‘Thank goodness that’s over!’ exclaimed Jane candidly, sinking into a deep sofa. ‘I do declare, though, it was an excellent dinner. The lemon cream pudding was quite superb, Chloe. I must ask Mrs Hoad for the method – though whether that idiot of a woman who cooks for me will succeed with it, heaven knows!’
Chloe sniffed. ‘It would do you good to starve yourself for a week, Jane. You’re getting stouter than ever. And Paget drinks far too much! Randolph will not have been at all pleased by his tactless remarks to Mr Sutcliffe.’ She rounded on her sister-in-law, ‘And you were as bad, Blanche. What possessed you to come so dangerously near to referring to – to his unfortunate experiences?’
Emma did not wait to see how Blanche would defend herself, but cut in hotly, ‘Why are you so anxious to gloss over the fact that Matthew Sutcliffe was transported to Australia? That he’s a convicted criminal? The man who killed my father, your own brother, Aunt Chloe!’
‘Your twin brother,’ added Jane with malicious enjoyment. ‘I must confess I was astonished to learn that he had been invited to dine here. In my opinion it’s in very questionable taste to entertain him at the Hall.’
Chloe looked nonplussed, and Emma suspected that she privately agreed, but, as usual, dared not oppose any decision of Uncle Randolph’s.
‘Suppose we had not invited him here,’ she argued, ‘what then? There are many others in the Brackle Valley who would gladly have taken up with him. No, Randolph is right. The Hardakers must be seen to lead the way, in this as in everything else.’ Abruptly, her domineering tone became persuasive. ‘After all, it was all so long ago, wasn’t it? Are you suggesting there is never a time to be merciful, to be ready to forgive and forget?’
Jane sighed. ‘It is precisely Paget’s opinion, too, that we must forgive and forget. So I suppose one must! As you say, it is a long time ago, fifteen years. You know, I can scarcely call to mind what Matthew Sutcliffe looked like in those days.’
‘He was extremely good-looking,’ put in Blanche. Then she added with a false laugh, ‘I mean in a very boyish way, of course. He has grown a great deal more mature, don’t you agree, Chloe?’
‘So one would hope!’
‘I thought his appearance rather striking,’ Jane observed, easing the rings on her plump fingers. ‘I do so like to see a good head of hair on a man.’
Emma was unable to contain herself another instant. She rose from her chair and went across to the pianoforte which stood in an arched alcove at the far end of the room.
‘You all discuss that dreadful man as if he were respectable,’ she said angrily. ‘If we must put on a show of accepting him in public, then surely between ourselves we can be honest and acknowledge him for what he is – a common criminal. Who,’ she snapped, ‘while grubbing in the Australian mud, chanced to find a fortune in gold.’
Raising the piano lid she struck a chord at random. The sound, reverberating round the room, seemed to relieve her feelings, so she played another chord, and then another, until she found herself running into the opening phrases of Chopin’s Military Polonaise; loudly, though far from well.
The doors from the hall opened and the gentlemen came in. Emma broke off in a confused discord, but Randolph said benignly, ‘Ah, music! We’ve interrupted you, lass. Pray continue.’
‘No, uncle, I – I couldn’t,’ she mumbled, much embarrassed.
‘Well, happen that piece is a little forceful. But I have an idea – you shall accompany Bernard in a song. What say you, lad? You’re ready and willing, eh? That’s the spirit. Now, there was a grand piece you gave us once before, “Where e’er you walk”, that’ll do splendidly.’
‘But, uncle,’ Emma protested faintly.
‘I insist, my dear. Bernard has a very pleasing baritone, and we shall all enjoy hearing it.’
‘Please do,’ Cathy’s small voice added, and Emma gave in gracefully.
As Randolph and Paget Eade disposed themselves on chairs, Emma watched Matthew Sutcliffe cross to where Blanche was gracefully ensconced in a tête-à-tête sofa and take the place beside her. He made a remark, to which Blanche responded with a nervous smile.
‘I hope you don’t object to accompanying me, Emma,’ said Bernard, sorting through a pile of music sheets.
‘Mind? Why should I mind? Do let’s hurry up and get it over with.’
