She found a lovely rose-pink woollen gown, tight-waisted and with a full skirt. The bodice had buttons from waist to neck, each one covered in rose-pink satin and around the waist was a broad sash to match. It was plain, simple and very becoming and the moment she put it on she felt better. The colour put a flush in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with that particular blue-green which Chris had called turquoise, the whites clear, her long lashes, dark and thick, outlining them as though with ink. She looked quite . . . quite lovely, she thought, and more like the woman she had been before Chris died. There, she had allowed the thought – the word – into her head and she must get used to it. Died. That was the word she had been unable to say, even to herself, but now she had said it and must get on with life and she would start right now with the rose-pink dress and she would accept Roly’s invitation to go to the theatre. She would take the estate management into her hands, learn all that Harry Sinclair could teach her and . . . and . . .
She bent her head and stared at the threadbare carpet, despair doing its best to enslave her again, then she lifted it, lifted it high and, turning on her heel, moved to the door of her bedroom. Slowly she descended the stairs knowing she would get ‘what-for’ from Biddy and she did!
Clara was scrubbing the massive wooden table which had been scrubbed so often over the years the wood was almost white. Jenny was in the scullery washing vegetables and Biddy was poring over the household accounts book, doing her best to make a halfpenny do the work of a penny. A rich aroma of beef broth assailed Lally’s nostrils, while coals glowed red beneath the simmering stew pot. A kettle emitted a puff of steam and the blackleaded range gleamed beneath the hanging utensils. The tabby cat which was stretched before the fire opened one eye to study her then closed it again and the two dogs rose, their tails waving lazily as they ambled across the kitchen to greet her.
All three woman looked up as she entered and utter silence followed, a silence so dense the sound of the simmering broth was quite deafening. The two maids stood as though petrified, their hands stilled.
Biddy rose to her feet and over her face rippled a look Lally knew well. She had seen it a hundred times over the years whenever she had done, or was about to do, something of which Biddy disapproved. Biddy, though Lally was not aware of it, cared nothing for convention, nor the rules of society as applied to herself. Before she had worked for Mrs Atkins, Lally’s mama, she had done many jobs Miss Lally knew nothing about, though Delphine Atkins had. It was Delphine Atkins who had rescued her one evening from the clutches of a drunken soldier who had dragged her into a doorway and had her skirt up around her waist. It wasn’t the poor chap’s fault really because she had been working the streets for several months when she lost her job as a scullery maid. But for some reason she had objected to him and had screamed out for help and it was Miss Lally’s mam, passing by in her carriage, who had rescued her.
But Miss Lally had been brought up as a lady. She was a lady and ladies did not discard their mourning and change into a rose-pink gown six weeks after the death of a husband. Miss Lally, if she was to retain her position in society, must not deviate an inch from the path that society demanded.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked, her voice icy, her face rigid with displeasure.
Lally swung the full skirt of her gown. ‘I can’t think what you mean . . .’
‘Don’t try to cod me, lady. Go upstairs immediately and take off that dress and put on the black.’
Lally hesitated for a minute, the habit of listening to Biddy strong in her, then, quietly, for she was her own mistress and was about to start on a new phase in her life, she answered her.
‘I don’t think I will, Biddy. Now, I would be glad of tea if Jenny could bring it through to the drawing room,’ and turning gracefully she left the kitchen, leaving all three women open-mouthed in astonishment.
5
He paid her a great deal of attention and gradually the people of Moorend began to notice and not only to notice but to disapprove.
