For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  Patrick spoke again. ‘You’re not going to achieve any sort of maturity by letting less-fortunate people do your dirty work ye know.’

  ‘What about the maid?’ Dickie was swift to parry. ‘Why does there have to be one set o’ rules for Mother an’ another for me?’

  ‘Amy is not simply there so’s your mother can delegate her less-tasteful chores,’ corrected Patrick sternly. ‘Your mother does a hard day’s work. No one could expect her to run a large house like ours single-handed, yet she still finds time to do her share.’

  Here Dickie enjoyed an inward smile. This contrasted greatly with Amy’s grumblings. She was always moaning about his mother – he didn’t know what she expected him to do about it. ‘I do a hard day’s work too,’ he argued stubbornly. ‘But I’ve no one to help me.’

  Patrick tilted his jaw. ‘Your idea of hard work does not tally with mine or your mother’s, Dickie. An’ despite your argument ’tis my thinking that if I were to employ a stable-hand you would spend your time doing nothing more strenuous than giving orders, and there’s an end to it. As for your line of thinking that the money has somehow promoted you to the rank of gentleman, a word to the wise. You’re Irish – or half Irish – and to the majority of the populus that renders you less than even working class, less than human, perhaps. The Irish have no status except in their own country –and even there most of them are kept in check by poverty. Maybe ’tis a good thing that we’ve moved away from Walmgate where most o’ the people were the same as us. Out into the real world. Here ye’ll get a better picture of how our kind are judged. Don’t ye even notice how none of our neighbours deign to call on us? How they can barely bring themselves to nod hello when our paths cross – virtually collide – on our way to our separate places of worship?’

  Dickie had genuinely not noticed. His world was centred around himself and he rarely bothered to observe how others behaved towards him unless they were pretty females. He had, of course, submitted to a great deal of abuse from Edwin Raper – Bacon Neck – but then he was a badtempered old swine with everyone. No, it was Dickie’s opinion that his melodic brogue was one of his best assets when courting the ladies. If his father’s theory were correct, then the moment Dickie opened his mouth the girls, by rights, should turn up their noses and walk away. And that wasn’t the case at all – not by any measure. He was slightly amazed, even while holding the opinion that his father was a simple peasant, at the lack of pride in Patrick’s statement about the Irish being without class. Where was the man who, from the time they were no higher than his knee, had drummed into them the importance of national pride, had imbued all his stories with a patriotic moral, had weaned them on the knowledge that a man’s heritage was as vital as life itself?

  ‘Just give it some careful thought, Dickie,’ added Patrick as he made his way out of the stable. ‘Everything you see – the business, that big house – will all fall to you children one day. The more ye put in the more ye get out, even you must see that – unless you expect the others to do your share for ye, in which case ye’ll be disappointed, for I’d not allow it to happen.’

  ‘I don’t hear ye having this conversation with my brother,’ replied Dickie, stopping Patrick in his tracks.

  His father speared him with a glare. ‘There’s no call to lecture Sonny. He’s doing his bit.’

  ‘Oh aye, sat on his backside wielding nothing heavier than a pen,’ spat his son.

  ‘He’s working with his brain – seeing as how he’s the only one of my sons to have any. And he works damned hard. Perhaps if you’d put a little more effort into your schooling you might’ve been the one to go to college. You’re not an unintelligent boy, Dickie, if ye’d steer your brain on the right course instead of entertaining all these fanciful notions about being rich.’

  His son’s face was hard. ‘Ye think I’m dreaming – but I will be rich one day,’ he promised.

  Patrick sighed. ‘I’ve no doubt ye will. But I’m equally certain it won’t come through hard work – and of course there are differing degrees of richness. Even when we lived in what most people would term poverty I considered myself rich to have a wife like your mother and three normal, healthy children. Though I doubt you’d count these things as wealth. To you there’s only one rich, an’ that’s money. Well, I’ll underline what I already said – even though I can see from your face it bores the hide off ye – however much money ye succeed in totting up, be it thousands or millions, to them you’ll still be Irish.’ He gave his son a long searching look, then left.

