A Time Like No Other (6 page)

‘She’ll not know it’s us, is wharr I mean, Ham, me lad.’

They both began to laugh and it was not until Arty entered the kitchen and gave them both what he called a ‘thick ear’ that they stumbled from the farmhouse and into the barn where they kept their traps and lines and the old rifle they owned for the purpose of taking out the squire’s deer.

Lally spent the rest of the day after Mr Sinclair had left, and far into the evening, sitting by the drawing-room fire poring over the estate books which, to her surprise, she found quite fascinating. She had played with Jamie for an hour under the disapproving eye of Dora who was of the opinion that Miss Lally made her son far too excited and it was Dora who had to settle him down after she had left. She was lovely with the baby though, nursing him against her empty breasts and kissing the silken curls on his head, then his rounded cheek, because by now he had accepted the milk from the bottle and was beginning to thrive, for which Dora took the credit. She had helped her mam with half a dozen bairns and, her and her mam being so busy in the smallholding her pa kept, had no time for pandering to mardy children. They should be bathed – though not a lot of that went on in their cottage – changed, fed and put down to sleep. Miss Lally swore the baby was the dead spit of Master Chris, which he was, they both were, handsome and lively, but must not be spoiled and Dora meant to make sure they weren’t and with Miss Lally busy about the estate Dora had a good chance of keeping them in line.

Lally turned page after page, the books recording the events of each farm, the acreage, the tenants, the stock, the crops and the names of the farms and their occupants. Thickpenny, Cowslip, Prospect, Folly, Foxwell, and then the Home Farm which belonged to the Priory. It was from there came the milk Alec drank, the eggs, bacon, cheese and butter which would be their staple diet soon if she didn’t apply herself to the task of picking up where Chris had left off and it was then that the thought came to her that she had no idea what or when that might have been, for never once in their three years of marriage had she seen Chris take the slightest interest in any of them.

4

As she rose from her chair, her face lighting up at the sight of him, he strode across the room and dragged her into his arms. Her own arms went round his back, holding on tightly, and from the doorway Harry watched, the furious darts of jealousy taking him by surprise. Six weeks after the death of Christopher Fraser, Roly Sinclair had come home from his travels!

‘Lally . . . Lally darling,’ he murmured, holding her close for longer than Harry thought necessary, then he held her away from him and looked deeply into her dry eyes, expecting her to be tearful, which he was ready to be if she required it, though how sincere it was Harry couldn’t guess. His brother was the best salesman that was ever born, selling miles of Sinclair cloth all over Europe and America, journeys planned well in advance, carrying his cases of samples from country to country, at the same time selling himself as the charming, impish, boyish chap he showed to the world. His smile illuminated a room and drew people, especially women, to him and he had an easy assurance and a total conviction that everyone liked him, which they did. ‘Harry telegraphed me but I was in Rome and couldn’t leave. Dear God, poor Chris, and he was such a good horseman. I shall miss him. Come, darling,’ leading her to the sofa by the fire, stepping over scattered toys, a spinning top in what had once been bright but were now faded colours, a soft rabbit, a golliwog, balls, a duck and several tattered rag books all of which had once belonged to Chris.

‘Now tell me how you are. I believe old Harry has been helping you with the estate and now that I’m home I can lend a hand, at least until I’m off again. And just look at you in that frightful black. Oh, I know it’s the custom; what is it, a year for a widow and you with such marvellous dress sense. You were the leader of fashion in Moorend . . . well, never mind, I insist that when I take you to the theatre next week – oh yes, I will not allow you to sit about in this great house moping – you shall wear that lovely apricot silk you had on the night you and I and Chris and . . . what was the name of that pretty little thing who came with us? Vivienne or was it Virginia? Like a hedge-rose she was without a thought in her head, though of course she couldn’t compare with you. Mind you, she more than made up for it in—’

‘Roly,’ Harry warned, still standing in the doorway since it seemed neither of them cared where he was, but Roly merely grinned.

‘Now then, why don’t you go upstairs and change into something enchanting while Harry and I admire that wonderful Christmas tree you have in the hall. I’m glad to see you’re keeping up the new practice. Good old Prince Albert, God bless him.’

