Worst of all, life was dull now that she was gone, so boring, with the aunts pandering to his every whim. As if on cue, there was Cissie now. He heard her irritatingly gentle scratch upon the door, as if she had no real wish to disturb him but would do so anyway, for how could she get in otherwise, if she didn’t knock? And if she didn’t scratch on his door, one or other of her pesky dogs did it for her.
‘Come in Aunt Cissie,’ Eliot called, striving to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘How did you know it was me?’
He closed his eyes, uttering a silent prayer for patience as she came flustering into the room. She was carrying a tray on which was set a coffee pot, cup and saucer and a small plate of chocolate biscuits. Under her arm were tucked his slippers. He gave a resigned sigh as she set down the tray, pretending to be engrossed in The Times so as to avoid further conversation as she proceeded to add milk and sugar to the coffee she painstakingly poured into the cup. Aunt Cissie was fond of finding tidbits of information in the local Westmorland Gazette which she thought might amuse him. Unfortunately they were generally concerned with such gems as the county show, which dog had won first prize for obedience, or who had caught some huge fish or other in Lake Windermere or Ullswater, and generally did not interest him in the slightest.
‘There you are dear, now see that you drink it while it’s hot. Don’t let it go cold this time. Shall I put your slippers by the fire to warm?’
Eliot managed to stretch his lips into a smile even as he ground his teeth in frustration. ‘As you wish, Aunt. As you wish.’ He felt as if he were being suffocated by their good will, as if he were choking from lack of air. Every move he made was noted and remarked upon.
‘Did you have a nice walk, dear?’ they would say when he returned. Or, ‘Was it an interesting meeting, dear? I’m afraid your comments at last week’s council meeting were not particularly approved of by the Gazette.’ Wagging a chiding finger as if he were a naughty boy.
And they had an uncanny knack of always knowing where he was and what he was doing, or somehow knew about his movements in advance. ‘Isn’t it today that you have the meeting about the almshouses?’ they would blithely ask, clearly knowing full well. Or, ‘Don’t be late for the office today, dear. Isn’t the accountant coming this morning?’ Sometimes, he wondered why they bothered to ask, when they clearly already knew everything about his life down to the last detail.
It was a puzzle to him how they did know. Did they listen at keyholes, or read his diary? He found himself becoming increasingly paranoid about his personal affairs.
They even commented upon every morsel of food he ate, or when he chose to eat it. Should they tell cook that he didn’t care for haddock? Would he like something different? Was the time for lunch convenient? Were they correct in assuming that he would not be in for dinner this evening? It was true that he was growing increasingly fond of eating out but Eliot had reached such a level of desperation in an effort to guard his privacy that he would often pretend to be out when really he was hiding in his study, hoping they wouldn’t notice. But of course they did notice, and that’s when the fetching of small snacks had started, muffins or ham sandwiches, thinking that he’d missed dinner.
So on this occasion he would do his best to remember to drink the dratted coffee, otherwise he’d have to pour it in the aspidistra yet again, which surely did the plant no good at all.
And no doubt tomorrow it would be Vera’s turn to wait upon him. The pair fiercely competed with each other to fetch and carry, to bring his whisky, his cigar, his slippers, as if by doing so they could make certain that he wouldn’t send them packing, back to their dull lives and their claustrophobic little cottage in Heversham.
If the aunts were a constant source of irritation to him, Lucy was even worse.
Dear Lord, what was he going to do about Lucy? Why he hadn’t told her and her spoilt children to leave years ago, he couldn’t imagine. But no, that wasn’t strictly correct. He knew well enough why he didn’t ask her to go. It was all because of a foolish sense of guilt he still nursed over Charles. He’d been compelled to sell both his brother’s properties in the end, so how could he? She wasn’t entirely to blame for what had happened. She was also a victim of Charles’s own greed and stupidity, and of what he had led her to expect, as his wife.
