A Time Like No Other (34 page)

‘We’ll see. Now then, are you to leave or must I—’

Roly turned from her, pushing past Biddy and erupting into the hallway. Tansy was arranging some flowers in a crystal vase on the hall table but she flinched away from the tall, maddened figure of her employer’s brother, almost dropping the vase.

‘My cape, hat and whip, girl,’ he snarled at her and when she retrieved them and held them out to him he grabbed them from her and flung open the big front door before she could get to it. His chestnut gelding was ready for him, the reins held by Ben who also recoiled slightly from the man who jumped down the steps and leaped into the saddle. The carefully raked gravel, done every day by Barty or Froglet, was thrown up beneath the horse’s hooves, scattering across a neatly hoed flowerbed and from the perfection of the lawn where they were raking leaves, Barty and Froglet sighed deeply.

In the drawing room both Lally and Biddy sank tremblingly into a chair.

‘Oh dear,’ Biddy said, her voice inclined to tremble also.

‘Yes, I think we have just declared war on my husband’s brother, Biddy.’

‘You might say that, my lass.’

Almost in the very centre of Moor Wood, which was north of Cowslip, the farm tenanted by the Graham family, was a cave hidden by a fallen beech tree on the bank of a tiny beck. The beck was shallow and into it ran a rivulet of fresh water. The cave was reached by a steep, pine-studded slope and stopped at an outcrop of rocks which hid the entrance. The cave was shallow and running right round it at waist height was a kind of shelf formed from the rock.

On the shelf sat a frying pan which had evidently never been cleaned, an old kettle, two tin cups, a jar of what looked like loose tea, another of flour and, piled carelessly along the shelf, the remains of several animals, probably rabbits. There was a ravel of string and various unidentifiable objects, bits of rusty chain, some nails and a hammer. An old bowl, chipped round the edges, held half a dozen eggs. A bucket with a ladle hanging over the edge evidently contained water. There were fire-blackened stones around a small fire in the centre of the cave and a heap of old flour sacks piled in one corner. Next to the flour sacks stood two rifles and several animal traps.

There were two men in the cave, lolling on a bed of bracken, dry and warm against the cold December day. They were unshaven and unkempt, both of them smoking a clay pipe. They were big men with matted hair and the dark skin that spoke of an outdoor life.

One of the men stood up, ladled some water into the old kettle and placed the kettle in the centre of the smouldering fire. He reached up for the two tin cups, peering into them. Finding one not to his liking he spat into it, wiped it round with the hem of his tattered shirt then heaped a spoonful of tea into each. When the kettle boiled he poured water into each cup and then handed one to the second man.

‘’Ow long d’yer reckon us’ll ’ave ter stay ’ere, then?’ he said, sipping his tea.

‘As long as it takes,’ was the answer.

‘What if she don’t come this way?’

‘Well, someone will. If it ain’t ’er, it’ll be ’im or one o’ them servants. I don’t give a bugger ’oo it is as long as it’s from that bloody family. We’ll keep outer sight an’ watch the tracks through’t wood an’ even slip across ter Tangle Wood fer they’re right chummy wi’ them bloody McGinleys. Jesus, I could slit that bugger’s throat.’

‘What bugger’s that?’

‘That Sean what’s gettin’ our farm. We saw ’im over there yesterday pokin’ round as though it were ’is already.’

‘Well, I suppose it is.’

‘Don’t you be clever wi’ me, me lad.’

‘I were only sayin’—’

‘Well, don’t. It were ’er what put us ’ere. It were ’er what sent ’er old man ter chuck us out an’ someone’s gonner pay. God knows what’s ’appened ter Ma an’ Pa but we couldn’t bring ’em ’ere, could we? We’d be bound ter be noticed. No, you an’ me’ll stay ’ere, livin’ off land, snug as two bugs in a rug an’ when chance comes we’ll ’ave ’em.’

The following morning at nine o’clock precisely a smart carriage drew up to the steps that led to the entrance of the office in the yard of High Clough. Men working in the yard, which was bustling with activity, stopped what they were doing to stare in astonishment as three ladies descended from the carriage helped by the coachman. One of the ladies was the maister’s wife, they knew that and one or two of them thought they recognised the second lady, but the third none of them had seen before.