Bernard sang well, and Emma was painfully conscious that her accompaniment was below standard. While everyone clapped politely, she saw Matthew Sutcliffe lean forward and speak again to Blanche, who smiled at him less nervously this time and lifted her gold-spangled fan in a coquettish gesture. The applause died into a moment of silence, and Jane was heard to observe in a penetrating voice, ‘They make a charming couple, do you not agree?’
Emma’s sense of shock and outrage was swiftly followed by the realisation that her Aunt Jane was not looking in Blanche’s direction, but at herself and Bernard. Her aunt was always trying to matchmake between them. It would suit her admirably, of course, if Bernard Mottram married into the family, thus ensuring his continued services as her husband’s partner, for Paget was taking his share largely in drink while Bernard ran the practice. But Emma did not dwell upon this familiar irritation; her momentary misunderstanding had crystallised a startling idea, one which had first darted into her mind when Blanche had spoken so flatteringly of Matthew Sutcliffe’s good looks. Now, as she watched the two of them talking, they appeared far more than slight acquaintances. Emma was sickened. She felt a growing conviction that in the past there had been something between Blanche and Matthew Sutcliffe. Yet in those far-off days he had been a very young man and Blanche, several years his senior, was a mature married woman whose husband. Uncle William, had still been alive.
Despite pressing requests Emma could not be persuaded to play for Bernard again. Conversation was flagging when Chloe rang for tea to be brought and Hoad entered with a large tray, followed by Seth with the silver urn. These were set out before Chloe on an oval table, and that done, the butler went round behind and addressed him in a low, discreet voice.
‘What did you say? Speak up, man. A messenger from Lady Shackleton? Well, I shall have to go to her, then.’ Paget rose to his feet and stood rocking on his heels. ‘My apologies, Chloe, but there it is. The dear lady commands the presence of her physician. Probably nothing more serious than a touch of dyspepsia,’ he added. ‘Ah well! A doctor’s life —’
‘Paget, for mercy’s sake, you’re in no fit state to go anywhere,’ snapped his wife, then broke off aghast. With a beseeching glance at Bernard, she corrected herself. ‘It seems such a pity that you should have to leave in the middle of a family party. Perhaps Bernard would be good enough to go in your place.’
‘Yes, I shall be happy to do so,’ the young man agreed, standing up at once.
‘But, my dear Jane, it’s Lady Shackleton!’ objected Paget. Everyone knew that this lady, the widow of a minister in Lord Derby’s last Tory administration, was the prize among Paget’s wealthy patients. Her numerous petty ailments required his frequent attendance and provided a fair proportion of his income. It was almost the only regular call he now paid. Jane said hurriedly, ‘I feel sure it won’t matter for Bernard to go this once. He can make an excuse for you, saying that you are out visiting another patient some distance away and cannot be reached.’
Feeling her aunt’s humiliation, Emma interrupted Bernard crossly when he leaned over her shoulder and murmured that he hoped to be back before the party ended. ‘Oh, do hurry up and go to your patient!’
‘I was just going,’ he protested, looking hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emma muttered. ‘But can’t you see that it’s all so dreadfully embarrassing?’
Of course Bernard could see it, better even than the Hardakers. Hadn’t he watched Dr Eade turn increasingly to the solace of alcohol during the six years he had been his junior partner and lived in his home? He had lately seen him at the whisky decanter at breakfast time, and invariably intoxicated by th
e evening. It was common knowledge that the death of the Hades’ young daughter had started him on the downward path, and it was tragic to see a doctor of such talent go to pieces. Bernard owed a debt of gratitude to Paget Eade, with whom his own father had been through the Afghan campaign in India twenty years ago, as Captain Eade’s medical orderly, and he might never have gained entry to medical school but for Paget’s influence on his behalf. So it was with no sense of grievance that he shouldered the bear’s share of Dr Eade’s work. He and Mrs Eade had reached a tacit understanding in trying to conceal the worst of the truth. But tonight there was no concealing it. Paget’s drunkenness was distressingly obvious to everyone.
As the door closed behind Bernard, Chloe said in a voice of determined brightness, ‘Well now, is everyone ready for tea? Randolph, and Mr Sutcliffe, will you be kind enough to do the honours for me?’
