For My Brother’s Sins

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

  He stood for a second, digesting her condemnations, then rushed after her. ‘You’re right!’ He caught up with her. ‘Everything ye say about me is right. I am a slob. I’ve only ever been interested in meself, I admit it.’

  ‘Small consolation to those you’ve hurt,’ muttered Dusty, the skirts of her gown frothing with the rapid movement of her legs.

  ‘But, Dusty ye said yourself ye thought I’d grown up – well ye weren’t wrong; I have. I’ve begun to see how silly my joke was: it’s only brought me more trouble.’

  ‘Your penitence is touching but still a little stained by self-indulgence.’

  ‘Dusty, please listen to me! There’s so much I need to say to ye, but I can’t say it out here.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘If you think I’m coming back to that bawdy house …’

  ‘No, no! I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it. But will ye talk to me on neutral ground?’

  ‘There’s little point …’

  ‘There is! Look.’ He snatched at her arm to stop her. ‘I can’t keep this up; ’tis wearin’ me lungs away. There’s a tea shop over there …’

  ‘Dickie,’ she begged. ‘I’ve only just got over … I don’t really want it to start up again.’

  ‘Dusty, I’m only askin’ ye to take tea with me,’ he pleaded. ‘Just to give me room to explain. Come on now, for old time’s sake. Unless,’ he taunted, ‘ye’d rather not have folk see ye in the company of such a notorious villain.’

  ‘Since when have I cared for what people think?’ She searched his beseeching face. Was his repentance genuine or just another of his ploys? She finally condescended. ‘Oh … all right. If it’ll give me the opportunity to knock some sense into that bonny head of yours about this feud with your parents. Come on.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It became their regular meeting place during the following weeks; the little tea shop blanketed in the shadow of York Castle. She hadn’t wanted it to happen, but of course it had – as she had known it would when she had seen his reflection in the goldsmith’s window. The ache had begun again.

  Having disposed of the sprawling building in the centre of town, Dickie had purchased a more sedate dwelling on the outskirts of the city, leaving ample surplus with which to gamble on the Stock Exchange. His one regret was that Dusty would never come here. It was as if she was afraid to be alone with him, always seeking the safe cloisters of the tea shop. He knew that she had not yet forgiven him, but hoped that day would come – for under no circumstances would he permit her to escape again. He intended to ask her to marry him. In the meantime, he had to take his pleasure where he could find it

  ‘Come on, Amy.’ He pushed his thigh against that of the maid. ‘Let’s be having ye. I’ve an important engagement at two.’

  ‘Isn’t it funny that once yer’ve had what yer wanted you always have an important engagement,’ complained Amy, rolling out of bed. ‘She must be prettier than me, Dickie.’

  ‘Who says it’s a woman I’m meeting?’ He punched at his pillows and leaned back, his face looking more tanned than ever against the whiteness of the linen.

  ‘I do, you old lecher.’ She pulled on her chemise and tucked it into her drawers, tugging sulkily at the drawstrings.

  ‘Is that any way to speak to your employer?’ He watched her put on the rest of her clothes, an act that always fascinated him, then followed her with amused eyes as she flounced to the door. ‘Hey! and remember, it’s sir in front of my guests and not Dickie; you raised a few eyebrows last night. Oh, and fetch me up a bath, will ye?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ she flung at him, and slammed the door.

  He hauled himself out of bed, stretching, and folded a brocade dressing gown around him, knotting the sash over his well-defined stomach muscles. When Amy and Laura, the other maid he had hired, brought up the bath some twenty minutes later, he flung off the robe, unabashed, and stepped into the steaming, perfumed water. ‘Which of you’s going to scrub me back?’

  ‘You can scrub your own bloody back, two-timer!’ shouted Amy. ‘Lest yer want a bleedin’ wire brush takin’ to it.’ And stalked out, pulling Laura after her.

  He shook his head and shouted. ‘I don’t know what the lower classes are coming to these days!’ Then ducked into the water as she came back to throw a towel at him.

  An hour later he went to keep his appointment with Dusty, swinging his ivory-handled cane to a jaunty rhythm. It was on Nessgate corner that he made the totally unexpected meeting.

