A Time Like No Other

by Audrey Howard

  To their amazement Mrs Sinclair made a great deal of fuss until Susan Harper agreed to return in Mrs Sinclair’s carriage to the Priory, where it was said her baby crowed in the nursery with Mrs Sinclair’s children. Was she to stay there and if so what were they to make of that? they wondered among themselves, watching as the maister swung his wife up into his arms the moment the committal was over and carried her to their carriage, settling her next to Susan Harper and the doctor.

  The argument began the moment Susan walked in through the front door of the Priory. She nodded politely at Biddy who stood in the entrance hall waiting for the four of them to come inside. Harry wanted to carry Lally up to her room at once but she waved him away impatiently.

  ‘I can walk from here to the sofa in the drawing room, Harry. I allowed it at the chapel because I didn’t want a scene . . . well, it was hard enough, but I shall remain down here with you and Susan, and Doctor Burton, of course,’ turning to smile warmly at the doctor who, she could sense, wondered what he was doing here at all, but as she had said to Harry in the privacy of their bedroom, he had been inordinately kind and attentive, seeming to care, not just in the medical way but as a friend would, about Susan and Sam. He had been and would continue to be a great support to them all and she felt he should be present.

  ‘It might be a good idea if you were to rest, Mrs Sinclair,’ the doctor advised her.

  ‘I shall do. On the sofa. Now then, Biddy, would you ask Jenny to bring in tea and cakes and . . . well, I feel hungry so would it be too much trouble to ask for hot buttered toast, for us all, I think.’ She turned towards the drawing-room door, beckoning to Susan to come with her but Susan had turned towards the stairs, ready, it appeared, to go up them and collect her child.

  ‘Where are you going, Susan?’ Lally’s voice was soft and one could even say affectionate. The two men hovered by the door waiting for some sort of development, as it was certain one was to come.

  ‘Ah’m goin’ fer Jack, Mrs Sinclair. ’Tis time ah were away ’ome so if tha’ would . . .’ Her face mirrored the expression of fondness on Lally’s. ‘Tha’s bin so kind ter me, got me through these last days an’ I’ll never be able ter thank yer but I got ter—’

  ‘Come and sit down with me, Susan. Have a cup of tea at least before we decide what you are to do.’

  Susan’s face became wary. ‘Ter do – what should I do but get ’ome? I’ve me life ter get on wi’. I mun earn me livin’.’

  ‘And you shall, Susan. But you will stay here to do it.’

  But already Susan was shaking her head in denial. Biddy watched, her eyes going from Lally to Susan and back again. She was not awfully sure she liked what was happening here. This Susan . . . well, you could only feel sorry for the poor lass but what on earth was Miss Lally planning and when it was revealed would Biddy Stevens, who was Miss Lally’s only friend and confidante and had been for many years, would she like it? She had acted as a mother to her lass since Miss Delphine, Miss Lally’s mother, had died and felt uneasy at the way things appeared to be going.

  ‘Susan, don’t shake your head before you have heard what I have to say. Come into the drawing room and we shall have some tea and I shall tell you what I have in mind.’

  Both men looked mystified. Susan stood with her foot on the bottom step but Lally, wanting to sit down all of a sudden, moved into the drawing room and sank into the depths of the sofa before the fire which crackled cheerfully in the grate. Biddy watched Susan Harper battle with herself and her damned independence, knowing exactly how she felt. A proud woman was Susan Harper who did not want to be beholden to any living soul. She had been terribly weakened by the loss of her little lad and had allowed herself to be guided, cherished, supported by the kindness and full heart of Lally Sinclair but now all she wanted was to be off back to her life and the work that would keep her and her baby fed, clothed and housed.

