Angel Meadow

by Audrey Howard

  He was down to a graceful canter now, both he and the horse sweating in the warm air. He wore no jacket or tie, just a fine pair of caramel-coloured doeskin breeches, a cream, open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled up and well-polished riding boots. His back was straight but not stiff as he rode, his head up, his feet straight forward, looking every inch the superb horseman he was.

  When he reached Suspension Road he urged his mare into a gallop again, clattering over Suspension Bridge until he was on his own side of the river once more. He was riding through water meadows now which led down to the river and backed on to the houses on Lower Broughton Road, houses with long gardens, growing longer as the river took a lazy turn away from them. There were no cotton mills or dye works here, for this was where wealthy men of cotton had built their homes and his father was the wealthiest of them all. His house, when his son came to it, stood on a rise of land twenty acres in total, consisting of lawns and flowerbeds, terraces lined with potted shrubs, stone steps leading here and there, a small pond in which golden fish lazily turned, a walled vegetable garden, a herb garden, with woodland and fenced paddocks which ran down to the water’s edge.

  Josh slipped from his mare’s back, leaving her to crop the sweet grass, her head lowered, for she was tired after her wild gallop. He sank to his haunches, his arms across his knees, staring sightlessly into the slipping, silvery river, his expression thoughtful, then he smiled, as he had done earlier, as though at some pleasing memory.

  She had almost let him do it last night, the deliciously pretty young girl who was his mother’s laundry-maid, and though he knew he shouldn’t play so close to home – all his instincts and the oft-repeated advice of his friends told him so – he had been unable to resist the rosy innocence, the dimpled sweetness, the soft adoration in her vivid blue eyes which was directed at him whenever he appeared. She was so lovely, soft, full-breasted, with a handspan of a waist and a full womanly hip. She came up only to his chin, her arms clinging about his back, her face lifting to his, her mouth opening beneath his in a way he found quite irresistible. She loved him, she told him so a dozen times as his hands pushed the bodice of her gown off her shoulders and his mouth found her full, rosy-peaked breast. She moaned softly in her need but he could get no further with her than that. Despite her status as a maidservant in his mother’s kitchen she was a decent girl, as well brought up and guarded, as pure and ignorant as his own eighteen-year-old sister, Milly. She had been protected as savagely by her labouring father as Milly was protected by Edmund Hayes until she had been forced by circumstances and the yearly increase in the size of her family to become laundry-maid at Riverside House. Her mother was a laundress, she had told him naïvely in one of the “conversations” she liked to have before he melted her into his arms with soft kisses and laughter, and had taught Evie all she knew. God almighty, he had groaned to himself a dozen times, he knew he should leave her alone, for the risk was great, not only for him but for her if they were found out. At best she would lose her position, flung out without a character; at worst, the same but with a child inside her.

  He was playing with fire, and it was not the first time, and if his father became aware of it there would be hell to pay. The last time it had been the compliant daughter of a small farmer up towards New Town, and only his father’s influence and the fifty guineas that had changed hands, enabling her to buy a farm-labourering husband who was willing to father the child, had kept him out of trouble. He liked women, and not just for the pleasure their bodies gave to his, and they liked him but try telling that to the old man as an excuse for what his father described as his wild and licentious ways and which, so his father told him, would break his mother’s heart if she knew.

  He sighed deeply, straightening his tall frame and turning to click his tongue softly to the horse. He took the bridle and began to lead her towards the house, the chimneys of which could be seen above the trees that stood at its back. He moved through the small patch of woodland and on to a well-mown lawn, skirting the rose gardens and another row of trees, pines this time, which shielded the stables from the house. The mare went with him amiably enough, crossing the wide, gravelled path to the stable yard.

  “Miss Millicent’s bin lookin’ for yer, Master Josh,” Charlie, who was head groom at Riverside House, told him, taking the mare’s bridle from him and leading her away across the yard.

