For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘But she knew that yesterday! She didn’t carry on like this.’

  ‘No … but he wasn’t covered in blood then, just as he isn’t covered in blood now – she didn’t scream at him tonight, did she? Can you supply another answer for her behaviour other than that?’

  She admitted she couldn’t. But to suggest that a person could remember an incident that happened when that person was six years old and that it could have such a drastic effect at this stage in her life seemed plain silly. Especially since neither Erin nor her parents had ever discussed the horrifying incident since the day it had happened. Erin had surely forgotten it. ‘No, I think it’s more likely to be just the sight of the blood. I mean, she’s always been a bit squeamish and there are lots of folk who can’t stand the sight of blood. Our Erin must be just one of them. Eh, I do feel sorry for the way I snapped at that poor lad.’

  ‘Me too,’ he surprised himself with his alliance. ‘He’s really fond of her, isn’t he?’

  She nodded and smiled. ‘It’d be awful if something so silly as a drop o’ blood came between them. D’you think you’d better have a word with Sam about looking presentable before he sees her?’

  He agreed, then looked at the clock. ‘I’ll tell him now before he goes. ’Tis getting late. We don’t want to leave them in there too long on their own.’

  Thomasin fetched the young couple back to the drawing room, then made a pretext of wanting Erin to help with a chore so that Patrick could give Sam the verdict.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, son.’ Patrick motioned him to a seat. ‘I just wanted Erin out o’ the way in case the explanation I’m gonna give ye embarrasses her further. Has she mentioned any explanation herself?’

  Sam said not. ‘I thought it best to steer clear of that subject.’

  ‘Well, Sam, we think we know why she screamed at ye like that; ’twas the sight of all the blood on your clothes. She’s always been a sensitive creature and …’

  ‘Oh, blazes!’ Sam threw up his hands. ‘So it was my fault. Oh … I could kill meself.’

  ‘No, don’t do that, son or there’ll be a bit more blood about, an’ Erin wouldn’t be too happy neither.’ Patrick actually smiled at him – something he had certainly not envisaged doing at the start of the evening. But Sam had such a likeable personality. ‘Just clean yourself up a bit before ye pay your visits – like you’ve done tonight – an’ I think things’ll be a lot smoother.’

  ‘Oh, I will! How bloody insensitive of me never to give it a thought.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t to know.’

  ‘No, but it wasn’t very good manners anyway, was it? Presenting meself like that. Oh well,’ he cheered, ‘now that I know that’s all that ails her I’ll keep out of her way while we’re at work an’ make sure I’m well-scrubbed before I call on her… that’s if you’ll still give your consent?’

  Patrick looked deep into the apprehensive face, then smiled and nodded his affirmation. ‘I think you’re goin’ to be good for my daughter, Sam – but just watch your step, young fella else ’twill be a bit more than cow’s blood getting spilt.’ They both laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sam Teale became a regular caller at the Feeney house, always being absolutely scrupulous in his efforts to remove the last traces of his profession from his skin and clothes. He had never felt for anyone the way he did about Erin.

  Having survived the embarrassment of that reunion, Erin felt the same way, and was now envisaging plans of a spring wedding. There had been no recurrence of that ‘funny feeling’, apart from once or twice when Sam had kissed her and she had found it hard to breathe – but then that was probably how one felt, being in love.

  Christmas came and went and the new decade added a one to its number. Outside, there were two inches of snow on the pavement but the room where the family was assembled round the dinner table was a-glow. A great log fire sizzled and whined in the grate, with the hot resin hissing and bubbling onto the firedogs. Aloft, the picture-rails were still draped with ivy, laurel, myrtle and holly laden with plump red berries, an ill-omen, Thomasin had said, for any hope of a short winter. The gaslamps’ yellow flicker made everything seem cosy and safe on this winter’s eve. The meal was over and the table abuzz with conversation as Amy entered to clear the plates. Thomasin suggested they retire from the table to give the maid room to move.

  ‘Have you been treating yourself to a new gown, Mother?’ asked Sonny as he pulled out her chair.

  Thomasin preened swankily in the pale-green dress. It was high-necked with a ruffle of lace at the throat, a tight-fitting bodice and the ubiquitous bustle. ‘I’m glad somebody noticed.’

