“And this is me, Mr Meadows. Not on a pony, as you can see. I was not fond of horses so Father did not insist. He was the kindest of men.”
“Indeed, Miss Hayes, I’m sure he was,” Mr Meadows replied, as Millicent lifted a dainty square of lace to her eyes. “I found him most congenial to deal with in our business transactions.”
“Did you, Mr Meadows? But of course you did. He is sadly missed.”
Seeing that his mother was beginning to look somewhat distressed at this turn in the conversation and wanting to steer the talk away from his father’s death, over which Millicent loved to make a great drama, Josh stood up, gently returning Nancy’s hand to her lap. Millicent turned and saw the gesture and at once her brows sketched a disapproving frown, for she was of the opinion that any show of affection, especially in public, smacked of ill-breeding. But then what could you expect from a girl dragged up in the slums of Manchester, her sniff said.
“Another sherry, Meadows, and perhaps a drop more Madeira, Mother?” Josh asked, reaching for his mother’s glass. He looked very distinguished in the stark black and white of his evening clothes, and darkly handsome too, his maturity giving him something he had not had as a youth. His face was still moulded in the tender look he had just bestowed on his wife. They had not made love before dinner as they often did, since Nancy seemed unusually frail tonight. She had been inclined to tiredness over the last few weeks, which was not surpising in the circumstances. Her sister’s death had hit her badly and she seemed to blame herself in some way. She had made herself responsible for both her sisters from an early age and her inability to put Rose on the course she and Mary had followed had been a bitter blow to her. She was drooping now among the cushions, her face pale, but in a strange way calm and glowing from within and he wondered what it was as she smiled up at him.
Millicent had returned to her self-imposed task of showing off the family portraits to their guest, who was beginning to look somewhat strained, even glassy-eyed, Josh thought. He really must try to get the poor chap away from her, he told himself, when Arthur whirled about, his boyish face flushed.
“She’s here,” he exclaimed in great excitement, so that Philip Meadows might have been forgiven for thinking royalty had arrived. Arthur was hot on Nancy’s heels as she went into the hall to greet her sister and bring her in, and when she did so both men, Josh and Philip Meadows, were on their feet. Philip still had a portrait of an awkward group of children in his hand, Millicent and her two brothers, he had been told, but as his hostess led in the pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, shyly smiling and beautifully gowned vision of young womanhood who was her sister, it was dropped unceremoniously into Millicent’s lap with barely a smile or a murmur.
Another nail was hammered into the coffin that was Millicent Hayes’s hatred of the Brody sisters. She watched, unbelievingly, her eyes narrowed to slits of pure venom as naïve little Mary Brody, who had no conversation to speak of, no breeding, no proper education as far as Millicent could make out, swept the man whom Millicent had earmarked for herself off his well-shod feet. Though he had barely had a word for the cat before she arrived, letting Millicent do all the talking, she could not fail to notice that the Irish trollop and her brother’s guest had a great deal to say to one another during dinner. It was quite disgusting the way she monopolised him, the hussy, and Millicent would have a word or two to say to Josh about it later. Of course the man was probably being no more than polite, but the smiles, even the laughter that swirled gently about the table were surely out of place with her father dead in his grave no more than a few weeks.
Neverthless, by the end of the evening Millicent Hayes had the name of the man who had fathered not only her sister Rose’s baby but Nancy’s as well, and Philip Meadows had Mary’s promise that, with her sister and brother-in-law, she would dine with him at his home in Prescot.
And in the privacy of their bedroom Nancy revealed to her husband that, at last, after almost three years of marriage, she was pregnant with his child.
29
Mick O’Rourke’s face was a picture of suspicious amazement. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe the cheek of the bloody man. He pulled his arm from his grasp, backing away with his pint of ale held defensively before him, edging along the bar until he was back to back with another chap as burly as himself. There were a group of them, all dock labourers, all big men, truculent, ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, for it was pay-day and they had been in the ale-house drinking steadily since their shift had ended two hours previously.
“Bejabers an’ what’s your game? Ye’ll be takin’ yer ’and off me arm, so yer will, yer spalpeen, unless yer want me fist in yer face,” Mick roared, thrusting his pugnacious chin forward.