  “Did she say what she wanted, Charlie?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Summat about an exhibition that you was—”

  “Jesus Christ, I’d forgotten all about the bloody thing.” Josh stood for a moment with a look of comic dismay on his face then he pushed his hand through his thick hair, fingering it off his brow so that it stood up like a yard brush. “God almighty, I’ll be in bloody hot water now,” he muttered as he set off at a furious clip across the stable yard.

  “Aye, yer will, lad,” the groom murmured softly against the mare’s neck, “an’ ’appen if yer were ter let yer brain lead yer instead o’ yer cock yer might do better,” for Master Josh’s fondness for milk-maids and laundry-maids was well known among the men-servants. He turned to stare disapprovingly after his master’s son.

  They were in the hall, his parents and his sister, his father looking wrathfully at his watch, his face nearly purple with his rage, his mighty bellow at the front door heard by every servant, inside and out.

  “Where in hell have you been, damn you? Do you realise that your mother and sister have been waiting for ten minutes? Your manners are appalling, lad, and if it wasn’t for your mother’s intervention I would give you a thrashing, big as you are.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I . . . well, I . . .”

  “Daydreaming as usual, I suppose, but I’ll take no excuses, so save them for later and I warn you they’d better be good. Now, go and change. We’ll give you five minutes then we’re going without you.”

  “I wish to bloody hell he would,” Josh murmured in an aside to an astonished maidservant who was coming down the stairs and who pressed herself against the wall as he ran lightly up to his room. It was only the thought of his mother’s distress that kept him from saying it out loud, from defying his father. His father’s threat of thrashing him was an empty one, for it was a long time since Joshua Hayes had been of a size to take a beating from Edmund. Instead of visiting the damned exhibition he would dearly have like to idle and daydream about in his room, take his time and stroll downstairs, defiant in the face of his father’s wrath, but it would only upset his mother of whom he was deeply fond. Sighing, he stripped off his breeches and shirt, struggling with his boots until he was naked. He had a beautiful male body, with long, graceful bones and flat muscles that flowed smoothly from the curve of his chest and shoulder to the concavities of his belly and hard, lean thighs, a horseman’s thighs. He had a sprinkling of fine dark hairs on his chest and belly, growing into the thick dark triangle that protected his genitals. Though he was not powerfully built he was strong and arrow straight, each part of his frame in perfect proportion to the rest, his legs long, his feet narrow.

  Within the allotted five minutes he had changed into a morning coat of fine grey merino, under it a matching waistcoat, the coat with broad tails and a velvet collar. His trousers were tight, showing off the fine calf of his leg and he wore an immaculate lawn shirt with a large and fashionable neckcloth. His hair was brushed and, as he kissed her cheek in repentance his mother whispered, “Very nice, dear.”

  “Never mind that, Emma,” his father said irritably. “Can we please get into the carriage now, that is if our fine gentleman is quite ready. See, Milly, sit by me, lass,” his tone softening, for he loved and was proud of his plain but well-brought-up daughter who, unlike her older brother, was not a scrap of trouble to him and it pleased him to have her on his arm.

  It was Saturday and the exhibition, opened several weeks before in the presence of their good Prince Albert, was a seething, babbling, excited mass of folk who had come to be amazed. There would be a
million and a half middle- and working-class folk who were to see it, come on special excursion trains from Chester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Crewe, Bradford, Halifax, Huddersfield and Leeds, in one day alone 13,664 of them. They could think of no reason why they shouldn’t see this wonderful spectacle which was being likened to the Crystal Palace, the Great Exhibition of 1851 in London.

  When it was being decided where to place the great building it was felt that its position would be of the utmost importance, the deciding factor being the desire to avoid the nuisance of smoke. The cricket and racing grounds at Old Trafford along the Irwell and two miles south-west of the city centre were finally chosen, for the executive committee noted that this was one of the few places where flowers would grow.

  And so did the building, a wondrous thing completely constructed from glass, gracefully rearing out of an enormous garden filled with trees, shrubs, flowers and fountains surrounded by a smooth sward of velvet grass where benches were placed and where families could picnic.