She was beginning to smile, the sheer audacity of Roly’s cheerful conversation instead of the woeful, sympathetic murmurs her other callers gave her lifting her spirits. She was a widow, they told her and should act accordingly as though they could see the devastation in her heart. Only Biddy knew of it as she held her in her arms when Chris’s ghost came to haunt her. Chris had been a scamp but his heart had been good and cheerful and he had loved her.

‘It’s good to keep up the traditions,’ he repeated. ‘For the children, I suppose. Two boys you have now, Harry tells me.’ He turned his affectionate smile on his brother. ‘Come on, old chap, don’t dither in the doorway,’ making it sound as though Harry was some elderly gentleman who was not quite sure of his welcome or even of how to get to a chair. At once Lally rose from the sofa, loosening herself from Roly’s arms, to his chagrin, and moved across to Harry, taking his hand, her smile warm and welcoming.

‘Come and sit by the fire, Harry. It’s cold today and Carly assures me it will snow. Roly,’ turning to the wryly smiling man by the fire, ‘ring the bell and we’ll have coffee, or perhaps hot chocolate.’ She held on to Harry’s warm hand and led him to the sofa opposite the one on which Roly lounged. In the last month she had come to realise the worth of this rather quiet, self-contained man who was guiding her through the intricacies of estate management and had even brought her a hefty book on the care and management of stock, on the growing of cereal and grain. He came every couple of days and they had scrutinised every account book, every ledger, every lease and liability for rent, every written agreement and contract that had gathered dust for years in the estate office, getting to know the size of every farm and the tenants in them. He had taken her to see Mr Anson at the bank and had explained the loan which Mr Anson had promised her and had ridden with her once again to visit the farms where most welcomed her kindly if a little warily. The office had been scrubbed and scoured by Jenny and Clara, the books dusted and put back on their shelves, the windows cleaned, the chimney swept and a good fire lit to get rid of the slight smell of damp that hung about the room so long unused. She spent every morning at the desk, making the room her own with bright pictures on the walls and curtains purloined from rooms not used in the house.

At the end of two weeks Aunt Jane had gone back to her small house in Skircoat, having failed dismally to convince her young, widowed relative that it was not seemly for her to remain in this big house alone.

‘I am not alone, Aunt Jane, I have Biddy with me.’

‘That is not the same, Amalia, and you know it. I would offer you a place with me but the two boys are somewhat trying to my nerves.’ Aunt Jane suffered dreadfully with her nerves and the couple of weeks she had spent with Amalia had made them worse.

‘I cannot run the estate from town, Aunt Jane. I must be here.’

‘And that is another thing, Amalia. It is not right for a gentlewoman to run an estate. Could not a . . . an agent be put in to see to it all?’

‘I have no money to pay wages, Aunt Jane.’

And so Aunt Jane had given up, packed her bags and returned to Skircoat, effectively washing her hands of her rebellious relative.

But it was Harry’s action on Christmas Day that had given Lally the most pleasure. Polly McGinley had trudged over from Folly Farm with a turkey. A turkey with short spurs and black legs which proved it was young and would be tender. A gift, she said, in thanks for the work that had been started on the roof of the farmhouse so that now she and Sean, Denny and his wife Kate were all sleeping in their own beds in the bedrooms upstairs. What a relief it was to have her parlour back and she and Kate were as happy as sandboys in the kitchen without the pallett which had been got out each night.

Lally had been overwhelmed and had even hugged her, to Polly’s amazement, she told Sean, and that young landlady of theirs had a warm heart and if there was anything Sean or Denny could do for her they must see to it at once.

So the turkey had been stuffed with forcemeat of Biddy’s own making, fried sausages arranged about it for garnish, the gravy made along with the bread sauce, the bird cooking for a couple of hours, ready to be served at one thirty, when the front doorbell had rung. The dogs had barked furiously and Biddy had hurried along the hallway muttering about visitors on a day such as this what with Miss Lally in a deep depression, the children, sensing their mother’s mood, grizzling and Clara complaining of a pain in her belly.

It was Harry, standing at the foot of the steps holding the bridle of a large, strong pony, dark brown, and known as a dales pony from the north-east of England, used for pulling Harry’s gig. ‘Stand, Dancer,’ he was saying, then, addressing himself to the astonished Biddy, asked her if she would send the groom round to help him. The back of the gig was loaded with parcels.

