Angel Meadow (56 page)

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“I’m sure I can find something. For God’s sake, Milly, stop blubbering and do something about that face.”

“Joshua Hayes, are you going to stand by and let her get away with it after what that guttersnipe you married has done to me?” Milly whimpered. At least that was what they thought she said, for she spoke as though she had a heavy cold. She held a blood-soaked scrap of lace and cambric to her nose but it was far too insubstantial to staunch the deluge.

“Here,” Josh said wearily, passing his own clean and folded handkerchief to her. “If you won’t go and have your face attended to, then use this.”

Nancy stood like a statue, tall and dignified now, frozen in this horror that had come about. Her insides were twisting with hate and loathing and disgust and yet burning with a need to do something, whatever that something might be. She longed to go on shrieking as the women in Church Court shrieked without restraint when something got their dander up, but she must consider her baby, Josh’s baby. She must stand back and let Josh and Arthur, and perhaps the men in the stable yard, see to Mick O’Rourke, though it was hard to remain calm.

“I don’t know how you can be so calm, Joshua really I don’t,” Millicent began.

“Believe me, Millicent, it’s not easy. There is nothing I want more than to take off my coat and give this . . . this piece of filth the thrashing of his life, but this is my home. My children are upstairs.”

“
Your
children, Squire?” Mick sniggered.

“Yes,
my
children. My wife’s children, not to mention my mother who, Millicent, as her daughter, I believe you might consider. She is frail after—”

“Well, I’m sorry for that.”

Josh ignored her, staring with unblinking eyes into those of the man who stood with all the aplomb of an invited guest in the centre of his mother’s drawing-room. Josh’s face was expressionless save for whatever burned at the back of his ice grey eyes and the Irishman fell back another step, some of the impudent, confident boldness slipping from his face. He was not a timid man, but he was not sure he liked the eerie calm of the man who faced him. Still, he had every right to be here, as Milly was about to tell them, and the sooner it was done, the better. Earlier he’d noticed the decanter of whisky on the side table with several cut-crystal whisky glasses beside it. In fact, he’d just been about to help himself to a nip when they had come into the room. A bit of Dutch courage would not have gone amiss. A glass of whisky, or maybe two, and one of those fine cigars Milly’s brother was smoking would be very welcome, then they could all sit down and get about their business.

He moved across the carpet, his bowler hat still on the back of his head. He placed the ornament, which he had forgotten he was holding, on the table and put his arm about Milly’s waist.

Josh’s mouth tightened and beside him Arthur swallowed painfully as though something broken had been forced down his throat. Nancy made a small, nauseated sound.

“Milly, for pity’s sake,” Arthur rasped. “Are you to let this . . . this bruiser put his hands on you? Dear God, what is happening here? Who is this man? Really, Josh, why don’t I call a couple of the men to throw him out, or, better yet, let’s you and I do it. The impertinence of—”

“Hush, Arthur, there’s a good lad.”

“Aye, Arthur, do as yer brother tells yer. Ter be sure me an’ Milly ’ave a thing or two ter tell yer, ain’t that right, darlin’, so best let’s get it over. An’ that face o’ yours needs seein’ to, mavourneen. Shall yer tell one o’ yer maids ter fetch water?” On his face was clearly written how very pleasant it must be to have the ordering about of servants, which he hoped to do very soon.

With sudden violence Josh threw his cigar into the fire, his smouldering rage, his distaste at seeing his sister handled so carelessly, and her acceptance of it, his overwhelming need to smash in the face of the man who was presumptuous enough to do it and his terrible need to get his wife upstairs and away from all this, giving him the appearance of a man tormented beyond endurance.

“Get out of my house, you bastard,” he roared and his voice was heard in every corner of the house.

“Now then, Squire, ’ad yer not better be ’earin’ what me an’ Milly . . . ?”

“Yes, Josh, please be quiet. Michael has something to say and you will do him the courtesy of listening to it,” Milly mumbled from behind her rapidly darkening handkerchief. “I need medical attention,” throwing a malevolent look at Nancy, “so if you’d ring the bell, Arthur, and ask for one of the men to go for the doctor—”

“
Will . . . you . . . be . . . quiet!
 ” Josh yelled. “I’ve had about as much as I can take of this . . . this . . .”

