A Time Like No Other (38 page)

The yard was busy with what seemed to be its normal day-to-day activities: lifting and stacking rolls of woven cloth on to the wagons, unpacking bundles of fleeces come from she knew not where – but she would find out, she told herself – the comings and goings of the wagons, the stamp of horses’ hooves, shouts and whistles and curses.

The men all froze and became silent, watching them as she and Susan crossed the yard and climbed the steps on the outside of the building that led to the office. Lifting the skirts of their gowns and capes in order not to trip on them and to keep them from the dirty steps, they were surprised to see a man coming down them. A tall, well-built man about thirty years of age, not dressed as Harry or Roly, or indeed any commercial gentleman might dress, but neatly, plainly in good quality worsted. Black jacket and trousers under a fly-fronted Chesterfield coat, an immaculate shirt front and a plain black necktie. He wore no hat and his hair was dark as chocolate, straight and thick and needed cutting. His mouth was hard but a pleasing shape as though ready to smile. His eyes were a smoky brown with curious amber flecks in them and his face smooth, freshly shaved. He had a tiny nick in his chin where his razor had evidently gone too close.

He stopped in amazement when he saw them coming up towards him, then hurriedly backed up to allow them to pass him at the top. Not knowing what else to do or even who they were, since he had been at the Sinclair mills for no more than a fortnight, he bowed.

‘Good morning, ladies?’ His voice was questioning and there was no doubt that he was a Yorkshireman.

‘Good morning,’ they answered in unison.

‘May I help you?’ he asked politely, wondering who the devil they were and what they were doing at the mill office at this time of the morning. Most ladies of quality, or so he had been led to believe, were still in their beds drinking hot chocolate at this hour of the morning.

‘May I ask who you are?’ the exceptionally lovely one asked while the other, the one with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, watched him closely, even suspiciously, he thought, saying nothing.

‘My name is Adam Elliott. I’m the mill engineer. I was hoping to see Mr Sinclair but it seems he’s not in his office,’ which, his expression said, he should have been at this hour.

They both, for some reason, looked relieved. He waited.

‘Then we’ll go in and get on, shall we, Susan? Oh, I’m Mrs Sinclair, Mr Elliott, and this is Mrs Harper.’

Adam felt a twinge of surprise, since he had no idea Mr Sinclair was married. No mention of it had been made to him. Indeed in the short time he had been here he had somehow got the impression his employer was a bachelor about to be wed to one of the wealthiest heiresses in the county.

The ladies smiled their thanks as he held the door open for them, then, for a reason he could not define since they were nothing to do with him, he followed them in. The clerk who had informed him that Mr Sinclair was not yet in his office leaped to his feet and began to stutter, but Mrs Sinclair, with a pleasant greeting, swept past him and into Mr Sinclair’s office. There was a good fire burning in the grate and with what looked like an anxious smile she removed her cape and hung it on the hook behind the door as did Mrs Harper. Mrs Sinclair seated herself behind what was Mr Sinclair’s desk and Mrs Harper sat down at a table that was placed next to it forming an L.

‘Mrs Sinclair,’ the clerk spluttered, evidently knowing her, hopping from foot to foot and clearly horrified. ‘Mr Roly will be here soon and—’

‘Yes, he is late, isn’t he? While we wait Mrs Harper and I will have coffee – is there someone to make it? Oh, good – and in the meanwhile I would be glad if you would fetch—’

‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ a voice thundered from the doorway. Adam Elliott stood to one side to allow Roly Sinclair to pass, preparing to be entertained.

24

Adam Elliott was an extremely clever and intelligent man, not a gentleman, for his father had a small printing firm in Halifax. Adam was an only child and because Douglas and Minnie Elliott were decent, responsible parents, thrifty with their cash and great believers in education – they could both read – their clever son not only went to grammar school in Halifax but he worked hard and finished up at university with a degree in engineering and was a great help to his father in running the printing press.

