‘I’ll probably come,’ she said. ‘On condition that you understand that I shall return home if I am unhappy.’
‘Certainly.’ He managed, just about, to keep the excitement from his tone.
‘And I can’t disappear from Lancashire when you do. You must go first so that no-one will guess that you have aided and abetted. Should anybody suspect that you are involved in my running away, your mother will know where to find me. There must be no scenes, Rupert. I will not tolerate scenes.’
He inclined his head in agreement.
‘Rupert?’
‘Yes?’ His heart leaped at the thought of bedding this one. She looked frail, too delicately formed for a physical relationship. Yet there was a hint of cold blue steel behind the eyes, a promise of hidden depths, stored passions. Oh, yes, here sat a soul that waited to be stirred from sleep.
‘If you touch me, I shall kill you. That is a definite promise.’ These words, spoken in a whisper, managed to be harsh.
Rupert shivered, blinked twice. God, she meant it, too! The determination to deflower Eliza Burton-Massey grew stronger.
‘I have saved my pennies for years,’ she told him now. ‘I haven’t a great deal of money, but as soon as I get work I shall find a place of my own.’
‘London is expensive,’ he advised.
She fingered a teaspoon, allowed it to shiver in the saucer. ‘So am I,’ she murmured. ‘I’m certainly worth more than your wallet, more than your mother’s cheque books.’ She paused for a second. ‘Do you still want to house me, Rupert?’
‘Yes.’
Eliza leaned across the table, watched as his pupils dilated. ‘I daren’t tell Amy – not yet, at least. She would try to force me to stay. When I arrive in London, I shall write and put her mind at rest.’
‘Good.’ He wondered briefly about Mama’s visits, decided not to worry until the problem pressed. ‘You’d better go now,’ he suggested reluctantly. ‘We don’t want to become a talking point, do we?’
Eliza rose, donned hat, scarf and gloves. This disreputable young man had fallen in love with her. She noticed how his mouth, slackened by desire, gaped slightly as she turned to leave. The eyes, full of plans, were widened by expectations. But Eliza was no chorus girl. Miss Elizabeth Burton-Massey, excellent pianist, accomplished singer, had plans of her own. With a certainty whose source she would never choose to fathom, she realized that she could cope with men, especially those as obvious as Rupert Smythe. Should he attempt something distasteful, she was more than a match for such a transparent, puerile creature.
She walked towards Mulligan’s Yard, her step light and unhurried, her mind scarcely touched by guilt. For Mother, Eliza might have hesitated. But now it was every woman for herself, because the world was cruel, especially for a parentless woman with no dowry. She was going on the stage; she was going to be a star. As for the feckless youth in the coffee shed, he was a vehicle, no more, no less.
Gradually, Amy Burton-Massey regained her equilibrium. Really, it was a case of having to, because everyone else seemed to be what Elspeth Moorhead called ‘out of flunter’. Margot had taken to walking about in all weathers, while Eliza became more thoughtful and secretive by the day. Amy adjusted her own ‘flunter’ and tried to get through each day without dwelling too closely on her mother’s tragic death.
Sometimes, though, when dealing with a certain person, Amy felt like a donkey in pursuit of a carrot, a dumb beast forced to go round in an everlasting circle. All she wanted was the truth; all she needed was to know a little more about the man whose father had ruined her family, the fellow who strove endlessly to turn around the fortunes of the Burton-Massey girls. He was, she supposed, just another donkey, another part of the mechanism called life. But surely they could converse, find common ground, a sense of comradeship, even? After all, they both seemed to be treading the same piece of ground. Were donkeys capable of communication?
Bending over paperwork, James felt her eyes boring into him. The question-and-answer session had reached half-time. He compared himself to a member of a football team, a captain waiting for the referee to blow the kick-off whistle. ‘I’m the goalkeeper,’ he muttered.
‘Did you say something?’
He raised his head. ‘Do we add on injury time at the end?’ he asked, deliberately obtuse. This woman was an accurate shot. Bolton Wanderers might find her useful in attack.