The first time she accompanied him to the theatre in Ward’s End, a play by Shakespeare was being performed. In the audience, three rows from the front where they had a good view of the boxes, were Mr and Mrs Frederick Anson with their friends, Mr and Mrs George Bracken, and all four were shocked into stunned silence when they saw the widow and Roly Sinclair, who was known as a ladies’ man, enter one of them. The play was The Merry Wives of Windsor, described as a romantic comedy, but the two upright and leading citizens and their wives, especially their wives, could hardly have told you a word of its content, since their whole concentration was centred on Amalia Fraser, a widow of no more than ten weeks, positively flirting with her companion. Alone, the pair of them, in a private box which must have cost the earth but then the Sinclairs were probably the wealthiest family in the Halifax area and could afford it. She was dressed in a gown in a pale shade of what Mrs Anson would call duck-egg blue, with a low-cut de’colletage and in her dark hair nestled a glittering jewelled butterfly, and who had bought her that, they whispered among themselves? On her wrist they could distinctly see the sparkle of what looked like an expensive bracelet! He was, of course, in full evening dress, handsome in black and white.
Harry Sinclair, from a seat in the back row of the auditorium, watched Lally and his brother but, unlike them, he also noticed the reaction of the audience, many of whom knew Lally Fraser and Roly Sinclair, and had known Chris Fraser. They were horrified that one of their own should be guilty of such an atrocious error of judgement, a wicked deviation from the accepted code of conduct. It was not a crime for a widow to remarry, of course, but only after a decent period of mourning and that had certainly not passed in the case of Lally Fraser. Indeed she should not even have been seen in a theatre and absolutely not alone in the company of a young, unmarried gentleman. Even with a relative it would have been unthinkable!
He felt the pain in his chest where his heart lay, the bitter pain caused by the malevolent pangs of jealousy, and yet at the same time a sadness that Lally had so easily succumbed to his brother’s pleading. But could you expect her to be wise at her age? She was young, twenty years old and could not be expected to suffer the living death of widowhood for twelve months or even, as in some cases, a lifetime. Many widows, in fact most of them, had been married for years when their husbands passed on and had lived in their shadow in all that time. They had brought up children who were probably themselves married if daughters, and their sons were out in the world. These elderly widows were content to live in some seclusion, paying calls and receiving them, going about with friends, women friends and relatives, virtually retired from life and certainly not pushing themselves forward, for they had been taught to believe they had none!
But Lally Fraser was not one of them. Certainly she was widowed but her life was hardly begun and when the time was right and her period of mourning was over or even a little before, Harry meant to step in and make his intentions known. He could give her what she had had with Chris Fraser and a lot more besides: his love, his protection, expensive clothes, jewellery, her own carriage, a good education for her boys, a life of ease and luxury free from worry. He would employ an agent to run her estate so that she could fulfil her duties as his wife and the mother not only to Chris’s children, but to his own which she would start to bear him within twelve months of marriage. He would surround her with the devotion, the caring, the love she deserved and which he had in abundance.
He was at the end of the row and in the darkened auditorium he could watch her without being noticed himself. He had opera glasses trained on the box and her lovely face was animated, the expressions chasing one another across it as she became absorbed in the play. Roly spoke to her several times but Harry saw her put up her hand as though to silence him as she became enthralled in the action and words from the stage. She was obviously enjoying every minute and he made a small vow to himself that when they were married he would take her to the theatre, here, in London,
in New York, or wherever they travelled. Then he pulled himself up and called himself every kind of fool, for it was clear that Harry Sinclair was not, and had never been in her thoughts except as an acquaintance who was helping her to pull the estate together. London! New York! Marriage! He must be a bloody fool, he brooded, as he set his opera glasses back in their case, stood up and strode from the theatre. He collected his bay from the stables at the White Horse Inn further up Ward’s End, and with a ferocity that startled the stable lad, as Mr Sinclair was known for his love of horses and his politeness to servants, he galloped full tilt into the street and headed off towards Trinity Road which led to the edge of the town and Mill House where he lived.
Lally, knowing she had already broken every rule of society by not only leaving off her mourning but by appearing in public alone with an unmarried gentleman, refused absolutely to take up Roly’s offer of a bit of supper at the White Horse Inn where the food was good and the wine even better.
