“Ye’ll ’ave ter know sometime, Josh, so ye will.”
“How dare you use my name.”
“What else would I be callin’ me brother-in-law?”
Josh’s face changed colour, the flame of violent temper turning to the ash grey of shock and beside him a whisper, “Sweet Jesus, oh sweet Jesus,” from Arthur. Nancy carefully felt for the arm of the chair and when she had found it lowered herself in to it.
“Aye so, we’re gettin’ wed, me an’ Milly, so we are, an’ ’oo should be’t first ter know but ’er family.” He gave Milly’s waist a squeeze and grinned down into her eyes which, even as he looked were turning the colour of ripe plums. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more unappetising sight in his life but it would be worth it all to live in a bloody big house like this one. He had no intention of moving to some small and poky villa, which Milly had babbled on about, and living on her allowance which, after what he had been used to, seemed phenomenal, but why make do with a jug of milk a day when you could have the whole sodding cow? It didn’t matter to him that he’d be living side by side with Nancy Brody, or them bairns of his. The former rather titillated him, since she was a fine piece and as for the kids, they need not bother him. No, he thought, in the depths of the irrational, senseless, downright moronic bit of matter he called a brain, all he wanted was to live grand as these folk did, as Nancy did, and if she could do it, who came from the same street as he did, why not him?
Amazingly, Josh smiled and his stiff, defensive, tightfisted posture relaxed.
“God’s teeth, I’ve never heard anything so bloody preposterous in my life.” He began to chuckle and then to laugh out loud. Mick O’Rourke didn’t know what “preposterous” meant, nor did he care to be laughed at. His short Irish temper flared and his fists clenched.
“Now, Michael,” Milly snuffled, putting a hand on his arm. “Joshua didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, but I did, Milly. It is quite ridiculous and you know it. Apart from his . . . connection with this family, you could not live with a bully boy like this. He comes from the dregs.”
“Like your wife, you mean,” Milly hissed.
Again a wave of maddened colour washed over Josh’s face and Nancy struggled to get to her feet in her need to restrain him. “It’s not the same thing at all,” he spat out. “Nancy is educated. She has . . . is a lady.”
“Rubbish, she’s a shameless hussy who trapped you into—”
“Be careful what you say, Millicent, for you are to live in this house beside Nancy, who is its mistress.”
“I don’t think so, Josh. You heard Michael. He and I are to be married.”
Josh whirled away, reaching for his wife’s hand in a desperate attempt to control himself, breathing hard as though to hold in the explosion that was about to burst out of him.
“Bloody hell, Milly,” he said over his shoulder, “will you come to your senses.”
“No, we are to be married.”
“That’s right, darlin’, ye tell ’im.”
Josh turned back, composed again. From beyond the window came the sound of Mr Longman’s deep voice mingling with the lighter tones of his sons as they trundled the wheelbarrow round the corner to the front lawn. With a part of his mind not seared by what was happening in this madness, Josh had time to wonder at the way the day moved on, time moved on and everything was just as it always was at Riverside House, except that it wasn’t.
He sighed. “Let’s just get something straight, shall we? I know I can do nothing to stop you marrying this oaf, since you are of age, but I beg you, Milly, to give it more thought. He is not of your class.”
“Neither is your wife.”
“Goddammit, leave Nancy out of this. She has adapted, is accepted in our circle, even if she was not born to it, but can you see this lowdown scum . . .”
“’Ere, ’oo are ye callin’ scum.”
“. . . sitting down to dine with the likes of the Lamberts? Think, Milly. There is someone better waiting for you than this,” waving a contemptuous hand in Mick O’Rourke’s direction. “And then . . .”
“Listen ’ere, Squire, we’re ter be wed, so we are, an’ nothin’ yer say’ll stop us, ay, Milly?”
“No, that’s right.”