She gazed at him. Making sense of James Mulligan was rather like attempting logarithms without a set of tables. He would open up, allowing her a glimpse of a decent, thoughtful human being, only to slam back into the closed and bolted position. The man was his own jailer, or so it seemed. Did the cellar at Pendleton Grange house his dungeon, his personal torture chamber? ‘I was just thinking that we were a pair of mules condemned to create power by perpetual motion. Perhaps we are tethered in the goalmouth at Burnden Park.’
He processed this piece of misinformation, filed it away in the miscellaneous section of his brain. ‘Look,’ he began, patience edged deeply into the syllable, ‘you know perfectly well what I’m doing, Amy. With the inn sold, some of the mortgage on Pendleton Grange has been paid off. The rest of that debt can be cleared in a relatively short time as long as the estate works for itself. Now, if we open a hydro, the income will allow you and your sisters to live in reasonable comfort, while rents from the yard should provide extras, small luxuries like—’
‘You’re still not telling me why,’ she said. ‘You’ve explained things over and over, yet the real why, the reason for insisting on returning everything to us, is still unbelievable. You owe us absolutely nothing. You seem to be suffering from an overdose of altruism, too generous for your own good.’
‘I don’t need the yard, the house, the business rents, the farms or the cottages,’ he replied. ‘And I certainly don’t want to stay for ever in England.’
‘Then sell everything.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
He raised hands and eyebrows, ‘Another why?’
‘It’s the same why,’ she answered, through gritted teeth. ‘You could return to Ireland a rich man.’
He smiled tightly. ‘With my father’s misdemeanours suspended from my neck like the Ancient Mariner’s albatross? Catholics are born with a heightened sense of guilt. By the time we’re confirmed, we know we’re the sinners, the perpetrators of each and every ill that visits the world.’
‘Like volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, outbreaks of typhus?’
He nodded gravely.
Annoyed without and beyond reason, Amy stood up and walked to the window. Steam poured through the wash-house doorway and from the nostrils of two jet-black geldings who waited between the shafts of a hearse. The stonemason chipped away at a slab of marble; Miss Tilly Walsh emerged from her chores to inhale drier air and a pinch of snuff.
On James Mulligan’s table sat the facts, the figures, costs, an account of the inn’s sale, income from rents, expenditure for repairs. Those papers contained the future according to the gospel of Mr Mulligan. Amy had said little, had absorbed some.
‘Just resign yourself,’ suggested James Mulligan.
‘I don’t understand you at all,’ she answered, without looking at him. ‘You’re a teacher from Ireland. I don’t know anything at all about Irish teachers, though I never met a wealthy English one. Why don’t you take your money and run? Scruples? Think of all the poor you could help.’
He tutted, let out a long sigh. ‘It would be wrong.’
‘In whose book?’
‘In my own – in a book I’ve neither read nor written yet.’ These words were edged with a hint of impatience.
‘And if we won’t accept your charity?’
‘Margot will. Eliza, too, I think. Do what you will with your own portion.’
She swung round. Their eyes clashed, locked, narrowed. ‘I think we are very alike, you and I,’ he said. ‘The mule was a good creature to think of, as we are both stubborn and proud beyond stupidity.’
>
‘Immovable,’ she agreed, noticing that he would not lower his gaze.
‘You will allow this,’ he said quietly. ‘I am returning your history to you.’
‘Only if you accept a small salary, enough for your own provision. I shall send it to you in Ireland.’
Silence reigned for several very long seconds. ‘Open that shop, then,’ he said at last. ‘Do something to occupy yourself and the other two. Remember how much your mother invested in that business. At this rate, the materials will have gone to dust before ever seeing a sewing-machine.’
Amy was acutely uncomfortable. She knew him, didn’t know him at all; she liked him, didn’t like him one bit. ‘Eliza seems to have lost interest,’ she told him.
Determinedly, he kept his opinion of Eliza to himself. ‘Then find another designer, somebody who can’t get a job in a city, perhaps a mother of schoolchildren. Eliza’s not the only creature in Bolton who can draw a frock or copy one from a magazine.’
‘She’s up to something.’ Immediately, Amy wished that she could bite back the words. She did not want any more of his advice.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘She’s deep.’