  Josh was so bored it was all he could do not to yawn directly into his father’s face but again, to please his mother, he did his best to appear interested. There were works by Botticelli, Raphael, Titian, Gainsborough and Constable and many other well-known European and British painters, all tastefully arranged and exclaimed over by his mother and Milly. But not just paintings were on display, for there were engravings, glass and enamel, gold and silver, armour, fine clocks, watches, brasswork, bronzes, furniture and sculpture. He admired them dutifully, his eyes glazing over with the sheer tedium of it all but aware that if he was not once again to suffer his father’s wrath, which did not worry him but would distress his mother, he must not let it show.

  “Is not the decor lovely, Millicent?” Mrs Hayes asked her daughter. “Such a warm shade of maroon and how well it goes with the green.”

  “Indeed, Mother. Oh, do tell me that really is Alfred Tennyson strolling by. One never knows who one is to see next. Fanny Tompkinson told me that Lord Palmerston was here only last week.”

  “How thrilling. And is it true, d’you think, that the Queen of Holland is to be a visitor?”

  “So I have heard. What a wonder it all is.”

  “But tiring, dearest. Let us persuade your father to take us to the lounge for refreshments.”

  Josh caught his father’s eye, surprised by the gleam of amusement in it, realising that Edmund Hayes was as bored as he was. They smiled ruefully at one another, for once in total agreement. They were both aware, for despite his wild ways, Joshua Hayes was his father’s son and learning to be a businessman, that this sort of exhibition, like the one at the Crystal Palace in London, could only be good for trade. Though it displayed only art and not the new developments in science and technology that had been shown in London in 1851 it brought men of business to Manchester, put Manchester on the map, so to speak, which could harm no one. Most of the middle and lower classes eagerly attended to keep in step with the latest fashion, to educate themselves and simply to be amused. Men such as Edmund Hayes were keen to display their wealth and to boast of their achievements, for they were self-made men and proud of it.

  They were not the only ones to be bored by the endless rows of paintings, room after room of them, by the crush of people among whom he kept losing Nancy, by the lack of anything lively with which to relieve the monotony of watching the cultured classes enjoying culture at its finest. Mick O’Rourke could see that Nancy was quite enchanted with it all which, instead of pleasing him, since to enchant her had been his aim, had begun seriously to offend him. The trouble was she seemed to be scarcely aware of him and the great sacrifice he had made on her behalf as she stood and gazed for what seemed hours on end at every bloody painting, most of which were, in his opinion, absolutely and monumentally dreary. She shook off his hand when he attempted to draw her on, turning away from him as though she hadn’t heard him when he made one of his witty Irish remarks which had always made her laugh before. She even “shushed” him at one point when he told her he’d seen better in the sporting prints, the pictures of which were the only ones he cared for. Boxers and horses and greyhounds and that sort of thing.

  “Really, Mick, it’s all so lovely I can’t see why you should say such a thing. Look at those wonderful lions. D’you think they’re made of gold? And those fountains and trees and all flourishing so magnificently indoors. I’ve never seen such lovely things, and what about the painted figures on those columns. D’you think they’re Egyptian?”

  “’Ow the ’ell would I know,” he answered irritably, telling himself he’d better get some reward for all this tomfoolery he was putting himself through. Thank the Blessed Virgin none of his mates were likely to see him or he’d be sneered at at every ring or public house he attended.

  “I think they must be,” Nancy was saying. “I saw something like them in a book at the library.”

  “Begorra, will yer be fergetting yer old books fer five minutes an’ let’s go an’ get a drink. D’yer reckon they sell ale in this God-forsaken place?”

  Nancy turned to him in surprise. She had been so bewitched by the beauty that was all about her, by the cleverness and talent displayed, by the lovely swishing gowns of the “quality” and the aura of grace and good taste that surrounded her, she had been scarcely conscious of the growing moodiness and ill-humour of the man who had brought her.

  “Aren’t you enjoying yourself, Mick?” she asked him, concern in her voice. “I thought when you asked me you wanted to see it as much as I did.”