“Ye’ll ’ave ter know sometime, Josh, so ye will.”

“How dare you use my name.”

“What else would I be callin’ me brother-in-law?”

Josh’s face changed colour, the flame of violent temper turning to the ash grey of shock and beside him a whisper, “Sweet Jesus, oh sweet Jesus,” from Arthur. Nancy carefully felt for the arm of the chair and when she had found it lowered herself in to it.

“Aye so, we’re gettin’ wed, me an’ Milly, so we are, an’ ’oo should be’t first ter know but ’er family.” He gave Milly’s waist a squeeze and grinned down into her eyes which, even as he looked were turning the colour of ripe plums. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more unappetising sight in his life but it would be worth it all to live in a bloody big house like this one. He had no intention of moving to some small and poky villa, which Milly had babbled on about, and living on her allowance which, after what he had been used to, seemed phenomenal, but why make do with a jug of milk a day when you could have the whole sodding cow? It didn’t matter to him that he’d be living side by side with Nancy Brody, or them bairns of his. The former rather titillated him, since she was a fine piece and as for the kids, they need not bother him. No, he thought, in the depths of the irrational, senseless, downright moronic bit of matter he called a brain, all he wanted was to live grand as these folk did, as Nancy did, and if she could do it, who came from the same street as he did, why not him?

Amazingly, Josh smiled and his stiff, defensive, tightfisted posture relaxed.

“God’s teeth, I’ve never heard anything so bloody preposterous in my life.” He began to chuckle and then to laugh out loud. Mick O’Rourke didn’t know what “preposterous” meant, nor did he care to be laughed at. His short Irish temper flared and his fists clenched.

“Now, Michael,” Milly snuffled, putting a hand on his arm. “Joshua didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, but I did, Milly. It is quite ridiculous and you know it. Apart from his . . . connection with this family, you could not live with a bully boy like this. He comes from the dregs.”

“Like your wife, you mean,” Milly hissed.

Again a wave of maddened colour washed over Josh’s face and Nancy struggled to get to her feet in her need to restrain him. “It’s not the same thing at all,” he spat out. “Nancy is educated. She has . . .
is
a lady.”

“Rubbish, she’s a shameless hussy who trapped you into—”

“Be careful what you say, Millicent, for you are to live in this house beside Nancy, who is its mistress.”

“I don’t think so, Josh. You heard Michael. He and I are to be married.”

Josh whirled away, reaching for his wife’s hand in a desperate attempt to control himself, breathing hard as though to hold in the explosion that was about to burst out of him.

“Bloody hell, Milly,” he said over his shoulder, “will you come to your senses.”

“No, we are to be married.”

“That’s right, darlin’, ye tell ’im.”

Josh turned back, composed again. From beyond the window came the sound of Mr Longman’s deep voice mingling with the lighter tones of his sons as they trundled the wheelbarrow round the corner to the front lawn. With a part of his mind not seared by what was happening in this madness, Josh had time to wonder at the way the day moved on, time moved on and everything was just as it always was at Riverside House, except that it wasn’t.

He sighed. “Let’s just get something straight, shall we? I know I can do nothing to stop you marrying this oaf, since you are of age, but I beg you, Milly, to give it more thought. He is not of your class.”

“Neither is your wife.”

“Goddammit, leave Nancy out of this. She has adapted, is accepted in our circle, even if she was not born to it, but can you see this lowdown scum . . .”

“’Ere, ’oo are ye callin’ scum.”

“. . . sitting down to dine with the likes of the Lamberts? Think, Milly. There is someone better waiting for you than this,” waving a contemptuous hand in Mick O’Rourke’s direction. “And then . . .”

“Listen ’ere, Squire, we’re ter be wed, so we are, an’ nothin’ yer say’ll stop us, ay, Milly?”

“No, that’s right.”

“Very well, as I said I can’t stop you but let me just draw the contents of Father’s will to your attention. He left you nothing, since he knew I would always take care of you. Give you a decent dowry when you married, that sort of thing. So, everything you have is in my hands. I can reduce your allowance. I can make it more generous. I can also stop it completely, so perhaps you and this man would care to discuss that before he drags you up the aisle to the altar. Can he support you, I wonder, or—”

“You bastard!” Both Millicent Hayes and Michael O’Rourke spoke the same words together. Mick’s jaw had dropped and he looked ready to swing his fists at someone in his frustrated rage: Millicent, her brother, the goggle-eyed speechless youth at his side, Nancy Brody, or any of the priceless ornaments in the room, anything would do. Then his face cleared and a sneer lifted the corners of his loose mouth.

