A Proud Alliance
Freda Lightfoot
Originally published 1990 under the pseudonym of Marion Carr by Mills & Boon Ltd. Published in Great Britain as Timeless Union under the name Freda Lightfoot in 2001 by Severn House Publishers Ltd of 9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey SM1 1DF and of 595 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022
Copyright © 1990, 2001, 2010 by Freda Lightfoot.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1452353890
Published by Freda Lightfoot at Smashwords 2010
‘The new series will be greeted with joy by the thousands of women who enjoy her books.’ Evening Mail, Barrow-in-Furness on Champion Street Market
‘You can’t put a price on Freda Lightfoot's stories from Manchester's 1950s Champion Street Market. They bubble with enough life and colour to brighten up the dreariest day and they have characters you can easily take to your heart.’
The Northern Echo.
‘Lightfoot clearly knows her Manchester well’
Historical Novel Society
‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’
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‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.’
Lancashire Evening Post on For All Our Tomorrows.
‘a compelling and fascinating tale’ Middlesborough Evening Gazette on The Favourite Child (In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers)
‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.
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‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’
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‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’ The Keswick Reminder on The Bobbin Girls
‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’
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Also by Freda Lightfoot available as ebooks
The honourable Felicity Travers stepped lightly down from the omnibus and strode out with vigour along the busy street. A man jostled her shoulder but she continued purposefully on her way with scarcely a pause. She dared not hesitate for a second or her courage might fail her entirely.
She had rehearsed what she was to say a dozen times. It was perfectly simple. Merely thank him for taking care of the business since her father’s death and declare that now she and Mama had returned his services were no longer required. The sooner they were rid of Blakeley, the better.
Lifting the skirt of her tropical white dress which, having come straight from the ship, she had not had time to change, she circumnavigated a puddle, only to be splashed by it as a cart drawn by a pair of Clydesdales rumbled by. Stacked high with women in wide hats, purple banners, streamers and posters declaring the delights of a weekly paper out this very day, the thirteenth of April, 1909, the vehicle looked as if it might topple over at any minute.
‘Votes for Women.’ The cry went up and Felicity tightened her lips with fresh determination. How dared she quail at her duty in the face of such fervour? She had never been one to do so in the past and had no intention of starting now.
For a moment, the pain of memory blotted everything else from Felicity’s mind as she recalled the dear face of her father and compared with disfavour the chill greyness of the Manchester street about her with the recollected heat and bustle of her beloved Calcutta. How she wished he were still with them, but he was gone and they must face life alone in this new drab world. She shivered.
The importance of duty had been instilled in her ever since they had first gone out to India all those years ago. Papa had been happy then, and Mama’s talent and beauty had charmed everyone, making it a great honour to be invited to one of her many social gatherings. How different from the wan, pathetic figure she now presented. But Lady Travers had protested vehemently that Felicity should make no move until after their appointment with the lawyer.
‘Dearest Mama, it will take no more than a half-hour.´ Felicity had countered as she was hustled aboard the hired brougham which was to take them to their hotel. ‘And I shall feel so much better prepared if I have at least lifted the curtain a fraction upon this mystery.’
‘I do not understand,’ Carmella Travers had moaned, not for the first time. ‘I really do not see how he could do this to us,´ punctuating her words with tiny dabs of a lace handkerchief to her swollen eyes and causing the mingled scents of sal volatile and eau-de-cologne to waft across the carriage, thus depressing Felicity’s spirits still further. ‘I was ever a good wife to him. Why could he not take me into his confidence.´
Felicity privately thought that she could guess very easily why Papa had kept such information to himself but deemed it wise not to say so. ‘Indeed, you were the very best of wives, dearest Mama, do not distress yourself.’ Felicity exchanged yet another anxious glance with the loyal Millie who sat stroking and patting her mistress’s hand as if calming a child. They shared concern for Lady Travers’s health. The shock of losing her beloved husband had been followed swiftly by the mystifying information that, not only had Sir Joshua surprisingly owned a Manchester fashion emporium of which they were in total ignorance, but also their lawyer had grave misgivings about the way it was being run. All of this had grievously affected her health. Felicity was anxious to learn the whole truth with all speed so that she could spare her mania further distress.
So here she was, tingling with nerves but none the less determined, gazing curiously across the street, wishing her eyes could penetrate the darkened interior behind the over-ornate facade and with it the mystery which shrouded its very existence.
She knew that Manchester, as the heart of the booming cotton industry, was a prosperous and hard-working city. On her short journey through its bewildering network of streets, she had seen numerous warehouses and manufactories, handsome Gothic churches, theatres, an opera house and the famous Exchange Building where all the financial dealings in the textile world took place. It was undoubtedly impressive. Yet in the narrower streets, glimpsed from the major thoroughfares, she had caught a very different picture of the other side of life in this bustling city. She had seen bare-footed children, weary work-worn women carrying bundles of laundry, their grey faces swathed in shawls against the biting north-east wind. Now, as she stared up at the four-storey building which towered over its neighbours, rows of tiny windows glinting in contrast to the grim stone walls darkened by time and the all-pervading smoke that filled the city, she experienced a sudden and inexplicable urge to turn and run away. But the noisy crowd in the street pressed in upon her, filling her nostrils with strange, not altogether pleasant scents and her mind with more images than it could assimilate.
‘Votes for Women,’ came the cry once again. ‘Come with us to Albert Square.’
If Felicity had known the profound effect the pamphlet was to make upon her life she would not have accepted it with such carelessness. But as her mind was fully engaged elsewhere her fingers closed upon it without question as she smiled vaguely at the purple-sashed figure, almost welcoming the distraction. No. There was no going back. Besides, once having decided upon a course of action, she disliked prevarication of any kind.
