‘Lally . . . Lally . . . Dear God in heaven . . . sweetheart . . . what in hell’s name are you doing? Where have you been, for Christ’s sake? What d’you think you’re doing out there in . . . Lally . . . Lally . . .’
Together they stood beside him and watched in amazement, as he was doing, the little figure in her blue silk gown stagger from the woodland and make her way, step by painful step, across the lawn towards the house. She had both arms wrapped about her belly.
‘’Tis the mistress,’ Tansy whispered. ‘’Tis Miss Lally. Oh, God be thanked, but what’s ’appened to ’er? I’d best run fer Mrs Stevens. Oh, Martin . . . Martin, ’tis the mistress.’
The master and Martin stood side by side, the master continuing to shout his wife’s name while Martin did his best to calm him down, for who knew what damage he might be doing to his poor head with all this commotion. He made the mistake of catching Mr Sinclair’s arm and was thrown off for his trouble.
‘Let go of me, you fool,’ he roared. ‘It’s Lally, my wife. She wore that gown only the other day,’ then, pushing Martin aside so violently that he fell across the bed, he strode purposefully towards the bedroom door as though whoever was responsible for this would be in serious trouble. ‘Where in damnation has she been,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘and without her bloody cloak?’
Barty brought her in, his old man’s arms made strong and sure as he carried her up the slope, Froglet circling him like a devoted dog, determined to help if he was needed. By this time, having heard Tansy’s gabbled tale, they were all crowded into the hallway and at the top of the steps, maidservants and even some of the outside men who had been in the yard as Barty staggered with her up the front steps, but he would not allow any of them to take her from him.
‘Give ’er ter me, yer old fool,’ Carly demanded, his face crumpled as though he would cry, but the old man was having none of it.
‘Lally . . . Lally . . .’ Biddy was moaning, tears pouring down her cheeks, walking backwards along the broad hallway towards the kitchen, the rest following like a lot of young chicks in the wake of the mother hen. ‘Where yer bin, lass? Wharr ’appened ter yer?’ lapsing into her native tongue in her distress.
They sat her by the range, longing to put their arms round her, asking her again and again what had happened to her, for something obviously had, to comfort and console, to fetch water and soft towels, bathe her wounds for she was bleeding in many small places. To beg her to tell them where she had been and what had been done to her to get her in such a state. You’d only to look at the state of her frock which was torn right down the front so that you could see the whiteness, the pure ivory of the swell of her breasts to know that some . . . some beast had been at her. She was deep in shock, that was very evident, but apart from the cuts and scratches on her arms and a deep bruise on her jawline she did not appear to be hurt. She was, of course, and when her husband burst in with Martin hot on his heels they all turned in consternation. Tansy had told them that the master had spoken but Miss Lally’s return had driven the news right out of their minds.
‘Dearest . . . my dearest girl,’ the master ventured, then with a groan that tore all their hearts, even the hovering men who crowded at the kitchen door, he flew across the room, banging his hip viciously on the corner of the big table and sank to his knees at the mistress’s feet. His arms went round her, gathering her to his chest, his cheek rested on her tangled curls and he wept like a babby, his tears mingling with hers.
Then, as though just becoming aware of it, Harry clicked his fingers. ‘A shawl . . . a shawl,’ for even in his distraught state he was conscious of his wife’s near nakedness and the men, though they averted their eyes, could see it. When Biddy’s old shawl was tucked about Lally’s shoulders he had her tight in his arms again, her face pressed beneath his chin.
They were totally oblivious to anyone but each other and with a soft clicking of her tongue against her teeth, Biddy cleared all the men out, murmuring as she did so, since they were reluctant to leave, that she would let them know soon how Miss Lally was. God help any man who had interfered with her, the men were thinking, for they would cut his bloody balls off and stuff them down his throat. They trooped out but would go no further than the stable yard.
The master, God bless him, seemed incapable of speech so it was Biddy who knelt beside them again while the rest of the maids hovered discreetly on the far side of the room, all except Jenny who slipped up the stairs to tell Dora, Miss Philly and Mrs Harper that the mistress was safe home.
