Their first call was at the seedsman’s, where Chloe discussed with Mr Butterfield her requirements of hyacinth and tulip bulbs for next spring. A few doors along they collected a silk parasol left for repair, and then stopped at the provision merchant’s for Chloe to administer a sharp rebuke for the inferior quality of the York ham recently supplied to Bracklegarth Hall. And finally to the bank, a small squat building guarded by iron railings. In the dim interior Mr Purbright the banker was engaged in earnest conversation with a tall man whose back was turned to them, but when he saw them he broke off at once and bowed gracefully.
‘Good morning ma’am, how do you do? Good morning, young ladies. Miss Hardaker, permit me to introduce this gentleman who is a newcomer to the Brackle Valley. Mr Cliffe has leased Oakroyd House.’
The stranger turned to face them, and with a shock of recognition Emma saw that it was her stranger. He had exchanged his riding clothes for close-fitting check trousers and a double-breasted beige coat with wide revers.
While the introductions continued he gave no overt sign of recognising Emma but politely awaited her explanation that they had already met while riding on the moor. Emma, however, was unable to summon the few simple words needed. She felt a sense of panic and was aware of the colour creeping to her cheeks. Hastily she glanced down, staring at the braiding on the skirt of her green crinoline dress. As the moments slipped by her opportunity passed and it was suddenly too late. She could only remain silent and trust to the man’s discretion.
Aunt Chloe, recognising a person of substance, was effusive.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Cliffe. We had heard, of course, that there was to be a tenant at Oakroyd House after it has stood empty for so long, but we understood you were not expected until nearer Michaelmas.’
‘My plans were brought forward, Miss Hardaker. I arrived in Bythorpe yesterday.’
‘And most welcome you are. This district is sadly lacking in the society of our own kind, and the thought of a new neighbour is quite stimulating. Will you be staying permanently, Mr Cliffe? Are you in business, perhaps, or ... ?’
He declined to satisfy Chloe’s curiosity. ‘I have various matters to attend to here. Exactly how long I shall be staying remains to be seen.’
‘Doubtless my brother will be calling on you very soon, when I tell him you have already taken up residence.’
‘Your brother?’
‘Mr Randolph Hardaker. He owns the Brackle Valley Woollen Mill.’
‘Ah, yes. Your brother will be welcome at Oakroyd House, Miss Hardaker. In due course I shall hope to see all of you there.’
At last Emma found the courage to raise her eyes to meet his challenging gaze, in which there was a gleam of irony and amusement; but more, a sense of accompliceship in a shared secret. When Mr Cliffe took his leave, with a handshake for the banker and a bow to each of the ladies in turn – to Emma last, lingering almost imperceptibly – she was filled with a strange elation. As her Aunt Chloe and Mr Purbright fell to discussing him she listened eagerly, her heightened senses avid for the scraps of information that might fall. A charming man, they both agreed, a real asset to the neighbourhood. Chloe went on to enquire whence he had come.
‘From London, I understand, though I think that was only a temporary residence. I suspect that Mr Cliffe made his fortune somewhere abroad and has come home to enjoy it.’
‘How interesting. Has there been any mention of a Mrs Cliffe?’
‘None, my dear Miss Hardaker. But then a gentleman often prefers to establish himself in life before considering matrimony. All the more credit to him, I say.’
‘To be sure. Clearly he will have no difficulty in suiting himself when he decides the time is come. A fortune, you say? Most interesting!’
Cathy had not spoken during the whole encounter. But as they left the bank with the new-minted silver shillings chinking in Chloe’s pigskin purse, she burst out in an excited whisper, ‘Isn’t Mr Cliffe a handsome man, Emma? Did you notice how he kept on looking at you?’
Emma coloured, but succeeded in keeping a level voice.
‘He was looking at us all, you little goose. It didn’t mean anything.’
* * *
Randolph would make it his business to call at Oakroyd House that same afternoon. Coming home for the midday dinner. – not luncheon, he insisted, despite Chloe’s protests that to dine in the evening was so much more fashionable – he listened attentively to all his sister had to tell him about their new neighbour. Afterwards, although grumbling that he could ill-afford to neglect the mill when they were so busy with uniform cloth for the Rifle Volunteers, he declared his intention to go and introduce himself to Mr Cliffe without delay.
