‘Yes, but we have such strong ties holding us together; they can never be broken, don’t you see that?’
‘Mamma!’ The young girl spoke sharply, but her mother’s withering glance silenced her.
Mary leaned forward. ‘Don’t try to tell me that this girl is my husband’s daughter,’ she said, her heart thumping rapidly. ‘I happen to know that you ran away with Dean Sutton, and it takes a real slut to play off two brothers against each other.’
Mary Anne drew on her gloves with agonising slowness, smoothing the lacy material over her plump fingers as though the task was the most important thing in all the world.
‘Insult me all you like, but I’m not telling you anything that you can’t see for yourself, honey.’ She smiled dazzlingly and rose to her feet. ‘What a charming place you have here – you were most fortunate in marrying a man as well heeled as Brandon Sutton, weren’t you?’
Mary shook her head, pushing down her anger at the injustice in the woman’s words. Brandon had been a struggling business man when they had married, while she had wrested a successful living out of selling; but there was little point in telling Mary Anne all that, she wouldn’t listen anyway.
Mary Anne rested her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘One thing I will say, honey, is that Brandon gave me more than he’s ever given you.’ Her meaning was crystal clear and Mary felt the hot colour rise to her cheeks. Her instinct was to order the woman to leave and never come into the emporium again, but that would be admitting defeat.
She forced herself to smile pleasantly, holding her head high. ‘And how many men have you told the same fairy tale to, Miss Bloomfield?’ She saw the anger fleeting across Mary Anne’s face with a fierce dart of satisfaction and then turned away, walking swiftly towards the door; she felt in need of fresh air.
There was a pain growing inside her as the knowledge of Brandon’s duplicity rose uppermost in her mind. She did not give credence to Mary Anne’s claim that he was the father of her child because she did not want to believe it. She preferred to believe that Virginia’s ‘Sutton look’ came from Brandon’s brother Dean. Yet the fact that Brandon had gone straight from her arms to Mary Anne in order to say goodbye hurt her deeply. Was there anything still between them, she wondered anxiously? There was only one person who might be able to tell her and that was Dean Sutton himself, for he had run away with Mary Anne all those years ago back in America, stolen his brother’s fiancée – surely he would know the truth about Mary Anne and her daughter… if he could be persuaded to divulge it.
The driver was waiting outside the store with the automobile and Mary’s heart missed a beat as it occurred to her that Jim would know where Brandon had gone that morning. The man held open the door for her, his weathered face wreathed in a smile of welcome.
‘Finished work early today, Mrs Sutton? Good thing too, you’re doing more than enough what with the store and your stint on the trams.’ He climbed into the driving seat. ‘We’re all right proud of you and of the Master too – I hope you don’t take offence at me being so familiar like.’
Mary sighed and settled back in the cold leather of the seat. ‘I’m not doing anything different from any other woman, we all have to do our best in times like these.’
Jim was silent as he negotiated the car through the crowds in the Stryd Fawr, heading away from the busy roadways towards the western slope.
‘Did you go with Mr Sutton to the station, Jim?’ Mary hated herself, yet the question was whirling round in her brain begging to be asked.
Jim tipped his cap back on his head. ‘No, Mr Sutton had business to do in town so I just dropped him off. There’s smart and distinguished he looked in his uniform –be going to the Front with him I’d be too, if I was a younger man.’
Mary Anne Bloomfield had been telling the truth then… Brandon had gone to see her before leaving Sweyn’s Eye. The thought was like a pain inside her.
* * *
Shortly afterwards, the matter of Brandon visiting Mary Anne was thrust from Mary’s mind with startling abruptness when she received the ominous communication. She stared down at the official envelope, her heart freezing in fear, then gazed around the familiar dining room, giving herself a few moments’ respite. At last her fingers tore at the envelope and she forced herself to read the words that leaped out at her. Fragments of them burned her eyes:
REGRETS… HUSBAND… MISSING BELIEVED KILLED…
With a moan of pain Mary slumped over the table, but though despair rose in waves to engulf her she could not find relief in tears.
