‘Take this up, Jenny, and tell Miss Lally not to get those lads in a state for it’ll be us that has to calm them down after she’s gone off wherever it is she’s going this afternoon. Her animal is waiting in the yard and Carly has things to do other than walk the thing up and down. I don’t know, you’d think she was a child herself the way she is with those lads . . .’ but she was smiling, for it did them all good to hear Miss Lally laugh again.
‘Where you off to, lass?’ Biddy asked her suspiciously as she passed through the kitchen, longing to beg her to take Carly with her but knowing it would do no good. The lass had a mind of her own these days and did as she pleased since there was no one to gainsay her. At least she had on her decent riding skirt over those brazen breeches.
‘To see Harry Sinclair,’ Lally replied, which answer pleased Biddy inordinately.
She set Merry to a wild canter across the springy moorland towards the lane leading into and through Moorend. High Clough and Mill House which overlooked it were reached by what had once been a rutted lane but Harry had made it into a firm cobbled highway to accommodate the dozens of wagons that trundled up to the mill a dozen times a day. They brought the bales of raw wool to the sheds to be sorted and scoured and carded, proceeding through the many processes until they reached the finished product, the lengths of fine woollen cloth which were then transported to their destinations, either to different parts of the country or to the ships that conveyed them to the four corners of the earth or at least to the buyers Roly had found for them. Once, in his grandfather’s time, it had been sturdy calamanco which would last a woman all her married life but Harry had seen that though this was all very well in the old days women today did not wish to wear the same garment so long, preferring the fancy lightweights that had become the fashion. He had experimented with lightweight worsteds and within two years had doubled the mills’ profits.
She clattered into the frantically busy yard where brawny men, hot and sweating, were unloading the fleeces from a wagon, their muscles rippling in the spring sunshine. They stopped to stare at her, for it was seldom lasses of her kind were seen in this yard, only the beshawled women who worked in the sheds for twelve hours a day with their children beside them!
She dismounted at what she supposed to be the outside stairs to the offices, turning to smile at a young lad who ran eagerly to take the reins.
‘Is this the way to Mr Sinclair’s office?’ she asked him and, delighted and speechless, the lad nodded, turning to look at the men to make sure they were witnessing his glory.
Harry sprang to his feet as she side-stepped the clerk who was determined to announce her, his face breaking into a revealing smile before he had himself in hand.
‘Lally, what are you doing here?’ he stammered, ready to kick himself, for he sounded like a foolish schoolboy confronted with a female for the first time. He had not seen her since the awkward day when he had come across her out alone on her mare and before he had had time to curb his tongue had given her the length of it in his dismay. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she considered him to be an interfering old fuddy-duddy, or so it had seemed to him and since then he had had no news of her except through Roly. Now, with Roly out of the country, he had pondered on whether he might ride over, casually, of course, and enquire into her health and that of her boys. Now here she was in his office and he felt the joy of it enter his heart. He knew he would cut a ludicrous figure if he showed his feelings and so his voice became gruff to hide them.
‘Can I give you . . . er . . . tea . . . coffee, perhaps . . .’ turning imperiously to the hovering clerk. ‘Hawkins, is there such a thing available?’ causing the clerk to raise his eyebrows, for Mr Sinclair well knew that there was a woman in a small kitchen at the back of the offices whose job it was to cater to Mr Sinclair’s every culinary need.
‘Of course, sir, which is it to be?’
Harry turned politely to Lally and was quite astounded when she began to laugh. ‘Oh, Harry, I don’t care. I didn’t come here to drink your tea but to ask you to . . . well, would you like to dine with me one evening? I have so much to tell you . . . to ask you and we can hardly do it here . . .’ with this man goggling at us, her words implied. ‘We could make it a celebration for Her Majesty’s birthday. We’re only a few days late and I’m sure Her Majesty won’t mind. What d’you say?’
Suddenly conscious of the clerk still vacillating in the doorway, Harry made an impatient gesture for him to leave, the moment giving him a chance to hide his gratification at what seemed to him to be her genuine desire to heal the breach that had developed between them. He wished she had not made mention of the Queen’s birthday and the country’s celebrations, for it would have pleased him much more if her invitation had been solely to dine with him but nevertheless it was a beginning. She looked so lovely, her cheeks glowing with health and the enjoyment of her ride over, her eyes gleaming a turquoise blue between her thick lashes, her lips parted in a wide smile so that he felt a most foolish need to jump over his desk and sweep her into his arms. What would she do, he mused, if he gave in to the desire, but as was his nature he hid his feelings though his mouth twitched ready to break into a most unusual broad grin.
‘Why, I should be delighted,’ he said gravely, wishing he had his younger brother’s charming aptitude for spontaneity. Never at a loss for words, was Roly, and always ready to meet any situation with exactly the right manner. And yet at Christmas, before Roly came home, he and Lally had seemed to get on and be at ease in one another’s company. Well, whatever it was that she had in mind he was fully prepared to take advantage of it. Dear God, he brooded, even his own thoughts were stilted!
‘Shall we say tomorrow evening then, unless you have something else . . .’