“Very well, as I said I can’t stop you but let me just draw the contents of Father’s will to your attention. He left you nothing, since he knew I would always take care of you. Give you a decent dowry when you married, that sort of thing. So, everything you have is in my hands. I can reduce your allowance. I can make it more generous. I can also stop it completely, so perhaps you and this man would care to discuss that before he drags you up the aisle to the altar. Can he support you, I wonder, or—”
“You bastard!” Both Millicent Hayes and Michael O’Rourke spoke the same words together. Mick’s jaw had dropped and he looked ready to swing his fists at someone in his frustrated rage: Millicent, her brother, the goggle-eyed speechless youth at his side, Nancy Brody, or any of the priceless ornaments in the room, anything would do. Then his face cleared and a sneer lifted the corners of his loose mouth.
“Well, an’ might yer not feel different, Squire, if we was ter tell yer there’s a nipper on’t way. Aye, I thought that might mekk yer sit up an’ tekk notice. Shurrup, Milly, we ’ad ter tell ’im an’ now’s as good a time as any!”
31
The house was quiet, the servants tiptoeing about the place as though any loud noise might awaken another explosion of violence; but in the drawing-room, though no one spoke, the silence was loud.
Nancy sat in her chair, straight-backed, head high, eyes bright as a golden-eyed eagle, wishing her heart would stop thundering against the squirming, obviously distressed child in her womb. She knew this was not good for her, or the baby, so she must, must keep calm, though all she could think of was leaping from her chair and smashing the smiling faces of Millicent Hayes and Mick O’Rourke to pulp. She would revel in it. She would like to dabble her fingers in their blood like some ancient warrior of old but, God, let her be calm . . . please, dear Lord, if You are there, let me be calm.
Josh and Arthur stood side by side, their backs to the closed door, Arthur keeping his shoulder pressed against Josh’s to let him know that if this ruffian made a move neither of them liked his brother could count on him. They had both heard what the man had said, of course, unbelievable as it was, and one glance at Milly’s shamefaced look of guilt and embarrassment was enough to confirm it, but even so, surely it could not be possible? Not Milly, his battle-axe of a sister who, from childhood, had been able to cow him with a glance. Not Milly, who, it seemed to him, had been sewn into her corsets each morning and probably wore two pairs of drawers to keep her precious chastity safe. How could it have happened? The man was a plug-ugly bruiser, a low fellow of the common classes, the sort Milly had professed to despise, who could not speak the Queen’s English with any degree of correctness. He was inarticulate, crude, and not even very clean for God’s sake, and it was evident that he had not shaved this morning. He still had his arm about Milly and Arthur could feel his gorge rise, for though he had little love for his sister, she was his sister, a lady, and the way she nestled up to the man was disgusting. She looked like some ruffian’s moll herself with her hair all over the place, her gown every which way, a bloody handkerchief clutched to her face and what was not hidden beneath it was bruised and swollen.
“Well, I think it’s about time we sat down and talked this over,” Milly said at last, smiling up at the Irishman, then moving to sit down on the sofa at the side of the fire.
“Good idea, darlin’,” the man agreed, flushed and triumphant, since he had just dealt his trump card and had a winning hand. He moved to sit beside her on the honey-coloured velvet sofa but Josh’s icy voice brought him to an abrupt stop.
“Sit down on my mother’s sofa and I’ll knock you to the floor.” His voice was dangerous. “I’ll not have you contaminate it, d’you hear. There is nothing to discuss. I p
resume you are speaking the truth since my sister is not denying it but how in hell’s name she allowed herself to be . . . handled by someone like you is beyond me.” His voice was filled with disgust.
“Is that right, boyo? Well, let me tell yer she did, an’ enjoyed it, didn’t yer, darlin’. I’ve a way wi’t ladies, so I ’ave. Ask yer wife if yer don’t believe me.”
Josh hissed in the back of his throat. His eyes became suffused with the red of his rage, the blood of it leaking into the white. At once Nancy was out of her chair as though the burden she carried was featherlight. With a defensive movement, like a mother protecting her child, she placed herself before him, her arms outstretched.
“No, Josh. No, I say.”