‘Your mama’s been found, children,’ she said to Master Jamie and Master Alec, ‘and will be up to see you soon,’ hoping to God she was right.
‘Was she in Tangle Wood, Jenny?’ piped up Master Jamie.
Jenny blinked. ‘Aye, that’s right, my lad, but she’s safe and sound now.’
But was she?
‘Where’ve yer bin, my lass?’ Biddy whispered, doing her best to get hold of her lass’s hand but the master had her in his loving, frantic grip and was not about to let go.
Lally found her voice at last. She was safe now, safe not only from the Weavers but safe with her beloved husband who had miraculously been here just when she needed him most. She had struggled for months to protect not only her family, Harry’s mills, their life together, but Harry himself. To defend her unborn child, to defend this great estate which would one day be her sons’ but now, at exactly the moment she knew she could go on no longer, not without Harry, not without Susan whom she was going lose to Adam Elliott anyway, Harry was here to take the terrible burden from her.
‘Darling . . .’ he was whispering. ‘My darling . . .’
His darling! That’s what she was to her husband and as she peeped over his shoulders at all the concerned faces that surrounded her she knew she was valued, loved even, by them all. What had she to be afraid of?
‘I was walking through the woods—’
‘On your own and in your condition,’ Harry began, ready to rant and rave now that she was safe in his arms.
‘Let me finish, Harry, for someone will have to go to—’
‘Where . . . where have you been?’ he interrupted again, beginning to work himself up into what Martin would call a ‘state’. Martin slipped to the back door, beckoning to Carly who was leaning against the stable yard waiting for news.
‘Ride over to the infirmary and fetch Doctor John. If he’s not there find him—’ And before he had finished the sentence Carly was in the stable, saddling up Master Chris’s Ebony who was the fastest animal in the county.
In the kitchen Clara was making a pot of tea for the mistress, since Mrs Stevens who always thought of everything was totally absorbed with Miss Lally. They were all listening avidly to what Miss Lally had to say.
‘They were waiting for me.’ A sigh went round the kitchen and the master seemed to groan as he crushed the mistress even closer.
‘Oh, dear sweet Christ . . .’ At once Lally reared back and took his face in her hands. She kissed it tenderly and they were all horribly embarrassed, for it seemed to them they should not be watching this but they had no choice, had they?
‘Let me finish, dear Harry. I am not . . . hurt. They did not hurt me . . .’
‘But your gown,’ he moaned.
‘He tried . . .’
‘Who . . . who the devil?’
‘Jed Weaver, but—’
Harry Sinclair threw back his head, his throat arching in pain but Lally drew him to her, comforting him as though he had been the victim. ‘I’ll kill him . . . I’ll bloody kill him. I should have done it . . . before when . . .’
‘You can’t – kill him, Harry, even had I wanted it. He is already dead.’
They all froze. Clara had the old teapot in her hand, the one they used themselves when the kitchen-maids were having a ‘cuppa’ and for a moment she thought she might drop it. She placed it carefully on the table just in case. Surely . . . surely the mistress did not mean she herself had killed him
? In self-defence, of course . . . but how, what with? They could hear the clatter of Ebony’s hooves beating out a tattoo on the cobbles as Carly set him to the gallop but inside the silence was total.
Then Biddy, the first to recover her senses, cleared her throat. ‘Dead, lass?’ Her voice was still a croak. ‘Who . . . ?’
‘Ham killed him . . . pushed him. He fell and hit his head on a stone. Jed was ready to . . . to rape me, I think. He has always hated us ever since Harry turned the family off the farm. I was barely conscious . . . he hit me. No, no, Harry, there’s nothing to be done’ – as Harry once more threw back his head in what appeared to be agony – ‘he is already dead. I heard Ham telling him I was with child, wanting him to stop what . . . what he was doing.’ She shrugged the shawl more closely about her as the memory of those rapacious hands at her breast came back to her, then with a resolute movement Biddy rose to her feet.
