A Time Like No Other (25 page)

‘I badly need a nursemaid for Jamie, Alec and Cat. Now Dora is good and kind but she needs help. She is so young herself and needs a steadying influence such as yourself. You would be doing me a big favour if you would consider taking on this job. And would it not be better for you and Jack not only to be together all the time but to have a good home, decent worthwhile work and to be with people who value what you are doing? I’m not saying that your present employment is not worthwhile,’ she added hastily, flashing a smile at her husband, ‘but with your qualifications—’

‘Qualifications?’ Susan interrupted in amazement.

‘I believe you can read and write.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘You will be able to teach the children, including your own boy, the rudiments of reading and writing until they have a governess or go to school. Susan, do you not see how invaluable you would be to me, to our children, to this household? Tell her, Harry.’

Harry Sinclair let out his breath on a long-drawn-out sigh. Lally was racing far ahead of him in her plans for Susan Harper. He had intended to give the widow a helping hand over the next few months while she came to terms with her loss, with her need for employment and for the care and upbringing of her boy, but it seemed his wife had, and probably even before the death of Sam Harper, a scheme worked out whereby she helped Susan to a new and better life. At the same time she had worded it so that Susan believed
she
was helping Lally.

But neither of them had bargained for Susan Harper and her sense of what was proper.

‘Eeh, no, Mrs Sinclair, that’ll not do. Ah’m a spinner, ’ave bin since I were ten year old, like our Sam.’ A spasm of pain crossed her face. ‘Ah don’t know owt else,’ she went on. ‘Ah’ll see ter mesenn as soon as ah pick up a bit. Me an’ our Jack kep’ oursenn decent and owed nowt ter nobody an’ I don’t mean ter start now. Lass, ah know nowt about teachin’.’

Lally leaned forward eagerly to look directly into Susan’s face. ‘But you know about children, Susan. I have to have someone I can trust to look after my babies and who else would I choose but you? Did I not say we could help each other and in this way do we not make it possible?’

‘Ah’m right sorry, Mrs Sinclair, but ah’ll not tekk advantage any longer o’ yer kindness. Ah’ve a job at mill’ – turning to Harry – ‘an ah reckon . . .’

‘Please, Susan, do this for me and let me do this for you. I cannot bear to see you go back to that horrid place,’ again with a brief apologetic look at Harry, for the horrid place was, after all, one of the mills which provided him, and her and the children with the lifestyle they had. ‘I shall be busy in the future since Harry and I have sadly neglected our social duties. We wish to entertain. I shall be busy with the supervision of the estate, helped by Mr Cameron who is Harry’s steward, of course, for this is my sons’ inheritance and must not be neglected. I shall need to visit friends, afternoon calls and such like . . .’ for if her sons, Chris’s sons, and her baby daughter were to take their place in the society to which they belonged – and what mother was not conscious of the importance of that – they must mix with their own kind. They must be accepted, young as they were, for this was when it began. Children’s parties, birthdays, Christmas parties to which they would be invited and the hospitality they received would be reciprocated. It was strange really, she thought, with one part of her mind not occupied with Susan, that though she herself did not care very much, and neither had Chris, about that sort of thing somehow it seemed important that her children at least had the chance. Harry and Roly both moved, or could if they cared for it which Harry didn’t seem to, in the society of the millocracy which was only one rank lower than the landed gentry and because of who they were, their wealth and their connections, mixed quite easily with both. Her children must be allowed to do the same. So she must spend some of her time cultivating the people who dwelled in that world. She could not leave her children, and any more she might have, for she was pretty certain Harry would soon claim his conjugal rights, in the hands of a country girl who herself could not read or write. Dora was a sensible lass and while the boys had been no more than babies had coped admirably but they needed more and Susan was the answer.

‘I can’t manage without you, Susan,’ she said simply and the truth of the statement was written in her brimming eyes. Dear God, I must not cry, she told herself, gulping, for the last thing she wanted was pity. It must be the emotions a woman feels when she has just given birth, she thought, but it seemed it was to influence the young widow, for she was looking undecided, biting her lip, her own eyes beginning to fill up and Harry and the doctor exchanged glances.

