The Cuckoo's Child (14 page)

‘They did live here, once. It was the family home, right up until Ainsley had married and moved into the Tyas residence.'

It was tucked into a corner, with one wall adjacent to the mill – no Farr Clough, but a good house, with nothing to say against it, except that where once its windows had offered a view across the Neller valley, this was now obscured by the erection of newer buildings as the business had grown.

‘Mother, I'd like you to meet Miss Harcourt . . . Laura.'

‘It's good to meet you, Laura.' Sarah Illingworth was small and quietly spoken, but for all that there was a strength and calmness about her that immediately reminded Laura of Ruth Paston. ‘Though I wish it had been in better circumstances.' A momentary shadow crossed her face. ‘Well, never mind that for now, come and sit yourself down.'

Tea was set in the best room, and Mrs Illingworth had been baking. The warm smell of it pervaded the house and the results were spread on the table, plus a tea service patterned with violets, all daintily set out on a hand-embroidered cloth with a crocheted lace edge.

‘What must you think of me?' Laura cried suddenly, catching a glimpse of herself in the big mirror attached to the sideboard. ‘I couldn't keep my hat on in the wind, Mrs Illingworth.'

She had no comb and had lost most of her hairpins, but Sarah was able to oblige. ‘Such bonny hair.' She reached out to touch one of the wayward curls as Laura smoothed and patted and managed to pin it up somehow. She glanced at Tom, and something seemed to pass between them. She had nice hair herself, Tom's mother, thick and wavy, with no grey as yet in its brown.

There were framed studio photographs on the sideboard: on the one side Tom as a small boy, standing to attention, spruced up for the photograph; on the other his father, Henry Illingworth, sitting stiffly self-conscious in a wing collar and bow tie, his hair plastered down and parted in the middle, his moustache turned up and waxed at the ends, while Sarah, in a dark stuff dress and a little velvet hat, was standing with one hand on his shoulder, the other resting in a velvet muff, across which a spray of flowers was pinned.

Sarah noticed her interest. ‘My wedding photograph. Tom's father had the same job my little brother Whiteley has now.' She laughed. ‘Silly, but that's how I still think of him – we were a big family and there's twenty years and more between us.'

After tea, they sat by the fire in the cast-iron fireplace, a ginger cat snoozing on the soft wool rug. It was peaceful, in spite of the incidental noises from the mill yard, and a low and continuous humming noise, a slight throbbing from behind the wall against which the sideboard stood, causing a tiny vibration of the stand on which a painted ostrich egg reposed, presumably one brought from South Africa by Tom. The sound was, of course, the pulse of machinery from the mill to which the house was attached. Neither Tom nor his mother appeared to think it worthy of mention, obviously too used to it to notice.

‘I like your house, Mrs Illingworth.'

‘It's not a bad little place, but they'll pull it down, now Ainsley's gone. They want the space.'

‘Then you'll have to stop being so stubborn and let me provide you with something better,' Tom said. ‘But I think you underestimate Gideon, Mother.'

‘It wasn't Gideon that promised I could go on living here as long as I wanted after your father died, it was his granddad!' she reminded him. ‘Ainsley Beaumont and I have known each other many years, Laura, that's why he's let me stay on here.' For a moment, there was a faraway look in her eyes.

‘And so he should have, when you think of what you did for him!'

‘Well, Tom, it didn't turn out so badly, it seems.'

She said no more, and picked up a piece of crochet work. The shadows gathered as they talked, the lamp was lit, and the complicated pattern of the circle she was working grew under her quick fingers, but now and again it seemed to Laura that the look she gave her son was uncertain.

At length, he pushed his chair back. ‘I'll walk you back, Laura, but we'd best be off before the light goes. That road's not the easiest in the dark.'

‘Mrs Illingworth, thank you so much for the tea. Will you let me come and see you again before I leave?'

‘It'll be a pleasure. I'm only sorry you can't stay up here longer.' She hesitated for a moment. ‘How are you getting on with Amelia Beaumont?'

Laura made a rueful face. ‘I'm afraid she hasn't exactly made me welcome.'

‘Aye, well—'

‘Mother, I don't think—'.