‘No, no, I’ve nothing . . . planned . . .’ and even if I had I would gladly cancel it. ‘But won’t you have that cup of tea or . . .’
‘No, I must get back or Biddy will be sending out a search party.’
‘You don’t mean you’ve ridden over here . . .’ he began, then stopped himself, for it was over the same subject they had quarrelled last time.
‘Now then, Harry,’ but she was smiling as she moved towards the office door.
He strode across the rich carpet and held it open for her, breathing the fragrance of her as she passed him. Good sweet Lord, he loved her . . . he loved her . . .
‘Until tomorrow then, Harry.’
‘Until tomorrow.’ His face was at one and the same time boyish in his gladness and yet remote, as was his nature. His eyes were their usual deep impenetrable brown, with seemingly no warmth to them and his hair, which she had seen tumbled in thick curls over his forehead, was brushed smoothly back. His voice was so cool in his effort to conceal his feelings she turned for a moment to look at him as though to say what the devil have I done wrong now, but his eyes, reflecting his emotions though he was not aware of it, became warm and she smiled at him as she made for the staircase. The boy still held the reins of her horse and the tail end of the smile caught him a stunning blow.
‘Thank you . . . er . . .’
‘Sam, missis.’
‘Thank you, Sam.’
Sam was enchanted. What a tale he would have to tell his mam when he got home. She was confined to the tiny room they shared, her emaciated, frail and bone-weary body keeping her in bed for the most part. She saw no one because all the other women and their families who lived in the tall and tottering house were in their loom gates from five thirty in the morning when the gates were closed against latecomers until dark fell and she looked forward to his homecoming and the things he had to tell her. Mostly it was nothing much except what had happened in the sheds and yard about them and the hour he had spent at his sums, but today he could describe the lovely young lady and the words she had spoken to him. She had asked him his name and thanked him for holding her horse. She had smiled at him and was ready to allow him to help her on to her glossy horse until the maister got there be
fore him.
But she had hesitated, ready to hoist herself into the saddle and the maister was at her back and, to Sam’s disappointment, helped her up. She looked down at him, looked into his blue-green eyes and at his wavy ginger hair, just as though she were about to say something else but instead she put her heels gently into the mare’s side and urged her into a trot.
‘Goodbye, Harry, until tomorrow.’
‘Goodbye, Lally.’
‘Goodbye, Sam.’ Then she was gone leaving the men in the yard staring after her, including Harry and Sam.
The following evening the pair of them were smiling at something Lally had said when the front doorbell rang. It had been nothing extraordinary, something about the lad who had held her horse when she had visited Harry’s offices the day before.
‘How can I possibly know personally all the people I employ, Lally? Hundreds of them. I might perhaps recognise many of them by sight but their names, no. The boy you mention probably works in one of the sheds as a “piecener” or “scavenger”, twisting together the broken threads or retrieving the waste that collects beneath the machines and what he was doing in the yard I cannot imagine. You seem to have a strange interest in the scamp.’
He leaned forward, the light from the lamp falling on his amber-skinned face and she wondered how his flesh came to have such a healthy colour when he worked indoors all day. He was dressed meticulously in the black and white evening dress that was the fashion, a black dress coat, a white waistcoat with embroidered borders, black trousers, silk stockings and black pumps. His stock was an immaculate white but his black bow tie was endearingly crooked. In fact she wanted to lean over and straighten it for him but something held her back. He looked his best though he would never be as extraordinarily handsome as his brother. He was too serious, his chin too square, his mouth too big, his expression too arrogant. But he was an interesting dinner guest. He described to her the growth of the woollen industry, and to her surprise she was quite fascinated. How he and his father had competed with other firms to produce goods, particularly in the ladies’ dress trade by anticipating the ‘frock fashion’ and acquiring in advance the colour and designs of the forthcoming season’s fashions. How wool must be bought at the right time to determine the price of the end product and the overall profitability of the firm. He described the coming of the factory system and of machinery and steam power, the thousands who had poured into the textile towns from the countryside looking for work and his own efforts to alleviate the suffering of children employed by mill-owners, the little ones, some no more than six or seven who were beaten to keep them awake. He did not approve of child labour but many families relied on the wage these children brought in so he set the age limit at ten years of age and had even started a school in the yard at the back of High Clough where for an hour a day the children learned to read, write and do simple sums. Some of the factory owners insisted on strict factory discipline and lateness, drunkenness, talking and sleeping on the job were punished by fines. Harry was not one of these but he was strict.
‘That boy who held my horse looked as though something could be made of him,’ she was saying and it was at that moment that the bell rang.
‘Who on earth . . .’ she began, standing up, her napkin in her hand and at once Harry rose to his feet, ready to curse whoever it was who had come to disturb this wonderfully pleasant evening. She had seemed pleased to be in his company, ready to listen to him describe the mill, what was done there and by whom, which was how they had come to be discussing the boy. They had talked at length about the farms and the progress that was being made and he had brought the conversation round to an exhibition of art which was to be shown in the Town Hall to which he said he hoped she might like to accompany him and she had appeared to be genuinely interested.