  Thomasin scowled at him as he doffed his hat. She could hardly claim not to have seen him, them being on the same footway.

  ‘Good day to ye, Mother! Father. ’Tis a blustery day to be takin’ a walk. That wind’s sharp enough to hang your coat on.’

  ‘Dickie,’ acknowledged Patrick, but said no more.

  Thomasin looked up at her elder son’s face, feeling his daughter’s warm fingers curl around her own. ‘It might feel cold to them as blood runs thin. Some of us have consciences to keep us warm. I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to face us after you’ve dragged our good name through the dirt.’

  He gave an awkward laugh, then dropped to his heels to speak to Rosanna. ‘And who might we have here, then?’ he said in a light tone.

  ‘My name is Rosanna Feeney, sir,’ she told him politely. ‘What’s yours?’

  He grinned. ‘Richard Feeney esquire at your service, ma’am.’

  The child consulted her grandmother. ‘His name is the same as ours.’

  When Thomasin made no comment, Dickie said, ‘That’s right, child, I’m …’ He saw the flash of warning in his mother’s eyes and frowned. She surely didn’t think he was going to lay claim to the child now, did she? ‘I’m your Uncle Dickie,’ he told Rosanna, and on sudden impulse caught her tiny pointed chin in the crook of his finger. Something happened then. He could not say what it was, but a feeling ran through him as he gazed into those alert, blue eyes, bringing with it an extraordinary melancholy; a feeling of desolation, as if every other person had vanished from the street, leaving him here quite alone. He stared back at the child for an age, then stood abruptly, and asked his father to introduce him to the child the older man carried. Patrick noted with curiosity the seriousness that had taken over his son’s expression.

  ‘We’ll have to go,’ said Thomasin suddenly. ‘The children will be catching a chill.’

  ‘Mother!’ He stepped in front of her impulsively and caught her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’ It took a devil of a lot of saying after so many years waiting to get even.

  She regarded him with disdain. ‘And for which bit in particular are you sorry, Richard? Extorting from your mother, cuckolding your brother, or defaming the entire family with your filthy goings-on?’ She was about to pull away, then added cruelly, ‘Or for not turning up at your grandfather’s funeral?’ She went then, dragging the child after her.

  Patrick studied his son’s shocked face closely, then followed his wife. ‘Ye shouldn’t’ve done that, Tommy,’ he said grimly when he caught up. ‘It was plain that was the first he’d heard of Billy’s death.’

  Thomasin didn’t trust herself to answer. She knew without being told that it was a terribly cruel thing to have said to a boy who, however callous, had thought a great deal of his grandfather. She had just felt compelled to get back at him for all the hurt he had brought her.

  Only Rosanna looked back. Dickie stared as the child’s mouth turned up in a sudden smile and she raised her hand in a farewell salute. By the time he thought to wave his own they were round the corner and out of sight. Grandad, dead!

  He told Dusty about the meeting. She reached across the table and laced her fingers with his. it’s hardly surprising the way you’ve treated them,’ she said softly, as the waitress brought the tea.

  ‘But I was trying to atone,’ he replied. ‘Doing what you said. I wanted to make everything right between us. Grandad dead. God, I can’t believe it. I always felt he’d live forever – an’ she didn’t wait f
or me to say I was sorry or anything; just marched off, after dumping that on me.’

  She withdrew her hand to lift her cup. ‘Sorry is a sadly inadequate word, Dickie, to cover all your crimes. You’ve hurt them deeply. It would come as no shock to me if they never forgave you again.’

  He suddenly recalled the day when, hard up for a few coppers, he had pawned his grandfather’s beloved watch, and heavy-heartedly told her about it.

  ‘Oh, Dickie!’ Her green eyes were full of reproach.

  ‘I know. I’m a right bastard, aren’t I?’ He tested the tea and, finding it too hot for his taste, put down the cup. ‘No wonder they don’t want anything to do with me. If only I could get it back; but it’ll be long gone by now, I suppose. Sonny always wanted that watch, ye know. I knew that. I could’ve sold it to him rather than pawned it, but then that was me all over in those days – didn’t give it a second thought. He’s probably not forgiven me for that, either.’