But Sarah went on quietly, ‘Don't take too much notice of her, Laura, she's not a happy woman. She should have married my brother, but Theo Beaumont was a better proposition, I reckon – not that it's ever made any difference to Whiteley. He's been devoted to her for over twenty years. All right, Tom, I'll say no more. It's been grand seeing you, love,' she said, kissing Laura's cheek. ‘I never thought—'

‘I'll bring her again, Mother,' Tom said. ‘That's a promise.'

On the following day, the lamps were already lit by mid-afternoon when Jessie brought a tray of tea into the library, with a request from Mr Gideon that when she had drunk it, would Laura kindly join him and Miss Una in Mr Beaumont's study.

‘He's not down at the mill today, then?'

‘No. They've been with Mr Broomhead, the solicitor, all day. Tom Illingworth's with them now, as well.'

She set the tray down and left. Laura sipped her tea as the rain rattled on the window. That halcyon day yesterday on the moors looked as though it might have marked the ending of the fine weather. All day, the wind had swept heavy rain in sheets, inhibiting any wish to venture out into that boggy expanse. The view from the window was dismal indeed, obscuring the town. She drank her tea quickly, and then went to the study.

‘Thank you, Laura, do sit down. You, too, if you please,' Gideon added to Tom, who had pulled a chair forward for Laura, touched her arm briefly, then moved away, to stand with his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window, seemingly absorbed in the prospect of the bleak landscape.

Gideon introduced their family solicitor, Richard Broomhead, father of Emmie, a balding, middle-aged man with a portly stomach and a rich, fruity voice, which he used as if he had forgotten he wasn't reading the lesson in church.

The twins arranged themselves either side of him behind their grandfather's desk, giving an impression of confrontation. A disagreeable feeling in the room made Laura feel very glad Tom was there. He now sat on the wide sill, his back to the window, and offered her an encouraging nod which gave nothing away.

Gideon came straight to the point. ‘We have a copy of Grandpa's will here. It's a new one, made only last week. Mr Broomhead, will you . . . ?'

Broomhead's mouth was a sour, disapproving curve. He addressed himself to Tom and Laura: this will Mr Beaumont had left superseded the one dated some five years previously, which document had been lodged with Broomhead's firm of solicitors – who, he emphasized even more disapprovingly, had dealt with all the business for every Beaumont, and for Cross Ings Mill, for decades. It was, of course, quite within Mr Beaumont's rights to have appointed another firm to draw up this new will. ‘Though I have no idea why he should have gone to such lengths,' he added shortly, with more than a hint of umbrage in his tone.

‘Didn't want all Wainthorpe to know what he was up to,' remarked Gideon carelessly.

A short, icy silence followed. ‘That was uncalled for, Gideon.'

‘Oh Lord, I'm sorry – I didn't mean—' Gideon could have bitten his tongue out. In a few thoughtless words, he had just maligned the professional integrity of the man who had acted for Beaumont's for as long as he could remember. He wouldn't easily be forgiven for it, though in actual fact it was a well known fact that little remained secret for long in Wainthorpe, even professional secrets. It would have been better not said, though. To cap all, the man was pretty Emmie's father. ‘Please forgive me, Mr Broomhead,' was really all there was to say.

The solicitor inclined his head and after a while went on, stiff-faced.

‘There is no need for me to read it out, verbatim. Suffice it to say that equal shares in his business and what is left of his private fortune after certain bequests, are to go to his grandchildren – Una and Gideon that is. There is an annuity to their mother. Also a legacy to his bookkeeper, Whiteley Hirst, and a sum of money to Sarah Illingworth, plus the house she now lives in.' Tom folded his arms.

‘And,' he then read out, holding up his hand in expectation of interruptions and turning to where Tom sat, ‘“the same sum of money I lent him, disregarding the fact that he has now repaid it, I leave to her son, Thomas Henry Illingworth”.'

Tom laughed shortly, seemingly not very surprised. ‘Which I shall not take.'

‘That's up to you of course, Tom,' Gideon said quickly, ‘though I don't know if you can refuse it.'

‘Of course I can, and I will. I cannot speak for my mother.' They looked at one another, Tom adamant, Gideon troubled.

‘Take it, Tom, he would have wanted you to have it.'

Again, Gideon had said the wrong thing. ‘What has what
he
wanted got to do with it?' Tom asked, suddenly cold. ‘And why leave money to my mother? Did he think he had need to make up for what he did? I tell you, she has reason to be
thankful
for that. She married my father, and a better man there never was. She has never repined over what might have been. Anything else she did for him—' He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry, forgive the display of temper. I had better go before I say more.'

