Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  He nodded. ‘A heavy burden for a widow.’

  ‘It was not her fault. They adored each other.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mulligan. I know that you did not intend any harm. It’s just that Eliza, Margot and I are all Mother has. We must look after her and protect her.’

  He allowed a slight smile of encouragement to occupy his features for a split second. ‘I shall put my cards on the table, as we—’

  ‘Perhaps that metaphor is misplaced,’ she said wryly. ‘Since playing-cards were the cause of our changing fortunes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She watched him. He seemed so ill-at-ease, so unused to the vagaries of everyday life. Yet he was intelligent – that much was plain. Perhaps the rumour that he had been raised in a remote part of Ireland was based in truth, then. He was clearly not fond of company, would rather have been alone. The books would be in the library, she decided obliquely. She remembered Father reading stories aloud in there—

  ‘Miss Burton-Massey?’

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘Miles away is often the best place to be,’ he answered.

  Emboldened by his slightly friendlier tone, she asked, ‘What is your real job?’

  ‘I teach,’ he replied, after a tiny pause.

  ‘In Ireland?’

  ‘Yes.’ He fiddled with a paperclip. ‘Of course, I had to come over to sort out my father’s affairs. It was only after his death that I heard about this house and all that property in Bolton. As far as I was concerned, he was still living hand to mouth and . . . well . . . drinking when he could get the price of whiskey or beer. I had no idea.’

  It was her turn to smile encouragingly.

  ‘I wish your mother would just take the place away from me. I don’t want it, you see. But I’m not prepared to let it stand empty and wither away to nothing. I tried the partnership idea, but she scotched that straight away. So, unless you, or you and your sisters, will help me, I am at something of a loss.’

  Amy knew that whatever she chose to do, the decision would not be easy. But she also realized that she wanted work, responsibility, a niche in the world. ‘There’s a lot of thinking to be done,’ she told him. ‘I shall be plain. We have very little money. We are living on interest only, as Mother dare not touch her capital. Therefore, Margot, Eliza and I must each make a living.’

  ‘And your mother dislikes me, wants nothing to do with me.’

  ‘She dislikes what happened between my father and yours.’

  He shook his head very slowly. ‘No, Miss . . . Amy. I am not easy with strangers. I don’t seem to have the knack of communicating easily. Few people take to me.’

  ‘Yet you teach? Surely communication is important in that sphere?’

  ‘I am good with children.’

  ‘Ah.’ Perhaps he needed to be older than his companions, needed to be bigger, stronger and in charge. Yet in this man, there was a deep seam of something or other. Was it certainty? Was it arrogance? He was definitely beautiful. Not merely handsome, but carved to perfection, every line correct, every feature balanced and well proportioned. Amy wriggled in her chair. Assessing a man’s physical attributes was not a comfortable occupation.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  She declined. ‘I think you underestimate yourself, James.’ She tried the name for size, saw that he did not mind, did not flinch. ‘I have the feeling that you could make an excellent businessman.’

  He raised a shoulder. ‘I have to go home. Two years is all I have allowed to sort out the Grange.’

  Amy decided to wade right into deep water. ‘Sell it, then,’ she challenged. ‘If you don’t want it, get rid of it.’

  James Mulligan rose and walked to the window. ‘Have you any idea of the damage an alcoholic gambler can do in a matter of months?’

  ‘Well,’ she answered thoughtfully, ‘my own father drank a great amount after returning from the war.’

  ‘Then there was the gambling,’ he added. ‘My father . . .’ His voice petered away, then revived itself. ‘My father died a horrible death in this very house, Amy. Both our fathers endured great torment.’ He turned and faced her. ‘His liver bled, poured away out of him. He was, or so I’m told, the colour of old, dirty vellum and his pain was intense, to say the least of it. However, before he got to that stage, he mortgaged this place just for gambling stakes.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t really comprehend how anyone could spend so much on gambling, but she wanted him to continue the tale. James Mulligan had a habit of drying up and shutting down.