“Don’t you foul my wife’s name with your filthy tongue,” he bellowed over her shoulder, longing to brush her aside to get to O’Rourke but some instinct of protectiveness, not only for Nancy but for his child, prevented him, as she had known it would. All over the house those who were still wondering what the master was shouting about in the first place, cringed and looked fearfully at one another.
“Oh, what is going on, Ellen?” Emma asked tearfully. “What on earth can Josh be so cross about?” She clutched Ellen’s arm, lifting a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes round with terror.
“I couldn’t say, Mrs Hayes, but there’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Mr Arthur is with Mr Josh and if there’s any trouble, which there won’t be,” she added hastily as Emma moaned pitifully, “the men are handy.”
“But who has called and what is all the shouting about?”
“Now then, ma’am, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably some problem at the mill.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Emma said doubtfully. “I think I’ll just go and have a word with Mrs Josh,” who could always be relied upon to comfort Emma’s fears. But Ellen, knowing the young mistress’s whereabouts, which must not be divulged to this one, shook her head.
“I believe she’s sleeping, madam,” she lied.
“Sleeping! At this time of day?”
“Well, ladies in her condition and so far along easily get tired, ma’am,” Ellen added soothingly.
“Of course.” Emma relaxed. “I was just the same.”
Ellen noticed and was not surprised by it that her mistress did not ask for her own daughter.
Downstairs it was clear that Mick O’Rourke was longing to defy this bastard, this gentleman, this member of the loathed upper classes who had kept Mick ground down all his life, which was how he saw it. For two pins he’d knock him into the middle of next week, and his snot-nosed brother an’ all. The trouble was he was not quite so nifty on his feet as once he had been, nor so handy with his fists, and besides which it would not do to get on the wrong side of the man who held the purse strings, would it, the man who was to be his brother-in-law.
He smiled ingratiatingly and remained standing, though he kept his hand in a proprietorial way on Milly’s shoulder.
“Look, Squire, you an’—”
“If you call me that again I’ll hit you.”
“Oh, yeah, I’d like ter see yer try, so I would.”
“Come outside then and when I have done so I shall throw you into the street.”
“Josh, for goodness’ sake,” Milly cut in. “There’s no need for this. There is absolutely nothing to be done about the . . . circumstances.” She looked down, dabbing at a spot of blood on her skirt, then lifted her head in what seemed to be pride. “I am with child.”
“I heard him, God help us.”
“There is no need for this language. Michael is the father of my child.”
“How many more does he mean to foist on this family?” Again Nancy made a small distressed sound in the back of her throat, then, urged by Josh’s gentle hand, resumed her seat, though it was evident by the way her eyes never left his face that she was ready for any sudden outburst on his part. Hers was over. His, it appeared, was still to come.
“Believe me, this is . . . different. We love each other. The child must have a father and I must have a husband. There is nothing more to be said.”
From the lawn beyond the partially open French windows where Mr Longman and his sons still vigorously brushed up leaves, some small altercation over the wheelbarrow arose, then died down. No one in the room noticed.
Josh studied this sister of his who, up until an hour ago, he thought he knew well. Fastidious to the point of obsession, stubborn, self-willed, self-absorbed, a woman who did her best to dominate and now it seemed it was she who was being dominated, mesmerised in some way by this appalling man and it seemed to be purely physical. She was blind to what he was, or so it seemed; how in hell’s name had it come about? Where had she found him? Who had led her to him and what game, for God’s sake, did she think she was playing? The man was dangerous. He no more wanted to get to know his daughters than he wished to make friends with a couple of pretty kittens. Somehow he had – he could hardly bring himself to contemplate it – he had persuaded Milly to . . . to drop her drawers, the picture sickening him and . . . God in heaven, the images were . . .
He pulled himself together, shutting out the dreadful pictures of Milly and this man.
“You believe there is nothing more to be said, Milly, but there is. You may marry this man since, as you tell us, you need a father for your child and a husband to support you. You shall have it. There he is, take him. Pack your bags and go with him. I never want to see him in my home again.”
“Very well.” Millicent sprang to her feet and reached for Mick’s arm. “So be it. I will let you have my address when we are settled so that my allowance can be—”
“What allowance is that, Milly?” Josh’s voice was as hard and cold and solid as packed snow.