‘I can’t, Roly, you know I can’t. Biddy has already told me my reputation is torn to shreds by—’
‘Then if that’s the case, my pet, you can hardly damage it any more. You know you are absolutely safe with me. It’s a shame to end the evening so early and, anyway, what has Biddy to do with it? She’s a servant and has no right—’
Lally’s face closed up. ‘Roly, I will have nothing said against Biddy. I don’t know what I would do without her.’
‘I bet she’s had enough to say about me.’ His hand was at her elbow as he guided her from the box, along the carpeted corridor towards the steps leading down to the street. There were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen moving in the same direction, many of them known to her. There were a few frozen-faced nods in their direction but she noticed that most of them kept their faces averted to make it clear that they disapproved of her behaviour. She knew she had broken every rule of her own class but she had been unable to resist the temptation to wear the last evening gown that Chris had bought her, the duck-egg blue satin trimmed with guipure lace with a crinoline which had filled the carriage. The neckline was extremely low, showing the tops of her small white breasts. She had lost weight since Chris’s death and Biddy had been cajoled into helping her take the bodice in, grumbling the whole time. Well, hardly grumbling, for the tirade that followed her announcement that she was to attend the theatre with Roly had been loud and long and furious.
‘You realise, I suppose, that your reputation will be totally ruined. That not one of your friends will have anything to do with you in the future. No one will receive you or call on you.’ All the time she spoke, or rather ranted, her hands were busy with the seams at the side of the bodice. ‘I know that at the moment you are not yourself—’
‘What is myself, Biddy?’ Lally asked passionately. ‘I’m twenty years old and I might as well be dead. Oh, I know I have the boys and I love them more than life but I can’t make them my life. I must do something.’
‘Mr Sinclair has given you something to do. You are to look after your sons’ inheritance. Learn to manage the estate. You know he will help you. He already has with the loan you have from the bank and you know the tenants are already glad to have their farm buildings put in order. Polly McGinley at Folly Farm is most grateful.’
‘I know, Biddy, but that isn’t fun. I want to laugh and enjoy myself as I used to do with Chris. Roly Sinclair makes me laugh. He makes me feel young again and as I was before . . . before Chris died. Do you know Chris wanted to join some regiment or other and go out to the Crimea to fight the Russians and I wouldn’t let him because I was afraid he might be killed.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Dear God, I might as well have given him my blessing since he died anyway. Oh, God, Biddy, I can’t bear being a widow, expected to dress in black from head to toe and never have anything that might be called enjoyment. I mourn him, of course I do and I will never forget him and how much I loved him, but why is it considered wrong for me to have a perfectly innocent trip to the theatre with a man I’ve known since childhood? We are almost brother and sister, for heaven’s sake. He and Chris were like brothers and he would never do anything to harm me.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he would but we’re talking about your reputation, lass.’ Biddy bent her head to bite off the thread with which she was sewing. The lovely gown slithered on her lap and the light from the window fell across its folds, rippling them from the palest blue that was almost white to a deep aquamarine and in each fold was the exact colour of the eggs laid by the ducks on the lake at the front of the house.
Lally was roaming about the bedroom, picking up ornaments and putting them down again, stopping to look in the mirror and thrusting her fingers through her short hair. She was restless, bored, and she knew the reason why. It was all very well to talk about managing the estate which she was determined to do but it was not the days that bore her down but the nights in the big, lavender-scented bed she had shared with Chris. She had been married for three years and during that time she had learned the joy, the passion, the repletion of physical love and her body was a jangle of nerves without it. She had loved her husband and she had loved the act of love. Her body had sparkled with pleasure wherever he touched it and no part of it had been deprived of his caress. She had adored it, and him. She had loved his nudity and her own, the sensation of bare flesh against bare flesh, the emotion it stirred in him and in her. When he had entered her body, which he had done every night and sometimes morning too since the day of their marriage, it had closed about him, holding him fast, fusing them together with love and self-abandonment. That was all gone now and she missed it, her body throbbing with loss. She might only be twenty years old but she was a mature woman in the ways of the flesh. She would marry again, she knew she would, but until she did she must subdue these urges that came on her and drove her to a mad restlessness that nothing could assuage. But she could see no harm in her friendship with Roly who was, as she had said to Biddy, in all but name, her brother. She was aware that society deeply disapproved. But she was beginning to find out that she did not much care. The return of Roly had brought a small amount of merriment into her life, since he himself cared for nothing that was considered proper in society and the pursuit of enjoyment was second nature to him. She refused to consider that the double standards that were the measure of their class allowed gentlemen to do as they pleased, discreetly if possible, but the same rule did not apply to its womenfolk.