  His face wore a strange expression now, as if it had snapped closed. His eyes were cold, his lips stiff as he spoke. ‘You sell it,’ he said.

  ‘It isn’t mine to sell.’

  ‘But it will be. I have left it to you and yours, and you must not tell your mother. This is your future, not mine. I am merely trying to give back all that was yours, including the paying off of the mortgage.’

  Amy almost bridled, was suddenly aware of how her mother felt. Yes, this was charity. ‘I would rather honour my father’s gambling debt.’

  His lip curled. ‘Legend has it that Mr Burton-Massey held a king, while my father had an ace. Out of fifty-two cards, Thomas Mulligan picked the one with the highest value. It’s unbeatable, Amy. It wipes out all the other aces, certainly makes mincemeat of the king of hearts.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That my dad was an alcoholic, a cheat, a fraud, a card-sharp. There wasn’t a gambling den in Dublin would let him in. He got beaten up for cheating so many times that his nose was spread all over his face. So I’d say there is probably nothing to honour. He cheated you, stole from you.’

  Amy stood up. ‘She won’t listen to any of it, James. It’s down to me and you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you think that we could repay the mortgage by opening a hydro?’

  ‘It’s just an idea.’

  She pondered for a moment. ‘When you die, the place reverts to me and my sisters?’

  ‘That’s the crack. Sorry, an Irish turn of phrase there.’

  Amy picked up her gloves. ‘May you outlive my mother, then. Because she won’t set foot in here again, I’m sure.’

  ‘I am a mere boy of twenty-nine,’ he said, before walking across the room and opening the door for her. When they reached the hall, both stopped as the bell sounded.

  Mary Whitworth opened the door.

  As if to make mockery of Amy’s final statement, Louisa Burton-Massey marched into Pendleton Grange. Followed by her second daughter, she crossed the mosaic floor, tossed her gloves on to a side table, nodded at her host. ‘Mr Mulligan,’ she said firmly, ‘I should like to have a word with you.’

  Five

  Margot, watching from behind a hedge while her mother and one of her sisters entered Pendleton Grange, was rather less astonished when, within seconds, Amy walked out through the same door. Mother and Eliza visiting James Mulligan? Amy was a different matter: Amy would have been engaged in some practicality or other, perhaps business connected with the horses or the leasing of Caldwell’s acreage. But Mother? Mother actually entering the lion’s den after saying that she would never see Pendleton Grange again as long as she lived?

  Margot chewed at a blade of grass, her eyes fixed on the house. Amy dashed off homeward. The youngest of the Burton-Masseys remained where she was, hidden from sight, her sole companions a riding hat and a pair of binoculars.

  Margot, strangely restless these days, was managing to dislike just about everyone she encountered. Mother got on her nerves, Amy was too bossy, Eliza was a dreamer with her head full of music and poems. They were all boring. So Margot had taken to staying out for much of the time, riding, helping in fields, wishing that she could . . . Could what? Stop having to act like jolly little Margot, the clown, the tomboy? Everybody and everything was suddenly so tediou
s.

  But no, not everyone was the subject of Margot’s contempt. He wasn’t. He was her hero. She had seen him this morning on horseback, his spine straight, reins held with gentle but thorough control, the chestnut mount polished until its sides shone like mahogany. James Mulligan. He was everything a man ought to be – strong, confident, effective, handsome, clever, authoritative, tall, energetic. Et cetera, she said inwardly.

  His face. She closed her eyes and saw him not as others saw him. When a calf was born, when an animal was sick, he wore an expression she had seen only on faces in paintings. He tried so hard to hide his feelings, but Margot saw through him and into him. No-one knew James Mulligan. Margot was the only living person who understood him. He loved the outdoor life, he loved all living creatures, and she loved him.

  James Mulligan was like a person out of a classic novel. Not Heathcliff, because Heathcliff was given to ranting, was all but insane. And not Rochester. No, James Mulligan would never try to marry a plain young girl while his mad wife was living in the roof. Or in the cellar. But Mr Mulligan was the sort of hero Margot might write about. Except that she wasn’t a writer. If anyone turned out to be a writer, it would probably be Eliza.