‘This afternoon?’ exclaimed Chloe in astonishment.
‘I can’t have anyone else getting in first. It’s only right the Hardakers should lead the way. What a pity the man hasn’t a wife, though. Then it would be up to you to call at Oakroyd House, Chloe, and save me the job.’
‘Why don’t you invite him here one evening? For dinner,’ she added as an afterthought, seizing the golden opportunity,
Randolph eyed his sister ironically. ‘Happen he’ll not be impressed by the sight of young Seth dolled up in footman’s rigout like an organ-grinder’s monkey.’
Cathy dropped her fork with a clatter. ‘Seth is not an indoor servant, papa! It’s very unkind to make him wait at table. He hates doing it.’
‘The lad will do as he’s damned well told,’ Randolph snapped. Then seeing his daughter’s face crumple, he added in gentler tones, ‘Young Seth is lucky to have such a good place, lass, and you have no cause to feel sorry for him. How many other lads get a shilling for the fair on top of their wages? Aye, and the time off to go there and squander it! Sometimes I reckon I’m nobbut a soft-hearted fool.’
Randolph and Chloe, temporary allies in their ambition to entertain the wealthy Mr Cliffe, joined in making plans for the projected dinner party. One day next week would be best, they agreed, and just the family for the first occasion. That meant their sister Jane and her husband, Dr Paget Eade; and Blanche Hardaker, their widowed sister-in-law.
Half listening to her uncle and aunt, Emma’s thoughts were filled with a delightful anticipation of the evening in prospect when Mr Cliffe would come to dinner with them. She wondered what she could wear. Normally not over-concerned about her clothes, for the first time in her life she had a wish to look beautiful and sophisticated. The idea that Mr Cliffe might dismiss her as a dowdy little provincial girl was unbearable.
‘That makes covers for eight.’ Chloe was musing aloud. ‘I am afraid we shall be rather short of gentlemen. Perhaps we should ask Bernard Mottram to make up the number.’
‘Bernard? But you said it was to be just the family,’ Emma protested.
‘As your Uncle Paget’s partner I think he can properly be included. Yes, I shall invite Bernard.’
Emma knew it was useless to argue. Anyway, to allow herself to be concerned whether or not Bernard came would be to give him undue importance in her mind. As Uncle Paget’s junior partner, and the doctor who personally attended Cathy, she inevitably saw a good deal of him. He was a young man with whom it was difficult to find fault, which in her private thoughts Emma sometimes attempted to do. His good manners, his above-average height combined with sandy-fair hair and intelligent hazel eyes, gave him a thoroughly pleasing appearance, and he was agreeable to talk to. Bernard Mottram would have made a most acceptable member of Emma’s small circle of acquaintances if it had not been for one unwelcome circumstance – the look of tenderness he constantly directed at her.
Cathy was staring at her rose-bordered plate, not eating, still upset by her father’s reprimand concerning Seth. Emma felt a quick rush of affection for her, touched with a sense of guilt. If her own future was hazy and uncertain to her, poor Cathy’s fate was patently clear to everyone; her young life could not be prolonged beyond a few fleeting years at most. On Cathy’s bad days, when she was
racked with coughing and left weak and gasping for breath, with a froth of bright-red blood upon her lips, Emma always feared the end would come very soon. She touched her cousin’s hand beneath the tablecloth, and whispered, ‘I don’t suppose Seth minds helping out as footman occasionally. He always looks very smart in his livery, and I shall make a point of telling him so.’
Emma was rewarded with a wan smile. Cathy took a sip of the watered wine she was served at meals, and slowly resumed eating the tender breast of duckling on her plate.
When Randolph set out for the mill after dinner he had changed into a dark grey frock-coat of his own finest broadcloth, with a cravat of Macclesfield silk at his throat; and he took the dog cart for his drive over to Oakroyd House later on. Chloe retired upstairs for her customary rest and the two girls settled down in the conservatory to mount pressed flowers in an album.