The next minute Matthew Sutcliffe was at Emma’s elbow, holding a small silver jug poised above her cup.
‘Do you take cream with your tea, Miss Hardaker?’
She refused curtly, anxious to be rid of him as quickly as possible, but within seconds he was back with his own cup of tea. The chair beside her was vacant, as Cathy had just moved across to speak to Blanche, and he enquired, ‘You don’t mind?’
Emma shrugged to indicate her indifference, and he sat down. Stirring his tea thoughtfully, he went on, ‘I was hoping, Miss Hardaker, that we could be friends. But alas, I find you suddenly and inexplicably hostile towards me.’
‘Inexplicably, Mr Sutcliffe?’
‘When we met at the bank in Bythorpe, your manner was so different. Yet now —’
‘Ah, yes! On that day, I seem to recollect, you were calling yourself by another name. And perhaps tomorrow, when you find that the name to which you now answer is not best calculated to endear you to the neighbourhood, you will decide to change it yet again.’
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Blanche was watching intently from across the room, looking none too pleased. Emma felt more than ever convinced that there had once been an involvement between the two of them.
‘I merely deleted one short syllable from my name, Miss Hardaker,’ he pointed out. ‘My intentions my only intention, was to ensure that the new tenant of Oakroyd House should not be condemned by local gossip even before his arrival. A small ruse and surely a forgivable one; not, I beg you to admit, a base deception. Even your uncle, who was annoyed at first when he discovered my true identity, has forgiven me now.’
I am not my uncle, Mr Sutcliffe,’ she said icily, ‘so do not expect me to forgive you – for anything.’
He sighed, and put down his untasted tea. ‘Can you have so quickly forgotten our meeting on the moor, the day I first arrived? Two strangers whose lives, as far as either of us knew then, held no point of connection. I had no idea who you were, that day, any more than you had the remotest conception who I might be. And up there by Black Scar Rocks, on that misty summer morning, there sprang up between us an instant feeling of rapport. How can you explain this away, Miss Hardaker, and pretend that now, for the selfsame man, you feel such antagonism?’
‘You assume too much, far too much!’
‘You mean, you do not feel antagonism? Yet you seem to show it so strongly.’
‘I presume you are willfully misunderstanding me,’ she retorted. ‘But lest there be any confusion in your mind, I’ll make my attitude crystal clear. You were mistaken in imagining any special rapport between us that morning on the moor.’
‘So I am to take it that such is your normal conduct with every strange man you happen to meet when unchaperoned -when the groom who is supposedly accompanying you has been dispatched on some unlikely errand?’
His insult brought the colour rushing to her cheeks.
‘It seems, Mr Sutcliffe, that your recollection of that morning is seriously at fault. As I recall it, we merely passed the time of day for a few moments, and then parted. But I can assure you that even this mild civility would not have been won from me had I known your true identity. Whatever anyone else might choose to do or think, whatever everyone else does, nothing will alter my opinion of you. To me, you are beneath contempt. I am only here this evening because I was ordered to be present by my uncle.’
His eyes blazed and Emma saw a pulse throb at his temple, but he made a visible effort to conquer his anger.
‘I am reprimanded and thoroughly abused for my faulty recollection,’ he said lightly. ‘Yet you cannot rob me of the version I prefer to remember. I have a picture of myself riding alone across the moor; the harsh, empty wasteland matching my sombre mood. I can still experience the shock of seeing a tall, graceful girl standing alone upon the Abraham Stone almost as though she awaited my coming. We talked briefly, and my mood was suddenly transformed. A strange feeling of happiness possessed me. Afterwards, I almost came to believe that she was some faery spirit conjured up magically from my dreams. Then to my astonishment and delight we met once more in the prosaic surroundings of the local bank, and it seemed that she still smiled upon me. Those are the memories, Miss Hardaker, to which I shall obstinately cling.’
He rose to his feet, bowed and crossed the room to where Aunt Chloe still presided over her tea table. In a daze Emma heard him saying his adieus.
‘A very great pleasure. I hope and trust that you will do me the honour of dining at Oakroyd House when my domestic staff is sufficiently organised.’ His gaze swept the assembled company – Randolph and Chloe, Paget and Jane, lingering a moment upon Blanche and passing briefly to Cathy, but never quite reaching Emma herself. ‘All of you,’ he added.