‘We haven't finished yet,' Una said. ‘Go on, Mr Broomhead, please.'

‘“And to Laura Harcourt, of London,”' Broomhead read, ‘“fifteen thousand pounds.”'

Laura felt herself turning rigid with shock in the silence that followed. ‘Is . . . this some sort of practical joke?'

‘Wills are not subjects of practical jokes, Miss Harcourt. This one was drawn up by some London lawyer who,' the solicitor added with some distaste, ‘has apparently advised him before.'

‘London? What is the name of this firm?' Laura asked tightly. She was trembling – and not only with the shock of what she had just heard. Her cheeks flamed.

‘They are no doubt a perfectly respectable firm—' began Broomhead, backtracking a little.

‘
What
firm?' Laura insisted, getting to her feet.

‘One by the name of Carfax, Arroway and Carfax.'

‘I might have known! But why? Does he not say
why
he has left me this money?'

‘We thought you might know,' Una said coolly. Laura's cheeks burned even deeper.

‘He did not say,' replied Broomhead. ‘Perhaps these other solicitors have been told.'

‘Thank you. If you will all excuse me, then,' Laura said in a choked voice, and all but ran out of the room and into the hall.

She had scarcely put a foot on the first stair, when the study door crashed open, and then shut, and Tom was there behind her, his hand on her arm. ‘Stop, Laura. Listen to me. I think I know, I can guess—'

‘I'm sure you can! No, Tom.' She put her hands to her ears as he tried to speak again. ‘Please.'

‘You must not let this upset you.'

‘I am not upset. I am furious.'

‘I can see that,' he said, his mouth twitching despite himself. Her colour was still high, her eyes sparkling with rage. The pins were coming loose in her slippery hair and a rebellious lock had slipped over one ear. ‘But who with? Not me, I hope?'

‘With everyone. I have been made a fool of for too long.'

The amusement left his face. ‘I would never make a fool of you, Laura. Just please listen to me and let's talk it over calmly.'

She was too stirred up to think of being calm. All she wanted, for the moment, was to be alone. She shook him off and ran up the stairs, her footsteps loud on the bare treads. This time he did not attempt to detain her.

‘I'm afraid,' said Mr Samuel Tewson, chief clerk at Carfax, Arroway and Carfax, ‘that Mr Philip has already left, Miss Harcourt. He's taking an early lunch, then I believe he meant to go on to the Saturday exhibition at the Academy. Mr William is still here, however, fully recovered now, I am happy to say. If you would like to see him, instead?'

‘No, thank you Mr Tewson, it's Mr Philip I want to see. Do you know where he's lunching? And is he alone?'

Having made this precipitate journey to London, Laura was not to be put off. Saying nothing to anyone, simply leaving a note, she had, early this morning, walked down Syke Beck Lane, taken the electric tram to Huddersfield and caught the first available train, sustained by the fury she had felt ever since she had heard of the astounding bequest to her. Making her way independently down here, she had felt more truly alive than she had since first going to Wainthorpe, propelled by her own actions, rather than submitting meekly to the unexplained whim of someone else.

‘Yes, he is lunching alone,' Tewson replied cautiously. He liked Miss Harcourt. She had often come along here to the office with Mr Philip and Miss Eva, when they were all children. A pretty child, and what a handsome young lady she'd turned out to be! But very forceful, very determined, like all of them, nowadays, it seemed. Looking at her sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, he had a plunging feeling of trouble ahead. Not only for Mr Philip, but without a doubt for Samuel Tewson as well.

For weeks now, he hadn't slept well, not slept well at all. Besieged by doubts and covered in shame. Feeling that not only had he let his employer down, he had let himself down, too. He couldn't think what had come over him, that day when the letter had arrived, during that time when Mr William had been unfortunately absent, struck down by the gout and temporarily residing in Bath. A letter from Mr Ainsley Beaumont, it had been, a client whose business with them was limited – although, such as it was, it reimbursed them handsomely, it had to be admitted. And now he, Tewson, was about to compound his guilt by leading Miss Harcourt, a young lady who clearly wasn't going to take no for an answer, to Mr Philip.