The house was quiet, and the servants too were taking their afternoon ease. With the green roller blinds drawn against the sun’s glare, Emma found the humid, earthy smell of the greenery oppressive. She felt a longing to be up on the moor, galloping fast and free across the wild solitary tracts of heathland, with the wind rushing past her ears and the sun caressing her face. But in this image the companion who rode beside her was not young Seth; it was Mr Cliffe, splendidly mounted on his fine Cleveland bay.
A tap behind the blind startled her.
‘Who is it?’ she called.
The glazed door to the garden opened and Seth looked in, a sheepish grin spread across his swarthy gypsy features.
‘I come to show’ee my jacket, Miss Cathy, like tha telled me to.’ He was pleased with himself but embarrassed too, his shoulders hunched, his fingers clutching the ends of his sleeves.
‘Oh, it’s lovely!’ Cathy exclaimed, jumping to her feet. ‘What a gorgeous blue! Turn right round, Seth, and let me see the back. Isn’t your grandmama clever with her needle -isn’t she, Emma?’
Seth pointed to a motif embroidered on the left cuff. ‘She’s sewed a sprig o’ heather on’t, see. Gran’mer said ‘twould bring me good fortune.’
‘And so it shall ... lots and lots of good fortune.’ In her innocent eagerness Cathy flung her arms round the boy’s neck. ‘Oh Seth, I do wish I could go to the Donkey Fair with you – the way we always used to do things together when we were children.’
‘But it wouldn’ be proper no more, Miss Cathy.’ He looked flushed and anxious as he tried to draw away from her, and glanced for help at Emma, who said quickly, ‘I think you’d better go now, Seth. Aunt Chloe will be down in a minute.’
Reluctantly, Cathy released him and he departed in haste. Cathy breathed a long sigh, her lips slightly parted.
‘Will you read to me for a little while, Emma?’ she said dreamily. ‘My eyes ache.’
‘Of course, dearest. I have got Mr Trollope’s new novel in my room. Shall I go upstairs and fetch it? I remember how much you enjoyed Barchester Towers.’
‘No, thank you. I – I find Mr Trollope’s work rather dull.’ From the pocket of her skirt she took a slim volume bound in red calf, which Emma recognised with dismay.
‘Not Wuthering Heights again!’ she protested. ‘You must almost know it off by heart.’
A small secret smile flitted across Cathy’s face as she riffled through the pages. This is the part I want to hear, Emma. Start here, if you please.’
As Emma began to read she felt distinctly uneasy. It was six months ago, last February, that she had chanced to borrow the novel from the Mechanics’ Institute library in Bythorpe. Cathy was confined to bed at the time, and Emma had hoped the poetic descriptions of their own Pennine-moorland countryside would hold a special interest for her. But as Miss Emily Bronte’s wildly tempestuous story unfolded, she had doubted the wisdom of her choice. Cathy’s face, already flushed with fever, seemed to burn even more fiercely, while her unseeing eyes gazed at some vision far beyond the bedroom’s four walls; her breath came in short laboured gasps and her thin fingers gripped the quilt convulsively. Then Emma was afraid that Cathy was reacting too deeply to the vivid prose, becoming too disturbingly involved with the impassioned characters for someone of her delicate constitution. But when she suggested some lighter reading for a change, Cathy always beseeched her to continue with Wuthering Heights, Emma’s own enjoyment of the novel was ruined and it was thankfully that she reached the end, and she returned it at once to the lending library. But to her surprise and dismay, barely a fortnight later a parcel came for Cathy containing the three volumes of Wuthering Heights which she had secretly ordered from London.
Now, as Emma reached the end of a chapter, Cathy breathed a sigh of deep contentment, and said, ‘It’s just like me and Seth, isn’t it?’
Emma was astonished. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Why, Cathy in the book and Heathcliff. It’s just like us.’
‘Oh no,’ said Emma with firmness, “there’s really no similarity at all.’
Without knowing why, she felt deeply troubled. But before she could say any more the door opened and Chloe entered the conservatory, buttoning her black velvet cuffs.