Harry was quite amazed by Lally’s behaviour because if there was one thing Lally could not abide it was women who got their own way with tears. She had been strong in all things. Chris’s tragic death, tackling the enormous problem of running the estate, even her pregnancy which, had he not stepped in gallantly – smiling inwardly at the word – she would have survived somehow, for that was what she was, a survivor. But it seemed she was about to do the very thing he had hoped for and that was to mix again with their social equals, with his business acquaintances which, of course, would do him no harm. There were still many renovations to the house he meant to put in hand. If they were to entertain, perhaps weekend parties which the gentry might be tempted to sample, there would be shooting on the grouse moor, hunting for which he would need good horses and, naturally, Lally must have a wardrobe that would be unequalled in Moorend.

The smile inside him widened into a grin, for the very idea was absurd. He was Harry Sinclair, not a bloody aristocrat. A mill-owner, a man of business who meant to make the Priory into the sort of home a man would be comfortable in, the building itself sound, the gardens, the park, the moorland in good heart until the day when he would build his own house, a monument to the power of machines and his own courage and ability to use them. He was already hugely successful but he had dreams like any man and he meant to make them all come true and at their heart was the frail-looking woman who drooped on the sofa.

Susan stood up abruptly as though she meant to leave at once before she was persuaded into something she did not care for, but within her where no one could see was a small beating gladness, not for herself, but for her lad. She had lost so much to the mill. She had no one but her little Jack and surely she did not want him to go back to the place that had killed his father and brother. She had – what was it Mrs Sinclair had called them? – qualifications, she could read and write and somehow, though he had not known in what way, her Jack had always said that one day the skill would take them to something better than they had now.
Jack had been right!
So could she refuse the chance she was being offered, which Jack’s son was being offered? He would be brought up with Mrs Sinclair’s children. He would have an education but not the simple one she and Jack had wrought for themselves but a
proper
one, school, perhaps even university, not just a spinner, or even an overlooker in Mr Sinclair’s mills but a profession, for both she and Jack had had brains, intelligence, determination and surely their little lad would inherit some of that. Their Sam had but he had never had a chance to go further, poor lamb, poor little lamb. They would be decently clothed, fed, housed and she would be doing a worthwhile job in caring for Mrs Sinclair’s children. How could she refuse?

She sat down again, just as abruptly, and in his chair beside her John Burton felt his heart beat with the same gladness that had moved Susan’s, but not for the same reason. He had tended to the poor woman in her tragic loss, had done what he could for her boy, which had been really no more than tidy him up, make him look . . . well, he could hardly call it
presentable
, for the child’s skull had been crushed like an eggshell but when laid out in the clean nightshirt Mrs Sinclair had offered, his head on the soft white pillow in the coffin, his face had been peaceful and as bonny as John Burton could make it. It had barely a mark on it when John had finished with him. The boy’s mother had sat beside him, her eyes on his waxen face and John had felt she was grateful to him for what he had done for her poor, disfigured child. She had looked at him, her gaze soft and warm as though to thank him, her blue eyes, though swollen with her grief, surrounded by long, thick, brown lashes tipped with gold. They would be beautiful eyes when back to normal, he thought. She was a bonny woman, not pretty like Mrs Sinclair, but pleasant-faced. Her hair was tightly confined in a black scarf, hidden away apart from one endearing curl that had escaped at the back, lying on the white skin of her neck. It was a pure rich chestnut but it seemed to him it had a glint of gold in it. She was painfully thin, frail, her black skirt and bodice, which he was not to know were all she possessed, hanging on her. She wore clogs and knitted socks and round her shoulders was a thin shawl which she had draped over her head at the graveside but was now pushed back.

They all focused on Susan but she seemed to be unaware of them as she gazed into the fire. They all held their breath, though they were not aware of it, and at last she spoke.

‘Wheer would ah sleep?’

Lally leaned forward eagerly, almost springing to her feet in anticipation. She was beginning to smile, ready to hold out her hands to Susan Harper. Harry wondered as he watched the whole thing in silence why it was that Lally had taken such a liking to this woman. Not that there was anything to
dislike
about the young widow but she was so obviously a working-class woman; you only had to hear the way she spoke and would that be allowable with young children who would possibly mimic her, or at least pick up her broad Yorkshire way of speaking.

