Mulligan's Yard (8 page)

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 tedious.

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.

He excused himself and went to the music room. Eliza was completely absorbed in her occupation, and James stood in the doorway for a while, allowing the sound to trickle over him. She made no
mistakes, or so it seemed to him. Like a perfect doll, an automaton, she sat correctly, played precisely, seemed totally occupied by the activity. Eliza was a creature of tremendous beauty, but she
seemed docile, almost without character. This was possibly most men’s idea of a desirable companion, biddable, exquisite, accepting. He cleared his throat.

Eliza turned, giving her companion the full benefit of a serene face and a neck of palest cream. The complexion was flawless, the eyes were huge, mouth and nose delectable. By no means
impervious to a woman’s charms, James stood still for several seconds. ‘Your mother is ready to leave, Miss Burton-Massey.’

She blinked several times, as if processing and filing this small amount of information. Then a smile erupted, making the face into the countenance of an angel, beyond beauty, beyond words.
‘Mr Mulligan,’ she said softly, ‘would it be a terrible cheek if I asked to come occasionally to play this instrument?’

He saw her then, saw what she really was. How many had misjudged this girl so far? he wondered. There was damped-down intelligence behind those eyes. Eliza had moulded herself, he guessed, to
fit with her mother’s pattern, to be the sort of lady Louisa would want to have as a daughter. ‘Of course you may play here,’ he replied. ‘As long as your mother has no
objection.’ God, she was lovely. Not all the dictionaries in Christendom could possibly contain language to describe the young woman.

They had been born, these young Burton-Masseys, within a space of just over two years. Amy was twenty-one, Eliza twenty, Margot nineteen. Probably despairing of ever producing sons, the parents
had stopped breeding after Margot’s birth. But Alex and Louisa had created three stunning daughters, three different pearls from the one shell.

‘Thank you.’ She drifted past him, the perfume of a rose garden filling his nostrils as she left the room. She met her mother in the hall, then followed the servant to the front
door. James said goodbye, standing to watch the two women as they were helped by their one remaining male servant into a small trap.

No sooner had they left than he was approached on the steps by yet another Burton-Massey. ‘Hello, Margot,’ he said casually.

Margot’s stomach felt like the Grand Canyon. After walking half-way home towards sustenance, she had doubled back. Mr Mulligan could not be allowed to fall in love with Eliza and Chopin.
He was hers. Although she was a mere nineteen, Margot was absolutely sure that she knew her mind. ‘Thought I might help when the new horses arrive,’ she mumbled.

With senses alerted by his recent encounter with Eliza, James was suddenly aware that this Burton-Massey, too, might easily be misjudged. Margot was pretty in a healthy but untidy fashion.
Margot was in possession of an agenda that was difficult to hide, especially for one so unversed in the ways of the world. Naked adoration for him shone in her eyes. Immediately, he was on his
guard, almost frightened of the child.

‘I’m very good with horses.’

‘Yes, I know you are. But these are unbroken and quite wild.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ she replied straight away.

‘Then you should be. Irish and Arab blood can be a startling combination in an animal.’

She felt the change in him. So, he must have been taken in by Eliza. ‘My sister and my mother – what did they want?’

‘You might be better speaking to them,’ he answered.