  Dickie’s lip curved into a sneer. He discounted his father’s words as so much hot air, the rumblings of an old man whose life was almost over – and what had he to show for it? Patrick set himself up as a proud man but did not contribute anything to alter people’s views when they classed him as an oaf. Well, no one was going to look down on Dickie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lack of punctiliousness from anyone – least of all her suppliers – was something for which Thomasin would not stand. After several late deliveries from one such quarter she broke off relations and set to work in finding a replacement. When Erin smilingly waved her off that drizzly morning she little guessed that this was to be the start of a very uncomfortable period in her life.

  Thomasin drew up outside King’s, wholesale purveyors of fine quality confectionery and, stepping from her carriage, asked where she might find Mr Joseph King, the head of this organisation. The labourer doffed his cap and himself showed her to King’s office, leaving her at the door.

  She knocked and went straight in. ‘Mr King? I’m afraid I do not have an appointment but trust you will take pity on my dilemma. My name is …’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ King’s pince-nez dropped from his nose as he leapt from the leather chair to shake her hand effusively. ‘You are the lady about whom I have heard so much – the genius behind the revitalization of Penny’s – am I correct?’

  ‘Such praise is gratefully received, Mr King.’ Thomasin felt as though her shoulder was about to be wrenched from its socket in the violent handshake and diplomatically pulled her hand away. ‘But really, it’s no genius you see before you, simply a woman whose hard work has paid dividends.’

  ‘Your modesty causes you to understate matters, madam. Here, allow me to take your coat.’ King ripped the damp garment from her back and hurled it onto a coatstand then, directing her to a chair, all but pushed her into it. ‘Well, well. This is indeed a great compliment you pay me. And what, pray, can this humble family business do for you, dear lady? You mentioned a predicament.’

  Thomasin, in a daze at this overwhelming reception, told him of the dispute with her previous supplier and added her thoughts that it would be beneficial to both parties if King should step into the vacated shoes.

  ‘It would be an honour and a privilege, madam.’ King admired her from his side of the desk. She was an extraordinarily handsome woman and obviously had a brain to match, judging by the way old Penny’s shop was looking now. He heaved his great body in a sigh of pleasure then, witnessing her befuddlement, grabbed a handful of papers and spread them in front of her. ‘There is a list of the commodities we stock, ma’am, plus the relevant prices. I trust you will find them competitive.’

  Thomasin scrutinised the documents and murmured conservatively while King held his breath. Then she looked up with a smile. ‘I see I ought to have been dealing with you all along, Mr King,’ and he beamed elatedly.

  ‘Does that mean I can look forward to your custom, ma’am?’ At her affirmation he came around the desk to shake her hand again. ‘Splendid, splendid!’ He yanked at her hand and patted it roughly. ‘Now, may I offer you something to drink as way of celebration? A glass of sherry perhaps?’

  She tested her arm for damage, rubbing at her shoulder. ‘Thank you, no – but tea would be appreciated, Mr King.’ She stared out of the window through a rain-stippled coating of dirt to the street below where two draymen, soaked to the skin, rolled barrels down a
plank to the cellar beneath the pavement. The great shires hung their heads, the rain trickling down their rounded haunches, each with one feathered foot crooked in boredom. ‘What a day. It makes you feel cold just to look at it. A cup of tea is just what I need.’

  ‘Tea it shall be!’ King inserted his head round the door of another office. ‘Walter, some tea for Mrs Penny and myself, if you please.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not …’ began Thomasin, but King bumbled on, ‘What relation were you to old Mr Penny by the way? His nephew’s wife? I know he was childless.’

  ‘Well, actually …’

  ‘I always find it heartwarming to hear of a family business being perpetuated,’ went on King. ‘There is something so sad about a son’s disinclination to continue in his father’s footsteps. Have you sons, Mrs Penny?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thomasin gave up trying to correct the surname as King unfolded his family history. ‘Five generations have run this business, Mrs Penny. It gives me such pride to be part of it.’ He progressed in this vein until Thomasin was rescued some fifteen minutes later by the appearance of a young man bearing a tray.