Since the old days when spinners and weavers of woollen cloth worked at their own wheels and looms in their own cottages, the factory system had evolved and these same cottagers had been forced to leave their simple, self-regulated lives and turn to the mill-owner for a day’s work. Water, which was plentiful in the grey peaked hills of Yorkshire, provided the power to the wheel that drove the machines until, with great secrecy and some danger, for men were smashing such things, seeing them as a threat to their livelihood, new machines were introduced by far-seeing mill-owners, power looms for which a supply of water was no longer necessary but a new breed of men were. Adam Elliott was one of these men, an engineer. The Sinclair mills had hundreds of machines engaged in producing the best worsted yarn in the world. Sorting and scouring, carding, the preparation of worsted yarn, spinning and weaving, and Adam was employed to keep these machines working. It seemed Mr Sinclair, the one they called
young
Mr Sinclair, had been involved in the selling of the cloth, travelling to many parts of the world and was not concerned in the actual workings of his carding machines, his spinning and weaving machines. What he had learned in his youth he had forgotten so he had employed Adam to supervise this side of the business for him. There was some mystery regarding the older brother in the business concern and now, as he stood in the doorway of the mill office, it seemed Adam was about to find out what it was.

‘Good morning, Roly,’ the lovely young woman who sat behind his desk said sweetly. ‘Your day starts late, it seems, which won’t please Harry when he hears about it.’

‘Never mind Harry or what he wouldn’t say or do since you and I are fully aware that Harry is incapable of taking—’

‘That is why I am here, Roly, to speak for him. To sit at
his
desk and keep an eye on his mills.’

‘My mills, damn you, or will be when he makes up his bloody mind about selling to me. Now, get out of that chair and go home where you belong and take this . . . this woman with you.’

He strode across the room, his manner threatening and Adam, who had been lounging against the door frame thinking it was time he made himself scarce since this was really nothing to do with him, straightened up slowly. The woman behind the second desk – what had been her name . . . Harper? – rose and moved to stand protectively behind Mrs Sinclair. He had heard vague gossip about the older Sinclair brother, of whom he knew nothing, but Adam had been employed by young Sinclair, the brother he had assumed was in full charge of the business.

The young woman was quite lovely but there was something unique about the other one, the one called Harper, which he couldn’t put his finger on. She was not as good-looking as Mrs Sinclair but she had the sweetest face in which was set a determined mouth as though she had had her share of troubles but had overcome them. He found himself strangely drawn to her.

Adam was so busy studying Susan Harper he did not notice the speculative expression on Mrs Sinclair’s face. He would have been surprised if he could have read her thoughts, for Lally was suddenly struck with the notion that this young man, though she hardly knew him, would make a perfect match for her friend. Doctor John had been considered, at least by her, but Adam was a better prospect and she was not sure Susan thought of John in that way.

‘Harry has made his mind up, Roly, and he will not sell his share of the mills to you, neither will he split the concern in two. The three mills work perfectly in conjunction with one another, he says, and that should not be interfered with. Someone, yourself, in fact, who has made such a magnificent job of it must continue your travels to find buyers for your goods, yours and Harry’s goods and so—’

‘I shall employ a man to do just that, my dear Lally, in fact I have such a person in mind to sell my cloth while I remain here to run the business. Elliott here’ – nodding in Adam’s direction – ‘is in charge of the machines and should one cause trouble he is trained to repair it.’

‘Harry did that, Roly,
and
ran the business. Mr Elliott,’ smiling graciously at Adam, ‘clever as he may be, would not be needed if Harry was . . . when Harry is back on his feet . . .’

Roly Sinclair sneered as he placed his hands flat on the desk, thrusting his face almost into hers.

‘Really, Lally, this charade you try to keep up is pathetic. We both know Harry is, shall we say, not exactly himself and is not capable of making any sort of decision. The doctor is constantly at the Priory and rumour has it that my brother needs a minder. Oh, yes, I have my spies and I am told the beating he received from the Weaver brothers has taken a severe toll on his . . . his thinking powers. Best sell to me, my pet. I promise I will give you a good price then you and Harry can live comfortably at the Priory and play with your farms. They are your sons’ inheritance and should be looked after, which you and your steward should manage comfortably.’