She had little recollection of the next few days and it was a misty, dismal evening when she realised that her life must continue as normally as possible. When she called for Jim to take her out he nodded with his eyes full of sympathy.
‘All right, Mrs Sutton, I’m ready – you’ve only to say the word.’
The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly and it was as though a huge question mark hung in the air. Mary rushed into speech, not wanting Jim to say anything that might hurt her.
‘I must go to Market Street, see Katie Murphy. You must have heard about the explosion in the munitions factory, Jim?’ She spoke conversationally as though her heart wasn’t breaking, and Jim acted as though nothing untoward had happened in the Sutton household.
‘Aye, it’s all over town. Terrible thing when innocent young girls get blasted into eternity. Didn’t have a prayer, for once those gaines explode there’s no time to run and hide.’ His voice was bitter. ‘Place for youngsters is at home preparing for motherhood, not filling shells with TNT. God damn those Huns… if you’ll excuse the language, Mrs Sutton.’
Mary settled into an unquiet silence, her mind twisting and turning as though a black cloud had settled above her. She must shake herself out of it, she thought painfully.
It would be a good idea to talk to Katie. She would take her some honey and a basket of vegetables from the garden, for at the Sutton household there was no shortage of food. Mary felt she owed Katie and her family a great debt for she had been given shelter beneath their roof, sharing a room with Katie at a time when she needed help most – that was a kindness she would never forget.
Later, as Jim drove her through the silent streets, she found herself thinking of the nursery wing waiting vainly to be used. The rooms were painted cream and blue, with frothy lace drapes on the empty crib. It was a room that was meant to house the future Suttons, but now that must remain only a dream.
Mary sighed and brushed back her hair; it was tied with a dark green bow, for she had been too weary to have it combed and primped into the wide brushed-back style that fashionable ladies were given to wearing.
She drew her coat more closely around her, feeling cold in the mist of the evening.
Outwardly she had changed very little since her marriage, at least in appearance. Her face was still smooth and unlined, her hair held no trace of grey although she was past her thirtieth year. She bit her lip in anguish – now she would never bear the child she so longed for. ‘Stop it!’ she said harshly. Crying over might-have-beens was of no use at all – where was the courage that had brought her from life in a hovel to the successful businesswoman she now was?
Market Street was soft under the gas lighting. The contours of the buildings blurred the windows, gleaming like friendly eyes. Katie Murphy’s face lit up when she saw Mary and she drew her into the snug kitchen, hugging her arm in friendship.
‘You look pale,’ Katie said, studying her anxiously, ‘and there’s such a look in your eyes – what’s wrong, tell me?’
‘I’m all right.’ Mary couldn’t speak of the pain inside her, not just yet. ‘I’ve come to see how you are, cariad, I see there’s a nasty gash on your forehead from the explosion.’
The welcoming light faded from Katie’s eyes. ‘Sure, but ’tis little enough hurt compared with the loss of two of my girls.’
Mary clasped her hands tightly, ‘I know.’ She spoke softly and after a moment Katie nodde
d her head.
‘You’d understand more than most. Come and sit down, me dad’s taken Mam to visit the O’Connors, to sympathise with them in their grief at losing a daughter.’ There was a glint of tears in Katie’s eyes and Mary sighed, the bitterness of her own loss heavy within her.
‘This war’s got a lot to answer for.’ Mary knew that she was referring to her own life and now she felt almost compelled to speak. ‘It’s Brandon,’ she rushed out the words. ‘I’ve been informed that he’s missing…’ she couldn’t bring herself to utter the words, ‘believed killed’.
‘Oh Mary.’ Katie hugged her warmly. ‘I’m so sorry! What is happening to our little world? Everything’s changing, so ’tis, and we powerless to do anything about it.’
They talked softly together, Mary spilling out her sense of hurt and loss and Katie listening with patience and sympathy.
