Angel Meadow (57 page)

“I couldn’t say, Mrs Hayes, but there’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Mr Arthur is with Mr Josh and if there’s any trouble, which there won’t be,” she added hastily as Emma moaned pitifully, “the men are handy.”

“But who has called and what is all the shouting about?”

“Now then, ma’am, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably some problem at the mill.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Emma said doubtfully. “I think I’ll just go and have a word with Mrs Josh,” who could always be relied upon to comfort Emma’s fears. But Ellen, knowing the young mistress’s whereabouts, which must not be divulged to this one, shook her head.

“I believe she’s sleeping, madam,” she lied.

“Sleeping! At this time of day?”

“Well, ladies in her condition and so far along easily get tired, ma’am,” Ellen added soothingly.

“Of course.” Emma relaxed. “I was just the same.”

Ellen noticed and was not surprised by it that her mistress did not ask for her own daughter.

Downstairs it was clear that Mick O’Rourke was longing to defy this bastard, this gentleman, this member of the loathed upper classes who had kept Mick ground down all his life, which was how he saw it. For two pins he’d knock him into the middle of next week,
and
his snot-nosed brother an’ all. The trouble was he was not quite so nifty on his feet as once he had been, nor so handy with his fists, and besides which it would not do to get on the wrong side of the man who held the purse strings, would it, the man who was to be his brother-in-law.

He smiled ingratiatingly and remained standing, though he kept his hand in a proprietorial way on Milly’s shoulder.

“Look, Squire, you an’—”

“If you call me that again I’ll hit you.”

“Oh, yeah, I’d like ter see yer try, so I would.”

“Come outside then and when I have done so I shall throw you into the street.”

“Josh, for goodness’ sake,” Milly cut in. “There’s no need for this. There is absolutely nothing to be done about the . . . circumstances.” She looked down, dabbing at a spot of blood on her skirt, then lifted her head in what seemed to be pride. “I am with child.”

“I heard him, God help us.”

“There is no need for this language. Michael is the father of my child.”

“How many more does he mean to foist on this family?” Again Nancy made a small distressed sound in the back of her throat, then, urged by Josh’s gentle hand, resumed her seat, though it was evident by the way her eyes never left his face that she was ready for any sudden outburst on his part. Hers was over. His, it appeared, was still to come.

“Believe me, this is . . . different. We love each other. The child must have a father and I must have a husband. There is nothing more to be said.”

From the lawn beyond the partially open French windows where Mr Longman and his sons still vigorously brushed up leaves, some small altercation over the wheelbarrow arose, then died down. No one in the room noticed.

Josh studied this sister of his who, up until an hour ago, he thought he knew well. Fastidious to the point of obsession, stubborn, self-willed, self-absorbed, a woman who did her best to dominate and now it seemed it was she who was being dominated, mesmerised in some way by this appalling man and it seemed to be purely physical. She was blind to what he was, or so it seemed; how in hell’s name had it come about? Where had she found him? Who had led her to him and what game, for God’s sake, did she think she was playing? The man was dangerous. He no more wanted to get to know his daughters than he wished to make friends with a couple of pretty kittens. Somehow he had – he could hardly bring himself to contemplate it – he had persuaded Milly to . . . to drop her drawers, the picture sickening him and . . . God in heaven, the images were . . .

He pulled himself together, shutting out the dreadful pictures of Milly and this man.

“You believe there is nothing more to be said, Milly, but there is. You may marry this man since, as you tell us, you need a father for your child and a husband to support you. You shall have it. There he is, take him. Pack your bags and go with him. I never want to see him in my home again.”

“Very well.” Millicent sprang to her feet and reached for Mick’s arm. “So be it. I will let you have my address when we are settled so that my allowance can be—”

“What allowance is that, Milly?” Josh’s voice was as hard and cold and solid as packed snow.

“Oh, come now, Josh, you would not turn me out without a penny.”

“No, Millicent, while you remain unmarried to this lout you shall have a home here, you and your child, but I will not support him, nor entertain him in my house a moment longer than necessary.”

“Now then, me lad, we’ll be ’avin’ none o’ this. Begorra, this is yer sister,” Mick blustered.