When he had gone Emma sat silent and withdrawn, a hand pressed against her thudding heart. So he had felt it too, the strangely unreal sensation that those minutes spent together up by Black Scar Rocks had been stolen out of time.
Chapter Five
‘Tell Seth to try and find some white heather for me.’ Cathy’s voice was wistful as she gazed from her window at the purple-hazed moorland slopes rising above the house. She added artlessly, ‘Oh Emma, I wish it were I instead of you who went out riding with him.’
Emma, readjusting the cambric collar of her riding habit before the looking-glass in Cathy’s room, gave her young cousin a troubled glance. Constantly she alluded to herself and Seth as if he was one of the family; a very dear brother, or closer even than that; like Cathy and Heathcliff, she had suggested. What nonsense!
‘Seth doesn’t exactly come out riding with me,’ she pointed out gently. ‘He just accompanies me as a groom because your papa doesn’t permit me to go alone.’
‘It amounts to the same thing. If it were I it would, anyway. Oh, what fun we’d have, racing our horses and leaping the sheep walls, and climbing to the very top of Black Scar Rocks, and – and -’ Her eyes were bright with longing, and Emma saw she was becoming lost in her world of make-believe.
‘Well, I must be off now,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘While I’m gone, why don’t you paste those nature pictures we cut out yesterday into your scrapbook. You always enjoy that.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I don’t feel like it.’
‘How about working on the bead table mat for Aunt Jane’s birthday, then?’
‘I might, I’ll see how I feel. Emma, you won’t forget to tell Seth about the heather, will you? I want some sprigs from right up by the Abraham Stone.’
Seth was waiting in the stable yard with the two horses saddled and ready. He helped Emma to mount, and they set off along the grassy path that linked with the old packhorse track. But the golden brightness of the morning and the sweet fragrance of the air failed to lift her spirits,
‘Cathy asked for some sprigs of white heather from Black Scar Rocks,’ she told the boy.
‘Aye, happen we’ll find some there.’ For a few minutes they rode in silence, then Seth went on, ‘’Tis being said Miss Cathy is chronic bad. Gran’mer telled me that she’ll never see the winter.’
It was exactly what Emma
feared in her heart, but she felt suddenly angry. ‘How can your grandmother possibly know that? She hasn’t even seen Cathy recently, not for ages.’
Seth didn’t reply and kept his face averted, but Emma could tell what he was thinking. It was futile for her to question how his grandmother knew such things. Ursly’s uncanny knowledge might conceivably be attributed to shrewd guesswork, but local people were convinced she had the second sight.
When they gained the high moorland Emma halted a moment, as she always did, to gaze down into the valley behind them; at the solid stone structure of Bracklegarth Hall, and beyond it the mill on the farther bank of the river, its tall chimney belching black smoke that drifted down on to the rows of terraced cottages where the mill hands lived. It was a gloomy, depressing scene, and once again Emma felt a longing to escape. She recalled the words of the old gypsy woman at the fair, ‘Ye’ll go away from here to some distant land where no one knows ye.’ Could that really be what the future held in store for her?
A soft thudding of hooves made Emma and Seth swing round in their saddles. Even at a distance she knew immediately that it was Matthew Sutcliffe. Heading in their direction at full gallop, his Cleveland bay swerved agilely past a boggy patch and took in a single confident leap a small gully that lay in its path. Emma’s first thought was one of panic. She wanted to flee from him, to avoid a meeting here in this lonely spot without other people around. But she braced herself to face him.
‘Good morning, Miss Hardaker,’ he called, bringing his horse to a halt beside her. He addressed Seth. ‘I wish to have a few words with your mistress. Leave us for a short while,’
As the lad glanced at Emma for confirmation of the order, she said quickly, ‘You will do no such thing, Seth! Stay where you are,’
An impatient frown crossed the man’s face, but he controlled himself and spoke in tones of appeal.
‘I shall be most grateful, Miss Hardaker, if you will grant me a brief conversation in private. Is it too much to ask?’
The Other Cathy Page 5