  Patrick moved his head aside as she slipped from the dining chair and squeezed past him. ‘How could a man not help noticing with that bumroll almost knocking his head off?’

  ‘I can’t ever foresee us making a gentleman out of your father,’ replied Thomasin, choosing the armchair nearest the fire and placing a fire-screen before her face to shield her complexion. She toasted her hands. ‘We’ll take coffee in here, Amy; it’s a better fire.’

  ‘All right, ma’am,’ said the maid uninterestedly.

  Thomasin gave a heartfelt sigh. She had really persevered with this girl but still could not summon up one ounce of liking for Amy. There was no longer the need to remind the maid to address her correctly; however, Amy always succeeded in making the word ma’am sound like a much less savoury name. It incensed Thomasin.

  What cause had she ever given Amy to despise her? It was only because of Patrick that she kept the girl on. The poor soul would never get a job anywhere else if they dismissed her, he had said – she was such a terrible cook.

  ‘Oh, so I have to put up with her?’ his exasperated wife had replied, after yet another meal had been ruined. Even so, Amy did stay, if only because Thomasin was always too busy in the grocery to get around to replacing her.

  Now the maid piled the plates one on top of the other, making a surplus din with the cutlery. Still as crude as ever, she was thinking. Whoever heard a gent talking about bumrolls? But like Her Highness said, he’d never make a gentleman – and neither would she make a lady.

  A loud burst of laughter as Patrick treated them to a joke made Amy’s blood bubble. There they all were, sitting on their arses, watching her do all the work. It made her sick. She clattered the plates onto her tray, clashing and banging.

  ‘Oh, Amy! Please be more careful!’ cried Thomasin as the maid mishandled a tureen of leftover potatoes and succeeded in upturning it on the carpet.

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ snarled Amy cheekily, and crouched down to scrape the spilt food back into the dish. ‘I’m tryin’ to rush so’s I could get your coffee an’ not keep yer waitin’.’

  ‘There’s no need to rush,’ replied Thomasin, more calmly than she felt, watching her beloved Staffordshire being filled with fluff-topped potatoes. ‘No one’s at your back with a whip.’

  ‘I should hope not after I’ve slaved all day over you bloody lot. You seem to think I’m some sort o’ machine what keeps going all day long.’ The complaints were made under her breath but intended for Thomasin to hear. ‘It’s too bad.’

  Thomasin lost her temper. ‘You are quite correct, Amy, it is too bad – though it is the meal to which I refer. In fact the floor was probably the most suitable place for it, because we certainly found it much too difficult to swallow.’

  Amy turned on her defiantly. ‘If yer don’t like it then yer know what yer can do!’

  Patrick rose angrily from his seat. ‘Amy! You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when speaking to my wife. I should inform ye that your mistress has been very patient in putting up with all your faults – and you must admit that ye’ve more than your fair share o’ those. If you’re to stay in my house then ye’ll have to smarten your ideas up an’ put a lot more effort into your work.’ His eyebrows came together to make one black line over humourless eyes, a play of feature which warned Amy that she
would get away with no more cheek. She curtsied and mumbled something which had to pass for an apology then, balancing the pots on a tray, returned to the kitchen. I’m not going to stick this much longer, she promised herself grimly. I’ve had it up to my stocking tops with the sanctimonious, lazy cow. She released her hold on the tray an inch or two from the table; several items rolled off and crashed to the floor. Her an’ her bloody fancy dinner-set! She kicked the pieces petulandy. That’s her idea, the old witch; she thinks if she works me hard enough and tosses enough insults around that I’ll up and leave. Well, there’s too much to keep me here yet. I’ll go when I’m good and ready, and when I do go I’ll enjoy rubbing her nose in it, by God I will.

  The question of Amy’s future was also being aired in the dining room.

  ‘Well, I agree with Mam,’ Erin said to her father. ‘We should get rid of her and find someone else. She doesn’t seem to know her place. I mean, I’m not a snob or anything, but when I worked at the Cumm …’ She could have bitten her tongue for raising that subject, well aware what hurt it would cause, but it was out now. ‘When I was in service I had to call the mistress ma’am, and wouldn’t’ve dreamed of cheeking her like Amy does Mam. What do you say, Sonny?’