  But even as she spoke Nancy wondered at the foolishness of the remark, for what on earth would a down-to-earth, fun-loving, uneducated Irishman like Mick O’Rourke find to entertain him here; and even as the thought entered her head she knew she must not associate with him any longer. He was not for her and she must give him no reason to believe that she was. He had no place in her life which was aimed like an arrow from a bow to the point where one day these lovely things would be a part of her world, not exactly taken for granted, for who could take for granted such loveliness, but as much a part of her life as . . . her own hair, or skin. She knew it as positively as she knew the words in the books she read which had led her to this. She had seen this now, seen these lovely paintings, these glorious exhibits, these fashionable and even lovely women, the courteous way in which they were treated by their escorts. On her way in she had gloated over the spick and span carriages and polished, high-bred horses that pulled them and the smartly uniformed grooms who tended them. One day . . . one day . . . She could not finish the sentence, not even in her head, but it nestled there inside her, the knowledge that she was meant for something better than to be a cotton spinner at Monarch Mill.

  It was then she saw him and it was then he saw her and for a fraction of a second, as it had done at their first meeting, time seemed to come to an abrupt halt. Again there was that flame of recognition, not the recognition of people who have met before and are meeting again but a strange knowing that had fleetingly touched them at their first encounter. And there was a moment of pleasure too, lighting velvet grey eyes and golden, and something that could only be described, if it was described at all, as a movement of the heart.

  They both stopped and, behind them, as they came face to face, people tutted irritably and collisions seemed imminent.

  “What is it, dear?” she heard an attractive, well-dressed lady ask him, turning both herself and the young woman on her arm in his direction. The thickset gentleman who had almost walked into his back glared about him as though to ask who dare hold up such an important man as himself, but not for a moment did he connect it with the poorly dressed couple, members of the labouring classes obviously, who in his opinion should not be allowed in at all and certainly not stand in the way of their betters.

  “What’s up, acushla?” Mick asked, as belligerent in his own way as Edmund Hayes, and as determined no one should block the path of Mick O’Rourke who was cock of the north in his own small patch.

 
The wide doors to the refreshment lounges were directly opposite one another, standing open to allow the press of people who, having tramped round for hours admiring – most of them – the marvels on display, were determined on something to give them fresh energy for a further onslaught. One lounge, described as providing rest and refreshment for the upper classes and the other, a “second-class” facility for workers.

  It was very evident to which one Joshua Hayes and, Nancy supposed, his family, were headed. Still she seemed unable to look away from him nor he from her, and at her side Mick was beginning to bristle belligerently, not really understanding what was going on, only knowing he didn’t like it. The toff, long, dandified thing he was, was staring at what Mick considered to be his property and if he kept it up Mick O’Rourke, no matter who the toff was, would deal with him as he dealt with bigger chaps than he was in the ring. Bloody nerve, standing there with his mouth open, and when he turned to say something to her he was dismayed to find that Nancy, his Nancy, was looking just as gormless.

  “’Ere,” he said roughly, taking her arm and propelling her towards the working-class tearoom so that she was forced into tearing her eyes away from those of Joshua Hayes, “I’m not ’avin’ any bloody feller-me-lad eyein’ my girl, an’ more to’t point I’ll not ’ave my girl lookin’ at other chaps, so think on.”

  If anything was needed, which it wasn’t, to make up Nancy Brody’s mind, it was those few words. She didn’t know what had happened back there between her and young Mr Hayes, really she didn’t, and she felt extremely foolish about the whole strange episode. The Hayes ladies, with Mr Hayes ushering them forcefully away from the curious little crowd that had gathered, had disappeared into the first-class refreshment room, but behind him his son turned for a moment just as Nancy did, and Joshua was in time to see the big, handsome chap she was with put his arm about her shoulders and was quite bewildered by the feeling of anger it aroused in him. Then they were out of sight and he did not see her shake the arm off, or hear her sharp words which were, though he did not know it at the time, the end of Mick O’Rourke’s “seduction” of Nancy Brody.