‘I declare, those geraniums are wilting,’ she said fussily. ‘That fool Brigg can’t have watered them properly. He imagines he knows more about the care of plants than I do.’
She marched to the garden door intent on having it out with the gardener forthwith. Then she paused, her head cocked to one side.
‘Isn’t that the dog cart? It sounds as if your papa is back already, Cathy.’
Seconds later the door from the house burst open and Randolph strode in. His face was inflamed with anger.
‘Damn the man! How dare he come here under false pretences, tricking honest, decent folk into seeking his acquaintance!’ Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted, ‘Hoad, where the devil are you with that whisky?’
The butler, a short thickset man with bushy side whiskers, appeared bearing a decanter and glass on a silver tray. Randolph helped himself to a large measure and drank deeply.
His sister, looking bewildered, said in a thin, anxious voice, ‘You surely can’t be referring to that nice Mr Cliffe?’
‘Cliffe! That’s not his name, curse him! I hold you to blame, Chloe, for letting me in for this. You met the wretched man in the village, and you should have recognised him at once, just as I did.’
‘But I cannot recollect ever meeting him before. And when he was introduced to us in the bank, he behaved as if we were complete strangers. Emma, you will bear me out in that.’ .
Emma nodded confirmation. Her heart was suddenly beating painfully.
‘But who is he, Uncle? What is his real name? And what is it that is so dreadful?’
‘You do well to ask his name, lass, and I’ll tell you. It’s Matthew Sutcliffe – not Cliffe, but Sutcliffe. There, now you know!’
In a daze, Emma heard her aunt’s shocked protest. ‘No, Randolph, it cannot be him. You must be mistaken. This man is rich and respectable, a gentleman. And he is so much older.’
‘A man changes in fifteen years,’ Randolph grunted furiously as he refilled his glass with whisky and took a long draught.
Emma clenched her hands together in an effort to stop their trembling.
‘Uncle Randolph,’ she faltered, “are you – are you truly saying that the man who has come to live at Oakroyd House is the one who ... who ...’ She could not continue, her throat would not allow the words to pass.
There was a silence and she was inconsequentially aware of the rapid ticking of the cuckoo clock on the conservatory wall. Randolph brought his gaze from the empty glass in his hand, and looked at her. He drew a long, deep breath and spoke with heavy reluctance.
‘Aye, that’s right, lass! He’s Matthew Sutcliffe, the man who killed your father.’
Chapter Three
Randolph left it to Cathy’s doctor to decide whether she should go to the Donkey Fair, and Bernard Mottram made a special visit on Saturday morning to examine her.
‘Will you promise not to get overexcited, and to wrap up well against the night air?’ he demanded in a severe voice.
‘Oh yes, Bernard. Anything – as long as you’ll let me go.’
‘Very well then!’ Unscrewing his stethoscope and putting it away in his bag, he whispered to Emma, ‘She is so eager, it would do her greater harm to refuse.’ In a normal tone, he went on, ‘As a matter of fact, I thought of going to the fair myself. Perhaps we could join forces?’
‘Yes, that would be pleasant,’ Emma murmured politely, and saw him frown at her obvious lack of enthusiasm.
As she was showing Bernard out he paused at the front door and studied her face critically.
‘You’re looking somewhat tired today. Is caring for your cousin proving too arduous for you? I could easily advise Mr Hardaker that the time has come to engage a professional nurse.’
‘No, please don’t! I can manage perfectly well, and bringing in someone else would only alarm Cathy.’
Bernard looked down at the tall black hat he held, fingering its silky brim absently.
‘Naturally, I have heard – I could not avoid it, going around the district as I do – of the true identity of the tenant of Oakroyd House. It must have come as a great shock to you.’
‘Please, I would rather not talk about it.’
His hazel eyes, usually so open and candid, were clouded with distress on her behalf. ‘As you wish, Emma. I have no desire to pry.’
‘Goodbye, Bernard. I shall see you this evening.’
Dismissed, he climbed into his waiting gig, gathering the reins in one hand and raising his hat with the other as he drove off. Emma did not close the front door at once, but stepped outside and down the portico steps to take a short turn in the shrubbery walk.
The Other Cathy Page 2