  She knelt and placed the binoculars against her eyes. Nothing. It was a big house with many rooms, and it wasn’t easy to catch a glimpse of him. And Eliza, who was with him now, at this very minute, was so beautiful, so angelic – why, he might fall head over heels for her. Margot felt a dart of hatred for her mother and Eliza. They were talking to him, were clouding his mind, distracting him. Margot wanted him all to herself . . .

  She flopped down on to her back, held up her hands and studied the nails. They were torn and broken, the quicks jagged, tips lined with all kinds of debris. She took a penknife from a pocket and poked about, scraping out soil and what looked suspiciously like horse manure. She hadn’t looked at her face for ages. Every morning, she splashed about in the bath, always in a hurry to be off and out. But she didn’t have what Mother called a beauty routine. Beauty routines involved Pond’s cold cream and hand lotions, egg shampoos and beer rinses, potions, lotions and perfumes.

  She held the knife away, looked in its surface, polished it on her riding breeches, peered at it again. A prettyish face stared back at her, but she had to look at it in bits, since she couldn’t see it all at once, not along this narrow blade. She supposed that she might have a look later in the bathroom, if she remembered and if she didn’t get distracted. ‘Farmer Margot,’ she told the bright, long-lashed eyes. He, too, had long, thick eyelashes.

  All Margot wanted, apart from him, was to have land and animals to care for. Well, if she could get him to like her, to love her and marry her, she’d get everything in one fell swoop. As lady of the manor, she would, of course, be gracious in victory. She would buy new furniture for Mother, a grand piano for Eliza, a horse for Amy. She would be a good wife, an excellent farmer and, if pressed, a mother to his children, as long as there could be a nanny to do all the worst jobs.

  Her nineteen-year-old stomach growled. It must be getting towards feeding time. As she walked homeward, Margot caught the sound of music floating from Pendleton Grange. That would probably be Eliza at the grand in the music room. He would be standing next to her, no doubt, would be breathing in Essence of Wild Rose, a scent of which Eliza was inordinately fond. Yes, it was time to look in the mirror, time to start wearing a dress.

  James Mulligan was not standing over Eliza. Eliza had been dragged along as moral support, but, within minutes, Louisa had dispensed with the services of her middle daughter. Eliza was not built to be supportive; Eliza was just a decorative accessory, like a good silk scarf or a decent brooch. ‘Let her play on the grand, Mr Mulligan,’ Louisa had asked. ‘She’s happiest when making music.’

  Against a background of clinically correct Chopin, the adversaries eyed one another. James, who had never received so many visitors in one day, met Louisa’s gaze without flinching. Louisa, having informed no-one of her plans, stared into an uncertain future in trade. Even in its unspoken state, the word terrified her.

  ‘And how may I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I . . . er . . . I find myself at a disadvantage here,’ she stammered, ‘as I don’t quite know how to express my thoughts.’ Her thoughts? Emotions simmered near the surface. Here she sat in her husband’s study, the room which had housed his guns, his collection of ugly toby jugs, his pipes. This room had lost its tobacco-and-brandy smell, was no longer an extension of Alex.

  ‘Being here is distressing for you,’ said James. ‘Would you rather I came to you?’

  She shook herself visibly, as if waking from sleep. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  English pride, he thought. Was it any worse than, any different from, Ireland’s pride? He wanted to tell Louisa of his plans, but he dared not. She would honour her husband’s word until she, too, lay beneath six feet of soil. So he could not say, ‘This will go to your daughters . . .’ Nonetheless, he had to say something. ‘If you would rather discuss your business at Caldwell Farm . . .’

  She eyed him frostily. ‘My daughter – Amy – has pointed out to me that we need to acquire income. I wish to offer a service to people of means.’

