The Other Cathy (7 page)

Jane sighed. ‘It is precisely Paget’s opinion, too, that we
must forgive and forget. So I suppose one must! As you say,
it is a long time ago, fifteen years. You know, I can scarcely call to mind what Matthew Sutcliffe looked like in those
days.’

‘He was extremely good-looking,’ put in Blanche. Then she
added with a false laugh, ‘I mean in a very boyish way, of
course. He has grown a great deal more mature, don’t you
agree, Chloe?’

‘So one would hope!’

‘I thought his appearance rather striking,’ Jane observed,
easing the rings on her plump fingers. ‘I do so like to see a
good head of hair on a man.’

Emma was unable to contain herself another instant. She
rose from her chair and went across to the pianoforte which stood in an arched alcove at the far end of the room.

‘You all discuss that dreadful man as if he were respect
able,’ she said angrily. ‘If we must put on a show of accepting
him in public, then surely between ourselves we can be honest
and acknowledge him for what he is – a common criminal.
Who,’ she snapped, ‘while grubbing in the Australian mud, chanced to find a fortune in gold.’

Raising the piano lid she struck a chord at random. The
sound, reverberating round the room, seemed to relieve her
feelings, so she played another chord, and then another, until
she found herself running into the opening phrases of
Chopin’s Military Polonaise; loudly, though far from well.

The doors from the hall opened and the gentlemen came in. Emma broke off in a confused discord, but Randolph said
benignly, ‘Ah, music! We’ve interrupted you, lass. Pray con
tinue.’

‘No, uncle, I – I couldn’t,’ she mumbled, much embar
rassed.

‘Well, happen that piece is a little forceful. But I have an
idea – you shall accompany Bernard in a song. What say you,
lad? You’re ready and willing, eh? That’s the spirit. Now,
there was a grand piece you gave us once before, “Where e’er
you walk”, that’ll do splendidly.’

‘But, uncle,’ Emma protested faintly.

‘I insist, my dear. Bernard has a very pleasing baritone, and we shall all enjoy hearing it.’

‘Please do,’ Cathy’s small voice added, and Emma gave
in gracefully.

As Randolph and Paget Eade disposed themselves on chairs, Emma watched Matthew Sutcliffe cross to where Blanche was
gracefully ensconced in a tête-à-tête sofa and take the place beside her. He made a remark, to which Blanche responded
with a nervous smile.

‘I hope you don’t object to accompanying me, Emma,’ said Bernard, sorting through a pile of music sheets.

‘Mind? Why should I mind? Do let’s hurry up and get it over with.’

Bernard sang well, and Emma was painfully conscious that
her accompaniment was below standard. While everyone
clapped politely, she saw Matthew Sutcliffe lean forward and speak again to Blanche, who smiled at him less nervously this time and lifted her gold-spangled fan in a coquettish gesture.
The applause died into a moment of silence, and Jane was
heard to observe in a penetrating voice, ‘They make a charming couple, do you not agree?’

Emma’s sense of shock and outrage was swiftly followed by
the realisation that her Aunt Jane was not looking in Blanche’s direction, but at herself and Bernard. Her aunt was always trying to matchmake between them. It would suit her admirably, of course, if Bernard Mottram married into the family, thus ensuring his continued services as her husband’s partner, for Paget was taking his share largely in drink while Bernard ran the practice. But Emma did not dwell upon this familiar irrita
tion; her momentary misunderstanding had crystallised a
startling idea, one which had first darted into her mind when
Blanche had spoken so flatteringly of Matthew Sutcliffe’s good
looks. Now, as she watched the two of them talking, they appeared far more than slight acquaintances. Emma was sickened. She felt a growing conviction that in the past there had been something between Blanche and Matthew Sutcliffe. Yet
in those far-off days he had been a very young man and
Blanche, several years his senior, was a mature married woman
whose husband. Uncle William, had still been alive.