Lally sighed as though with irritated exasperation. She shook her head then turned to Susan, taking her hand in hers. ‘What have you to say, Susan? Shall we accept my brother-in-law’s offer?’

‘Perhaps we might have some more details from this gentleman here.’ Susan smiled in Adam’s direction. She held Lally’s hand with both of hers and there was no doubt of where her loyalties lay. It was the first time Adam had heard her speak and he was surprised. He had thought her to be of the same social class as Mrs Sinclair but it seemed she was not. She spoke correctly, grammatically but with a northern accent similar to his own. A
Yorkshire
accent which was the strongest in the north of England. He felt a stirring of interest that surprised him, for in his thirty years no woman had ever caught his attention except in a physical sense. This was not like that!

He lifted his firm chin and took a step towards the desk, ignoring his employer’s angry glare.

‘I’m an engineer, Mrs Harper. It’s my job to maintain every machine in the Sinclair mills, to ensure that they are in perfect working order and that if one should break down I put it right.’

‘My husband can do that, Mr Elliott. He can do every job in his three mills as well as any man or woman who works for him,’ Lally said proudly, still clinging to Susan’s hand, and Adam felt a secret admiration for this woman’s husband if what she said was true. She turned to Roly who had moved to stare furiously from the window into the yard. ‘I thought you could too, Roly. Or have you lost the knack in the years you travelled Europe, America and all points of the compass? Well, Mr Elliott,’ turning back to face Adam, ‘you will be of great help to Mrs Harper and me until my husband is back behind this desk.’

Roly swivelled forcefully from the window, his face crimson with rage, and Adam instinctively moved forward as though to protect the two women who seemed in danger of violence.

‘Have you forgotten the promise I made you if Harry should refuse to sell me his share of the mills?’

‘The threat, you mean?’

‘Call it what you will, Lally, but I mean it. I’ll show you up for a trollop and Harry for a fool. The child, the children will be ostracised as will you and your husband.’

‘Do you really want the family of your intended bride to know the details of that sordid episode?’ Lally rose and like a young queen stood before Roly Sinclair with great dignity. Her face was white, even her lips, but her eyes were as clear and steady and calm as the waters Adam had once seen lapping a stretch of golden sand on the coast of Cornwall and were the same exquisite mix of turquoise and green. He had only seen it once years ago when he had visited that county to study the pumping engines that were used in the mining industry there but he had never forgotten it.

He had longed to leave this office minutes ago, for what was happening here was not his concern but it struck him that these two brave women who outfaced Roly Sinclair might need support, or even a witness. He had no wish to intrude on what was evidently a family quarrel but something held him fast.

‘Is that what it was? A sordid episode?’ Roly laughed harshly. ‘And the result? Is she sordid too? Decent families will think so, Lally. An illegitimate child.
Your
child fathered by your husband’s brother.’ In the doorway Adam was heard to gasp.

‘Yer bastard, yer bullyin’ bastard,’ shrieked Susan, reverting, as she did in times of crisis, to her native tongue, her face contorted with contempt, but Lally put a restraining hand on her arm, gripping it fiercely.

‘Don’t, Susan,’ she began, but Susan, usually so self-contained, was incensed by the callousness of the man she barely knew, and was sustained by her deep affection for Lally who had mended Susan’s life when it had been so badly broken.

‘’Ow can yer say such a dreadful thing? The truth it might be but ter threaten nor only a woman ’oo ’as no one ter defend ’er bu’ innocent bairns an’ all is beyond me. Tha’ little girl don’t deserve yer foulness, nor them lads. Ruin their lives – yer nowt but scum.’

‘Who is this . . . this slut who rushes to defend you, Lally?’ Roly asked in an amused manner. ‘Really, you have the most amazing friends and I wonder that Harry allows her into his home. She sounds like one of the hands from the weaving shed.’

‘She was, Roly, but Harry and I befriended her and I don’t know what I would do without her.’

‘Christ! She’s your
friend
! a woman from the weaving shed! Well, I wish you well of her, and what the devil the pair of you are doing here sitting in my office—’

‘Harry’s office, Roly.’

‘Rubbish! It seems Harry is content to loll at home so someone has to run the business.’