A Time Like No Other (15 page)

‘How far is it, Sam?’

‘No more’n five mile. I’m used to it.’ He grinned endearingly.

She looked at his poor battered boots, at his cheerful face, his thin, ill-clad body and she felt her heart wrench. He had no complaint with the world though it treated him so poorly. He had a job, his mam had a roof over her head and Mr Sinclair was a right good chap, his manner said, and she knew the latter was true and that she could go to him in her troubles. He would tell her what she must do, as he had done in the past.

When she and Sam walked into the yard at the back of Mill House, Harry’s groom, Ben, was currying Harry’s bay, Piper, the strong sweep of his arm smoothing the animal’s satin haunches. He looked surprised but called at once to the second groom.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Fraser,’ he said respectfully. ‘Enoch, get you out ’ere ter see ter Mrs Fraser’s horse. Nice day, ma’am,’ he added, turning to look at the urchin beside her.

‘Indeed. Is your master at home, d’you know?’ She smiled the lovely radiant smile that made men want to make her laugh, for surely a smile so grand would produce an even grander laugh.

‘He is,’ a cool voice from the kitchen doorway said and Harry Sinclair stepped down into the yard. He was hastily throwing on an old jacket, one he probably kept behind the kitchen door, Lally suspected. He did not smile, at least at her but as his glance turned to Sam the corners of his mouth lifted.

‘Harry, good morning. I just thought . . . well, I met Sam here on the moor and as he was walking to Mill House I thought I would come with him. It’s been an age since I saw you and . . . well, too long, really . . .’ She knew she was floundering but he made no move to help her out. The two grooms watched curiously and the boy moved from foot to foot, evidently sensing something though he was not old enough to know what.

‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Lally. May I offer you a drink? Something to warm you before you ride home.’ It was a deliberate slap in the face, telling her that he would be the courteous host but that she was not particularly welcome.

She did her best not to recoil. ‘Thank you, I would like that. I wanted to . . . to speak to you.’

‘You have a problem?’ he asked politely.

Lord, you might say that, her anguished mind quavered inside her. Her heart turned over as fear overtook her again because she had thought, subconsciously she supposed, that as she had done in the past she could go to Harry with any problem, any troubles she might have and he would find a solution. It seemed it was not so.

He turned to the boy. ‘Mrs Cannon has your parcel, Sam. Tell your mother—’

‘No, don’t go without me, Sam.’ Lally looked up into Harry’s face. ‘I promised Sam a ride back to his home. I would like to meet his mother, you see . . .’

‘Why?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Why not? If there is anything I can do for her and Sam . . . perhaps work when the . . . Sam tells me she is expecting a child . . .’ And her plight is so close to my own that I feel compelled to help her. She had a husband and though he is dead she will not be ostracised as I will be. The thoughts whirled in her head and the tension in her must have reached him, for he dropped his shoulders which he had not realised he was holding so stiffly.

‘Come in and Mrs Cannon will give you some hot chocolate. If you wish to talk about the farms I’ll—’

‘It’s not the farms,’ she blurted. Her hand rose as though in supplication and at once the love he had for her cast out the pain, the anger, the feeling of rejection he had known since Roly came home and swept her off her feet. He opened the kitchen door wider.

‘Come inside, and you, Sam, wait in the kitchen. Mrs Cannon will give you a drink or something.’

The servants watched in bemusement as their master hurried Mrs Fraser through their workplace, through the door and into the passage that led to the parlour. ‘A pot of chocolate, if you please, Mrs Cannon,’ he told his housekeeper as he banged the door to behind them.

They sat, one on either side of the fire which crackled cheerfully in the grate, saying nothing, for they had nothing to say, at least about mundane matters and when Ivy entered with the tray bearing a pot of chocolate with cups, saucers and a plate of Mrs Cannon’s delicious almond macaroons, Harry waited until the maid had left before speaking.

‘Will you pour?’ he asked her politely, which she did.

Then, ‘What is it, Lally?’ His voice was gentle now, for he could see she was deeply troubled.

She put her cup down carefully, not looking at him as she did so.