  ‘Ah, thank you, Walter!’ King rose. ‘Come along, put the tray down here. That’s it. Look sharp, boy, look sharp! Mrs Penny, I should like to introduce my junior partner – who is also my son. Walter, this is Mrs Penny.’

  ‘Actually it’s …’

  ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Penny,’ said Walter, putting down his tray and proffering his hand. She breached the gap warily but was pleased to find that King junior had not inherited his father’s mania for dislocating limbs. Her hand came away unscathed.

  ‘I have just been informing Mrs Penny of the history behind our business,’ the young man’s father told him. ‘She agrees with me how important it is to have a son who will carry on the good work, don’t you, Mrs Penny?’

  Thomasin looked from one to the other. ‘Er …’

  ‘So, if you will not take your father’s advice at least you must pay heed to such a distinguished opinion as our guest’s. What say you, Walter, have you no tongue in your head?’

  ‘I …’ attempted his son.

  ‘Good, good!’ King picked up the teapot and tilted it heavily towards the cups, spilling much of it in his enthusiastic pouring. ‘I’m glad you see sense at last. Very well, you may leave us to our discussion now, Walter.’ The young man gave Thomasin a pathetic gesture, then wasted no time in escaping the office.

  ‘I hope you did not take offence at my using you as a battering ram so to speak, Mrs Penny,’ said King, handing her a cup of tea – half of it in the saucer.

  ‘Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t if I knew the purpose of it, Mr King,’ Thomasin finally slipped in as her host filled his mouth with tea.

  ‘Oh, did I not say?’ He clashed the cup and saucer together. ‘Well, dear lady it is like this: Walter refuses to find himself a wife – and without a spouse how can he hope to provide a son to carry on the business?’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Thomasin nodded. ‘But have you no other issue?’

  ‘Alas, eight daughters,’ bemoaned King. ‘None of them, I’m afraid, blessed with your flair for commerce. All they want to do is find a husband. It’s costing me a fortune. And the one I truly want to see married remains obstructive. He’s really a fine chap, Walter, a good head on his shoulders and knows plenty about the running of things here – could take over tomorrow if I met with an accident. But, you see, the ladies just don’t take a shine to him. I can’t think why, I’ve tried my best to help him along in his courtships. He doesn’t speak much, you may have noticed – had to do all the talking myself.’ Thomasin smiled into her cup. ‘In normal conditions the boy’s mother would be there to aid matters but I lost my dear wife with the birth of our last child and I’m totally at a loss as to what to suggest for him. If you can offer any solution I would be most grateful.’

  Thomasin expressed her regrets about the late Mrs King. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not the best person to advise you in this problem, for I too have an unmarried child on my hands.’ Suddenly the recollection of her discussion with Patrick came rushing back and her face became alert. King noticed this.

  ‘May one enquire the gender of this unmarried child?’ he said slowly.

  Thomasin pictured Erin being swallowed up by King’s over-enthusiasm. ‘I’m not certain my daughter would thank me for interfering,’ she said carefully.

  King leapt up in his boisterous fashion. ‘Nonsense! This is ideal. If we can bring the two together …’

  Thomasin scraped the bottom of her cup against the rim of the saucer to avoid drips and thought about it. This was what she had been hoping for, a good match for Erin, and Walter was certainly that – if he decided to follow his father’s lead, of course. And thereby lay the stumbling block – his father. When one married, one didn’t just wed the man but his whole family. Could Erin, or Thomasin for that matter, endure King senior as an in-law? She looked up at his eager face. It was difficult to gauge a man’s character from one meeting. The only way to find out the suitability of the match was to invite both father and son round to the house.

  ‘I can hear your mind whirring away there, Mrs Penny,’ laughed King. ‘If it is Walter’s qualification as a husband which deters you …’

  ‘Oh, pray forgive my rudeness,’ said Thomasin. ‘My silence was not an indication of my reluctance. My only fear is that my daughter will see it as an intrusion into her private affairs. I would not antagonise her. I wonder, would you think it impertinent if I asked you to put on a little charade?’