When he had been ushered in to the warm drawing room where Lally was sitting alone, her head resting on the back of the sofa, her face sad and almost plain in her sadness, there had been an immediate change in the atmosphere. Carly had staggered in with an armful of parcels, helped by an excited Clara who had totally forgotten the pain she had complained of, and Harry had asked if the children could be brought down for a moment. Dora, the baby squirming in her arms and Master Jamie leaping and falling and picking himself up in an ecstasy of joy and wonderment, entered the drawing room and for the next half-hour a brand-new railway engine, a bright blue rabbit, a clockwork mouse, a small wooden horse on wheels and pulled on a string, several books and a set of coloured bricks were revealed, over which Jamie said his new word, which was ‘mine, mine’. He allowed Alec to reach with wandering infant fingers for the pretty paper in which they had been wrapped. There was the usual upset when he and the baby were removed at last by Dora and Clara, Jamie howling his displeasure which could be heard all the way up the stairs.

‘And now it’s the turn of the grown-ups,’ Harry said, smiling his slow, infrequent smile, for it was the only way to hide his real feelings. ‘Can the maids be spared from the kitchen for a minute or two?’ And when they were brought in by Biddy, the two girls and Dora, of course, were overwhelmed by the lovely rolls of dress fabric in the prettiest colours with which he presented them. There was a silver bracelet for Biddy, plain and simple, and Biddy, beginning to see what was in this cool, unruffled man, thanked him and ushered the girls away to the kitchen.

‘Now it’s your turn, Lally,’ reaching into his pocket for a small, beautifully wrapped parcel and handing it to her with a stiff, almost reverent bow.

‘Harry,’ she whispered, holding the gift in her hand. ‘You know I can’t . . .’

‘Why, who is to know? We are friends, are we not? I am alone on this day when families are supposed to come together, and so are you, though you have your boys. Will you not allow me to be, just for a day, an uncle, or a . . . distant relative to give them a Christmas gift and having done so how could I leave you out? It’s getting on for six weeks since Chris . . . I’m sorry, forgive me, I should not have mentioned him.’

He stood irresolute in front of her, looking down at her bowed head, dismayed when she raised her head and he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. He had never seen her cry but now, when there was no need, it seemed she was about to do so. He sat down beside her, longing to reach out and touch her, even if it was no more than her hand, the one that held his unwrapped gift but he knew, as he had known before, that it was too soon to show his feelings for her.

‘Please, give me the pleasure of giving
you
a Christmas gift.’

She said nothing but slowly, her fingers inclined to tremble, she opened the small parcel which contained a velvet box. Opening the box she gasped, for lying on another nest of velvet was the prettiest bracelet, a fine gold chain linked every half-inch with a tiny turquoise the exact colour of her eyes.

‘I couldn’t resist it, Lally. It was made for you and I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on it in the jeweller’s window. Will you let me put it on your wrist?’

‘Harry, it’s much too—’

‘No, it’s not. Perhaps it’s . . . not quite the thing to give a young widow so soon after her husband’s death but if you don’t take it I shall be forced to present it to . . . to Biddy so that she has one for each wrist.’

Wordlessly she held out her hand and carefully, slowly, so that she would not see his own hands trembling, he fastened it against the deep black of her sleeve.

‘There, now not another word and since it is almost one o’clock I must—’

She had been fingering the lovely bracelet and looking down at it with pleasure, for it was a long time since she had received anything so beautiful and yet so exactly right, but she sprang up at once and took hold of his hand.

‘No, you will not go, Harry, not to that empty house; it is empty, isn’t it, for you have just told me so. You shall stay and keep me company while I eat my Christmas turkey, plum pudding and . . . and whatever other Christmas fare Biddy has put together. I shall ring the bell and tell her to set another place at the table. Oh, Harry, I can’t tell you how wonderful this is. I was expecting to eat by myself. Biddy is a stickler for the conventions and says she is a servant and could not sit down to luncheon with me though I’m sure I could have persuaded her. Now reach for the bell and then you can tell me all the news before we eat. I wonder if there is any champagne in the cellar . . .’ Then she began to laugh when he reached into another bag and triumphantly produced a large bottle of the sparkling wine.