‘If only I had his child,’ Mary’s voice was full of anguish, ‘at least then I’d have part of him.’
‘There, there, ’tis all in the hands of fate,’ Katie said in her gentle way.
Mary rose to her feet, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. ‘I’ve got to get on, Katie,’ she made an effort to control the trembling of her hands as she drew on her coat, ‘but if you ever want to get away from the munitions factory there’s always your old job in my store, you know that.’
Mary left the house in Market Street and stood staring around her, breathing in the familiar smell of the place. So much had changed and yet so little, she thought bitterly.
‘Go on home, Jim,’ she said softly to the driver. ‘I need to walk a little.’
Reluctantly he drove away, while Mary stood still in the gloom until the sound of the engine could no longer be heard. Then she made her way slowly along the shining surface of the roadway where pools of light washed down from the lamps, the glow seemingly diluted by the mist. She paused in Canal Street to stare at the derelict laundry that had once been the hub of the area.
It was here she had worked as a young girl, rising to overseer, her endeavours much appreciated by old Mr Waddington… God rest his soul.
She thought with renewed bitterness of the way Brandon’s father had bought up the laundry and how – hating Mary – he had driven her away from the job she had delighted in. And then as though in poetic justice, one of the long-neglected boilers had blown up, causing such devastation that the laundry had not functioned since.
A cab drew up beside Mary and a tall figure alighted directly in her path, knocking her sideways. She fell against the wall, feeling the harsh stone graze her cheek, then she was caught up in strong arms. She became aware of dark eyes staring at her and it was a moment or two before she recognised Dr Soames.
‘I’m so sorry.’ His voice was harsh with remorse. ‘I hope you’re all right?’ He placed a steadying arm around her and suddenly Mary found herself dissolving into tears.
‘Hello, what’s this then, you are hurt? Look, come inside, let me see to you properly.’
He led her unprotesting into his room, where a fire roared and sucked behind black-leaded bars. Mary sank down on the couch, grateful for the heat that went some way to dispelling the cold within her.
He looked concerned as he rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows and then he was beside her. ‘Let me help you off with your coat and then I can check to see if there are any bruises.’
She tried to tell him she was all right, but the words would not come. His expression was one of concern as he felt her limbs carefully.
‘Nothing broken, thank God! You can call me a clumsy ox if it helps.’
‘I’m all right, there’s nothing to worry about.’ She looked up at him as he knelt by her side and their eyes met and held. The admiration in his gaze was like a balm and she leaned forward almost unthinkingly. His mouth was gentle upon hers and then passion seemed to grow within him as he held her close.
Shakily he would have moved away but she held his shoulders, her grip almost fierce.
‘I’d better take you home,’ he said carefully but she shook her head.
‘No, please, I don’t want to go home.’
He drew her into his arms once more and then he was lying alongside her on the couch, cradling her.
The flames from the fire leaped upwards along the walls and ceiling and somehow just being in the small, familiar room was reassuring. That she was in another man’s arms did not seem wrong… Brandon was beyond solace, but she was not.
She did not even know Dr Soames’ first name, but she clung to him with a feeling of relief. Even when his breathing became heavy and his embrace more passionate, still she did not draw away. He was human contact, another being who would help her through the loneliness of the long night, and she felt nothing but gratitude towards him. She closed her eyes and clung to his broad shoulders and was comforted.
Chapter Twenty-One
The roads shone bluey-grey, washed fresh by the rain. Pools of molten gold splashed the cobbles, falling softly from the gas lamps. Sparks shooting from the plethora of chimney stacks rising to the darkness of the sky crackled and hissed a monster’s breath on the night air.
Rhian’s footsteps faltered, although she had stepped out from the mill purposefully enough, anxious to speak to Mansel Jack and see for herself that he was unharmed. She had been numbed by the horror of the explosion at his factory and knew deep within her that the death of the two young girls would have affected him badly.