“Who carries your child which you must support. I won’t see her or her child starve but you can rot in hell for all I care. In fact, it is my hope that you do.”

“Well, bugger me. What a way ter speak ter the man ’oo’s ter be a member o’t family.”

“Not this family. Now I swear to God if you’re not off my property in five minutes, you
and
my sister if she wishes it, I’ll have you thrown off and if you come back I’ll see you in the New Bailey.”

“Josh . . . please, Josh,” Milly began to wail, blood and snot dripping down her chin. “Let me keep my allowance. How shall we manage?” For even she knew her lover’s limitations.

“That is no longer my concern.”

“Not even for the child?”

“Only if you remain at Riverside with your family.”

Millicent’s face hardened, her moment of weakness over. Her eyes narrowed to slits of pure loathing. She gripped Michael O’Rourke’s arm with the obvious intention of leading him from the room, and from the soft life he had envisaged for himself.

“Come, Michael,” she said, her head high, her expression contemptuous.

“Just ’old on a minute.” He plucked her hand from his sleeve. “Let’s ge’ this straight.”

“By all means,” Josh said frostily. “Which part don’t you understand?”

“Are yer sayin’ there’s nowt? Not fer ’er or’t bairn.”

“You seem to have the general idea.”

“Even if I wed ’er she’s ter get nowt?”

“Especially if you wed her she gets . . . nowt!”

Mick O’Rourke lowered his head and swung it from side to side as though he were a bull tormented by a swarm of midges. He shook it so vigorously his bowler hat fell off and rolled away beneath a table. He shuddered violently, then with a huge sigh of what seemed to be a resigned “well, what the hell,” went to retrieve it.

“Right then, darlin’,” he proclaimed to Milly, “I’m off. Back to bloody Liverpool an’ when I look at sight o’ yer I’m buggered if I’m not beginnin’ ter believe I’m well out of it, so I am.” He planted his hat squarely on the back of his head and grinned. “Well, it were worth a try, Squire, even if I ’ad ter tekk on this dried owd stick. A bag o’ bones she were to be sure, except for them titties which I enjoyed, though not a patch on’t Brody girls. Now there were juicy tits, so they were, especially yours, mavourneen,” turning to smirk at Nancy and this time she was too late.

With a howl of rage Josh hurtled across the room, knocking the Irishman to the floor, going with him and taking several small tables as well. He was not a brawler but his fists were loaded with his blood-red male hatred of the man who had known Nancy before he had. It did not matter that it was without her consent, he wanted to kill him, wipe out the pictures so that it would be as if it had never happened.

“Josh!” Nancy screamed, dragging Arthur with her in a desperate attempt to separate the two men, but they were like snarling dogs fighting over the same bitch, oblivious to everything but their need to kill each other, teeth snapping, eyes glaring and up in her room Emma cowered in Ellen’s arms.

“Josh! God in heaven, Josh,” Arthur was shouting, not quite knowing which part of his brother to get hold of.

“Michael . . . don’t hurt him please . . . please, Josh,” Millicent shrieked. It was not clear who she meant, her brother or her lover.

The door burst open and into the mêlée tumbled Charlie and Jack, summoned by the good sense of Mrs Harvey, and in a moment the two men were dragged apart. Both had blood streaming across their faces from wounds which were not yet discernible and with a foul gesture Mick O’Rourke spat a bloody tooth on to the carpet.

“Sir . . . ?” Charlie asked his master enquiringly, ready to give the visitor another going-over if required, but Josh, his madness dissipating, turned away and reached for Nancy.

“It’s all right, darling,” she murmured, her arms going about him.

“Jesus, I wanted to kill him. Just get him out of my sight, Charlie.”

“Don’t be after worryin’, I’m off,” Mick mumbled. “Keep the owd cow an’ ’er money an’ may the lot o’yez rot in ’ell.”

“Michael?” Milly stammered, not awfully sure she’d heard aright. “Michael, where are you going? I don’t understand. Liverpool? What are we to do there?”

“Not
we
, mavourneen.
Me
. Yer don’t think I want an owd maid like yerself, do yer, not ter mention a bloody kid ’angin’ on ter me coat tails.”