She had on a gown of the palest gold, a shimmering thing with a full skirt and a well-fitted bodice, her arms and shoulders bare, her skin flawless, translucent in the candlelight. She wore a thin gold chain about her neck and on her wrist was the bracelet he had given her for Christmas. He resolved to find her a necklace to match the bracelet, a lovely collar of gold and turquoise that he would place about her neck before kissing her just beneath her soft chin. Sweet Jesus . . . if only he could tell her how he felt! He liked to think she had dressed this evening for his benefit and though he hardly dared bring himself to hope, surely this was a promising beginning to a relationship – a friendship that could develop into something stronger. He castigated himself silently for his inability even to think in warmer terms but her smile was a lovely, encouraging thing to see and, encouraged, he was able to convince himself that at last she was looking at him, not as an elderly brother, or cousin, or even friend, but as a . . . Dear God, he dared not think further than that.
When his brother was announced he swore savagely under his breath and when Roly walked into the room, pretending astonishment at finding Lally entertaining, ready to apologise in his charming way, Harry could have hit him. As Lally hurried forward to greet him, her smile wide and eager, he could have killed him.
‘Harry, old fellow,’ he drawled, his arms still about Lally’s waist. ‘I had no idea . . .’
‘Naturally.’ Harry did not smile. ‘When did you get back? I did not expect you for weeks.’
‘This evening. I had finished my trip earlier than usual and as Mrs Cannon had nothing I fancied to eat I thought I would come over to Lally’s and see if she could offer me something.’ He looked down at himself ruefully. ‘I do apologise for not being dressed correctly but . . .’
‘Roly, think no more about it. We don’t mind, do we, Harry? Now you must join us. I’ll ring for Jenny to set another place.’
Harry’s face had closed up at the sight of his brother and his mouth had clamped tight over his even white teeth but neither Roly nor Lally seemed to notice. There was a great deal of running about as Jenny, who thought Mr Roly the handsomest man she had ever come across, rustled about with cutlery and napkins, setting a place for him, bringing soup and what was left of the curried chicken which Biddy had contrived from the remains of two cold fowls from the Home Farm. There was a delicious apple pie with cinnamon and thick cream, cheese and fruit, a simple meal but filling and cheap, and all the time he ate Roly entertained Lally with descriptions of what he had seen and where he had been in Amercia, turning now and again with great politeness to his brother. He did not speak of business or of how many orders he had brought back, for that would wait until tomorrow at the mill and besides would not interest Lally. She sat at the end of the table, her chin in her hand, her eyes fastened on his mobile face, laughing at his accounts of his travels and it seemed neither of them noticed Harry Sinclair who sat silently at the other end of the table.
He rose abruptly, startling them both. It was as though they had forgotten his presence in their absorption in one another. He felt as though there were a stone in his chest that was rough with sharp edges and it was hurting him badly and if he did not get out of this house, away from her and her attentiveness to his brother, he might do or say something he would be sorry for. His disappointment was so intense – the devil take it, disappointment was the most laughable word to describe what he felt – he knew he must take his leave before he made a fool of himself.
‘I must go, Lally,’ he said harshly. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. You were . . . have been most kind. No, don’t get up, Roly. I’ll see you in the morning and perhaps I might suggest that you and I, Lally, make the rounds of the farms before long. Let those Weavers see an eye is being kept on them. I’ll bid you goodnight, both of you.’
Turning from the expression on Lally’s astonished face, he crossed the room and opened the door into the hall, wondering where the devil that maidservant had put his outdoor things. He had driven over in the gig in keeping with his evening attire and he supposed someone would bring the vehicle round to the front . . . someone . . . Dear God, his pain was depriving him of his wits but he really did not . . .
<
br /> The woman – what was her name? Biddy? – emerged from the kitchen door at the end of the wide, flagged hallway and at once she had him in his overcoat, murmuring that Carly was bringing the gig round and she did hope he had enjoyed his meal. Her voice was soft, sympathetic, he thought, and he wondered why. He was not to know that Biddy Stevens had fervently hoped that her lass would take to this rather stern, quiet man, for he was just the kind of husband she needed. That Mr Roly was nothing but a scamp, a charming scamp but not reliable, not what you might call a steady sort of chap who would guard and cherish Lally Fraser. He would make her laugh, listen to them even now, the sound of their merriment drifting through the dining-room door so that it seemed they might be laughing at Mr Sinclair who was blundering towards the front door as if he thought so too.
Lally beneath her merriment felt a strange sadness that Harry had left so suddenly and since she was not a foolish woman she knew it had something to do with Roly. They were brothers, equal owners of three prosperous mills but whereas Harry was straightforward, perhaps obstinate, grave, forbidding at times, Roly was blithe, merry as a cricket, fun-loving and ready to do all sorts of wicked things if he was allowed. And yet they worked equally hard in their positions of owners of the most prosperous mills in and around Halifax. Roly was tall, broad, dark and striking whereas Harry was lighter, finer, though both had the dark hair and eyes of the elder Sinclair.
A Time Like No Other Page 9