  ‘You’d best go, lass,’ she said softly to her, beginning to shepherd her towards the drawing-room door. Susan hesitated, her bemused eyes looking round her at the splendid comfort of the room. The lovely pictures which Harry had chosen, the deep-piled carpet, the flowers, the delicate ornaments, for in the months since his marriage and with an endless supply of money at his disposal, the house and gardens had been transformed. Outside the undergrowth of years had been cleared, hedges clipped, unnecessary trees cut down, specimen trees planted, the lake cleaned, flower borders laid out and fresh gravel laid on the drive from the gate to the house. Barty and Froglet, with the help of the two men employed by Mr Sinclair, had been in their element, for at last they could display their special horticultural talents.

  The young woman who sat, dressed in the black of mourning for Susan’s little lad, last worn for the death of her husband, was patting the sofa, urging Susan to sit beside her.

  ‘Mrs Sinclair, me babby . . .’

  ‘Shall be brought down to you.’ She smiled at Biddy. ‘And will you ask Dora and the nurse to bring Caterina as well,’ for with two babies to take Susan’s mind off what must be positively overwhelming her, Lally’s own drawing room and its contents, surely it would be easier to speak to her about the future.

  ‘Harry, do give Doctor Burton a whisky or whatever he wants,’ she told her husband, ‘or perhaps he would prefer tea and hot buttered toast.’ Her brilliant smile was turned on the doctor.

  ‘Tea and toast for me, Mrs Sinclair,’ he said boyishly. ‘I love tea and toast.’

  Susan smiled for the first time and John Burton was quite bowled over by its sweetness and luminosity. He could not remember ever having seen her smile before.

  A large pot of tea, the pot of fine bone china decorated with birds and flowers, accompanied by four cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl, was brought in by Jenny, all set out on a white lace cloth and placed within reach of her mistress. Harry stood with his back to the wide door that led to the conservatory from where the fragrance of the newly planted and lovingly tended blooms floated, watching as his wife poured tea which the doctor leaped to hand round, then passed him the toast which with a boyish appetite he seemed to enjoy hugely. He was twenty-six years old, only a couple of years younger than himself, a clever and dedicated doctor as he had proved when attending Lally, but he was youthful, engaging and one could not help but like him. Even now, though he was tucking in to the toast as though he hadn’t eaten a square meal for days – which perhaps he hadn’t, for he lived in lodgings – Harry could tell he was watching Lally for any signs that she might be overtaxing her strength.

  The two babies were brought down by Dora and the starched nurse who had been brought in for Lally’s confinement. Susan held out her arms for her Jack, that lovely winsome smile lighting her face again and Lally nursed the infant Cat for a moment or two before the doctor suggested mildly that Nurse should take her back to the nursery. Cat was a lovely child with none of that crumpled, red-faced, snuffling appearance that newborn babies seem to possess. But young Jack, now six months old, was delighted with the attention he received, sitting on his mother’s knee and beaming round at the company. His hair was the same bright copper as his brother’s and father’s had been, standing in a thick cloud about his head. He had two teeth which gleamed in the pinkness of his gums and he clapped his hands, showing off a new trick he had learned in the last day or two. He was dressed in a little gown that had once belonged to Alec. It had a broad sash and pretty smocking on the bodice. He wore knee-high white socks and little slippers of the softest leather and might have been taken for a girl but his nature was not at all girlish. Within minutes he began to squirm, doing his best to get off his mother’s lap and reach the floor where he was already able to make the motions of a fish on dry land.

  Dora took him, kissing his cheek, which was not as rounded as Doctor Burton would have liked, for these children of mill folk did not get enough of the nourishing food they needed to encourage healthy growth.

  The two babies were taken away, Jack howling his displeasure and as h
is voice faded up the stairs Lally at once began to talk.

  ‘Now, Susan, you can see how we are placed here.’ Her voice was crisp, revealing nothing of her true feelings. She wanted Susan to believe that Lally could not manage without her. Susan’s pride would not allow her to be given charity, Lally had already found that out, and so she must be made to believe that her help and support for Lally were vital. But that was not the whole truth. She really did need help for Dora, since two growing toddlers and one new baby was too much for the young girl to cope with. She had done well with Jamie and Alec but they were already strong-willed little boys, taking after their father who had always got his own way, and needed a firm hand and Susan could provide that. Besides which, this would give Susan stability in her life for herself and her remaining son. She was still deep in shock, still grieving not only for Sam but for her young husband, and a home and respectable, worthwhile employment, plus a friend, which Lally felt herself to be, would make her life easier to bear.