“
Michael!
 ” Millicent’s wail of terror was heartbreaking and Josh felt pity for her surge through him. For a moment he was tempted to relent, but then the thought of what this man had done to her, had done to them all, stopped him. What sort of a life would she have with him, even if she had her allowance? He’d rob her of it and probably leave her anyway. Dear God, what trouble the bastard had brought on this family.

“Show him the door, Charlie, but before he goes I’ll have my father’s watch and chain.”

“’Ere, that’s mine,” Mick blustered.

“Take it off him, Charlie.”

“Pleasure, sir.” And only Jack – and Mick – saw the slight nod Charlie gave the other groom.

With a quick turn, reminiscent of his days in the ring, Mick twisted from Charlie’s grasp, pushing past Millicent, almost knocking her from her feet as he made for the open French window. In his fear and confusion he whirled, not to the front of the house and safety, but towards the back.

“Michael!” Milly’s penetrating shriek raised the hairs on the forearms and neck of everyone, not only in the room, but in the house.

Mr Longman and his lads stood rooted to the sodden grass where their boots squelched and sucked in the mire, their mouths open in amazement as the man whose face was covered in blood erupted through the French windows, closely followed by Miss Millicent whose own face was a sight to see. Instinctively, as though knowing their place even now, the two grooms had stood aside to let her pass them.

Mr Longman and his boys stared in amazement. Had there been a fight? Surely not! Surely not between the man and the stern, old-maidish daughter of the house. Before the three of them could disentangle their thoughts Miss Millicent was followed by Charlie and Jack.

“Michael!” Miss Millicent was screaming, there was no other word for it, making Mr Longman’s hair stand on end. “Wait for me, Michael, please. I’m coming with you.” But the man ran on as though the devil himself was at his heels, disappearing round the back of the house.

“Eeh . . .” said Mr Longman and without another word began to follow in the direction the man, Miss Millicent and the two grooms had taken. White-faced with excitement, Thomas and Joseph were hot on their father’s heels.

“In the name of God, get after her, Arthur,” Josh rasped through his swollen throat and split lips. “Go on, lad, run like hell. I’m right behind you. God knows what she’s likely to do. Hell and damnation,” turning to Nancy who was lumbering after him. “You can’t come, sweetheart, have a bit of sense.”

“Go to hell, Josh Hayes, just try and stop me. I hope they catch him and I hope they kill him and I want to be there to see it.”

“Nancy, please. The baby . . .”

“The baby’s fine. Now let go of my arm.”

The maidservants, alerted by the shouts and the general commotion, crowded, eyes out on stalks, at the back kitchen door, their faces as white as their aprons as the visitor, whoever he was, followed by Miss Millicent, the stable lads, Mr Longman, his sons, Mr Arthur, Mr Josh and, a long way behind and losing ground steadily, Mrs Josh, streamed like a pack of hounds across the stable yard, down the side of the vegetable garden and along the fences of the paddock where the horses whinnied and began to race about in alarm.

With a jump as sprightly as a hare, the man cleared the back wall, landing in the squelching grass of what was aptly named the water meadow. His boots, as he landed, sank up to his ankles in the thick, undrained mud and oozing grass of the field, and were dragged from his feet with a plopping sound. Discarding them with a panic-stricken look over his shoulder at the two burly grooms who were thirty yards behind him, he ran on in his stockinged feet, the saturated ground, which held two weeks’ rain, slowing him down. He knew he had not misinterpreted the look the two men had exchanged in the house and the greater the distance he put between himself and them the better. The heavy going was slowing them down as well.

“Michael. Stop, Michael, wait for me, please. We can manage, you and me. I love you. Don’t leave me, please, Michael,” Millicent sobbed behind the grooms who had overtaken her, her breath gasping in her throat. The grooms exchanged amazed glances but blundered on. Catching up with them were Mr Josh and Mr Arthur who seemed to be more concerned with Miss Millicent then the fleeing man, and who could blame them.

“Milly . . . please, Milly, come on home,” Mr Josh was yelling, his face a mask of drying blood. The two boys, wild with excitement, for not much ever came their way to break up their tedious days, and being young and fleet of foot, overtook their master and even the grooms, flying over the ground in pursuit of the bloody-faced stranger, they didn’t know why. They only knew it was much more fun than raking leaves.