‘No doubt Mr Blakeley is merely a foolish old gentleman, when it comes to it, who will be only too glad to go,’ she said into the general hubbub, and, jauntily adjusting her new hat to a more becoming angle, she started to cross the street.
It was a particularly delightful model of drawn chiffon in her favourite apple-green with a gauze ribbon of darker green wound about it and tied under her chin. A bunch of saucy yellow cowslips bobbed merrily at one side. The colour contrasted well against the glossy honey-gold of her hair and sun-bronzed skin unfashionably glowing with health and vitality. But then she had ever held scant patience for parasols, always finding far too much to occupy her outdoors to worry overmuch about keeping her fair skin modestly pale. Much to her poor mama’s despair.
‘Travers and Co. Drapery and Linen Goods,’ she read out loud. Curiosity, together with the first tinge of excitement, stirred within her.
She didn’t have to find a new manager. It might be fun to run it herself.
At that moment a window was flung noisily open in a house opposite and Felicity’s eyes widened in astonishment as she saw a woman start to toss small paper packets on to the unsuspecting occupants of a passing motor car.
‘Oh, no,’ she cried, slapping her hand to her mouth to suppress the gurgle of laughter which rose in her throat at the comic spectacle of the Liberal Member of Parliament dropping his electioneering megaphone in consternation as the packets burst forth clouds of white flour over his head and festooned the unremitting black of his morning coat with a snowy shower. Roars of laughter from delighted spectators filled the street and unexpectedly Felicity caught one of the packets in her own hand. Her softly rounded cheeks coloured with excited confusion.
The next moment half a dozen police constables were forcing back the door of the house, eager to climb the stairs and arrest the sole female perpetrator of this outrage against masculine dignity. Somewhere in the background, Felicity heard a window smash and the melee of women on the pavement surged forward, taking her with them.
‘Don’t be turned back. We have still to reach Albert Square.’
Jostled and jabbed by the eager crowd, Felicity struggled to free herself, perplexed and instantly concerned by the implications behind the scene as the woman was marched firmly, though it seemed unprotesting, to a waiting black van where several others with no apparent connection with the incident were already being thrust ungently aboard. The noise grew deafening as the watching crowd jeered and at the same moment a band rounded the corner loudly playing the ‘Marseillaise’.
The crowd surged forward, and, clutching frantically at her new green hat, Felicity almost lost her balance, stumbled over a child and knocked him sprawling to the ground.
‘Oh, are you hurt?´ she cried, quickly setting him safely on his feet again. The feel of the scraggy, ill-fed figure beneath the inadequate clothing grimed with long wear brought a pang of guilt to her sensitive heart. How could she be so concerned over her own petty problems when she was indeed fortunate in comparison with the sufferings of others? ‘You should not be out here alone. ‘Where do you live?’
She never heard his reply for to her incredulous horror she found herself lifted from her feet by a pair of strong arms and forcibly catapulted through the air, all sight of the child gone. As her shoulder hit the corner of the shop window, jarring every bone and nerve in her body, startled tears blurred her eyes and she slid to the ground in a jangled heap of pain and shock.
For long seconds she was quite unable to move, stunned by the violence of her fall.
‘A remarkably fine shot, ma’am,´ came a deep throated growl somewhere above her, and, as soon as she was able, Felicity lifted her head to look at its owner. Through the iridescent blur of startled tears she focused upon. a grey waistcoat. Once dashingly patterned in silk brocade, it was now feathered with thick streaks of flour As her gaze trailed higher she found an equally thorough dusting upon thick dark hair and long sideburns. Worse still, it lay on the high cheekbones and on a slightly crooked nose, looking disconcertingly like snow on mountain tops.
But any nervous inclination to giggle quite deserted her as she met the full impact of his deep-lidded gaze, brown eyes, darkly fringed with lashes, menacingly narrowed. She urged herself to stand and face her accuser on an equal level but her shaking legs refused to comply, so she continued to sit on the pavement in a crumpled, undignified heap, acutely aware that she was showing far more ankle than convention allowed. Closer inspection, however, informed her of the futility of trying, for he was the quite the largest, brawniest man she had ever clapped eyes upon. Even on tiptoe she would come no further than the top button of the catastrophic waistcoat.
‘Is this woman troubling you, sir? I’ll have her removed.’
The police constable coldly gripped her elbow and Felicity gave an instinctive cry of alarm.
Jarle, looking on, felt the anger churn within him. This had been one of the worst demonstrations yet. A plate glass window had been broken, goods ruined, trade lost and now this foolish female had attacked him with flour. A night in a cell would soon cool her zeal. Pity, for she was pretty enough. She reminded him of a Renoir painting with those flushed cheeks and that white summer dress. But then the hat spoiled it.
‘Not in the least,´ he calmly told the constable. ‘This young lady is one of my assistants and has no connection with the suffragettes so far as I am aware.’ He saw she was as surprised as he by this statement. Well she might be. It was not at all what he had meant to say.
But Felicity’s relief was short-lived as she found herself being passed from hand to hand, like a parcel, she thought crossly.
The constable, satisfied that his duty had been accomplished, saluted politely and discreetly departed. The crowd sauntered away, looking for fresh excitement elsewhere.
But Felicity’s saviour was by no means so easily satisfied. To her acute embarrassment she found herself propelled through the great doors, almost frog-marched between a bewildering array of high-topped counters, before the goggle-eyed stares of a host of shop assistants, to be thrust into a small, untidy office. Anger burned through her with such ferocity that she could feel its radiation right down to her toes.
‘Take your hands off me,’ she gasped, wrenching her arm free with such vigour that her hat wobbled off her head and plopped upon the floor. ‘I am most certainly not one of your shop assistants.’ Her tone said Heaven forbid, but she regretted the haughty note upon the instant for it made her sound an insufferable snob, and she was surely not that.