  ‘I badly need a nursemaid for Jamie, Alec and Cat. Now Dora is good and kind but she needs help. She is so young herself and needs a steadying influence such as yourself. You would be doing me a big favour if you would consider taking on this job. And would it not be better for you and Jack not only to be together all the time but to have a good home, decent worthwhile work and to be with people who value what you are doing? I’m not saying that your present employment is not worthwhile,’ she added hastily, flashing a smile at her husband, ‘but with your qualifications—’

  ‘Qualifications?’ Susan interrupted in amazement.

  ‘I believe you can read and write.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘You will be able to teach the children, including your own boy, the rudiments of reading and writing until they have a governess or go to school. Susan, do you not see how invaluable you would be to me, to our children, to this household? Tell her, Harry.’

  Harry Sinclair let out his breath on a long-drawn-out sigh. Lally was racing far ahead of him in her plans for Susan Harper. He had intended to give the widow a helping hand over the next few months while she came to terms with her loss, with her need for employment and for the care and upbringing of her boy, but it seemed his wife had, and probably even before the death of Sam Harper, a scheme worked out whereby she helped Susan to a new and better life. At the same time she had worded it so that Susan believed she was helping Lally.

  But neither of them had bargained for Susan Harper and her sense of what was proper.

  ‘Eeh, no, Mrs Sinclair, that’ll not do. Ah’m a spinner, ’ave bin since I were ten year old, like our Sam.’ A spasm of pain crossed her face. ‘Ah don’t know owt else,’ she went on. ‘Ah’ll see ter mesenn as soon as ah pick up a bit. Me an’ our Jack kep’ oursenn decent and owed nowt ter nobody an’ I don’t mean ter start now. Lass, ah know nowt about teachin’.’

  Lally leaned forward eagerly to look directly into Susan’s face. ‘But you know about children, Susan. I have to have someone I can trust to look after my babies and who else would I choose but you? Did I not say we could help each other and in this way do we not make it possible?’

  ‘Ah’m right sorry, Mrs Sinclair, but ah’ll not tekk advantage any longer o’ yer kindness. Ah’ve a job at mill’ – turning to Harry – ‘an ah reckon . . .’

  ‘Please, Susan, do this for me and let me do this for you. I cannot bear to see you go back to that horrid place,’ again with a brief apologetic look at Harry, for the horrid place was, after all, one of the mills which provided him, and her and the children with the lifestyle they had. ‘I shall be busy in the future since Harry and I have sadly neglected our social duties. We wish to entertain. I shall be busy with the supervision of the estate, helped by Mr Cameron who is Harry’s steward, of course, for this is my sons’ inheritance and must not be neglected. I shall need to visit friends, afternoon calls and such like . . .’ for if her sons, Chris’s sons, and her baby daughter were to take their place in the society to which they belonged – and what mother was not conscious of the importance of that – they must mix with their own kind. They must be accepted, young as they were, for this was when it began. Children’s parties, birthdays, Christmas parties to which they would be invited and the hospitality they received would be reciprocated. It was strange really, she thought, with one part of her mind not occupied with Susan, that though she herself did not care very much, and neither had Chris, about that sort of thing somehow it seemed important that her children at least had the chance. Harry and Roly both moved, or could if they cared for it which Harry didn’t seem to, in the society of the millocracy which was only one rank lower than the landed gentry and because of who they were, their wealth and their connections, mixed quite easily with both. Her children must be allowed to do the same. So she must spend some of her time cultivating the people who dwelled in that world. She could not leave her children, and any more she might have, for she was pretty certain Harry would soon claim his conjugal rights, in the hands of a country girl who herself could not read or write. Dora was a sensible lass and while the boys had been no more than babies had coped admirably but they needed more and Susan was the answer.