‘Right, Mr Harry, fetch the mistress upstairs. Oh, very well, give her a cup of tea first, Clara,’ as Clara indicated the cup she was just filling with hot, strong tea and into which she meant to heap lots of sugar. ‘Then she must come upstairs and be bathed. Now don’t argue with me, Mr Harry, you shall come as well,’ just as though he were a child who was afraid he was being left out of a treat. ‘In fact you can carry her,’ which he did, out of the kitchen and up the stairs, through their bedroom and into the bathroom which Martin had been preparing for Harry’s bath.
Biddy bustled after him, ready to take the torn gown from her mistress, to fill the bath with hot water, to wash her cuts and bruises tenderly and see to all the ministration Miss Lally needed, but to her amazement Mr Harry, his wife still in his arms, smilingly shut the door in her face.
‘I’ll bathe her,’ he said simply. At once Biddy was affronted then she drew back. He was Miss Lally’s husband after all. Harry Sinclair was back.
She was dozing in her bed when Doctor John was admitted. He was prepared to tend not only to Lally, whose ordeal had been recounted to him by Biddy, but to Harry whom he had last seen in a near comatose state. Harry was not there!
‘Well, it seems my patient is recovered,’ he said cheerfully, then was filled with consternation when Lally burst into tears. At once he knelt at her bedside while she wept noisily like a child who has been severely punished and cannot understand why.
‘Lally . . . oh, my dear, what is it? What is it?’ then could have bitten his insensitive tongue for what else could it be but the release of months of pain, worry, confusion, a release from the burden she had carried ever since Harry had been brought home after his beating by Jed Weaver.
‘Oh, John, he is returned to us,’ she cried between wrenching sobs, ‘but what is more important . . . well, perhaps not more important but as important, he appears to accept that the child I carry is his. Has he forgotten his belief that this is Roly’s child? Will his full memory return and things be as they were before he accused me of . . . of taking up with Roly? Is he to return to the mill where he is bound to meet Roly? Oh, John, this is marvellous that he is himself again despite what happened to me in the cave or perhaps because of it. He is himself again but what is to happen when he meets his brother?’
John was suddenly made aware that far from throwing off her worries she was exchanging them for others. Only the future would tell. She and Susan, and this new fellow Adam Elliott had laboured and fought with Roly Sinclair for the past five months to keep it all going. None of them had been familiar with the commercial world but somehow, and with some degree of skill, they had deluded those with whom they dealt into believing they knew what they were about. Their combined skills, which included a great deal of charm on the part of the ladies, had outmanoeuvred customers who bought their yarn, those who supplied the raw fleeces and everyone in between the two processes, and the business had not only floundered on but had achieved some measure of success. Their operatives were the best, especially the women, since they knew their infants were in safe hands while they laboured and their older children were learning to read and write and add up a simple column of figures. They had all been given a small rise in pay to encourage their endeavours so the men were satisfied. In fact he had heard that other mill-owners grumbled that since Harry Sinclair had been incapacitated and that daft wife of his had taken his place, the best ‘hands’ were being enticed away by the promise of better wages and were spoiling it for them.
But now Harry was back to take up the reins, please God, and just at the right time, for the destruction of his mill, High Clough, and the building of a new mill at Penfold Meadow would be a terrible challenge to this woman who, with a child in her womb and just when she needed more rest and care, would be hard pressed to keep it all going. Susan, who had been her mainstay, was crippled and might never regain the full use of her legs and that left only the engineer, Adam Elliott, to continue with the business.
But Harry Sinclair was back and pray God he would take control and not slip away again into the dark abyss in which he had dwelled for all these months.
‘The men have gone to find the cave I described.’ She continued, ‘Jed Weaver is there and so, I presume, is Ham. He was – Ham, I mean – after he had . . . had killed Jed, not in his right mind which is how I managed to get past him. Oh, John, it was sad to see. He just sat there holding his brother in his arms, rocking him, calling his name and will never, I shouldn’t think, be the man he was. Jed was the ringleader and I hope it goes in Ham’s favour that he saved me from . . . from . . . If there is a trial I shall speak up for him, John.’