‘No, indeed. My shop assistants display better manners,’ said he with a mendacious calm. `And have more useful occupations to fill their time.’
‘No doubt you keep them chained to their counters,’ Felicity retorted with some warmth. But her rescuer only smiled, his eyebrows twitching with an unexpected show of humour.
‘That’s what they are paid for.’
She had a sudden longing to prick the core of his amused arrogance and inform him of the years she had spent working in the medical mission with the sick and the poor, administering what simple relief she could to the women and children of India. But she bit it back, feeling sure he would dismiss such a catalogue as mere good works with no sincerity attached. Having decided what she must not say she was left totally speechless, forced to examine his decidedly handsome features in silence for a full half-minute. He seemed content to do the same to her before drawing in a deep breath and adding, somewhat brusquely, ‘Would you have preferred to be taken in hand to the lock-up? I’m sorry if I offended your sensibilities.’ He spoke as if she were not capable of owning any. `But it was the first thing which came into my head. You have my permission to leave now.’
Turning his back upon her, he opened a drawer in a large walnut desk, and, withdrawing a white cotton handkerchief, began pointedly to dust away the flour from his face and the spoiled front of his waistcoat.
Felicity gasped. His permission, indeed. Who did this man think he was? Some clerk from her father’s accounts department, no doubt.
‘And take this ridiculous hat with you,’ he said, sealing her opinion of him and turning the rose to scarlet in her cheeks. If he knew that it was the owner of the store, his own employer, whom he was treating with such disdain, that would soon wipe the complacency from his tone. She could hardly wait to tell him. Felicity chose not to recall that he had in fact saved her from the arms of the law.
‘I am not what you think,’ she began as she looked up at him, clear grey eyes opening wide with entrancing gravity, experiencing a delicious satisfaction from seeing him finally lost for words.
But not for long. ‘I can’t imagine what your family is thinking of to allow a young lady such as yourself to comport herself in this fashion. A political demonstration is not the place to be wandering abroad,’ he said curtly.
Felicity was outraged. He spoke as if she were no more than a child and she was all of two and twenty. ‘I was not wandering. I had a most specific purpose in mind.’
‘I saw the evidence of that purpose with my own eyes,’ he said dryly. `I must congratulate you and your colleagues on effectively silencing the voice of an obstinate government, if but temporarily.’
‘You misunderstand, sir.’
‘My name is Jarle Blakeley,’ he coolly informed her. ‘And I do not possess a title, I’m glad to say.’ And those that do, he thought irritably, often do not deserve one.
Felicity very nearly gaped at him. Jarle Blakeley? Her late father’s manager? Not a gentle old man at all, but an arrogant boor of little more than thirty years who seemed to think he knew it all. She was about to inform him that she did possess a title and it was her ardent pride in that noble lineage which had brought her to call upon him in the first place when he took her completely off guard by intercepting her thoughts with the most incredible observation.
‘Contrary to what you may suppose, neither the waif you so brusquely cast aside, nor his poor starved family, if indeed he has one, hold the vote either. His interests lie purely with filling his empty belly, though I doubt a fanatic such as yourself would be able to appreciate that.’ He flung the soiled handkerchief in the waste-basket, feeling his irritation grow.
It had been a bad enough day but now this campaigning female, no doubt from some modern-thinking middle-class family who had never known need or hunger, thought herself fit to speak for those who scarcely had time to lift their heads from counter or loom. Women like his own mother, for instance, who had brought up seven children chiefly by the sweat of her own brow and would not have had a moment spare to use her vote had she possessed one.
Felicity, meanwhile, was stinging from the seeming injustice of this attack. Yet even as she drew breath to retaliate a small voice of caution within bade her to take care with this man. He was not at all what she had expected and her mission loomed ominously.
‘The waif, for your information, Mr-Jarle-Blakeley-sir,’ she began, taking childish pleasure in the pedantic enunciation of his name, ‘cannoned into me and not me into it-er-him.’ She felt a hot tide of colour stain her cheeks at the slip. ‘Surely it will only be for the good of such children if women are granted the vote? Will it not at least give them a voice in the care of their own families?’ she finished crisply.
It was not a question to which she desperately demanded an answer yet she saw him consider it with a surprised attention.
‘I find your argument interesting. Pray be seated, Miss-um?´
‘I prefer to stand,’ she proclaimed. zealously ignoring her aching feet and feeling irrational fury as he abruptly sank into a deep leather armchair. The gesture was an open rebuke. No gentleman would ever seat himself while a lady still stood. Yet it proved preferable to standing beside his towering height which gave her a greater sense of inferiority.
He emphasised the insult by resting one long leg across the other knee. He had quite the shapeliest, most muscular thighs she had ever seen and she blushed to find herself so engaged in their scrutiny.
‘Do you believe it wise for issues concerning women and children to come into the political arena?’ he asked interestedly, as if they were engaged merely in mild debate. Jarle was indeed enjoying the combat. He hadn’t felt so alive in months. Her figure too was not displeasing despite its rather dusty, unkempt appearance following the disturbance. Let her try to convince him if she so wished. He was content to enjoy the view.
Felicity was frantically searching her mind for a sufficiently informed answer. Though her sojourn abroad and sheltered upbringing ill equipped her for this kind of verbal sparring, she was determined not to be outshone.
‘I believe that women should be free to be themselves and not depend on any man for permission how to spend their purse, how to live their lives, nor how to govern their country. Women are taking more of a control over their own lives than ever before and choosing for themselves when or even if they will marry. Many are choosing careers or limiting their families to allow them greater freedom. I applaud such a movement even though I am no militant. We have a voice and should be heard,’ she finished rather grandly.