“There’s no call fer that, lad,” the man said mildly, a big chap who gave the impression he knew how to handle himself, which was why Mick had flinched away from him. Mick O’Rourke was no longer the bright-eyed, vigorous youth he had been years ago. Then he had strutted like the cock o’ the north he had believed himself to be. Big, powerful, strong as an ox, well-muscled, at the peak of his young manhood, a fighter, coarsely handsome and believing it would last for ever. It hadn’t, of course. Drink had done for him. Every purse he won had been poured down his throat until he could no longer dance round the prize-fighting ring on feathered feet. No longer land the vicious punches, nor avoid those aimed at him until, at last, he was told by fight promoters in no uncertain terms to “bugger off out of it”. He was twenty-five, a powerful figure still, but gross. His muscles, once so hard a man could break a hand on them, were gone soft and flabby, his face even coarser and bewhiskered, his eyes sunk in his fleshy features. Strangely, he had kept his teeth, which were straight and strong, and his hair, which was thick and dark and curling though hanging in greasy draggles. During the years since he had left Manchester he had continued to wander from place to place looking for fights and, finding none, had taken up work as a casual labourer at Liverpool docks.
He was an Irishman among Irishmen, most of them, like him, who had never seen the green of the old country but who nevertheless spoke with the lilting brogue of those born there. He lived rough, dossing down in the straw of any cellar where space could be found for a copper or two a night, earning just enough to keep him in pipe tobacco and ale and the diet of potatoes he mainly ate, since they were cheap and filling. If he remembered Nancy Brody, or even Rose, who had trailed at his back wherever he went, since there had been so many like them in his earlier days, he would have had a hard job bringing either face to his drink-sozzled mind. It was months, almost a year since he had walked out on Rose, not knowing, nor even caring, that she was carrying his child for the fifth or sixth time and as he had been in some stage of drunkenness since, his brain and liver pickled and barely functioning, he would have looked blank had her name been mentioned.
“I’ll say what’s called for, mate,” he told the man who had accosted him belligerently, making sure, nevertheless, that his fellow Irishmen were right behind him, since the man, though older than himself, had a face like a block of cement.
“Let me get ya’ a drink,” the man said genially, turning to nod at the barmaid whose mouth fell open, for Mick O’Rourke was well known in the Jack Tar and was not the sort of chap other chaps bought drinks for.
Mick was bewildered, evidently much the same thought creeping into his fuddled brain but looking a gift horse in the mouth was not one of his characteristics.
“Right,” he muttered, then swigged down what was in his pot in readiness for the next one.
“Can we go an’ sit down?” the man asked him politely, nodding at an empty table by the window.
“Wha’ for?”
“So we can talk uninterrupted.”
“Sure an’ why would we want ter be doin’ that?” Mick blustered. There were men about who had no time for women, dirty beasts whose preference was for other men, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this big chap couldn’t be one of them
and if he was, would he choose Mick O’Rourke?
“Because I’ve somethin’ ter tell yer.”
“Summat ter tell me? About wha’? I don’t know you from one o’ the little people, so I don’t, an’ . . .”
“Is yer name Mick O’Rourke?”
Mick looked flabbergasted, then nervous, for he and his mates had several little fiddles going at the docks and if this chap was a scuffer . . .
“I’m not the law, Mick. I’ve bin lookin’ for yer for weeks.”
“Oh, ’ave yer, an’ why’s that?” Mick managed to splutter.
“Come an’ sit down an’ I’ll tell yer.”