Despite pressing requests Emma could not be persuaded to
play for Bernard again. Conversation was flagging when Chloe rang for tea to be brought and Hoad entered with a
large tray, followed by Seth with the silver urn. These were
set out before Chloe on an oval table, and that done, the
butler went round behind and addressed him in a
low, discreet voice.

‘What did you say? Speak up, man. A messenger from Lady Shackleton? Well, I shall have to go to her, then.’ Paget rose to his feet and stood rocking on his heels. ‘My apologies,
Chloe, but there it is. The dear lady commands the presence
of her physician. Probably nothing more serious than a touch
of dyspepsia,’ he added. ‘Ah well! A doctor’s life —’

‘Paget, for mercy’s sake, you’re in no fit state to go any
where,’ snapped his wife, then broke off aghast. With a be
seeching glance at Bernard, she corrected herself. ‘It seems
such a pity that you should have to leave in the middle of a
family party. Perhaps Bernard would be good enough to go in
your place.’

‘Yes, I shall be happy to do so,’ the young man agreed,
standing up at once.

‘But, my dear Jane, it’s Lady Shackleton!’ objected Paget. Everyone knew that this lady, the widow of a minister in
Lord Derby’s last Tory administration, was the prize among
Paget’s wealthy patients. Her numerous petty ailments re
quired his frequent attendance and provided a fair proportion
of his income. It was almost the only regular call he now paid.
Jane said hurriedly, ‘I feel sure it won’t matter for Bernard to go this once. He can make an excuse for you, saying that you are
out visiting another patient some distance away and cannot be
reached.’

Feeling her aunt’s humiliation, Emma interrupted Bernard
crossly when he leaned over her shoulder and murmured that he hoped to be back before the party ended. ‘Oh, do hurry up and go to your patient!’

‘I was just going,’ he protested, looking hurt.

‘I’m sorry,’ Emma muttered. ‘But can’t you see that it’s all so dreadfully embarrassing?’

Of course Bernard could see it, better even than the Hard
akers. Hadn’t he watched Dr Eade turn increasingly to the
solace of alcohol during the six years he had been his junior
partner and lived in his home? He had lately seen him at the whisky decanter at breakfast time, and invariably intoxicated
by the evening. It was common knowledge that the death of
the Hades’ young daughter had started him on the downward
path, and it was tragic to see a doctor of such talent go to
pieces. Bernard owed a debt of gratitude to Paget Eade, with
whom his own father had been through the Afghan cam
paign in India twenty years ago, as Captain Eade’s medical
orderly, and he might never have gained entry to medical
school but for Paget’s influence on his behalf. So it was with
no sense of grievance that he shouldered the bear’s share of
Dr Eade’s work. He and Mrs Eade had reached a tacit under
standing in trying to conceal the worst of the truth. But to
night there was no concealing it. Paget’s drunkenness was distressingly obvious to everyone.

As the door closed behind Bernard, Chloe said in a voice of determined brightness, ‘Well now, is everyone ready for tea? Randolph, and Mr Sutcliffe, will you be kind enough to do the honours for me?’

The next minute Matthew Sutcliffe was at Emma’s elbow, holding a small silver jug poised above her cup.

‘Do you take cream with your tea, Miss Hardaker?’

She refused curtly, anxious to be rid of him as quickly as possible, but within seconds he was back with his own cup of tea. The chair beside her was vacant, as Cathy had just moved
across to speak to Blanche, and he enquired, ‘You don’t
mind?’

Emma shrugged to indicate her indifference, and he sat
down. Stirring his tea thoughtfully, he went on, ‘I was hoping,
Miss Hardaker, that we could be friends. But alas, I find you suddenly and inexplicably hostile towards me.’

‘Inexplicably, Mr Sutcliffe?’

‘When we met at the bank in Bythorpe, your manner was
so different. Yet now —’

‘Ah, yes! On that day, I seem to recollect, you were calling yourself by another name. And perhaps tomorrow, when
you find that the name to which you now answer is not best
calculated to endear you to the neighbourhood, you will de
cide to change it yet again.’