‘Well spoken,’ he quietly remarked and she quickly searched his face for any sign of condescension, surprised when she found none. ‘But many men honestly believe that women and children should be protected from politics.’
‘Kept at home as slaves, you mean,’ she retorted rather crossly.
‘Not necessarily. Many women do not have a choice of career, as you call it. They simply have to earn their bread.’
He had a way of turning her own argument upon her, but she was not so easily put down. ‘Then it is all the more important that they have an equal say in matters which affect their livelihood.’ Got him, she thought and was again proved wrong.
He was on his feet, stabbing the desk top with a blunt tipped finger as if to emphasise his point. ‘If we clutter the statute books with the question of women’s franchise there will be no time to put essential social reforms into effect. It will come, in good time. In the meantime there are more important issues at stake and women can be cared for by their menfolk, who very much enjoy doing it.’
He paused, and the seriousness in the brown eyes softened with a lively humour, as they moved slowly over the neat lines of her body, lingering for a second on the firm, rounded bosom before dropping leisurely downwards over trim hips to focus on a slender ankle charmingly revealed where she tapped her foot impatiently upon the carpet. ‘Particularly if the woman in question is a pretty woman.’
Her cheeks flamed and she jerked the foot back beneath the hem of her gown, away from his bold gaze. ‘You go too far, Mr Blakeley. I take no political stance whatsoever but reserve the right, as a woman, to fight for my rights. However, enough of political argument. What I have to say to you…’
‘I have heard many times before,´ he interrupted, and, as if suddenly bored, got to his feet and strode to the door. ‘And have no wish to hear again. Ladies dressed in green and white can scarcely claim to be taking no political stance since these are well known to be the colours of the suffragette movement. I can only be grateful you chose not to wear the hideously purple sash, since the colour would not suit you.’
‘I - I did not realise…’ Felicity spluttered.
‘That I was so well informed?’ came the infuriating and inaccurate response. `If the pamphlet you so conspicuously carry did not declare your allegiance, the hat certainly tells all.’
Her hand flew involuntarily to her precious hat which she had attempted to reinstate and as she did so she watched with dawning horror as the half-crumpled, long forgotten paper sailed zig-zag fashion downward to land at Jarle Blakeley’s booted feet. Its title, Votes for Women, blazed across the top of the single sheet, followed by the name of the author, none other than Christabel Pankhurst herself.
Oddly discomfited beneath his assessing gaze, it was the hat she felt moved to defend. ‘I do not understand how it could possibly give offence,’ she declared, disappointment uppermost in her voice for of course she hated it now and would never feel able to wear it again.
He positively snorted his derision. ‘It gives a good deal of offence when damage to person and property is perpetrated by selfish violence,’ he growled, meaning the paper, and, rolling it into a ball, tossed it into the far corner of the room where it fell amid a pile of other papers. `I recommend you fill your time more productively.’
‘Doing what?’ Felicity raised her small chin in defiance. ‘Producing babies, I suppose.’
There came a dangerous sparkle in his eyes that for a moment robbed her of breath.
‘Report here first thing on Monday morning. I will try to ensure that you not only learn the benefits of honest toil but come to understand more about those less fortunate than yourself.´ He held open the door for her. ‘It will also serve to keep you from further mischief.’
Felicity was astounded. Had she heard correctly? Was her own manager actually offering her a job? ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said in a tone meant to freeze but which brought only a smile to his wide lips.
Unperturbed, he continued. ‘Naturally if you are already in employment you have only to say.’ He waited for her reply, lifting one eyebrow in quizzical enquiry. When none came he merely nodded, as if it were agreed. ‘The wages are not high, but no lower than any other store of a similar nature. You may start at eleven shillings a week.’
Felicity gasped. Though she held a healthy respect for the world of work and had intended to find some useful duties to occupy her time when their affairs were more settled, this proposition was positively ludicrous and she would waste no time in telling him so. She looked up into those deep brown eyes, meaning at once to set hire straight upon the matter.
‘What time would you wish me to start?’ she asked, quite putting herself out with the shock of it.
He was ushering her through the door and his brows lifted in surprise. She had spirit, he’d grant her that. ‘Monday morning at seven sharp. We open at eight fifteen and there’s much to be learned the first morning, so don’t be late. I trust you will find no difficulty in rising at that hour for once? Have your maid call you. Assuming you are not arrested in the meantime,’ he finished with asperity and closed the door upon her strangled exclamation.
Out on the now quiet pavement, some piquant humour rose in her mind and she almost laughed out loud. The absurdity of the situation at once incensed and captivated her.
With steady hands she adjusted the green hat, pulling down the gauze ribbons to tie them firmly beneath the small pointed chin. She had no intention, of course, of taking him up on the offer. Such an idea was quite unthinkable. Though a part of her mind acknowledged that the prospect was tempting. But no. She had other plans for Mr Jarle Blakeley. Plans she would take great pleasure in executing. Smiling reflectively, she turned upon leer heel and walked briskly down Deansgate, a decided lift to her step.
Jarle unrolled the sheet of parchment and stared at it with unseeing eyes. His long fingers slid across its shiny surface, weighting down each corner with paperweight, inkstand, book. But still he made no effort to study the plan. Instead he turned his back upon the wide walnut desk as if wishing to dissociate himself from it and what it held. Hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, brow creased in thought, he began to pace restlessly, striding back and forth in the small room with the kind of contained energy that might at any moment break free and quit its close confines.