It was the first week in September and in the nursery at Riverside House four-month-old Ciara Rose Hayes, as she had been christened, thrived and grew plump, doted on by all the servants from Mrs Harvey, the housekeeper, right down to Alfie, the boot boy. She was the prettiest baby she had ever seen, Nanny Dee was fond of saying, though not when Miss Kitty was about. Miss Kitty took some beating where looks were concerned, with eyes like the bluest sapphire, and as transparent, surrounded by lashes so long and so thick it was a wonder she could see through them. Kitty Hayes was six years old now, growing tall, but with the sweet plumpness of the young child still about her. She was bright and self-assertive, shouting with all her father’s arrogance and bluster to be the first, to be noticed, to be the leader, to be the most important girl in the nursery. She thought the new girl who had appeared so suddenly and so surprisingly to be “nowt a pound”, an expression she had picked up from one of the servants. She was seriously put out that she and Freddy should have this intruder thrust upon them and said so frequently in the beginning. Then, as time passed and the baby did nothing to interfere with the possessive love she had for Freddy, indeed merely lay in her crib and watched the dancing shadows on the ceiling thrown by the nursery fire, Kitty forgot she was there. She and Freddy, who shared a birthday, did everything together, though her mother, whom she viewed with a certain antipathy, had put a stop to her sharing Freddy’s bed.
Though they had Josh Hayes as a father, one naturally, the other by law, Kitty and Freddy could not have been more different in their nature and their looks. Where Kitty had a tumble of glossy curls that rioted abundantly over her skull and halfway down her back, and the bluest of blue eyes, Freddy’s hair was a mixture of brown and gold, fine and silky and his eyes, big and framed by long brown lashes, were a pale velvety grey striped with darker lines. Kitty was rebellious, sometimes lovable, always exasperating, childishly defiant of any authority, good-humoured if not crossed, with a total lack of fear, which terrified all those who had her in their care. Where she decreed they should go, Freddy followed, trusting her with his life. They each had a pony, Punch and Judy, and, should the groom who accompanied them on the rides within their childish capabilities look away for a moment, the pair of them would be off, Kitty in the lead, of course, galloping across the water meadow at the back of the house towards the narrow bridge that crossed the river and the open fields beyond. A little madam, she was, the groom gasped, white-faced with terror when he caught up with them, Miss Kitty laughing and flushed, Master Freddy pale and big-eyed but defiant in support of his sister.
“We only wanted to see what was at the top of the hill, Charlie, that’s all,” the little madam told him huffily.
“What hill?” He had almost said “what bloody hill” he was so frightened.
“Kersall Hill. Father mentioned it and I—”
“Never mind that, miss. You could have broken your neck, or the pony’s legs, gallopin’ ’er like that. She’s not meant fer jumpin’ nor fer goin’ like a bat outer ’ell.”
“Judy can go anywhere, can’t she, Freddy? And so can Punch and I shall tell my father . . .”
“If you don’t, I certainly will, miss, if yer don’t be’ave yersen. Poor Master Freddy looks right peaked.”
“He’s not peaked, are you, Freddy?”
Freddy shook his head, unable to speak.
“Anyway, what does peaked mean?”
“Never you mind. Now gi’ me those reins an’ we’ll ride back proper like.”
The episode was only one of many. Almost every day the pair of them, to Nanny Dee’s despair, were up to something that Miss Kitty, with her fertile imagination, her fearlessness, her careless indifference to anyone’s feelings but hers and Freddy’s, dreamed up. They had a governess now, Miss Croston, who had been chosen by Nancy for her dedication to discipline as well as her qualifications as a teacher. Miss Croston had impressed Nancy with her no-nonsense approach to the training of young ladies and gentlemen and her honesty in expressing it. Should it lose her the position, Miss Croston would not hide her belief that children needed a stronger will than their own to guide them, perhaps not a trait many indulgent parents, especially of girls, might value, but exactly what was needed in the case of young Miss Kitty Hayes. Now Freddy, without Kitty to encourage him to mischief, would have lived his days placidly, equably, sweet-natured as his mother had been, wanting to please, content with the slow, dreaming days of his happy and protected childhood. Perhaps Miss Croston might be a little severe for his gentle nature, but by God she was needed to tame the hellion Nancy’s own child could turn into at the first hint of restraint. Where did she get it, this streak of wildness that flamed her eyes to gleaming blue pools of molten lividity? Nancy often anguished. Her father had been hot-tempered and lawless, self-willed and strong-minded, and she herself had a strength and resolution that had carried her through many a crisis, but Kitty’s wilful determination to have her own way and to take Freddy with her was quite frightening at times.