  ‘I see.’ He awaited further explanation, watched this poor soul as she avoided looking around the walls in search of memories. ‘I shall help you in any way I can, of course.’

  ‘Amy tells me also that the fabric shop on Deansgate will soon be available.’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Hooper will be retiring shortly.’

  Louisa inhaled deeply and lifted her head high. Everyone was working these days, she repeated in her head for the hundredth time. She was not an old woman; she was capable of dragging herself into a century that had served almost a quarter of its time. ‘Eliza is an excellent designer and seamstress, as, indeed, am I. My other two daughters are also competent in the field of dressmaking. It has been something of a hobby, but now . . .’

  ‘Now it becomes a necessity.’

  Her eyes narrowed even further. ‘I could manage as things are, Mr Mulligan, were I alone. My children, however, are going to find their circumstances rather more straitened than we might have hoped.’

  All from the turn of a card, thought James. All from a card up a sleeve. ‘So, you will be wanting the shop?’

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed to spit the word, as if it tasted bad.

  ‘Then you shall have it.’

  ‘And I shall pay rent at the going rate.’

  He shuffled some papers, picked up a pen, laid it down again. ‘Instead of rent, would you let me use your top field, the one furthest away from the house? I’m bringing over some more horses, you see—’

  ‘That will be satisfactory. Thank you.’ Again, the last two words were forced. ‘I shall require the first as well as the ground floor of the property.’

  ‘Naturally. The upper storey is already nonresidential, as Mrs Hooper has always used it for storage.’

  There was little more to be said, yet Louisa needed to justify herself. What was it about this man that rendered her so awkward? Although she was poorer than he was, she was definitely his social superior. Perhaps his discomfort was infectious – no, that was not the crux of the matter. At the age of forty-five, Louisa Burton-Massey had to confront the fact that she was disturbed by his extraordinary attractiveness. Why, he was almost magnetic. She brought herself out of the reverie. ‘I shall not be in the shop all the time, of course. I shall need a manageress, someone who will wear my clothes with elegance, someone who will sell them.’ She allowed a small sigh to escape. ‘One of my daughters, perhaps.’

  He nodded.

  ‘The designs will be couturier-based, exclusive and very expensive. There will be no direct plagiarism, naturally, but once new Worths and Chanels hit the fashion press, I shall improvise and produce items for those who would like to pay rather less than they might in London and Paris. Clients will be interviewed and entertained. Ladies, you see.’

 
Again, he inclined his head for a moment.

  ‘This will not be for the general public, you understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Each item will be unique. For this sort of thing, the right woman will pay handsomely.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he said softly.

  He was criticizing her inwardly, she felt certain. It was as if he might even be laughing at her, after all. Women’s fashions were probably not worth considering. ‘There is money to be made, Mr Mulligan.’ Why could she not stop chattering? He was staring at the wall, was sitting as immobile as a garden ornament. Louisa bit her tongue to prevent any more mindless prattle escaping from her mouth.

  At last he moved, turning his head slightly and awarding her a half-smile. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That seems an excellent idea. You have skills, as do your daughters. Women like good clothes and, I suppose, for some functions – weddings and so forth – a lady likes to feel that she can wear a dress in the sure knowledge that no-one else will have the same. Good, good.’

  Louisa exhaled. She felt as if a teacher had just awarded her the full ten points after a spelling test.

  ‘Mrs Burton-Massey?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remember I am here whenever you or your daughters might need any kind of help.’

  He had the knack, Louisa decided now, of turning a person’s insides to water. First, there was his very disturbing tendency to say almost nothing. A mind such as his – and, whatever his beginnings, he had educated himself – was likely to be occupied all the time. Like an assessor of some kind, he would stare at someone, or in the general vicinity of a person, as if he were calculating value and potential. Then, when he did speak, those honeyed tones seemed to caress and hypnotize his target. ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘You are very kind.’ Was he? Why was she thanking him? Why was she justifying herself? ‘I think it’s time for us to leave,’ she said, in a near-whisper.