There was certainly little enough space for such an activity. The panelled walls were crowded with all the paraphernalia requisite for running a large business, though the thick coating of dust lying upon cupboards, shelves and piles of ledgers that leaned drunkenly about the floor suggested it had not been run too well of late. Jarle took in the depressing sight with nothing more than bleak disinterest. Men were sailing the oceans, experimenting with tangled wires and tiny engines high in the sky. New industries were being born. Opportunities were passing him by and he was doing nothing about them. He felt jaded, lacking any appetite for life.
He must pull himself together. For a few moments the girl had brought fresh life to the gloomy office, and to himself. The wide lips curled upwards in a self-mocking smile. At least it proved he was still alive. Staring down at the plan, he suddenly put out a hand and swept all the props away. The sheet of paper immediately curled in upon itself and rolled off the edge of the desk. Jarle made no move to retrieve it. Usually bursting with energy and ideas, he still lacked any zest for this latest enterprise, even after six whole months. Wrinkling his brow with self-loathing, he snatched up the telephone.
‘Are you there?’ he growled into it as if the unhappy person who received his call were quite deaf. ‘Jarle Blakeley. You asked me to contact you.’
He listened in silence for a moment, then his whole body jerked and he almost dropped the mouthpiece. ‘Tomorrow? Impossible.’ Again silence as the lips gradually tightened. ‘Very well. I’ll be there.’ As he thrust the mouthpiece back upon its hook, the usual satisfaction he felt at possessing such a modern instrument was absent.
Glowering dark eyes swivelled relentlessly round, fixing themselves with fascinated anguish upon the sepia photograph, already beginning to fade at the edges. He gazed at it for a long silent moment. ‘It was a mistake, Tom.’ He gave a snort of self-derision as if amused by his own folly. ‘When will I ever curb my impulsive nature? I should have learned that lesson long since. But it is done now and there is an end to it.’ Then, without a flicker of expression upon his face, he turned from the photograph and, opening the door, he called across the floor to where two young girls were tidying boxes of ribbons.
‘Amy. Fetch me a cup of tea please? I feel as if I’ve been in a desert.’
She looked up and her eyes kindled merrily. ‘Right, Mr Blakeley.’
He grinned at her, though without his usual good humour. ‘And a clean jacket and waistcoat.’
He closed the door and went again to sit behind his desk but he did not pick up the ledger upon which he had been working before the commotion in the street had disturbed him. He sat staring into space, his mind whirling.
What would the plain, homely daughter make of his strange agreement with her father? The wry smile dissolved into a frown as he picked out a steel pen and absentmindedly began to polish the nib. One thing was certain. She must never learn the truth. He rather thought that would be far too much for a gently raised female to bear.
‘Here y’are, sir. I’ve brought you a nice cup of Indian. That’ll perk you up,’ Amy said presently. ‘Give me your jacket and waistcoat, and I’ll sponge it down for you.’ She gave a little chuckle as she left. ‘Sorry it had to be you at the end of that. I can think of plenty who deserve it more.’
As Jarle put on the fresh jacket and waistcoat he shook his dark head in despair. Even young Amy seemed to be in sympathy with the suffrage women.
His gaze was drawn back to the tea by a thin curl of steam emanating from the spout of the brown teapot. Indian tea. A frown puckered his brow and his mind leaped back to its earlier musings. There was something wrong somewhere, more than even Sir Joshua had realised, and come what may he would get to the bottom of it. He had not expected the family to return so soon, no doubt the result of that interfering old busybody Redgrove.
Jarle stared down at the flowing handwriting scripted in stark legal terms with many heretofores, parties of the first part and inasmuchas, but the essence of it was that the time had now come for him to fulfil those terms. What would they be like? A tweedy, loud-voiced dragon of a mother and a weedy scraggle of an unmarriageable daughter? He’d promised to do his best by them and he would, for was he not a man of his word? Shuddering with distaste, he started to pour out his tea.
Pushing open the faded maroon door of Canning, Lee and Redgrove, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, without troubling to use the brass knocker which looked in dire need of a good polish, Felicity felt ready for anything. Since her encounter with Jarle Blakeley an idea had formed in her mind. Whatever reasons Papa had had for keeping all knowledge of the shop from them, no doubt nothing more than foolish pride on his part - ever a family failing - Felicity was certain she could learn to run it herself. Why ever not? Women were taking vast strides forward as the suffragette movement so able demonstrated. Her heart gave an odd little jump at the prospect of working in close proximity with Jarle Blakeley. She had quite forgotten her intention to dismiss him and now wondered if he would accept her as an employer.
‘I am so sorry to have insisted on your coming to my offices,’ intoned Mr Isaiah Redgrove as Lady Travers and Felicity seated themselves as comfortably as they might on the hard chairs in the lawyer’s inner sanctum. A reed-thin man, he seemed as musty as the premises he occupied, his black cloth suit quite green with age. ‘Only I wished most particular to speak with you before you returned home to Hollingworth House, ma’am.’
He cleared his throat and, drawing a black silk handkerchief from the top pocket of his morning coat, dabbed at his lips and then at his brow. Felicity watched, fascinated. Never had she seen such a funereal handkerchief before, and it sent a shiver down her spine, for it seemed to presage ill tidings. Yet what could be worse than the death of a much-loved father?
‘Pray tell all, Mr Redgrove,’ she said firmly, tilting her small pointed chin upwards and smiling at him most charmingly. ‘I am sure we are quite able to withstand it.’
She was wrong, for by the time Mr Redgrove had finished his tale Felicity had grown quite pale and her mama had pitched forward into a dead faint right on to the poor man’s blotter. It took two restorative glasses of his best cordial before they were quite the thing again. Once Carmella was duly installed in prickly convalescence upon Mr Redgrove’s horsehair sofa, Felicity turned to him, her expression grim. ‘Are you trying to tell us there is no money, no money at all?’