Mrs Sinclair looked quite magnificent, the men would say to one another after she had disappeared, though they were rough working men and would not use such words. She was in blue, eggshell blue, though again the men would not have called it that, a full-skirted gown beneath which, as she climbed down from her carriage, was revealed a whisper of white lace above her dainty boots. Over her gown she wore a pale grey fur mantle with a wide hood, the fur being chinchilla, though they did not recognise it. The price of it would have kept one of their families for the remainder of their days. She wore no hat and her hair fell in shining curls about her head held with nothing more than a narrow ribbon to match her gown.

The second lady was equally fashionably dressed though not quite so expensively. She was also in blue but her gown and mantle were the rich blue of the sky at dusk, almost a purple blue. She wore a shallow bonnet far back on her head, the inside of the brim decorated with pale pink silk roses.

The third lady was . . . not exactly a lady. In fact the men knew instinctively that she was a servant. One of Mrs Sinclair’s household but what the devil she was doing with Mrs Sinclair and her friend they could not imagine.

The whole yard came to a complete stop. There were enormous wagons ready to be pulled by the patient shire horses, the cold turning their breath to a vapour about their heads. Sinclair goods were being stowed on to the wagons which would transport them to the railway in Halifax where they would be loaded for their journey to all points of the compass, in this country and in many others; men shovelled coal on to a wagon ready to stoke the boilers. Against the far wall were stacked fleeces, each waiting to be divided by hand into its numerous qualities. Dirt, natural grease and other impurities needed to be removed before the wool would go to be scoured at the fulling mill, but not one man was concentrating on his allotted task as the three females made their dainty way towards the doorway and the steps that led up to the maister’s office.

Again the clerk in the outer office was affronted when Mrs Sinclair and her companions calmly walked past his high desk and into the office where Mr Roly was working.

Roly had been waiting for Lally but as she entered with the two other women he rose slowly to his feet, pen in hand, consternation on his face.

‘Good morning, Roly.’

‘Good God, what’s this? A deputation?’

‘You might say that. We have come to discuss the strange demand you made to me last week and to decide what might be the best way to solve it.’ She smiled, then turned to look at her companions. ‘Shall we sit, ladies?’ she asked them and they did, each choosing one of Harry Sinclair’s comfortable armchairs, arranging themselves and their skirts to their own satisfaction. Roly, still standing, watched them with open-mouthed fascination.

‘Chocolate would be nice, Roly, if there is someone to provide it. I’m sure Harry must have some little person tucked away to see to his needs. Or would you prefer tea, Susan, perhaps coffee? And you, Biddy?’

They both declared themselves to be satisfied with hot chocolate. Roly, still somewhat in a daze, rang a bell and the clerk came in at a run as if to say what the devil did those damn women want now!

Roly gave his orders, then sank down into his chair behind the desk.

Lally smiled serenely. ‘Perhaps I had better introduce you to my friends, Roly. My very good friends who are going to help with the mills while Harry is incapacitated. I know very little about the wool trade, I must admit, but Harry will tell me what to do, and Susan here, Mrs Susan Harper, has worked for many years on a loom in the weaving shed and knows a good “piece” when she sees it.’ Susan had told her to say that! She wondered what it meant. ‘And Mrs Stevens is my longstanding friend and companion. It was she who brought me up.’ Biddy bowed her head graciously.

A little wisp of a woman timidly entered the room bearing a tray on which sat a tall silver chocolate pot and four dainty cups and saucers with matching milk jug and sugar bowl. Harry evidently liked to impress callers! The little woman hesitated, not awfully sure who was to be put in charge of pouring, Mr Harry’s brother or his wife, then something directed her to Mrs Sinclair and she placed the tray on the table beside her.

Lally inclined her head to Roly who had as yet barely spoken, asking if he would care for hot chocolate and it seemed to bring him to his senses. He had been brooding on how beautiful his sister-in-law looked, on the meaning of her words about Harry and his
incapacity
and whether there was any chance that he might . . . well, that was for later. First he must deal with these three crazy women who seemed to be telling him, or at least Lally was, that they intended to
help
him to run his own business.