Of course, Charles had been wrong to attempt to perpetrate that fraud but Eliot felt he should have realised how very deeply in debt his brother was, and done more to help him. At the time, he’d believed it was enough to urge him to curb his wife’s excesses. Having Lucy live in his house these last five years had taught him how optimistic and unrealistic that hope had been. Money ran through her fingers like water. Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to throw her out.
If she was a spendthrift, Eliot felt it incumbent upon himself to attempt to rectify that flaw. He arranged for Lucy to be paid a monthly allowance and set Aunt Vera the task of offering sensible advice on how to manage a budget, thinking that as a very upright, Christian lady, she would make an ideal candidate.
Despite the sale of property, furniture and art, and the steam yacht of course, none having quite brought their true value, there were still an astonishing number of outstanding debts. He’d settled as many as he could, though he’d been forced to ask for time to pay the outstanding balance, due to the financial disasters the company had suffered.
Sadly, none of this succeeded in penetrating Lucy’s blithe determination to carry on spending regardless. She simply could not comprehend the skills of good housekeeping, of keeping a check on her expenditure or restraining her needs in any way. Aunt Vera would scold and lecture, cajole and bribe. A case in point recently had been that of Bunty and the dratted new dance shoes.
‘No, Aunt Vera, you don’t understand. The display is next week and she simply must wear pink, so her old white shoes will not do at all.’
‘But why must she wear pink, when she has a perfectly good white pair, and ballet frock to match?’
‘It’s called a tutu, Aunt, and the white one was for when she was a snowflake. Now she is to be a pink rose.’
‘Couldn’t she be a white rose?’ The faint shadow of a moustache along Aunt Vera’s upper lip was very nearly bristling.
‘Dear me, no. I really think white was a mistake. Darling Bunty’s skin is far too fragile and pale, like mine, for her to look good in white. No, no, it must be pink. Shoes and a new tutu to match.’
But the last outfit cost a small fortune, and she’ll have grown out of it before ever she gets her proper wear from it. Buying a second set so soon is profligate, dear girl. Utterly profligate. Let the child be satisfied with what she has already.’
Lucy responded by going into sulk. ‘Really, it would be far more useful if the company made the shoes for her, instead of concentrating entirely upon leather.’
‘Don’t be foolish. It isn’t the job of Tyson’s to make ballet pumps for silly little girls. I repeat, let the child be satisfied with white, and have done with the matter.’
‘I want pink! I want pink!’ screamed Bunty, stamping her small feet and going very red in the face.
‘Why are we being persecuted in this way? I really can’t see what all the fuss is about that a little girl can’t be permitted to have a pair of new shoes.’ Lucy sobbed above the din.
‘And a new dress.’
‘Tutu!’
Bunty lay down on the floor and started to drum her heels in protest until Aunt Vera was almost tearing her hair with frustration, and of course, in the end, caved in and agreed to the purchase of the pink ballet shoes, matching tutu, or whatever other non-essential item was in dispute.
And so the battles continued. Eliot was in despair. His sister-in-law remained as greedy and extravagant as ever, with not the slightest degree of common sense, and short of cutting her off without a penny and turning her from his door to care for her three children as best she may, which of course was utterly unthinkable, he saw little hope of his s
ucceeding where Aunt Vera had failed. Lucy would do as she pleased, and no one seemed to have the power to prevent her.
Chapter Three
Always, after one of these battles, Lucy would storm to her room to expend her tantrum upon her pillows, blaming Eliot, and the aunts. That dratted family really didn’t want her around. They didn’t even want her precious children.
Darling Bunty was now twelve years old with her mother’s ebony hair screwed into inappropriate ringlets, a pale, insipid complexion and small blue-grey eyes that darted about as if afraid of missing something. Even her own mother had to admit that she was not a particularly pretty child, her face and body being too round, almost stocky, with very little grace and beauty. Nor could Lucy deny that her daughter’s mouth possessed a decidedly peevish twist to it. Jack, at thirteen, had mouse brown hair and a weak chin, and he was already growing quite chubby. Very much his father’s son. Last but by no means least, came Georgie with his cherubic smile and contradictory behaviour; always full of mischief and naughtiness. At nine years old he had recently started preparatory school, while the two older children had been enrolled into the most expensive academies Lucy could find for them.