But still, they were only six years old. Babies really, and Miss Croston’s firm hand on the tiller might be all that was needed to steer them into the calm waters of the well-behaved and treasured childhood Nancy envisaged, not only for Kitty and Freddy, but for her sister’s child.
Ciara Rose! What a treasure she was, everybody said. An amiable baby, no trouble to anyone, Nanny Dee remarked fondly, with a black look in Miss Kitty’s direction. She resembled Kitty, which was not unusual since they were cousins, Nanny said to Minnie, but in Ciara, even at four months, there was a brightness, a sweetness that was heartwarming, drawing the members of the household to her like pins to a magnet. There was always one or other of them hanging over her crib or her baby carriage for a sight of her delighted smile. She smiled at everything that moved, enchanted with them all, her small, pouting rosebud mouth stretching over her shining toothless gums, her small tongue quivering, her hands reaching to clutch at a strand of hair or a playful finger. She had an endless gift of enjoyment, sharing it with them all, the gardener Mr Longman as dear to her as Nanny Dee and Minnie. Her hair was a fluff of black curls on the top of her shapely skull, her cheeks were round and pink and her eyes a deep, almost purple blue and there was no doubt whose favourite she was at Riverside House. Certainly not Kitty’s, who was only concerned with Freddy in any case.
And at Christmas, not only to the ecstatic delight of the father-to-be who, though he had said nothing to his beloved wife, had begun to give up hope, but to the prospective grandmother, there was to be a fourth child in the nursery. Emma could not have been more enraptured if the good Queen herself had sent messages of congratulations. At last, a legitimate child in the house. A baby whose father was Emma’s son and a mother who was Emma’s daughter-in-law. A baby conceived and to be born in holy wedlock and though she adored her grandson, Freddy, she had never been able to bring herself to boast about him to her friends who were also grandparents. To brag about his skill in reading even though he was only six, his graceful horseman’s seat, the way he grew out of his clothes, his sweet nature, in fact all the things so dear to a grandmother’s heart.
Her daughter, who, lately, had gone about looking like the cat who has swallowed the cream, was less enthusiastic. It was not that the children in the nursery ever crossed her path and if they did it was doubtful she would have recognised t
hem, but she resented their very presence in her genteel life. Three illegitimate children, that’s what they were even if her besotted brother had legally adopted them and given them his name. The last brat with the outlandish christian name was child to neither Josh nor his wife, the bastard daughter of Nancy’s own sister, and – she had to admit it – that roughly attractive man she had met in Mr Bellchamber’s office.
That had been a month ago, though he had been found in June, or so Mr Bellchamber had told her.
“He . . . well, to be honest, Miss Hayes, he was not fit to be in a lady’s company when my man found him, and to be blunt I am astonished and dismayed, and not a little bewildered, as to why you should want him found. He is a common man, Miss Hayes, a labouring man and—”
“What he is, or is not, is no concern of yours, Mr Bellchamber. I have a particular interest in this man and—”
Mr Bellchamber interrupted her coldly.
“You would have had no interest in him when he was found, Miss Hayes, believe me. He was a lout, a guzzler of beer and gin when he could afford it. Yes, you might well wrinkle your nose in distaste, for the smell of him was enough.”
“Mr Bellchamber, really. Is there any need to be so brutal?”
“You are dealing with a brute, Miss Hayes, and I must say I find myself somewhat alarmed for your safety. I beg you never to remain alone with him, if you value your . . . your . . .”
Mr Bellchamber evidently did not know how to phrase his fears for Miss Hayes’s person, though he did admit to himself that it would be a brave man who took on this grim-faced woman. It had taken many weeks of hard and demanding work to bring Michael O’Rourke into anything resembling a male human being, the whole process paid for out of Miss Hayes’s pocket. She wanted him presentable, she said, halfway fit for decent company, his drinking stopped, or at least cut down, his body, as best it could, returned to the health of a man in his mid-twenties, and today, after weeks of fighting with the man who had found him and in whose care he had been put, O’Rourke was at last deemed fit to meet Miss Hayes. He hadn’t been told why, only that there was something in it for him.
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