‘No chocolate for me, Lally, but you ladies, who seem to think I am open to morning calls, do get on with your drink.’ He grinned broadly, running his eyes quite offensively over Susan’s trim figure and pretty face. Her hair, showing beneath the brim of her bonnet, had a chestnut glow to its darkness and a pleasing wave. There was a scatter of freckles across her nose and her mouth was poppy red and full. She looked directly at him with the bluest eyes he had ever seen and though he stared quite rudely she did not drop them.

‘You know a good “piece” do you? Susan, is it, then perhaps—’

‘I am Mrs Harper, and yes, I do.’ She stood up and moved across the room, picking a sample of cloth from his desk. She took it to the window and examined it in the daylight. He watched her, a small smile playing round his mouth. ‘This has a “boardy” feel to it,’ she went on. ‘I believe it must be put right before you can send it out to your customer.’

‘God Almighty, has anyone else anything to say about this piece or the running of the mill? This is quite laughable, Lally, and I’m amazed that my brother allows you to run round unaccompanied—’

‘I am not unaccompanied, Roly. I have my friends and associates with me.’

He hooted with laughter. ‘Associates! These two! A mill girl and a kitchen-maid. You must have taken leave of your senses.’ Then he became serious. ‘There are two ways of doing this. Harry can sell out to me or we can split the business. I have already told you how we shall do it.’

‘Will your financial resources run to it, Roly?’ she asked him mildly.

Biddy watched the play between the two of them and though she was afraid for her lass, knowing that beneath his pleasant exterior Roly Sinclair was a hard and determined man, she sensed – no! not sensed,
knew
that he would eventually be beaten. He was standing on quaking ground was Roly Sinclair and she wondered how a man as clever as he was could imagine that Mr Harry would allow his mills to be swallowed up. Mr Harry was not quite himself as yet but soon he would be and then what a hullabaloo there would be.

Roly smiled. ‘You have not perhaps heard the news. It has been a whirlwind romance. We decided to keep it secret until I was home and could give some attention to celebrations and so on. I have recently become engaged to Miss Anne Bracken. Yes, I see that surprises you’ – which it did since Anne Bracken was twenty-seven and as plain as a pikestaff.
But very rich
– ‘and I am pleased to say that her marriage portion and the allowance her father proposes to give her will set me up very nicely in whatever the arrangement is between Harry and myself. I want the Sinclair mills, Lally, and I shall do anything to get them. Now, if you ladies’ – smiling benignly round at them as he stood up – ‘have finished your chocolate, I beg you to excuse me.’

Though Lally was flabbergasted she did not show it, nor did she stand up. ‘Well, allow me to congratulate you, Roly. You will certainly have plenty of funds at your disposal since George Bracken is one of the wealthiest mill-owners in Yorkshire. He’s in “shoddy”, isn’t he? I could never understand how rags could create such wealth. I drove past his mill with Harry on our way to . . . well, I can’t remember our destination but in the yard were great bales chock full of filthy tatters with wagons arriving all the time to add to the heap. The walls of the mill were covered with thick, clinging dust and fibre which rose in volumes from the open doors and glassless windows and poured from the chimneys. Shall you like working in such a place, Roly, for I dare say George Bracken will expect something from you?’

‘I shall do whatever is necessary to gain full control of the Sinclair mills.’

‘Not if you’re to produce cloth like that on the table, Mr Sinclair,’ Susan told him quietly. ‘I dare say it suited them in the weaving shed but it’d not suit Mr Harry, nor those he sells his cloth to. I’ve been in the trade since I was ten years old and I reckon to know a bit about wool. Oh, not the selling side or even the financial but I know a proper woven piece.’

‘Is that so!’ Roly was in a towering rage. To be spoken to by some working-class woman was bad enough, but to be told she knew as much or more about working a loom and the results of it than he did was outrageous. ‘Well, let me tell you—’

‘Are we to discuss this situation in a calm and reasonable manner, Roly, or are we to sit here and listen to you—’

‘You’ll bloody well do as you’re told, madam,’ he snarled at Lally. ‘I presume these
friends
of yours know that the baby in your nursery was fathered by me.’ He waited for some explosion, perhaps gasps of horror but when none came he continued. ‘Ah, I see they do but do they know that I will spread the story round Moorend and even as far as Halifax unless you go along with my plans. I will not be thwarted on this, Lally.’