All the dear faces (52 page)

“
Edmund, this is a surprise, " he called out as he moved from the side garden where he had been talking to Maggie Singleton, his hand outstretched, for despite his own misery, the civilities must be carried out, particularly to one's father-in-law
.

At that moment, before Reed could reach him, the door to the house flew open, Edmund turned in its direction, dropped his overcoat to the ground and with an incoherent cry, opened his arms wide to receive his weeping daughter.

“
Papa . . . oh, Papa . . . thank heavens you have come, " she cried into his broad shoulder. He held her close and patted her back whilst he shushed her comfortingly, and all the while he turned an expression on Reed
Macauley which would have badly alarmed a lesser man. His face was broad and fleshy, highly coloured, for though. his doctor advised against it, he drank a great deal of port and brandy and was rarely without an expensive cigar clamped between his teeth
.

It was his grandfather who had begun it, the business which had made Edmund wealthy. He had been a merchant who had gone with his string of packhorses wherever there was decent wool to be had, bringing it back to independent men to be spun and woven. But as the industrial revolution, as it was to be called, had intensified he had, from the profit he made, built his own mill in which weavers and spinners, as their trade declined, worked for him. One mill, then two, as his son grew to manhood. A carding and combing mill, then another as Edmund Hamilton-Brown himself took over and though he had never known want, since he and his father before him had called themselves rich, he was, as Yorkshire men had the reputation of being, a careful man except where his daughter and himself were concerned. The best of everything for Esmé and Edmund Hamilton-Brown, and his appearance testified to it.

“
To what do we owe the honour of this visit, Edmund?" Reed managed to say, doing his best to be polite though did he give a hang why the old man was here? he asked himself wearily. He had been badly shaken by Maggie Singleton's careless inference to the probability of marriage for Annie Abbott and to her bearing another child. He had wanted to hit her and tell her to shut her vile mouth. Annie belonged to him. Not bodily, not yet, but surely when she had recovered somewhat from this mortal blow which had been struck her, she would agree to let him look after her, to settle her and Phoebe in some luxurious place away from all these bad memories, to give her the soft and special things she deserved so that she could live a life of ease and never again worry her head about money. He would do that for her. He would love her, care for her, protect her from all hurt and if there was any child to be given, he would be the one to give it to her.

“
Never mind that, Macauley," his father-in-law was saying, jolting him out of the pleasant dream of the future which was the only thing that mattered to him now. He cared nought for his farm, for his businesses, his investments in copper, in iron, in the railways and many other concerns, those which had made him a wealthy man. He would do again, of course, when he and Annie were together and Annie was tucked up safe and snug, but all he could think of just now was the slow worry which invaded him night and day, and the impatience he must curb until it was all over. His wife's tears concerned him not in the least. She was always weeping over something these days, moping about the house, refusing to go out or entertain, which he was glad about since the idea of engaging in small-talk at the dinner table was abhorrent to him. But it would all die down, the gossip and speculation, when Annie moved out of the district. He was a man. The men who did business with him would think him a lucky dog and wish him well of his liaison with the Browhead woman, and the women would do as they were told. As his would when he had found out what her father wanted and sent him on his way. Reed Macauley might be low, not quite himself lately, but he was master of his own home, and his own life.

“
Let's get inside, my lass," Edmund said gently, his arms still about the heaving shoulders of Reed Macauley's wife. "See, you go and wash your face and have a rest. You and I'll have a nice chat later. I've things to say to your . . . husband but it'll not take long."

“
Won't you have some coffee, Papa, or a . . ."

“
Nay lass, off you go. I'll have something when you come down.
”

He kissed her fondly then watched her as she drifted up the stairs, a tired little girl whose world, which had been so safe and happy, which he had made safe and happy, was tumbling about her innocent head.

“
Right then, lad," he snarled at Reed when she had disappeared, "you and me have something to talk about, I think. Tell that chappie who brought me from Penrith hecan get off now and have one of your servants fetch my coat in. I dropped it by the coach. And I'll have a brandy and some sandwiches. I'm taking the three thirty train back to Lancaster and I reckon you can find someone to take me to the railway station."

“
Certainly." Reed's voice had become chilled. He was not used to being given orders, nor to being spoken to as though he was a schoolboy who had misbehaved. He was beginning to get an inkling of the reason for his father-in-law's visit and though he was not overly concerned he did not greatly care for the idea of being given a talk on discretion by his wife's father. Still, best get it over and send the silly old fool on his way. He had guided Edmund Hamilton-Brown into his study, indicating brusquely that he should seat himself by the cheerful fire which burned in the grate. He pulled the bell rope and when the butler came, gave the necessary orders, then lighting a cigar he went to stand by the window, looking out across the vista of his garden and beyond to the slopes of his inland fields. They were white with his ewes which were waiting to lamb, a constantly drifting scatter, forming and re-forming into tiny groups which cropped peacefully on the lush green grass the snows of the winter had nourished.

“
You know why I'm here." Edmund had found it difficult to control himself whilst his daughter moved slowly up the stairs, whilst his son-in-law nodded courteously and the butler and parlourmaid set out the decanter and glasses, the delicious sandwiches which had so quickly appeared, and the servants had barely left the room before he began. He held the brandy glass in a trembling hand and he looked ready to throw it at Reed rather than drink what it contained.

“
I can guess." Reed did not turn round. His voice was indifferent.

“
Is that ail you have to say then?"

“
What do you want me to say?"

“
You have the bloody gall to . . . to carry on a filthy affair with some trollop of the district . . ."

“
Be careful what you say, Hamilton-Brown." Hamilton-Brown took no notice.