John was holding Lally’s hand, patting it soothingly until there was a tap on the door and Biddy entered, smoothing the snowy white apron she wore. John sprang to his feet, for though Biddy was really no more than a servant he always treated females as though they were ladies.
‘How is she?’ she whispered.
‘I’m not ill, Biddy,’ the voice from the bed said sharply.
‘I know, my lamb, none better than me who’s seen you go through many a . . . many a . . . well, it’d take more than a . . . But you must admit it’s been a bit of a shock, not just to you but to all of us, worrying about you, then Mr Harry coming back to us like that . . . Oh, happy we are, happy as can be.’
Several days later in a smart establishment in Halifax which catered for the sometimes erotic tastes of wealthy gentlemen a casual conversation was taking place in its plush, exotically lighted entrance hall. As one gentleman was leaving another was being helped off with his cape.
‘Evening, Sinclair, or should I say Good morning since it’s midnight gone.’
‘Ah, Anson, how are you?’
‘Feeling in need of some female attention, old boy. I believe Madame has a new, very young but talented girl and I wish to . . . well, you will know what I mean.’ He winked.
‘Indeed I do. I have just . . . tasted her. You’ll like her, I’m sure or I can recommend that black and white pair. Very appetising! I’ve been here for two nights and a day so great was their appeal and my appetite. Good luck to you, old chap.’
They smiled knowingly at one another, then, as Anson moved towards the foot of the stairs, he turned.
‘Good news about your brother, Sinclair. I was told he has been seen at the mill. He must have had a serious illness, or was it an accident? It’s been so long I forget.’
Anson went on his way but Roly Sinclair stood rooted to the spot, on his face an expression that frightened the young maid who opened the door to see him out.
29
He was in thrall to her, listening to every word she said to him, though it was not very clear whether he was actually taking it in and believing it or whether it was her voice, her earnest face, her lovely beseeching eyes that had his fixed attention.
‘. . . so you see, we cannot ignore what this doctor – I forget his name but John will tell you, the one who has written the report, along with many others. The figures are indisputable, relating to Halifax where many of our operatives live. There are 16
deaths during the year – these are for one year, you understand – in the upper classes and the average age at which they die is 55; there are 137 deaths among the middle classes whose ages at death, taken one with another, give a mean figure of 24 years; but among the artisans, the workers in your mills and others, there are 434 persons who die at the average of 22 years of age. Doesn’t that tell us something, Harry?’ Her eyes were bright with hope, wide and the loveliest shade of green and blue and as he looked into them, mesmerised, Harry swore to himself that he would, the moment that bloody doctor agreed to his going into town, buy her the biggest, the most expensive turquoise he could find. Earrings, with a bracelet and necklace to match those magnificent eyes of hers, something so special she would know what she meant to him, how he valued her. She was the most precious thing in his life, his treasure and what he had longed for more than anything in the world had at last happened. She loved him as he loved her.
‘What would you have me do, my darling?’ wanting her to ask for something nigh impossible to obtain but it seemed she was talking of the mill again and he sighed, for he wanted to . . . to give her the moon – isn’t that what all men in love said – the stars strewn across the midnight velvet sky: some vast thing that was beyond all men’s reach but which he, Harry Sinclair, would get for her.
They had not then been beyond the gardens that lay in front of the house, sauntering hand in hand, or arm in arm, along the well-tended paths bordered by the rainbow beds that Barty and Froglet, with some help from Wilf or Evan since Barty was feeling his years, had brought to life. The rhododendrons were bursting into bloom, pink and white and vivid purple creating a magnificent background to the low hummocks of yellow alyssum and the vivid blue of lobelia. White arabis edged the borders of the beds, spilling out on to the paths, and aubretia in leafy cushions smothered in mauve and purple flowers. Wallflowers, Barty’s favourite, which made such a splendid show from March to July, exploded against the sun-warmed wall where he had placed a wooden bench and sure enough he and the others were elated when Mr and Mrs Sinclair sat down on it, their heads together. They even kissed lovingly which made the men look away guiltily as though caught spying, but it was so grand to see them, like a couple of love birds and didn’t they deserve it, after what the pair of them had gone through.
A Time Like No Other Page 35