‘There is a spare room next to the nursery, Susan. The nursery is made up of three rooms, a day nursery where the children play and . . . well, where they spend their time during the day and a night nursery where they have their little beds and now, of course, a cot. Dora has a room of her own and on the far side of that I mean to make a schoolroom and a bedroom for the governess they will have. The whole of the top floor will be given over to the children while they are babies but you will have your own place where you and Jack can be alone should you want to. You would spend your day with the children and Jack, of course, would share everything with them. You would earn a decent wage, I promise you, and would have the run of the gardens and the park. A day off, say once a week, when you and Jack could go wherever you pleased. Oh, do say yes, Susan . . . please.’ Lally’s face was coloured with her excitement and again Harry brooded over what Lally was about to do, or hoped to do.

Susan stood up again and so, for some reason, did John Burton.

‘Right, I’ll do it,’ she said, her face firm with her sudden resolve, ‘but ah’ll not work wi’ that nurse, choose how.’

16

She stood at their bedroom window and watched her husband, mounted on his bay, Piper, canter down the drive towards the gate, his two dogs behind him. The drive curved and the gate was hidden by the line of trees that edged it and as he passed out of sight she drew in a deep breath, letting it out on a long sigh. She remained at the window for several minutes, the palms of her hands flat on the sill, looking out over the long sloping lawn that stretched on both sides of the drive, the grass as smooth and even as green velvet. With the extra help, Barty and Froglet were now free to care for the grounds as Barty, who had been gardener at the Priory since the days of Chris’s grandfather, liked. He could be seen pottering, for he was no longer young, down the drive, his acolyte in the shape of young Froglet following at his heels, both with a pair of shears in their hands. It was not quite seven o’clock but at this time of the year the sun was well up and it promised to be a warm, bright day. Two other men, probably Wilf and Evan, could be seen on the far side of the small lake, cleaning out the weeds and scattering the ducks who swam away in a great swathe of annoyance. It all looked so lovely, so graceful, so peaceful, restored as it was to its former glory and she found it in her heart to hope that Harry would not be too hasty in building the new house he was promising himself.

She had found, to her surprise, a great contentment in her situation since their hastily contrived marriage, and it was all due to him, to his enormous wealth which he spent so lavishly and to his excellent taste. The house itself was beautiful, of course, standing as it did alone on a slight hill set in its acres of gardens and terraces dug out of the sloping land generations ago, though it was Harry who had perfected it. The gardens surrounding the house were full of old-fashioned flowers, sweetbriar roses, cabbage roses, white damask and maiden’s blush, sweet william, iris by the lake, peonies, carnations, wallflowers and Canterbury bells, discussed and chosen at great length by Harry and Barty. Clipped hedges and paved walks were sheltered from the cold winds that blew for six months of the year, for the house was exposed to fierce winter storms that swept over the wild, black and rugged moorland, by a woodland of oak and birch that encircled the gardens and challenged the fury of the tempestuous gales. Below her window and stretching along the front of the house were terraces crammed with lovely Grecian urns in which the gardeners had planted vivid geraniums of every shade of pink and red and beyond were the rolling hills of West Riding, a perfect setting for it all.

She turned away from the window and moved to sit in front of her mirror, studying her own face, then picked up a silver-backed brush and began to brush the mass of short curls that flared about her head. Despite Harry’s urging to let it grow, for like all men he thought that long hair was more feminine, she had continued to have it cut as she had always done. She didn’t know why really. Perhaps it was a throwback to the days before she had been Chris’s wife, since then she had longed to do nothing but be as he and Roly were, young, free, unencumbered, flouting convention, almost as boyish as they were. She had worn breeches as they did when they rode, and had been as they were until the day she and Chris had fallen in love. But now she was married to Harry and could really find no fault with that. She did not love him as she had loved Chris but she was fond of him, she supposed, and grateful, for he had made her life one of ease and comfort. He was a diverse, complex man with many shades and nuances to his nature which she had at first done her best to understand but he allowed no one, least of all her, to penetrate. He was a man who was accustomed to having his own way but he was not arrogant about it, but perhaps the strangest thing about him, at least to her who knew the truth, was his fondness for the girl child she had borne. A pretty little girl now four months old on whom, or so it was said in the kitchen, he doted. Dora, who was inclined to gossip, told them of his visits to the nursery where he held the little girl – and why not since she was his daughter – in his arms before the nursery fire. He was attentive to the other children too, rolling on the floor with the boys, putting them on his back and pretending to be a savage tiger, scooping even Susan Harper’s little lad, who was really too young for it, up with the rest.