‘It seems I’m to have a baby.’ The words were flat, expressionless as though she were telling him that her mare was to foal. ‘I shouldn’t bring this to you but I don’t know who else to tell . . .’ and as she spoke she wondered dazedly why this should be. Why should she turn to this one man when she was troubled, and not just troubled but
desperate
? Why could she not have confided in Biddy who might have been able to help her, perhaps with . . . well, she knew of Biddy’s early days and the profession she had followed so surely she might have known of some potion – something – that would get rid of the burden she carried. Why had she come here? The answer was unclear to her!

She sat with her head bent, staring at her hands and waited, and had she looked at Harry she would have been shocked. The blow hit him just below his ribs, like the blow a prize-fighter’s fist might have struck. And it had the same effect. The air left his lungs and he felt himself begin to fold over, at the same time thanking God he was seated or he might have collapsed. He could not speak, nor hardly think. His brain became numb, the only thought remaining was his thanks to God again that he was not standing, for he knew he wanted to strike her, hit her flat across her face and knock her down since she had taken something from him that was the most precious thing he had known. Oh, he still loved her and always would but he hated her too.

She did not speak nor look at him, but plucked at something in her lap. Then, with a jerk of her head she looked up at him and was horrified by his expression. His face was the colour of clay, his eyes wide, flat, muddy and his mouth had become a thin line of what seemed to her to be pain. She started to rise, to go to him but he put up a trembling hand to stop her.

‘Roly’s?’

His voice sounded strange.

‘Yes.’

‘Then he shall be brought home and you must be married.’ His voice was harsh, gritty, as though he had sand in his throat.

‘Oh no!’ She stood up jerkily and he stared at her, appalled.

‘What . . .’

‘I can’t marry Roly. He doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. He won’t want to marry me.’

‘Bugger what he wants.’

‘No . . . oh, no, Harry. I couldn’t marry a man . . . force him to marry me. What sort of a life would we live? No.’

He had recovered some of his composure. ‘Tell me this. If you don’t love one another how did you come to be in such a bloody mess?’

‘Oh, Harry . . .’ She sighed and sat down disconsolately. ‘It was a . . . a thing of the moment. I suppose I missed Chris and . . . what we had . . .’

‘In bed, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you and Roly——’ Here he used a word she had never heard before but she supposed it to be one men used to describe coarsely what went on between the sexes.

‘It was . . . we were fond of one another; he was leaving and I was upset and . . .’

‘So you——one another.’ Again he used the word and his face bore such an expression of disgust and contempt she wanted to weep. Somehow she had missed what this man felt for her, though she had not realised it at the time, and the slow death she had struck him was more than he could manage.

He stood up abruptly and strode to the window, a jerky stride as though he were no longer in control of his legs. He stared out at the garden which was just beginning to lose its summer glory. Though he was not a man for such things as flowers and gardens he employed men who were clever and ‘green-fingered’ as they said, and it had been a picture. Dying roses still nodded in the slight breeze. A landscaped greenery had been cut from the otherwise bare hillside, fragrant with lavender and carnations and over it all the sun still shone though in his heart there was nothing but a frozen wasteland. She was to have his brother’s child and he could simply not bear it. She had loved Chris Fraser and had two boys with him but she had been pure, a married woman doing what women of their day did. A home, children, a life that was virtuous, above reproach, but this with his brother, though she had already made love and borne a man a child, two children, was obscene,
dirty
!

‘What will you do?’ he asked her. He stood with his hands behind his back, rigidly in control now and she wanted to weep, for herself, for him, and for the child she was to bear.

‘I don’t know. I suppose Biddy might know of a remedy, or perhaps some woman who would—’

‘Don’t you dare,’ he snarled, whirling to face her. ‘Let some woman with a dirty knitting needle tear your insides out, perhaps kill you, and the child.’

‘But I can’t—’

‘There is only one thing to do and you know it, or why should you come to me.’

‘Harry . . . ?’ she faltered.

‘You must marry me.’