‘As I said, Miss Felicity, Sir Joshua was in deep financial difficulties with considerable debts.’ As a groan emanated from Lady Travers he hurried on desperately, `He was a most generous man, as you will be only too well aware. Sir Joshua chose to sell the farms and cottages and most of the land over the years for far less than their market value, to the sitting tenants, thus relinquishing all hope of further rents for himself in order to give them the security he believed they needed.’ Mr Redgrove looked faintly disapproving at such philanthropy. ‘I warned him at the time of the effect such an action would have upon his investments but his mind was set.’
Felicity linked her fingers together in her lap and let out a small sigh of resignation. How like Papa. She could not quarrel with his principles, even though it now left his own family in a decidedly precarious position.
Sir Joshua Travers had been a delightful combination of qualities, a proud but caring man. A man of honour and tradition, content to neglect his own affairs and his ancestral home in the service of his country. For as long as Felicity could remember he had acted as emissary and later ambassador to the late Queen, from Ireland to Africa and countless places in between. More recently he had proved particularly successful in assisting the Viceroy of India with the reform of the administration in its task of increasing association with Indians. His love of India had been intense and had inspired Felicity to leave her boarding school in England before the appointed age to share in India’s vivacity and colour and take her own useful part in the family’s efforts to serve their adopted country.
But Papa had given no indication that money was in any way a problem. In comparison with most of the populace of that country how could they fail to feel wealthy? There was entertaining, servants, regal apartments to be kept, and all the panoply of pomp and fashion that accompanied such a lifestyle. Sir Joshua was also one of the most generous donors of funds to every worthy cause that sought his aid and had never refused Felicity in any of her schemes. On the contrary, despite his somewhat narrow views of women, he had always been most insistent that she perform her duties conscientiously.
He had been a good, kind father, albeit with exacting standards, and she had loved him dearly.
Mr Redgrove gave a small, polite cough. ‘It was at my request that Sir Joshua made what sadly turned out to be his last visit to the mother soil, but I was most concerned about his financial position. And there was, of course, the question of the shop.’
Jolted from her reverie, Felicity brushed the start of tears from her eyes and shifted forward in her seat, eager to learn all she could, for this piece of property could well prove to be their salvation.
The lawyer lowered his voice, for he felt sorry for this delightful girl and her mother. Living a life in India he could not begin to imagine had undoubtedly undermined the poor lady’s health. ‘Some time ago, Sir Joshua purchased a large drapery and fashion emporium which he intended to extend by adding further diverse departments. Quite the rage now, I understand.’
`My husband made no mention to me of this draper’s shop,´ burst in Carmella in hurt tones.
Mr Redgrove tutted consolingly and shifted some papers unnecessarily upon his desk. ‘You might well look shocked, Lady Travers. Yet I sympathise with Sir Joshua’s motives in keeping the matter hush-hush. Had it been generally known that your husband was so thoroughly embroiled in trade…’ Isaiah Redgrove studied the grain of the leather-topped desk. ‘His social position would undoubtedly have been in jeopardy, his immediate resignation would have possibly been demanded from every club of which he was a member. It could well have jeopardised his entire career.’
Carmella wailed into her handkerchief with great energy.
‘But I’m afraid he paid the business scant attention and it became far from profitable. So it was perhaps for the best that you were saved from the taint of trade.’
‘I see no "taint" in trying to earn an honest living,’ retorted Felicity hotly.
‘I am sure you will think so since you are a very modern, democratic young lady.’ The solicitor made it sound as if she had a disease. `Nevertheless, however estimable you might think it, for a man in your father’s position, employed as he was by the Crown, to be involved in trade to that extent could only be viewed by his peers as dubious.´
Felicity cringed but offered no further argument, knowing it to be very likely true. Old ideas died hard.
‘You said it was not profitable. Why was that?’ Lady Travers intervened with a return of her accustomed shrewdness which Felicity could only envy. She had quite overlooked the point.
‘Ah.’ Mr Redgrove steepled his fingers reflectively. ‘Now that is the puzzling part. The annual accounts appeared to be perfectly in order yet Sir Joshua’s overdraft grew beyond all expectation.’
‘Overdraft?´
‘It is painful for me to say it, ma’am, but the situation was dire. Sir Joshua obstinately refused to discuss the matter with me. None the less, extreme remedies were called for if the ghoul of bankruptcy was to be avoided.’
‘Bankruptcy?’ Carmella could scarcely utter the word between lips gone suddenly dry. It was far worse than Redgrove’s first intimation of huge outstanding debts had intimated. How were they to survive? She glanced across at her daughter, so proud, so strong, if decidedly too homely-looking for her liking. Then she thought of Gilbert Farrel, long picked out as a husband for Felicity and soon to follow them from India. Would he still want her without a penny to her name and the debtor’s prison a step away? And if he did not, who else would?´ It was all too terrible to contemplate. ‘I cannot bear it,’ she cried, rocking her ample figure back and forth upon the sofa.
Concerned that her mother might swoon again, Felicity hastily intervened. ‘What is to be done, Mr Redgrove?’ she asked practically, grey eyes wide with fright. ‘I am strong and could work, pay off the debt; as soon as prudent, but b-bankruptcy?’ Her lips faltered over the word for the prospect was fearsome.
Mr Redgrove leaned forward and touched the smooth slender- hand with an avuncular pat from his paper-dry fingers. ‘Now, do not distress yourself, my dear Miss Felicity. The matter has been well. taken care of.’ He would have taken care of it himself if he’d been able for one smile from those lovely young lips.
Carmella gave a little cry. ‘Do you mean we are not to be destitute after all? There, I knew Joshua would see us safely placed.’ The tears were rapidly drying upon Carmella’s cheeks and she was all attention. There must be some way to save them from the shame of privation.