  ‘I don’t expect he has,’ agreed Dusty sadly.

  ‘D’you feel that way too, Dusty?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I thought …well, I hoped maybe you …’

  ‘Dickie, it’s only been three weeks,’ she answered. ‘Three weeks since you turned up looking like you’d never been away. If you knew what I went through …’

  ‘I do know! I went through the same – not that I expect ye to believe it. Oh, but I’ve changed, Dusty.’ He pushed aside the cup and put both hands on her wrists. ‘I truly want to make amends.’

  ‘Part of you has changed,’ she granted. ‘But which part? And no funny quips.’

  ‘I wasn’t about to make one; it’s too serious for that. I’ll tell ye what hasn’t changed, though: the part of me that wanted to marry ye – still wants to marry ye.’

  ‘It’s too soon. I don’t want to get involved again only to be hurt.’ She dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief and started to rise.

  He pulled her down. ‘I won’t hurt ye again, Dusty, I promise.’

  ‘No, Dickie, it’s too early to make serious plans. Let it be.’

  ‘Very well,’ he sighed resignedly. ‘Save your answer. But know this: I love you, Dusty, I always have, despite the pain I’ve brought ye. An’ I’ll wait until ye’ve forgiven me …’

  ‘I’ve forgiven you already. You were very young, after all. It’s just that I can’t bring myself to trust you, Dickie. I couldn’t stand being hurt like that again. You’ll have to be content with my friendship for the time being. Let me go now, I’ve a lot of work to catch up on.’

  He held onto her. ‘You’re not going to turn up tomorrow, are ye? I can see it by the way you’re avoiding looking at me.’

  She forced herself to meet his eyes, and immediately gave up the fight. It was no use trying to fool herself, she would never be free of him, even if she walked out now. Still, she had to try for her own self-respect. ‘We’re becoming too close … I can’t…’

  ‘Please, please, Dusty I’m begging ye! I’ll go down on me knees, anything, but please don’t leave me. Say ye’ll be here tomorrow.’

  She opened her mouth to say no, but it didn’t come out that way. ‘Very well; I’ll be here at two as usual.’ Then she smiled.

  * * *

  ‘There’s a man what wants to see yer, Dickie.’ Amy took his hat and cane as he returned from his rendezvous with Dusty.

  ‘How many times have I asked ye not to call me that?’ He strode up to the door of the drawing room. ‘Is he in here?’

  ‘Aye – a Mr Nettleton.’

  Dickie, unfamiliar with the name, paused to think, then went back to whisper, ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Don’t look like owt.’ Amy brushed his coat and hung it on a mahogany stand.

  ‘Come on, come on!’

  She nipped her nose. ‘Well, he’s just an ordinary sort o’ fella. Bit short on top …’

  ‘Has he got an earlobe missing?’ came the sharp interruption.

  ‘How the hell would I know? I don’t give all your guests the medical once-over. Next yer’ll be askin’ me if he’s cut his toenails this week.’

  He frowned and instead of the drawing room made for the stairs.

  She bustled after him. ‘Where’re you off to?’

  ‘I’m off to pack a bag. I think I’ll spend a couple o’ nights at The Black Swan, Coney Street.’

  She adjusted her lace cap. ‘An’ what’ll I tell him?’ she called.

  He leaned over the balustrade. ‘Ye won’t have to tell him anything if ye keep shouting off your big gob like that. Wait till I’m out o’ the house before ye make my excuse.’

  ‘Will yer be comin’ back then? Only who’s gonna pay me and Laura if yer not?’

  He was thoughtful then. ‘I can’t say; probably not.’

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely that is! Leavin’ us ’ere without a job.’

  ‘Here!’ He screwed up a ten pound note and threw it down at her. ‘That will more than recompense ye both. If ye call at The Mucky Duck I’ll have references for ye, only I haven’t time to write them now.’ He dashed off to his room.