‘And talented.’
‘That, too.’
Amy stood her ground until he averted his eyes. Like a stupid child, she had resolved to win the staring-out contest.
Eliza entered the office. There was an atmosphere, but she chose to ignore it. ‘I found very little in the shops,’ she declared, arranging herself gracefully in a leather chair. ‘I just had to buy what was available. So, if Christmas presents aren’t quite up to the mark this year, blame the tradesmen of Bolton.’ She offered the man a sweet smile, was unmoved by the lack of response. ‘Of course, financial restrictions make the job harder.’
James looked at the pair of them. Amy, bright-eyed and angry, tapped her foot in the manner of an impatient horse. Eliza, folded correctly and neatly in her seat, wore the air of a woman who knew that the world was hers to have and to own. Her devastating beauty gave her a confidence that was almost supreme. Amy was right – Miss Eliza was up to no good.
Eliza studied the man covertly, played with the idea of setting her cap at him. No, no. She wanted to get away – and wasn’t he planning to return to Ireland? If he did manage to repay his father’s debts, everything would be invested in the estate, she supposed. She could not imagine Amy selling up and splitting the money three ways. And even if A Cut Above did ever open, Eliza did not want to be involved, not yet. Oh, let them all stay here, she mused; they would be hovering and worrying in the background should she ever need or want them. ‘We need to get something for the Moorheads,’ she told Amy, whose feathers seemed to be settling into a smoother mode. These two did nothing but quarrel, it seemed.
Amy picked up her basket. ‘Come along, Eliza,’ she said, almost snappily.
‘I’ll drive you home later,’ offered James, ‘if you would kindly return by five o’clock.’ He walked them to the door.
The cold one, the devastating beauty, swivelled and looked straight into his face. ‘I understand that we are to spend Christmas with you,’ she said. ‘That is a very thoughtful and generous gesture.’
‘You will all be most welcome,’ he answered.
Amy pulled at her sister’s arm. ‘Hurry,’ she said. ‘Presents to buy.’
When the two women had walked away, James Mulligan re-entered his office, closed the door and leaned on it. ‘Stop it,’ he bade himself. ‘You can never marry.’ He had not reckoned on falling in love so desperately, so stupidly. All men window-shopped, he supposed. But he, above all men, was in no position to purchase. ‘Catch yourself on, Mulligan,’ he muttered, ‘just do the job, then get off home where you belong.’
Mona Walsh’s new house was coming on a treat. It boasted a back boiler, new plaster and paint, a mended roof and a solid front door with 13 in brass at the top. Their Tilly could do as she liked, but she wasn’t moving into John Street, oh, no. Their Tilly was stopping in the family home where both women had been born and raised; Mona was going up in the world. Slowly, surely, she intended to improve her lot whether or not Tilly liked the idea. For too many years, Tilly had been the leader, had made all the decisions. Mona was getting divorced from her own sister. This concept made the younger of the two Walshes smile as she set off to visit her home on John Street.
Mona waddled down Derby Street, her winter coat flapping slightly in a chill breeze. The coat was a bit bigger on her these days, as Mona had begun to shed some of her weight. Her intention was to be thinner and fitter, because life was short and she had determined to make the best of her remaining time. In a couple of years, a nice little endowment would mature; in a couple of years, Mona would add that money to her savings. She had it all worked out. She was going to buy a nice house up Swan Lane, Accrington brick, electric lights and a flushing lav.
She stopped outside the second-hand furniture shop, placed a hand over her eyes so that she could examine the darkened interior of Samuel’s Quality Used Furnishings. Squinting slightly, Mona identified her ‘new’ dresser, table and chairs, making sure that the word sold was affixed to each item. ‘After Christmas,’ she promised her dining set, ‘after Christmas, you’ll be moving to a good home.’
‘Hello, Miss Walsh.’
She almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be giving somebody a heart attack.’
James Mulligan grinned. ‘Are you off to see your house?’
‘I am, that.’ She straightened her hat.
‘Get in the car and I’ll take you.’
Mona hesitated for a split second. She had never ridden in one of these mechanical monsters. ‘Tilly’d have a blue fit,’ she said.