Leaving behind the streets of the town, she began to walk up the hill; she could have taken a tram, but needed time to gather her thoughts together. It was not easy for her to visit Mansel Jack’s home, since he might misinterpret the gesture.
As Rhian drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders the fringes lifted in the breeze – red, white and blue, the colours of patriotism. She smiled to herself, for the shawls were continuing to sell well, she was bringing in a steady income and trade was improving all the time. The fact that she now had Gina Sinman’s help in the mill made a big difference and they had settled into a good routine. Carrie meantime busied herself with the children, so happy that she sang at her work and her face shone with joy as she saw to the needs of the small boy and girl in her care.
Rhian’s heart melted when she thought of Cerianne, her brother’s child and so like him that it took her breath away.
And now there was no more time for prevaricating, for she stood outside the house where Mansel Jack lived and her hands trembled. It was a modest building, plain but solid, with pointed roofs over narrow windows. At the door Rhian almost turned and fled; what words of comfort could she offer him and what made her think he would want to see her? ‘Don’t be soft!’ she said aloud and before she could lose her courage she lifted the heavy knocker.
He opened the door himself and for a long moment Rhian stood on the step looking up at him. Then he moved back a pace and without a word she stepped into the light and warmth of the hallway that smelled of beeswax.
‘It’s good to see you, lass.’ He spoke softly, his eyes searching her face. She met his gaze and was glad she had come.
‘I heard about the explosion, I wanted to come sooner but I wasn’t sure…’ She bit her lip, knowing that she was not expressing herself well, but he seemed to understand.
‘It’s at such times that a man needs friends about him.’ He led the way into a small drawing room where the windows were hung with heavy curtains and the furniture was plump and shabby. Rhian stood near the door uncomfortably until Mansel Jack gestured for her to take a seat.
‘The accident has done one thing for me,’ he said, standing with his back towards the glowing fire, ‘It’s helped me make up my mind to leave the munitions and enlist in the Army.’ He stared down at her so openly that he couldn’t be aware how his words were twisting inside her. Rhian felt as though the earth had moved from beneath her feet, the very light was going out of her life – and in that moment of crystal clarity, she knew that she loved Mansel Jack more than anyone in th
e world.
‘When will you be going?’ The words stumbled over themselves and he stared at her, his expression stern. He thrust his hands into his pockets in a swift movement.
‘Soon. This war’s gone on longer than any of us thought possible and the country needs more manpower.’ He smiled and his face was alight, his eyes crinkled, ‘They’ll even take an old man like me now.’
The look in his eyes took Rhian’s breath away. That he was eager to fight for his country was obvious, but how could she bear it knowing he lived in perpetual danger?
‘Don’t look so grieved, lass.’ His words fell softly into the silence. ‘Sad, but so beautiful.’
She looked at him quickly, the colour rushing to her cheeks, her throat dry as she waited for him to speak again.
‘Forget I said that – I’ve no right, not with Charlotte waiting at home for me.’
‘It’s all right, I know you were simply being kind.’ The words were drawn from her slowly and painfully. Although he did not touch her, the strength of his presence seemed to enfold her and she wondered fleetingly how it would be to have the love of such a man. But she pushed the thought aside angrily; she too was spoken for, Heath loved and trusted her.
He seemed to sense something of her feelings and took a step towards her, his eyes dark, but she moved rapidly away from him.
‘No!’ The word was sharp, incisive, brooking no argument.
His face darkened. ‘You’re right, lass.’ He strode quickly into the hallway. ‘I’ll see you home.’
In the silent darkness of the night, they walked side by side yet separated by an enormous gulf. She longed to reach out her hand to touch him and she knew deep in the core of her being that if she did, she would be in his arms but to what end? A quick roll in the hay would not do for her… nor for him either, she thought, glancing up at him.
How she loved him! She stared at the light falling across his strong features and her heart ached with the longing to reach out and touch him. She had never been in his arms, never felt his lips upon hers, yet she knew that nothing could ever match the intensity of her feelings for this man.
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