‘Dear Lord,’ Eliot would say whenever she presented him with an account for fees, or sports equipment, riding lessons or whatever. ‘How much? I’m not buying the whole dratted school, am I?’ He really was the meanest man imaginable. Far worse even than poor Charles.
Lucy regarded herself as a doting mother. She was always pleased to see her children during the long vacations, wearing though they undoubtedly were, and would beam proudly upon them, pat her son on the head and give her daughter an affectionate peck on the cheek, declaring her delight at seeing them look so well. She would claim to be looking forward to enjoying their company over Christmas, or Easter, but then would sigh with relief when they returned at the end of the vacation, leaving her in peace.
But peace to do what? Without a husband she held no status in the household. It really was quite outrageous that in all of this time she had found no other likely suitor, none rich enough to qualify as one, that is. Nor had Eliot made any effort to find her a husband by introducing her to some of his more affluent friends. He was entirely dilatory in that respect.
But then nothing ever went smoothly where she was concerned.
Look at that dratted whore of Eliot’s for a start. Lucy had very cleverly managed to abduct that stupid child of hers and whisk him away so that they’d never find him again, and what had she done? Had she gone into a tearful decline? Not a bit of it. She’d resurrected herself stronger then ever.
Lucy made it her business to keep abreast of everything that went on in that slut’s affairs, how she still searched for her child, still asked questions of everyone she met.
At least she’d had the far-sightedness to move the boy far away from the workhouse. She’d once visited the farm, over in the Langdales where she’d sent him, sitting in her pony and trap just out of sight under the shade of an over-hanging tree and watched the boy as he’d laboured on the fells. She would have known his bright copper knob anywhere. The farmer had come out at one point and yelled to him across the yard. When the boy hadn’t immediately responded, he’d marched over and slapped him about the head before dragging him back to the house by his collar. Oh, Lucy had enjoyed that so much her mouth had positively watered with pleasure. It was perfectly plain that Callum was being treated as a farm hand, not a son of the household, which was exactly what she’d hoped. Satisfied, she’d whipped her horse to a trot and hurried away, entirely happy.
Now, as she sat in her room weeping with frustration, gloomily going over her failing hopes for her own future, the solution came to her. She would marry Eliot. Goodness, why hadn’t she thought of this before? By far the best solution. There would be no danger then of his finding another, more fertile wife, or of her own three children not inheriting the business. The tears instantly dried and Lucy set about repairing the damage. Dressing in her finest, diaphanous silk negligee.
She waited until the house was absolutely silent and even the aunts had switched off their light and, so far as she could tell, were fast asleep. Then she went to his room and quietly slipped in without even tapping on his door.
Lucy realised at once that she’d made the most dreadful mistake. You’d have thought she was the wild witch from the dark woods to judge by his reaction as she slid between the sheets beside him. He leapt from the bed as if it were on fire.
‘What the hell are you about now, Lucy?’
‘I thought it might make sense if we got together. Isn’t that what you want, deep down? After all, it’s not as if we’re blood related. I’m only your sister-in-law, your dead brother’s widow. It’s not against the law.’
‘It’s against all laws of decency. For God’s sake Lucy, leave my room this minute, and pull yourself together.’
Perhaps rather foolishly, she did not do so. Still believing she could win him, Lucy slid her nightgown from her naked shoulder sufficiently for him to enjoy the ripe fullness of her breasts, regarding him with the kind of provocative lust in her violet eyes that had once excited and entranced Charles, resulting in three handsome children. This thought suddenly brought her to a startled awareness, giving her exactly the ammunition she needed. She wasn’t too old for more children, not quite yet.