“Oh, come now, Josh, you would not turn me out without a penny.”
“No, Millicent, while you remain unmarried to this lout you shall have a home here, you and your child, but I will not support him, nor entertain him in my house a moment longer than necessary.”
“Now then, me lad, we’ll be ’avin’ none o’ this. Begorra, this is yer sister,” Mick blustered.
“Who carries your child which you must support. I won’t see her or her child starve but you can rot in hell for all I care. In fact, it is my hope that you do.”
“Well, bugger me. What a way ter speak ter the man ’oo’s ter be a member o’t family.”
“Not this family. Now I swear to God if you’re not off my property in five minutes, you and my sister if she wishes it, I’ll have you thrown off and if you come back I’ll see you in the New Bailey.”
“Josh . . . please, Josh,” Milly began to wail, blood and snot dripping down her chin. “Let me keep my allowance. How shall we manage?” For even she knew her lover’s limitations.
“That is no longer my concern.”
“Not even for the child?”
“Only if you remain at Riverside with your family.”
Millicent’s face hardened, her moment of weakness over. Her eyes narrowed to slits of pure loathing. She gripped Michael O’Rourke’s arm with the obvious intention of leading him from the room, and from the soft life he had envisaged for himself.
“Come, Michael,” she said, her head high, her expression contemptuous.
“Just ’old on a minute.” He plucked her hand from his sleeve. “Let’s ge’ this straight.”
“By all means,” Josh said frostily. “Which part don’t you understand?”
“Are yer sayin’ there’s nowt? Not fer ’er or’t bairn.”
“You seem to have the general idea.”
“Even if I wed ’er she’s ter get nowt?”
“Especially if you wed her she gets . . . nowt!”
Mick O’Rourke lowered his head and swung it from side to side as though he were a bull tormented by a swarm of midges. He shook it so vigorously his bowler hat fell off and rolled away beneath a table. He shuddered violently, then with a huge sigh of what seemed to be a resigned
“well, what the hell,” went to retrieve it.
“Right then, darlin’,” he proclaimed to Milly, “I’m off. Back to bloody Liverpool an’ when I look at sight o’ yer I’m buggered if I’m not beginnin’ ter believe I’m well out of it, so I am.” He planted his hat squarely on the back of his head and grinned. “Well, it were worth a try, Squire, even if I ’ad ter tekk on this dried owd stick. A bag o’ bones she were to be sure, except for them titties which I enjoyed, though not a patch on’t Brody girls. Now there were juicy tits, so they were, especially yours, mavourneen,” turning to smirk at Nancy and this time she was too late.
With a howl of rage Josh hurtled across the room, knocking the Irishman to the floor, going with him and taking several small tables as well. He was not a brawler but his fists were loaded with his blood-red male hatred of the man who had known Nancy before he had. It did not matter that it was without her consent, he wanted to kill him, wipe out the pictures so that it would be as if it had never happened.
“Josh!” Nancy screamed, dragging Arthur with her in a desperate attempt to separate the two men, but they were like snarling dogs fighting over the same bitch, oblivious to everything but their need to kill each other, teeth snapping, eyes glaring and up in her room Emma cowered in Ellen’s arms.
“Josh! God in heaven, Josh,” Arthur was shouting, not quite knowing which part of his brother to get hold of.
“Michael . . . don’t hurt him please . . . please, Josh,” Millicent shrieked. It was not clear who she meant, her brother or her lover.
The door burst open and into the mêlée tumbled Charlie and Jack, summoned by the good sense of Mrs Harvey, and in a moment the two men were dragged apart. Both had blood streaming across their faces from wounds which were not yet discernible and with a foul gesture Mick O’Rourke spat a bloody tooth on to the carpet.
“Sir . . . ?” Charlie asked his master enquiringly, ready to give the visitor another going-over if required, but Josh, his madness dissipating, turned away and reached for Nancy.
“It’s all right, darling,” she murmured, her arms going about him.
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