  ‘But I love charades!’ exclaimed King.

  ‘Well, this is what I had in mind: you could pretend to be calling on a matter of business and just happen to bring your son along, while I make certain that my daughter will be present. That way it will not seem too obvious.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ replied King. ‘And I shall be equally discreet when dealing with my son. He has inherited his father’s sensitivity and if he felt he was being manipulated would be most upset.’

  Thomasin pretended to be coughing to cover her hilarity – King was about as sensitive as a nawy’s boot. ‘I do beg your pardon. Now, Mr King, when shall this meeting be?’

  ‘Oh, the sooner the better I say. Tomorrow would be admirable.’

  ‘Tomorrow is Sunday, Mr King. Will your son not find it strange to be conducting business on the Sabbath?’

  ‘It does not have to be business, Mrs Penny,’ replied King. ‘I could say you have invited us to take tea with you as a way of cementing our new relationship. What will your husband’s reaction be to our machinations, I wonder?’

  ‘Oh, I have my husband’s blessing,’ said Thomasin. ‘He would like to see his daughter happily settled as much as I.’ – Though I doubt he had forseen it happening this soon, she thought to herself. She replaced her cup in its miniature pond and stood. ‘Thank you for the refreshment, Mr King. I shall have to go now, I have much to attend to.’

  King seized the cup from her and clattered it onto the tray, then tripped past her to open the door, bowing. ‘Until tomorrow then, Mrs Penny.’

  She smiled. ‘Do you think I could have my coat?’

  He shot upright. ‘Oh dear, how foolish I am!’ and grabbed the coat from the stand, spinning her round and thrusting it over her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you – and, Mr King my name is …’

  ‘Ah, Walter!’ King spotted his son and waved him over. ‘Direct Mrs Penny to her carriage, there’s a good chap. Au revoir, Mrs Penny, until tomorrow!’

  And that, thought Thomasin, finding herself standing on the wrong side of the door with a hesitant Walter at her shoulder, was that. She wondered, as she hurried beside him through the rain to her carriage, if she had made a mistake. Walter if anything was shyer than Erin, barely exchanging two words in the time they were together. But, looking at him over the carriage door she saw a young man with a pleasant smile and a willing manner. Even if this arrangement proved to be a waste
of time, it would at least give Erin the chance to converse with a member of the opposite sex.

  * * *

  Thomasin told Patrick of her plan. He did, however, need strenuous assurances as to the suitability of the young man before reluctantly granting his blessing. After Sunday lunch, instead of his usual nap, he changed into his working clothes and said that he would fit in a few hours on the land to work off the heavy meal. He didn’t want King to catch him in crumpled togs and bleary eyes.

  Thomasin had not minded this. ‘Only make sure you’re back in good time,’ she warned, rubbing her arm in memory. ‘I don’t feel strong enough to face the ordeal alone. I still think he damaged something yesterday.’

  At four o’clock she sent Amy to fetch Erin from her room. ‘I thought you might care to take this chance of gleaning a few hints on how to entertain,’ she told her stepdaughter when she came down. ‘You’ll have to learn some day, you know.’

  Erin innocently accepted the offer. ‘Will Dickie be coming to join us?’

  Thomasin said no. She had made sure of no diversions from her wilful son by lining up an alternative tea party at her mother’s. Hannah was also in on the secret and thought it a wonderful idea, though Thomasin doubted Dickie would see the tea party as such. ‘Mr King will be here shortly. I hope your father doesn’t forget what time it is – our guest does tend to get a wee bit overbearing.’ She eyed Erin’s outfit. ‘D’you think that’s suitable, love? Haven’t you got anything newer? After all, the mistress of the house does have to make an impression on her guests.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see the point of crumpling one of my best dresses: I’ve been scrunched up in a chair, reading. I was goin’ to change later for church. Anyway, I’m not the mistress, you are, Mam. An’ I’m sure in that dress you’ll make a resounding impression on anyone.’