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Blanche was
watching intently from across the room, looking none too
pleased. Emma felt more than ever convinced that there had
once been an involvement between the two of them.

‘I merely deleted one short syllable from my name, Miss
Hardaker,’ he pointed out. ‘My intentions my only intention,
was to ensure that the new tenant of Oakroyd House should
not be condemned by local gossip even before his arrival. A small ruse and surely a forgivable one; not, I beg you to admit, a base deception. Even your uncle, who was annoyed at first
when he discovered my true identity, has forgiven me now.’

I am not my uncle, Mr Sutcliffe,’ she said icily, ‘so do not
expect me to forgive you – for anything.’

He sighed, and put down his untasted tea. ‘Can you have
so quickly forgotten our meeting on the moor, the day I first
arrived? Two strangers whose lives, as far as either of us knew then, held no point of connection. I had no idea who
you were, that day, any more than you had the remotest con
ception who I might be. And up there by Black Scar Rocks, on that misty summer morning, there sprang up between us
an instant feeling of rapport. How can you explain this away,
Miss Hardaker, and pretend that now, for the selfsame man,
you feel such antagonism?’

‘You assume too much, far too much!’

‘You mean, you do not feel antagonism? Yet you seem to show it so strongly.’

‘I presume you are willfully misunderstanding me,’ she re
torted. ‘But lest there be any confusion in your mind, I’ll
make my attitude crystal clear. You were mistaken in imagining any special rapport between us that morning on the moor.’

‘So I am to take it that such is your normal conduct with every strange man you happen to meet when unchaperoned -
when the groom who is supposedly accompanying you has
been dispatched on some unlikely errand?’

His insult brought the colour rushing to her cheeks.

‘It seems, Mr Sutcliffe, that your recollection of that morn
ing is seriously at fault. As I recall it, we merely passed the time of day for a few moments, and then parted. But I can assure you that even this mild civility would not have been
won from me had I known your true identity. Whatever any
one else might choose to do or think, whatever everyone else
does, nothing will alter my opinion of you. To me, you are
beneath contempt. I am only here this evening because I was ordered to be present by my uncle.’

His eyes blazed and Emma saw a pulse throb at his temple,
but he made a visible effort to conquer his anger.

‘I am reprimanded and thoroughly abused for my faulty
recollection,’ he said lightly. ‘Yet you cannot rob me of the
version I prefer to remember. I have a picture of myself rid
ing alone across the moor; the harsh, empty wasteland match
ing my sombre mood. I can still experience the shock of seeing
a tall, graceful girl standing alone upon the Abraham Stone
almost as though she awaited my coming. We talked briefly,
and my mood was suddenly transformed. A strange feeling of happiness possessed me. Afterwards, I almost came to believe
that she was some faery spirit conjured up magically from my
dreams. Then to my astonishment and delight we met once
more in the prosaic surroundings of the local bank, and it
seemed that she still smiled upon me. Those are the memories,
Miss Hardaker, to which I shall obstinately cling.’

He rose to his feet, bowed and crossed the room to where
Aunt Chloe still presided over her tea table. In a daze Emma heard him saying his adieus.

‘A very great pleasure. I hope and trust that you will do me the honour of dining at Oakroyd House when my domestic
staff is sufficiently organised.’ His gaze swept the assembled
company – Randolph and Chloe, Paget and Jane, lingering a
moment upon Blanche and passing briefly to Cathy, but never
quite reaching Emma herself. ‘All of you,’ he added.

When he had gone Emma sat silent and withdrawn, a hand
pressed against her thudding heart. So he had felt it too, the
strangely unreal sensation that those minutes spent together
up by Black Scar Rocks had been stolen out of time.

‘Tell Seth to try and find some white heather for me.’ Cathy’s
voice was wistful as she gazed from her window at the purple-
hazed moorland slopes rising above the house. She added art
lessly, ‘Oh Emma, I wish it were I instead of you who went
out riding with him.’