“
. . . carrying whatever diseases she might herself have to my daughter for I don't reckon you'll have stopped paying her the attention a man pays his wife. But as if that wasn't disgusting enough, you flaunt it about the bloody district as though it concerned no one . . ."

“
It doesn't."

“
Is that so? Well, you're wrong, you bastard. It concerns my girl and what concerns her concerns me. I'll not have it, d'you hear. I'll not have her name dragged all over Cumberland and probably Yorkshire too, since news travels fast, and I'll not have her made unhappy. I've never cared to see her weep and she's weeping now and that's your fault. It's got to stop. She's your wife and I'll have her treated with some respect . . ."

“
Oh, for God's sake, man, who do you think I am? Some sixteen-year-old boy who has been trifling with the under parlourmaid . . ."

“
You'd get a thrashing from me if you were. That's what you need, a thrashing . . ."

“
And you will give it to me?" Reed's voice was weary as he turned towards his father-in-law.

“
No, not me, Macauley, but I know several men who would be only too glad to oblige."

“
A threat, then." He smiled and Edmund Hamilton-Brown felt the hot blood of rage move in his veins.

“
Aye, a threat. If I get another of these letters from my girl about how unhappy you're making her, or soaked with her tears as the last one was, I swear I'll make you so unhappy yourself you'll be glad to stay close to your home and your wife where you belong. Not only glad but unable to do anything else. Do I make myself clear?"

“
Do you mean to say you think you can make me .. . do as you say by telling me one of your bully boys will give me a thrashing if I don't?" Reed's voice was incredulous.

“
It would be more than a thrashing, lad, but you'd still be able to perform your . . . marital duties . . .""You stupid old man."

“
Not really. I'm a wealthy man and so are you so there is little I can do to you in that direction. I realise my limitations as far as bringing you to heel where business is concerned. Besides, I want my girl to continue to live in her husband's house in the comfort she has been used to but there are other ways to make you . . . see the light, shall we say."

“
Say it by all means, you interfering swine, but if you think that the threat of receiving a beating at the hands of some thug –"

“
Not even if the one to be beaten was not yourself but someone you . . . might care for?
”

The air in the room seemed to hang, lifeless, still, unmoving and for a moment Reed Macauley was the same, his face quite blank, his eyes staring at Edmund Hamilton-Brown with complete incomprehension, then, as realisation came, his mouth opened wide in a lethal roar of rage and his eyes narrowed to menacing gleaming slits.

“
By God, you bastard. I'll kill you, d'you hear me, I'll kill you with my own bare hands if one hair of her head is harmed. D'you think I give a damn about your precious 'girl'?" His mouth twisted contemptuously and Edmund Hamilton-Brown felt his own hatred twist in his guts at the sound of it. "She's worth a hundred of your daughter, a thousand, and if she'd let me I'd bring her here and send 'my wife' back to her Papa. Oh, yes, you'd better believe it. If she'd have me I'd go and live with her at her farm and leave your precious Esmé, and all this, but she won't. She's the bravest, most honourable woman I know and I love her more than my own life. She loves me too, you bastard, though I don't suppose you know anything about that since all you seem to have experienced is the rather sickening emotion you feel for that poor child upstairs. Yes, child! She cannot even conceive like a woman. Dear God . . . Oh sweet Jesus . . . how dare you come here with your sanctimonious mouthings . . . like them all .. . they do the same, while she ... she suffers . . . grieves
.

There's not one man or woman who is worth . . . Oh God, what's the use. Get out of my house, and if you want to, take your daughter with you because she's no use to me and, perhaps more importantly, I'm no use to her. I love elsewhere, you see, and I always will.
”

Chapter
29

“
It were Bert Garnett what thrashed me.
”

They were sitting, one on either side of the inglenook, Annie straightbacked and blank-faced on the settle, Phoebe in the rocker which Natty had repaired. Natty crouched by the window. He was making a new crook, carving the head of it into some design which he favoured, and his craggy face was twisted into an expression of great concentration. At his feet lay the three dogs, their muzzles on their paws, their ears pricked for the slightest sound, their bright eyes moving from one human face to another. Blackie got up for the second time in ten minutes and went to sniff at the bottom of the door which led outside and Natty stopped to watch him. The dog would just not settle, not since the bairn had gone, restless and constantly searching for her. Bonnie watched him, his eyes so doleful they seemed to say he missed her too, and the cat jumped up on Phoebe's knee, settling passively under her comforting hand. The feeling of unutterable sadness was thick in the room and it was perhaps this, this air of finality, of ending, of hopelessness which had prevailed for the past six weeks that made Phoebe break the vow she had given to Bert Garnett on the night he had beaten her and violated their home. Besides, it made no difference now, did it? His threat to kill her lambkin if she told anyone was no longer a threat, was it? What could he do to harm any of them here in this dreary room? and it might just bring Annie from the long and black apathy in which she crouched day after day, night after night, week after week. It would destroy her soon if she did not break free of it. They had their lives to lead, that was self-evident, but it seemed that Annie had been reduced to the level where
she endured hers without living it. She had drawn away from the realities of sowing and planting, of lambing time which was upon them, and had it not been for the help Mr Macauley sent down, Natty would have been hard pressed to manage. Phoebe would have gone out with him, into the fields and up on the intake lands, but she was afraid to leave Annie alone for long. She worked in the dairy and about the farmyard with the hens and the pig. She moved up to the meadow with her churn and milking stool to see to 'Clover'. Again Mr Macauley helped out, ensuring that the butter and cheese and eggs went to market, with that girl he sent down, and the few shillings they earned were put in her hand by the same girl who walked across the fell with it
.