  There he pulled open the jaws of a bag and threw in some clean underwear and shirts then, as an afterthought, tipped in the entire contents of his valuables case. Reaching to the windowsill he grasped a pelargonium by the stem and ripped it, along with its dried-out rootball, from the plantpot, then shook out the hundred or so sovereigns he had hidden there for such an emergency. One had to be devious with a maid like Amy. He knew she had been taking his possessions since the day she arrived but had not worried as long as they did not amount to anything more valuable than odds and ends. Poor kid, he had given her a rough deal in the past. After throwing in the sovereigns he tossed a few toiletries after them and snapped the bag shut, then made for the stairs. He stopped on the landing. There were voices in the hall.

  ‘I thought I heard your master come in,’ Nettleton was saying. Dickie peeped out to grab a look at the man who so plagued him.

  ‘No, that weren’t him,’ lied Amy. ‘He’s still out. That were the coalman.’

  ‘Does the coalman always use the front door?’ enquired Netdeton.

  Amy skipped over the question. ‘Yer welcome to stay ’til he does come back. Shall I show you back into the drawin’ room?’

  Nettleton’s brow dropped. He looked up the stairs. Dickie pressed himself into a corner. ‘I’ll wait here.’ The detective was deuced certain Feeney was in the house.

  ‘Yer’d be more comfy in there,’ pressed Amy, casting nervous glances up the staircase. ‘He might not be in for ages.’

  Silly bitch! cursed Dickie – she’s all but told him where I am with her eyes wavering up here all the time. The detective had taken a chair. Dickie clenched his fist. Blast!

  He looked to his right, then his left, seeking another way out. There were only the windows. It was a long climb down to the garden. Oh well, he tiptoed back to his room, he had done this sort of thing before.

  Sliding up the sash as softly as he could he leaned out to take stock. The drop was longer than he had thought. He picked up his bag and after a moment’s hesitation dropped it to the flower bed below, cocking his ear to see if anyone came running at the dull thump. He looked down ruefully at his smart clothes – too bad it couldn’t be avoided – then slid his leg over the sill and grasped hold of the drainpipe. His boots grated on the brickwork as he slithered down. At one point came a bodeful creaking and he clung on grimly, staring into the grinning face of an iron cherub. ‘S’all right for you, ye bastard,’ waiting for the pipe to break free of its brackets. He felt the sweat trickle down his temple as he risked a look down. It held. He continued his descent and jumped the last few feet to the garden. Brushing off his clothes with his hands he snatched up his portmanteau and made for the wall at the bottom of the garden.

  Nettleton, lured back into the drawing room by some sixth sense, spotted him through the window as he straddled the high wall. The detective opened the window to shout his name. Dickie looked up, startled,
then was gone.

  Nettleton turned his bile on the maid who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘I could have you for collusion!’

  ‘Keep yer hair on,’ she said mildly, placing a tray on the table bearing two cups and saucers, a pot of tea and milk jug. ‘I daresay you’ll have time for a cuppa tea before we begin our little game.’ She seated herself on a chaise longue and spread out her legs.

  ‘And what game might that be?’ asked the detective warily.

  ‘The one where we see how long it takes you to hit on the right amount I’ll accept to tell you where he is,’ grinned Amy.

  * * *

  But Dickie, his shrewd mind telling him what he would have done in Amy’s position, had changed venues, checking instead into The Old George Hotel as R. Freemason. Once in his room he found it hard to venture out again, but forced himself to visit the bar later in the evening. If he stayed cooped up in that room all the time he’d go mad.

  However, feeling conspicuous in the bar’s lack of patronage he decided to risk going further afield and visit his usual haunts. Even if the detective caught up with him it was unlikely that Dickie would be trapped in a place he knew so well. The sobering vision came flashing back of a cornered youth in a blind alley, cowering with wet pants. Never take anything for granted, Dickie boy, he told himself as he looked to right and left before leaving the hotel. And remember, you’re at a disadvantage now; the man’s seen your good-looking face.

  He reached his destination without mishap. ‘Large Irish, Sam!’ He leaned on the bar, his chin resting on his chest, glancing furtively about him.