‘Wouldn’t you like a child of your own?’ she challenged him, crawling across the bed to slide her body up against his, slip her arms about his neck and mouth kisses over his bare chest. Evidently he slept only in his drawers and very fine he looked in them too. His body was leaner, harder and far more exciting than Charles’s had ever looked. Her decision to offer herself to him had been for reasons of security only, insurance in a way, but this really might be quite fun. She was surely not without the necessary powers of persuasion to somehow tease or provoke him into having sex with her? And she was perfectly willing to please him in any way he liked. Wasn’t she used to all manner of nonsense with dear Charles?
‘Aren’t you absolutely desperate for a child? Unlike poor dear Amelia, I have proved myself fertile. My children are already Tyson’s and we could have more. Together. What could be more sensible? You might even enjoy the getting of them, once you stop pining for a dead wife.’
It was as if she had put a light to touch paper. Never, in all her life, had Lucy seen a man so angry. He went white to the lips. So angry was he that she half expected him to physically throw her from his bed, which might have proved rather interesting and erotic, come to think of it. Sadly, instead he snatched up his robe and stalked out of the room, presumably to spend the night on the couch in his study. Lucy didn’t set eyes on him again, although she stayed in his bed until Fanny brought in breakfast next morning, and dropped the tray all over the bedroom rug when she found Lucy there, instead of the master.
‘You’ll never believe what’s happened now,’ Fanny told Mrs Petty when she scuttled back to the kitchen to collect a second tray of breakfast. But Mrs Petty did believe it, every word, although the tightening of her lips showed that she didn’t like it, not one little bit.
As she sliced more bread, wafer thin as madam insisted, and added a scraping of butter, Mrs Petty gave a loud sniff of disapproval. ‘I never did like that piece of baggage. Allus did have an eye to the main chance. Too full of herself by half. The poor master would’ve been much better off with that other one.’
‘Which other one?’
‘That Kate person, the girl from Poor House Lane. She had more grace in her little finger, than this mucky little madam has in all of her nasty body.’
Dennis paused in the cleaning of the harness and other trappings to think about this for a moment, ‘I’d call Miss Lucy’s body more tasty than nasty,’ and earned a clip round the ear from Fanny, for his trouble.
‘Well you would, I suppose,’ Fanny told him tartly. Dennis had proved to be a great disappointment to her, never having produced the expected ring or shown any inclinatio
n to make their relationship more permanent. She suspected he had a fancy woman somewhere but didn’t like to question him too closely on the subject, in case it were true.
‘She’s doing well for herself an’ all these days,’ added Mrs Petty, setting a freshly brewed pot of tea on the tray beside the plate of bread and butter.
‘Who is?’ Fanny picked up the tray and swung away, deliberately turning her back on Dennis to let him see that she didn’t care a jot whether he had another woman or not, and certainly had no intention of allowing him a quick fumble at her breasts, as he was so fond of doing. But in her fluster to avoid him, and escape back upstairs before Miss Lucy got in one of her tantrums, she’d quite lost track of the conversation.
‘I’ve just told thee, that other one. Kate whatever she were called.’
‘O’Connor. Kate O’Connor.’ Dennis said.
‘Aye, that’s her, that’s the one he should have taken up with. Couldn’t be any worse than Madam Lucy.’
‘Aye, yer right,’ Dennis agree. ‘Her business is doing well enough to worry the master. I heard him telling someone in the carriage the other day that she’s stopped using a boy on a bicycle for her deliveries. She’s bought a van, a big un, and means to buy another soon, happen a whole fleet. What do you reckon to that?’ His eyes were shining, and Fanny could see with a rapid sinking of her heart, the thought processes in his daft head. Denis had always had a passion for mechanical gadgets.
The day the van was delivered, Kate’s entire workforce turned out to cheer.
‘All I need now is someone to drive it,’ and found the answer in the shape of Dennis, who turned up on her doorstep the very same day to offer his services.
‘I heard you’d bought a motor vehicle and were in need of a driver,’ he said, coming straight to the point.
She laughed. ‘Gossip still spreads like wild fire round here then. But would you want a job with me?’
The Child From Nowhere Page 3