not only to the ecstatic delight of the father-to-be who, though he had said nothing to his beloved wife, had begun to give up hope, but to the prospective grandmother, there was to be a fourth child in the nursery. Emma could not have been more enraptured if the good Queen herself had sent messages of congratulations. At last, a legitimate child in the house. A baby whose father was Emma’s son and a mother who was Emma’s daughter-in-law. A baby conceived and to be born in holy wedlock and though she adored her grandson, Freddy, she had never been able to bring herself to boast about him to her friends who were also grandparents. To brag about his skill in reading even though he was only six, his graceful horseman’s seat, the way he grew out of his clothes, his sweet nature, in fact all the things so dear to a grandmother’s heart.

Her daughter, who, lately, had gone about looking like the cat who has swallowed the cream, was less enthusiastic. It was not that the children in the nursery ever crossed her path and if they did it was doubtful she would have recognised them, but she resented their very presence in her genteel life. Three
illegitimate
children, that’s what they were even if her besotted brother had legally adopted them and given them his name. The last brat with the outlandish christian name was child to neither Josh nor his wife, the bastard daughter of Nancy’s own sister, and – she had to admit it – that roughly attractive man she had met in Mr Bellchamber’s office.

That had been a month ago, though he had been found in June, or so Mr Bellchamber had told her.

“He . . . well, to be honest, Miss Hayes, he was not fit to be in a lady’s company when my man found him, and to be blunt I am astonished and dismayed, and not a little bewildered, as to why you should want him found. He is a common man, Miss Hayes, a labouring man and—”

“What he is, or is not, is no concern of yours, Mr Bellchamber. I have a particular interest in this man and—”

Mr Bellchamber interrupted her coldly.

“You would have had no interest in him when he was found, Miss Hayes, believe me. He was a lout, a guzzler of beer and gin when he could afford it. Yes, you might well wrinkle your nose in distaste, for the smell of him was enough.”

“Mr Bellchamber, really. Is there any need to be so brutal?”

“You are dealing with a brute, Miss Hayes, and I must say I find myself somewhat alarmed for your safety. I beg you never to remain alone with him, if you value your . . . your . . .”

Mr Bellchamber evidently did not know how to phrase his fears for Miss Hayes’s person, though he did admit to himself that it would be a brave man who took on this grim-faced woman. It had taken many weeks of hard and demanding work to bring Michael O’Rourke into anything resembling a male human being, the whole process paid for out of Miss Hayes’s pocket. She wanted him presentable, she said, halfway fit for decent company, his drinking stopped, or at least cut down, his body, as best it could, returned to the health of a man in his mid-twenties, and today, after weeks of fighting with the man who had found him and in whose care he had been put, O’Rourke was at last deemed fit to meet Miss Hayes. He hadn’t been told why, only that there was something in it for him.

Mr Bellchamber sighed. “Very well, Miss Hayes, though I do wish you would consider letting your brother—”

“No!”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. My chap will bring him in but don’t be surprised to find him uncouth and he can be foul-mouthed.”

“That is of no consequence, Mr Bellchamber.”

Mr Bellchamber shook his head in mystification. Whatever this woman was up to boded ill for someone and he wondered, not for the first time, whether he should have insisted upon having a word with Josh Hayes. But there was the question of client confidentiality which could not be ignored.

The man who came into the room, cat-like, but not nervous, was tall, his dark head on which gleaming curls sprang almost brushing the top of the door frame. He was big, some of the weight on him still fat but a great deal more prepossessing than when Mr Bellchamber had last seen him. Since then he had been working out daily in the local boxing gymnasium and his muscles had become firmer under the smooth cut of his decent jacket. His face, though it would always be coarse, rough, had regained some of his old bright-eyed charm and when he smiled at her, his sensual mouth curling appealingly, his instincts guiding him to the one who could do him the most good, his teeth were white and even in his brown face.

“Aah, O’Rourke, there you are. Come in, man, come in.”

For some reason Mr Bellchamber felt a quiver of discomfort ripple across his flesh. Was it something to do with the way Michael O’Rourke and Miss Hayes were studying one another or had the room become suddenly cold? Was he imagining the strange, atavistic gleam in O’Rourke’s eyes, an unforgotten memory that reminded the man of how he had once had women falling on his neck, or at his feet, or into his arms? Could he believe his own eyes? Richard Bellchamber asked himself as he watched, quite mesmerised, the rush of colour that flooded Millicent Hayes’s sallow face, or the hand she lifted as though to a gentleman, putting it into the enormous fist Michael O’Rourke held out to her. They might have been alone, so little notice did they take of him and into his heart trickled a slither of icy fear.

He cleared his throat hastily, blinking at the foolishness of his own thoughts, for the man was an uneducated Irish labourer and the woman a withered spinster from one of the wealthiest families in Manchester. A lady who would not condescend to wipe her well-bred feet on the man.

“Mr O’Rourke,” he heard her say.

“Aye, ma’am, ’tis ’imself. An’ who do I ’ave the ’onour of addressin’ on this foine mornin’?” He grinned with all his old charm and again Mr Bellchamber was pole-axed by the expression on Miss Hayes’s face.