It was the beginning of February, mild, spring-like almost, and each week she rode out to visit her tenants, usually astride having discarded her riding skirt, much to the embarrassment of the men in the fields and farmyards, for they were not used to seeing the shape of a female leg, even those who were married. They made love to their wives in the dark and most had scarce seen them without a layer of petticoats and a sensible, workaday dress since the day they had wed.
Carly had averted his eyes the first time she strode across the stable yard to where he had Merry waiting for her. Automatically he had bent, his hands linked to give her a lift into the side-saddle, not really looking at her, but he had been astounded when she told him to change it.
‘I can get about more easily if I ride astride, Carly. I have to get down to open gates and it’s easier dressed like this.’
‘Mrs Fraser . . .’ he had mumbled, but then it was not up to the likes of a groom to lecture his young mistress on the correct way to dress. He had done as he was told, changed the saddle and helped her into it, opened the gate and watched her break into a trot across the park, her two setters at her heels, turning to the house where three dumbfounded faces peered out of the kitchen window. He shrugged his shoulders at them, then, removing his cap, he had scratched his head in bemusement and returned to the job of mucking out. His young mistress seemed determined not to conform to the practices of her own kind. Just look at the frequency with which young Roly Sinclair had been out here in the last weeks. He’d lost count of the times he had run out to hold Foxfire, Mr Roly’s chestnut geldi
ng, while the young man had visited Miss Lally, and in the evening sometimes which wasn’t proper!
Polly McGinley was in her hen-house when Lally shouted at the gate. She came running to open it and her face bore the same expression of astonishment when the mistress jumped down from her horse with what looked like, for a moment of horror, naked legs. Even when she realised that Mrs Fraser actually had on a pair of beige kid riding breeches she was still startled. Mrs Fraser wore a warm, chocolate-coloured riding coat reaching down almost to her knees and the tops of her polished riding boots, which made the outfit somewhat more decent. Polly was not to know that the coat had once belonged to Chris Fraser though she could see it was far too big for his young widow. A scarf was wound round her neck and she wore no hat so that with her short hair she looked like a schoolboy.
‘Morning, Mrs McGinley,’ she called out cheerfully and Polly was glad to see her young landlord, or rather landlady, was recovering.
‘Mornin’, ma’am. Lovely day fer February. Sean an’ Denny’s down in’t field seein’ ter’t ’taters but me an’ Kate was just about ter ’ave us a brew. Will yer come inside, but I’ve just done’t kitchen floor so I’d be obliged if yer’d keep them dogs outside.’ Mrs Fraser might be her landlord but Polly believed in speaking her mind. She and Sean had paid up the rent owing and as far as they were concerned that entitled them to do as they pleased in the farmhouse and in the fields. She and Kate were doing well with their poultry, the money Mrs Fraser had put into the property allowing them to experiment with different strains of hens and what they didn’t eat themselves was sent each week to the market-place in Halifax. Eggs, butter, trussed chickens, fancy cheeses and they were making steady progress. She had a lot of time for Mrs Fraser who was, at least, unlike her charming, but sadly dead husband, doing her best with the farms on her estate.
A Time Like No Other Page 6