  Sonny, home from college, glanced up from the Christmas card he had been reading and replaced it on the mantelshelf. ‘Oh, well, seeing as how I’m hardly in the house and don’t have to put up with her it’s not for me to say. I must confess, though, that Christmas lunch was a let-down. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks after the scanty rations we get at college.’

  ‘It would’ve been a darned sight worse if we’d left her to cope on her own,’ Erin confided. ‘We prepared the vegetables an’ Mam did the brandy butter. That’s the other annoying thing; me and Mam shouldn’t have to work in the kitchen when we have Amy, that’s what we hired her for. I don’t mind lending a hand now and then but she seems to do less and less every day. I have my baking to do, I haven’t time to be running around after her. That kitchen is a disgrace as well; I don’t think she ever cleans it. I wouldn’t mind but Mother paid out good money to have that new gas cooker put in, so her workload isn’t anywhere near what she’d have to tackle in some other place.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Sonny, ‘you appear to be pretty firm in your views. What d’you think about it all, Dick?’

  ‘No point asking him,’ said his sister dismissively. ‘He couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss. He’s never in the house to notice.’

  Dickie grinned and decided to return his sister’s disdain. ‘Will darlin’ Samuel be payin’ a visit this evening?’

  Erin donned a panoply of indifference. ‘I should imagine so,’ she replied casually. ‘What’s it to you?’

  Dickie pointed to a sprig of mistletoe which hung over the doorway. ‘Well, ’tis almost Twelfth Night – ye’d best make the most out o’ that while ye can. A couple o’ days an’ Sam’ll have no reason to have to kiss ye. He’ll be safe for another year.’

  ‘Oh, you insolent creature!’ Erin blushed and flew at him. He ducked away, laughing. ‘It’s for certain you don’t need any kissing berry, the stories I’ve been hearing about yourself.’ She clamped down her jaw, realising her blunder, and stole a glance to see if anyone else had noticed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Thomasin without looking at her. ‘You’ve not let any cat out of the bag. I’ve been hearing one or two stories myself about that one.’ Then turned her vexation on Patrick’s complacent smile. ‘And well you might laugh when you’re to blame.’

  ‘Me? Sure what have I ever done to encourage any misbehaviour?’

  ‘You’ve done nothing to stop it though, have you? Allowing him to roam the streets at all hours, the dirty little tomcat.’

  Dickie, unabashed, looked at his brother who diverted his face rapidly. ‘I don’t know who’s been spreading rumours about me, but ’tis lies, all lies.’

  ‘How d’you know when I haven’t even said what I’ve heard?’ challenged his mother.

  ‘Ah, leave the lad alone,’ said Patrick, surprising Dickie with his alliance. ‘Didn’t ye live next door to Miss Peabody long enough to know not to listen to gossip?’

  ‘I’d like to write it off as gossip,’ Thomasin replied. ‘But somehow I tend to believe what I hear.’ She tapped Erin’s shoulder. ‘Come on, I think we’d better go and see where that coffee’s got to. She’s taking an awful long time. If I stay here I might swing for somebody.’

  When the women had departed Patrick poured out three small measures of whiskey. ‘Despite what I said to your mother I’d not like to think ye were bringing this family into disrepute,’ he told Dickie, handing out the drinks. ‘I trust ye recall the few words we had on that score last year?’

  ‘I do.’ Dickie tipped the whiskey down his throat in one movement. He was damned if he was going to listen to any lectures tonight. His trip to replace the glass on top of the drinks cabinet took him to the door.

  ‘Where are ye going?’

  He turned and manufactured a smile for his father. ‘I’m going out – with a young lady, if ye’ve no objections?’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit cold for courting?’ asked Patrick, then added, ‘Well, just mind ye behave yourself. Is she a decent girl then?’

  ‘Oh, as pure as me own sister,’ confirmed Dickie glibly. ‘A good conscientious Catholic, and Irish to boot.’

  This appeared to meet with his father’s approval. Patrick nodded and smiled. ‘Can we expect ye to bring her home one o’ these days?’