“Well, an’ might yer not feel different, Squire, if we was ter tell yer there’s a nipper on’t way. Aye, I thought that might mekk yer sit up an’ tekk notice. Shurrup, Milly, we ’ad ter tell ’im an’ now’s as good a time as any!”

31

The house was quiet, the servants tiptoeing about the place as though any loud noise might awaken another explosion of violence; but in the drawing-room, though no one spoke, the silence was loud.

Nancy sat in her chair, straight-backed, head high, eyes bright as a golden-eyed eagle, wishing her heart would stop thundering against the squirming, obviously distressed child in her womb. She knew this was not good for her, or the baby, so she must,
must
keep calm, though all she could think of was leaping from her chair and smashing the smiling faces of Millicent Hayes and Mick O’Rourke to pulp. She would revel in it. She would like to dabble her fingers in their blood like some ancient warrior of old but, God, let her be calm . . . please, dear Lord, if You are there, let me be calm.

Josh and Arthur stood side by side, their backs to the closed door, Arthur keeping his shoulder pressed against Josh’s to let him know that if this ruffian made a move neither of them liked his brother could count on him. They had both heard what the man had said, of course, unbelievable as it was, and one glance at Milly’s shamefaced look of guilt and embarrassment was enough to confirm it, but even so, surely it could not be possible? Not Milly, his battle-axe of a sister who, from childhood, had been able to cow him with a glance. Not Milly, who, it seemed to him, had been sewn into her corsets each morning and probably wore two pairs of drawers to keep her precious chastity safe. How could it have happened? The man was a plug-ugly bruiser, a low fellow of the common classes, the sort Milly had professed to despise, who could not speak the Queen’s English with any degree of correctness. He was inarticulate, crude, and not even very clean for God’s sake, and it was evident that he had not shaved this morning. He still had his arm about Milly and Arthur could feel his gorge rise, for though he had little love for his sister, she
was
his sister, a lady, and the way she nestled up to the man was disgusting. She looked like some ruffian’s moll herself with her hair all over the place, her gown every which way, a bloody handkerchief clutched to her face and what was not hidden beneath it was bruised and swollen.

“Well, I think it’s about time we sat down and talked this over,” Milly said at last, smiling up at the Irishman, then moving to sit down on the sofa at the side of the fire.

“Good idea, darlin’,” the man agreed, flushed and triumphant, since he had just dealt his trump card and had a winning hand. He moved to sit beside her on the honey-coloured velvet sofa but Josh’s icy voice brought him to an abrupt stop.

“Sit down on my mother’s sofa and I’ll knock you to the floor.” His voice was dangerous. “I’ll not have you contaminate it, d’you hear. There is nothing to discuss. I presume you are speaking the truth since my sister is not denying it but how in hell’s name she allowed herself to be . . . handled by someone like you is beyond me.” His voice was filled with disgust.

“Is that right, boyo? Well, let me tell yer she did, an’ enjoyed it, didn’t yer, darlin’. I’ve a way wi’t ladies, so I ’ave. Ask yer wife if yer don’t believe me.”

Josh hissed in the back of his throat. His eyes became suffused with the red of his rage, the blood of it leaking into the white. At once Nancy was out of her chair as though the burden she carried was featherlight. With a defensive movement, like a mother protecting her child, she placed herself before him, her arms outstretched.

“No, Josh. No, I say.”

“Don’t you foul my wife’s name with your filthy tongue,” he bellowed over her shoulder, longing to brush her aside to get to O’Rourke but some instinct of protectiveness, not only for Nancy but for his child, prevented him, as she had known it would. All over the house those who were still wondering what the master was shouting about in the first place, cringed and looked fearfully at one another.

“Oh, what is going on, Ellen?” Emma asked tearfully. “What on earth can Josh be so cross about?” She clutched Ellen’s arm, lifting a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes round with terror.