‘And wouldn’t that be a sight for the world to behold?’
She found herself laughing. If only people knew what he was really like. And if only he would stay in Bolton and allow Mona to be his second mam. Once she was thinner and prettier, she might look good enough to be related to this handsome man.
‘Is this you losing weight?’ he asked.
Oh, she could have died happy, right here and now. ‘Tilly says I look ill.’ He had noticed; he cared.
‘Will we go for a little spin?’ he asked. ‘Give your sister something to get her teeth into? Just imagine what she’d say if somebody told her about it.’
‘Aye,’ said Mona. Then a thought struck. ‘This here road’s a bit slippy, isn’t it?’
He pointed to the tyres. ‘You can’t see much in this light, but these have a tread like Wellington boots. Come on, take heart.’
She sat in the passenger seat, watched him as he walked around the car.
James climbed in, blew into his hands, then set the car in motion.
‘Oh, heck,’ breathed Mona. She was sitting in a tin box that was fuelled by a highly explosive substance. All sorts of whirrings and wheezings were going on under the bonnet.
‘Open your eyes,’ he suggested. ‘There’s nothing to fear. Don’t you trust me?’
She nodded vehemently. ‘Course I do, but I don’t trust this blinking motor. It’s not natural, is it?’
‘It’s progress. And we’re doing ten miles an hour, so.’ He waited until she seemed more relaxed. ‘How is the Temple?’
Mona shrugged. ‘Same as ever, loads of preaching about building a new world in America.’ She paused. ‘He did a couple of them cleansings last week. I’ve found out a bit about the cleansings, like you asked me. He washes their faces and hands with a white flannel, dries them with a white towel. Then he does their feet.’
James gave her a few seconds, but she said no more. ‘Faces, hands and feet. What about areas in between? I hope I’m not embarrassing you.’
‘Course you’re not.’ She was glad that darkness hid the colour in her cheeks. ‘He’s a right funny man, that Wilkinson. Mind, like everybody else, I got took in at first. He likes the young girls, always does the cleansings one at a time. It’s what he calls a s
ecret ceremony.’
‘Yes, it would be.’
Mona turned and looked at the handsome profile. In the poor light provided by street lamps, he looked like one of those sideways-on cameo portraits. ‘Do you think he interferes with kiddies?’
He changed gear, turned on to Deane Road. ‘It’s a possibility. He seems . . . unstable, thwarted in some way.’
Mona inclined her head thoughtfully. ‘There’s a rumour . . .’ Her voice died.
‘A rumour?’
‘Oh, this is hard for me,’ she complained. ‘I’m not used to talking to men about . . . personal things, things to do with folk’s carryings-on and all that sort of stuff.’
‘Tell me.’ He stopped the car near a gate leading to Haslam Park. ‘Just say it, Mona.’
She marked the fact that he had used her Christian name. James Mulligan made her feel valuable, important. He had chosen her to find evidence against Peter Wilkinson. At first, she had felt a bit guilty about her mission, but it had become a labour of love, almost. Had he asked her to investigate the King himself, she would have done this Irishman’s bidding.
‘Well, Mona?’
She took a deep breath of cold air. ‘They say he’s not quite up to scratch, if you get my drift. See . . .’ She rooted about her head to find the words. ‘If he’d got married, there wouldn’t have been any babies, because he can’t . . .’
‘Save your blushes,’ he said. ‘I take your meaning, right enough.’
‘It is just a rumour, though. People say all sorts, don’t they? What I’d like to know is how do they find out he’s not the full twelve pennies to the shilling? Especially in that . . . department. And if he’s not a proper man, what’s he doing messing about with young lasses?’ Now that she had started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she concluded.
‘Impotence does not always remove desire,’ James said.
‘He’d a terrible childhood,’ Mona continued. ‘His mam kept him in pinafores till he started school – his brother, too. Five years old and still dressed like girls, the pair of them. It were normal to keep lads in frocks up to three. That was to cheat the devil, because the devil only took boys. But most of them were breeched long before their schooldays.’
Mulligan's Yard Page 17