  ‘Not for a while I shouldn’t think, she’s awfully shy.’ Dickie opened the door. ‘Ah well, I’d best be off and get changed, I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Patrick amicably. ‘You’re giving no secrets away, are ye? Will ye not even tell me her name?’

  ‘Ah, there’s no secret in that, Dad,’ said his son before the door closed. ‘Her name is Lucy Fallon.’

  Patrick’s eyes were still glued to the door when his wife and daughter returned. He stared right through them, mouth slightly ajar.

  ‘What’s up with your dad?’ Thomasin waved her hand in front of Patrick’s face.

  Sonny lifted his eyes from the sketchpad which held the rudiments of his father’s portrait and shrugged. He put aside the pad and took the cup of coffee which Thomasin held out to him.

  Thomasin had to ask Patrick three times if he wanted this coffee or not, and when he did look at her his face was considerably older than its true years. She asked if he was unwell and receiving no answer propelled him to a chair. it was just something Dickie said,’ he eventually conveyed in a quiet voice. ‘A name, just a name.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What name?’

  ‘Fallon.’ He waited for the innocuous-sounding word to draw the same response from her as it had done from himself. ‘He’s going to meet someone called Lucy Fallon.’

  The furrows on Thomasin’s brow deepened. Here was another ghost from the past come to haunt them. Then her face relaxed. ‘This is absurd! There must be other families with that name. Sonny, what do you know about this?’

  ‘Nothing!’ was his first response, but at his parents’ firm prompting he put down the cup of coffee on the hearth and reluctantly divulged what his brother had told him.

  Sonny was not a little annoyed about it; after poaching Annie from under his nose that time his brother had promptly dropped her – as he always did after he’d had what he was after. There had apparently been dozens of girls since Annie. Of course Dickie had wasted no time in telling his brother all about them when he came home from college. Lucy was his current attraction. When Sonny had told his parents about her he added, ‘Grandma’s not going to be very pleased about the relationship – Lucy’s from a tinker family.’ He saw the look that passed between his mother and father and was rather surprised at this show of snobbishness. It was commonplace from Hannah, and perhaps lately from his mother, but never Patrick.

  ‘I can tell what you’re thinkin’, Son
,’ said his father quietly, ‘but you’re wrong.’ He paused for a while, then went on, ‘I don’t know if this is the time to tell ye, but I’ve a terrible feeling that I helped to kill this girl’s father.’

  ‘If you’re going to tell the story you might as well get it right,’ corrected his wife, informing Sonny, ‘In fact your father was the one who tried to save Fallon’s life. It was your Uncle John who killed him.’

  ‘Uncle John?’ Sonny was now totally confused. He chewed the end of his pencil, waiting for a more comprehensive explanation.

  ‘To tell it briefly,’ sighed his father, ‘this tinker, Fallon, was the one who maimed Uncle John before you were born. John waited years to take his revenge – it was all he lived for, I think – and when he finally got it he paid for it with his life. Both he and the tinker drowned in the River Foss. We never found the need to tell ye before, you being so fond o’ the lad.’

  So, that mystery was solved at last, thought Sonny. He stripped a splinter of wood from the pencil and flicked it into the fire. ‘I can see your concern now.’

  ‘So how long has it been going on?’ asked Patrick. Sonny was unsure. ‘Not long, I suspect. Dickie …’ he hesitated, feeling slightly treacherous. ‘Well, he soon gets bored if he’s with the same girl for too long.’

  ‘Then let’s hope an’ pray he soon gets bored with this one,’ said Patrick grimly.

  * * *

  Thankfully, when the time came for Sonny to return to college he was able to report that Lucy Fallon was no longer a danger to his parents’ peace of mind. Dickie, as was his fashion, had moved on to fresh waters. It was a great weight lifted from both their minds. Thomasin had far too much to concern her at the store without having to worry about her wayward son; it was fast taking over her whole life. She threw herself wholeheartedly into her work, knowing that her industry would ensure that no member of her family would ever go hungry again.

  At this very moment she was struggling with a home-cured ham, finally managing to suspend it from the hook over the counter. This was yet another commodity which Thomasin had introduced and which was moving nicely. Positioned at just the right angle over the customer’s nose – ‘well, perhaps just a sliver for my husband’s tea’ – and yet another credit to Erin’s culinary expertise.