‘You are little more than. a child, m’dear,´ Redgrove was saying. ‘And exceedingly pretty with your, honey-brown hair and candid charm. Most valuable assets. Many a gentleman would welcome a helpmeet such as yourself upon life’s journey.’
Felicity froze with a new fear. ‘I am not in the market for a husband and if Mama were not in shock she would vouch for it. I can work. I do assure you of that. No matter how long it takes, all debts will be settled, including, Mr Redgrove, your own legal fees.’
‘Ah,’ said that gentleman with a philosophical smile. ‘They never are, m’dear. They never are. Except, of course, in this instance.’ There was something dangerously close to a twinkle in his faded eyes and Felicity’s suspicions grew.
‘Are you funning us, Mr Redgrove? Did Papa settle his debts before his death, after all?’ She held her breath as she walled for his reply. ‘Please come to the point, do,´ she cried.
He was startled by her vehemence and the yellow cheeks took on an almost pinkish hue. ‘I am coming to it. Legal matters cannot be hurried,’ he said ponderously, wishing the whole interview were done with and he could slip round to the Wheatsheaf for his usual lunch of pork pie and pickles. ‘It was not your poor dear Papa who saved you from the courts, but Mr Blakeley, an extremely wealthy, self-made young man who bought Sir Joshua out, lock, stock and barrel.’
‘Lock, stock and...?’
‘Barrel, Lady Travers. It is a business expression l believe, ma’am. It means…’
‘I know what it means,’ she thundered, and both Redgrove and Felicity started. The latter hid a smile for Mama, it seemed, was coming to herself again. ‘Presumably this does not include my home, Hollingworth House?’
There was the most dreadful silence. The leather in the old chair creaked ominously as Redgrove tried desperately to sink back into it. The conversation was not going at all as he had planned. ‘I - I’m afraid it does, ma’am,’ he spluttered, gasping for breath like a stranded fish before hastily continuing in a gabbling tone, ‘But it is perfectly possible for you to continue to live there.’
‘How so?´ she demanded in ringing tones, making the lawyer cringe. ‘Does this Blakeley fellow intend to charge us rent?’ The voice was awesome, that of a woman who had ridden on elephants through primitive mountain villages without a word of complaint. A woman who, despite a tendency to vanity, had followed her husband up river and down valley, often with wet feet and a pounding headache, and had returned at the end of the day to smilingly host a seven-course dinner for twenty without turning a hair.
Judging by her hysterical manner that afternoon it was not surprising that Mr Redgrove had underestimated her. Now he gave a strangled croak. All his carefully rehearsed speeches were in tatters and he blundered on, every shred of tact gone from his head.
‘No, indeed. It was agreed that should Miss Felicity still be a spinster on his death and without provision, Sir Joshua ensured you would both be able to remain at Hollingworth House as Mr Blakeley’s wife and mother-in-law. It was a clause in the contract, a necessary provision, if Mr Blakeley was to take him over. Do you see…?’ His voice faded into pained silence.
If Felicity had grown pale at first mention of a serious financial crisis, she now turned deathly white. Grey eyes stood out dark and frightened and she swayed slightly upon her feet so that she had to reach out and grasp the corner of the lawyer’s desk.
Carmella was less overcome and sat up straight, alert as a cat which has just been shown a jug of cream. ‘You say this Blakeley fellow is wealthy?’
‘Exceedingly.’ Mr Redgrove did not miss the change in her tone and almost fawned in his eagerness to please. ‘A fine man, Lady Travers. Owns various properties: mills, hotels, houses. Sold land for a huge sum to the Great Western Railway Company.’ He leaned closer to whisper confidentially. ‘No one can put a figure to his fortune but it is undoubtedly immense.´
The silence which followed this statement sent the blood roaring through Felicity’s head as she stared in horror at her mother’s enraptured face.
‘Mama?’ she croaked.
Lady Travers got up from the horsehair sofa and, smiling, gathered Felicity’s hands between her own. ‘My dearest daughter. This gentleman clearly requires a wife, as you do a husband. I think we have little choice but to at least consider his suit.’
Spinster was such a horrid title and one Felicity had never thought to attach to herself. Now she did so and it made her feel distinctly unhappy. The alternative, however, was even less palatable. Yet she was haunted by the memory of a pair of serious brown eyes so strangely at odds with the mocking tone and she groaned out loud.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ Carmella enquired solicitously, and Felicity assured her that she felt quite herself, which was the greatest untruth she had ever told.
They were travelling by hired chaise to Hollingworth House but any pleasure of a homecoming in the fresh spring morning was quite spoiled as far as Felicity was concerned.
Felicity stared unseeing at the rolling Pennine hills which lay like a humped green velvet carpet down the centre of England. She gave no attention to the hedgerows filled with white blossom which might have made her reminisce about joyous days of her childhood. Not even the rustling charms of the tall horse-chestnut trees, bursting into pink budded glory, could splinter the shackles of her misery.
‘You must say at once if you do not like him,’ said Carmella decidedly. ‘I am sure I would not have you marry with someone you detest on sight. Though I confess I thought Joshua a poor weed when I first saw him. But we came to make a good enough pair in the end. It will be a little difficult to explain it all to Gilbert, I dare say, but we shall think of something. Besides, he has had ample opportunity over the past years. I cannot imagine what held him back,’ Carmella tutted and looked to her daughter for a response but Felicity only returned her abstracted gaze to the passing scene, a blur before her dazed eyes.
Gilbert Farrel, wealthy businessman and socialite, was considered quite a catch by most of the mamas of the British contingent in India. Felicity had known him for a long time, and, despite his careless idle ways, which tended at times to irritate, site liked him well enough. They had talked of marrying, possibly next spring when he would join her in England, after a suitable period of mourning had elapsed. Yet Felicity had her doubts, and perhaps Papa had too in the end.