She rode with Sam as far as the house where he and his mother lived. He climbed up in front of her, quiet, uneasy, for the master and Mrs Fraser seemed so . . . he didn’t know how to describe it since he was only a child but their faces were turned from each other as they bade one another farewell. ‘I will call on you tomorrow, Lally,’ the master had said and Mrs Fraser had bowed her head in agreement. That was all.

Susan Harper was astonished when her son entered the room they rented in the tumbling old house on the edge of Moorend, leading a lady by the hand. She was a lovely young lady, though she was pale and strained and her eyes had a curiously defenceless look, which Susan recognised at once, for she saw them each day in her own face when she peered into the scrap of mirror she had on a shelf above her bed.

‘Sam, lad?’ she questioned softly, her hand going to caress her son’s rough tumble of uncut hair. ‘’Oo’st this then?’ She smiled, one of the sweetest smiles Lally had ever seen and at once the two women, two women from totally different classes, began what was to be a friendship that would last them until death.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ Lally said. ‘Forgive this intrusion but I met your son,’ smiling down at the bright-faced boy, ‘on the track to Mill House. I travelled with him and then gave him a ride back on Merry. It’s a long way for a boy to walk . . . oh, please, I am not criticising,’ for the mother looked abject with contrition. ‘I know he has to work but Mr Sinclair is a kind master. He has sent you the . . . package. Sam has it. Dear me, how I do go on but I am—’

‘Wilta come in, ma’am?’ Sam’s mother asked diffidently, for this woman would not be used to the conditions in which she and her son lived. The houses had once been lived in by the rising industrialists, the woollen men who had long since built fine mansions beyond the town’s boundaries. With the influx of the Irish, the workless, the homeless, the families seeking work, the houses had been split up into rooms, even the cellars housing them, but at least she and Sam had a window in their room and could look out on to the rambling lane that led into town.

‘I’m Mrs Fraser. Lally Fraser. I am a . . . a friend of Mr Sinclair’s.’

‘Aye, our Sam told me. Me name’s Susan Harper but yer welcome ter . . . sit thee down if tha’ve a mind.’ She was obviously troubled but Lally was not to know that Susan Harper, teetering forever on the edge of poverty, had nothing to offer her in the way of refreshments and she felt it keenly. She did not really know who this lady was who had brought her lad home, nor why, but nevertheless she indicated to Lally that she should sit in the only chair the room possessed. There was a meagre fire in the ancient range as this had once been the kitchen of the old house and a kettle simmered on it but unless Mr Sinclair had sent a packet of tea she could not even offer this lady a drink.

Lally sensed Susan Harper’s unease. Sam’s mother was enormous, her belly swelling the clean apron she wore. She clasped her hands beneath it as though to support the weight of the child inside her, hovering at Lally’s back, ushering her politely to the chair but Lally could see the circles under her eyes and the tired droop to the soft mouth and knew that Susan longed to sit down in the chair from which she had just risen.

‘No, Mrs Harper, I won’t stay. I have to get back to my own children but I just wanted to make the acquaintance of Sam’s mother.’ She nearly added, ‘I don’t know why,’ she only knew that somehow, again she didn’t know why, this young woman, probably only a few years older than herself, was going to be important to her. They were both to bear a child, Susan Harper before not very long and she wished to help her. The idea that this woman who had worked in the loom gate at Harry’s mill was to return there as soon as her child was born was not one she cared to contemplate. She had taken a great liking to the engaging lad who was Susan’s son and she felt a strong desire to include the pair of them in her new life.

For she was to have a new life, that was certain. She had listened to Harry and the outline of his plans for them, for her sons and the child she would bear and, knowing she had no choice, she had agreed. She supposed she was in a state of shock, a vacuum through which she must step to reach a safe harbourage. For the sake of Jamie and Alec Fraser she must do as he wished, for if she tried to get through this on her own it would not be just her who would suffer but the innocent children she already had.
She had no choice!

‘I wish you well, Mrs Harper,’ she murmured as she turned to go from the achingly neat but bare room. ‘I will come again, if I may. Perhaps Sam will let me know when your child is born and . . . well, I will ride over.’