  ‘I can’t manage without you, Susan,’ she said simply and the truth of the statement was written in her brimming eyes. Dear God, I must not cry, she told herself, gulping, for the last thing she wanted was pity. It must be the emotions a woman feels when she has just given birth, she thought, but it seemed it was to influence the young widow, for she was looking undecided, biting her lip, her own eyes beginning to fill up and Harry and the doctor exchanged glances.

  Harry was quite amazed by Lally’s behaviour because if there was one thing Lally could not abide it was women who got their own way with tears. She had been strong in all things. Chris’s tragic death, tackling the enormous problem of running the estate, even her pregnancy which, had he not stepped in gallantly – smiling inwardly at the word – she would have survived somehow, for that was what she was, a survivor. But it seemed she was about to do the very thing he had hoped for and that was to mix again with their social equals, with his business acquaintances which, of course, would do him no harm. There were still many renovations to the house he meant to put in hand. If they were to entertain, perhaps weekend parties which the gentry might be tempted to sample, there would be shooting on the grouse moor, hunting for which he would need good horses and, naturally, Lally must have a wardrobe that would be unequalled in Moorend.

  The smile inside him widened into a grin, for the very idea was absurd. He was Harry Sinclair, not a bloody aristocrat. A mill-owner, a man of business who meant to make the Priory into the sort of home a man would be comfortable in, the building itself sound, the gardens, the park, the moorland in good heart until the day when he would build his own house, a monument to the power of machines and his own courage and ability to use them. He was already hugely successful but he had dreams like any man and he meant to make them all come true and at their heart was the frail-looking woman who drooped on the sofa.

  Susan stood up abruptly as though she meant to leave at once before she was persuaded into something she did not care for, but within her where no one could see was a small beating gladness, not for herself, but for her lad. She had lost so much to the mill. She had no one but her little Jack and surely she did not want him to go back to the place that had killed his father and brother. She had – what was it Mrs Sinclair had called them? – qualifications, she could read and write and somehow, though he had not known in what way, her Jack had always said that one day the skill would take them to something better than they had now. Jack had been right! So could she refuse the chance she was being offered, which Jack’s son was being offered? He would be brought up with Mrs Sinclair’s children. He would have an education but not the simple one she and Jack had wrought for themselves but a proper one, school, perhaps even university, not just a spinner, or even an overlooker in Mr Sinclair’s mills but a profession, for both she
and Jack had had brains, intelligence, determination and surely their little lad would inherit some of that. Their Sam had but he had never had a chance to go further, poor lamb, poor little lamb. They would be decently clothed, fed, housed and she would be doing a worthwhile job in caring for Mrs Sinclair’s children. How could she refuse?

  She sat down again, just as abruptly, and in his chair beside her John Burton felt his heart beat with the same gladness that had moved Susan’s, but not for the same reason. He had tended to the poor woman in her tragic loss, had done what he could for her boy, which had been really no more than tidy him up, make him look . . . well, he could hardly call it presentable, for the child’s skull had been crushed like an eggshell but when laid out in the clean nightshirt Mrs Sinclair had offered, his head on the soft white pillow in the coffin, his face had been peaceful and as bonny as John Burton could make it. It had barely a mark on it when John had finished with him. The boy’s mother had sat beside him, her eyes on his waxen face and John had felt she was grateful to him for what he had done for her poor, disfigured child. She had looked at him, her gaze soft and warm as though to thank him, her blue eyes, though swollen with her grief, surrounded by long, thick, brown lashes tipped with gold. They would be beautiful eyes when back to normal, he thought. She was a bonny woman, not pretty like Mrs Sinclair, but pleasant-faced. Her hair was tightly confined in a black scarf, hidden away apart from one endearing curl that had escaped at the back, lying on the white skin of her neck. It was a pure rich chestnut but it seemed to him it had a glint of gold in it. She was painfully thin, frail, her black skirt and bodice, which he was not to know were all she possessed, hanging on her. She wore clogs and knitted socks and round her shoulders was a thin shawl which she had draped over her head at the graveside but was now pushed back.