When Sir Joshua returned from that last visit to England, the mark of death already upon him, he had been most insistent that Felicity did not rush into a hasty marriage with Gilbert. She had wryly thought it could hardly come into that category, but her father’s sick-bed had not been the place to discuss such matters. Believing his concerns to be motivated by the fact that he did not wish his beloved daughter to leave him, she had stayed by his side even as he slipped into the coma that was to claim his life. Now an altogether different liaison was being forced upon her, one she dared not even contemplate. She could not imagine why her father should consider marriage with Jarle Blakeley preferable to her long-standing engagement with safe and reliable Gilbert.
‘Ah, the market cross. See, Millie, we are almost home,’ cried Carmella, leaning forward in her seat, her pale cheeks quite pink with excitement.
Felicity sighed resignedly. She had forgotten how green England was, and how beautiful. Her vision focused momentarily on a family of hedge-sparrows noisily squabbling over living space in the crowded hawthorn. For some reason it only increased her sadness.
Ever one to take on the shackles of duty, the prospect of that duty including marriage to a man she already despised was more than she could bear. She had certainly never intended a stern, self-seeking businessman for a husband, one who was bent only on buying himself into the British aristocracy by way of a wife. She shuddered, filled with a bitter nausea. But what other course was open to her? She could not forsake her family’s honour and her father’s wishes, nor abandon poor Mama, and of course Millie, to penury. The prospect was quite unthinkable.
Casting a sideways glance at Carmella, Felicity noted the lines of tension around her mother’s small, once pretty mouth. Despite her tendency to fluster, and her obvious disappointment that her daughter had not turned out to be as stunningly beautiful as she would have wished, Felicity knew she was not nearly as selfish as she made out. There would be sulks if she refused to marry him, but she would come to accept it.
Yet there was no denying the inherent fear of destitution, no matter how well hidden. Worse, Felicity knew that her mother dreaded the prospect of being foisted upon some reluctant relative as companion, to end her days as an ageing burden propped in the corner to serve tea.
Felicity blinked back the unwished-for tears as the chaise bounced over a ridge and passed between two familiar tall gateposts. As the vehicle bowled along, she looked about her with a new interest. The rough grass had been cut and become rolling parkland. The old yews had been clipped into fine examples of formal topiary they had not resembled in many a long year. Leaning forward in her seat, she examined with startled surprise the sweet-scented order of the rose gardens, almost restored to their former glory with even the broken sundial replaced. The orchard was thick with blossom and the herbaceous border already stood proud, promising to be a riot of colour when summer dawned.
‘Are you quite all right, darling?’ Carmella asked, giving her daughter’s hand a small squeeze.
Felicity swallowed the sudden constriction in her throat. ‘Yes, Mama. Quite all right.’
She could remember the mellow charm of the house which had grown over the centuries from a modest country manor to one of sprawling dimensions. Vastly extended during the Georgian era when Joel William Travers had been rewarded with a baronetcy for his part in the Seven Years War, the projecting wings and the grand curving exterior staircases on the central block had replaced its homeliness with a bolder, almost palatial composition. She recalled games of hide and seek along its endless corridors, listening to the cooing of wood pigeons in its acres of woodland and roaring log fires in the depths of winter. But then she recalled her parents’ exclamations of dismay whenever they returned from a sojourn abroad to find a carpet quite worn through or a banister needing replacement.
‘If only my ancestors had left me the funds to feed the monstrous appetite of this beast,’ her father would moan. ‘Everyone will simply have to stop walking about the place, then perhaps it won’t fall down,’ and the child she then had been had laughed, not understanding.
But whatever the inconvenience of its outmoded grandeur it had been her home, solidly in the background, a security waiting for them to return to when the days of service and duty were done. The Travers family had built Hollingworth House and lived in it for more than five centuries. She could scarcely contemplate the prospect of entering it as a guest of a new owner.
And what would Jarle Blakeley’s reaction be when he saw that the bride he had acquired in his iniquitous business takeover was the very same suffragette who had splattered his handsome face with flour?
Felicity and Jarle glowered at each other across the hearthrug in what had once been Papa’s study. For a brief moment, Felicity had enjoyed a delicious sense of superiority at the sight of the mouth dropping agape in the handsome face. The recalcitrant suffragette had been the last person he had expected to see step in upon his mat that day.
‘Mr Blakeley,’ she murmured, giving a gracious inclination of her head, aware that on this occasion every neatly brushed hair was in place and her suit of cobalt blue set off her colouring to perfection.
‘What the d - ?’ The gape was replaced with a tightening of the wide lips, cutting his own words sharply in mid-sentence, though they were both well aware that by now he had guessed exactly who she was.
Tossing her head, she gave her most winning smile, which, as Millie had so often said, would freeze the whiskers off the next door’s cat. ‘May I introduce my mother, Carmella, Lady Travers?’ Felicity said, trying to disguise the slight tremble in her voice. She had forgotten how good looking he was. But she must strive to hold to her carefully nurtured confidence and not be overset by such a trifling matter as money. After all, when did the aristocracy ever consider it?
There was a moment’s frigid silence as his glare cut into her own but then he blinked and, swinging upon his heel, extended a hand to the small but elegant lady smiling innocently up at him. ‘Lady Travers. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’
Carmella flushed like a girl as she allowed him to kiss her hand. How charming he was. How handsome. She could hardly believe their good fortune. If only Felicity would stop sulking darkly in that foolish way they might swiftly come to a most agreeable arrangement. ‘Allow me to introduce Millie, my one-time nanny, now our dear friend and companion.’