THERE HAD NEVER been a Mrs Ambrose Todd.
Why, Laura couldn’t say, nor had she really given it thought. Her father didn’t appear to have questioned it either. Ambrose was, to all intents and purposes, married to his work, and it seemed he was happy to keep it that way.
Though money couldn’t buy love, it did pay for a live-in maid to undertake most of what a wife’s duties entailed, and his needs were catered to by a local Irishwoman named Bridget Figg.
Of average height and build, with an average shade of mousy hair and average looks, she was the epitome of ordinary. However, she was keen-eyed with a ready smile, and Laura took to her instantly.
‘Well, now, I need no introduction as to who you are, sir!’ she exclaimed to Amos with a gap-toothed grin, welcoming them inside the modest but well-kept home off Great Ancoats Street, a few minutes’ walk from the coal yard. ‘It’s like looking at Mr Ambrose hisself, so it is.’
After Amos had given their names and explained why they were here, he and Laura were ushered into the kitchen and, within moments, a large black teapot and platter of bread and ham had appeared on the long, light-wood table. Nimble as a girl, the maid flitted off again, returning with butter and a small jar of pickle chutney. She motioned to the chairs. ‘Sit yourselves down whilst I pour.’
Amos removed his hat and Laura her shawl, passing them to the woman waiting with outstretched hands to hang them up.
‘Would you look at that, now. A rare beauty, to be sure.’
Realising the compliment was meant for her, and having never been one to receive them easily, Laura flushed, mumbling, ‘Nay, nay.’
‘Aye, aye.’ Bridget nodded emphatically. ‘Such hair! Sure, I’d give my left arm and half of the right for locks like that.’
As her father smiled on with quiet pride, Laura’s hand strayed to the light blonde mass, bound in a loose knot at her nape. Adam had loved her hair. She didn’t want to think about that – him. ‘Ta, thanks, Bridget.’
A look of horror chased the smile from the maid’s face. ‘’Ere, no, colleen. You mustn’t address me so. ’Tis plain old Figg to you and your father here.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t much mind about protocol and the like—’
‘Aye, but your uncle does, so we must stick to the rules,’ Bridget insisted, straightening her frilled white cap. ‘Now, then. I’ll get back to my duties, leave you to your tea and grub. Shout when you’re done and I’ll show youse to your rooms.’
Alone, Laura and her father shared a look.
‘I never had Uncle Ambrose down as a snob.’
Amos pursed his mouth in agreement.
‘’Ere but I shouldn’t speak so,’ she added contritely, biting her lip. ‘He’s been kindness itself insisting we stay on here.’
‘Aye.’
‘Sorry, Father.’
He nodded, and the two of them partook of the refreshments in silence.
A little after six o’clock men from the yard arrived with their belongings and, shortly afterwards, Ambrose returned home. True to her word, Bridget had directed them to where they were to sleep – a scrupulously clean and spacious room each, situated either end of the short landing, which she’d aired out as they ate and supplied with fresh bedding – and father and daughter were resting when the front door rattled, heralding the homeowner’s return.
Hearing the maid’s welcome from the hallway below, Laura rose from her bed and, after tidying her hair in the small mirror, made for Amos’s bedroom. He lay on his back, arms folded across his barrelled chest, his cap over his face, snoring softly. She reached out to touch his shoulder then changed her mind. Better to leave him be. He’d had a taxing day, in mind as well as body; the sleep would do him good. Instead, she closed the door quietly behind her and headed downstairs alone.
Her uncle was seated at the kitchen table when she entered. Upon seeing her, a big smile spread across his face, and she reciprocated with not a little relief that his earlier displeasure regarding her and Nathan was seemingly forgotten.
‘Well! You’ve settled in, I hope, lass?’
‘Aye yes, ta. Father’s resting. I didn’t want to waken him.’
Ambrose nodded. ‘No matter. He can have his grub later; Figg shall leave it to warm by the fire.’ He patted the seat closest to his. ‘Come. Sit and eat.’
Laura did as he bid. Whilst Bridget scurried about getting the evening meal together, uncle and niece made small talk. Yet as the minutes wore on the silences between their bouts of chatter grew longer and an awkwardness set in, for Laura at least. Her flesh-and-blood family this man might be but, truth be told, he was little more than a stranger.
The last time they had met was at her and Adam’s wedding; even then, Ambrose had only stuck around for the ceremony, insisting he’d have to give the small tea party Amos had laid on a miss if he was to be back in Manchester in time for closing at the coal yard. They had seen nothing of him since, not even for her mother’s funeral, for which he’d sent word offering his condolence, along with apologies that he couldn’t be there due to work commitments. Other than the odd brief visits as a child, she’d barely set eyes on him throughout her life, and it showed. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as yet another thick silence filled the air between them, wishing she’d roused her father after all.
‘’Ere youse are, then.’ Smiling, Bridget put slices of roast beef before them, and Laura could have kissed her for the distraction it afforded. ‘Help yourselves to potatoes and vegetables,’ she added, motioning to the silver dishes she’d placed in the centre of the table.
‘Thank you,’ said Laura when her uncle merely acknowledged the maid with a stiff nod. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘Ay, thank ye, miss.’ Her eyes creased in pleasure then flicked once more to her employer. ‘Mr Amos’s grub’s all dished up and waiting, sir, as you asked.’
‘Thank you,’ Laura said again after some moments – and with increasing embarrassment – forced to answer for him when, yet again, he completely ignored the Irishwoman.
Finally, Ambrose met her stare. ‘That will be all, Figg.’ He dismissed her with a flap of his hand and began to eat.
‘Aye, sir. Very good, sir.’
When the door shut quietly behind the maid, Laura, avoiding her uncle’s eye, lifted her fork. To say she had no experience of servants and masters, the rights and wrongs of how these business relationships were conducted, was true. But surely there was no need for such blatant rudeness? Arrogance, even, she’d have called it. First Nathan, now Bridget – both exchanges had been uncomfortable to witness.
Was her uncle always like this with people? Or did he save this priggish side for those he deemed beneath him – his staff, both here and at the yard? Whatever the answer, she didn’t like it. Nor, she was certain, would Amos. She could never in a month of Sundays imagine her father treating anyone as poorly as his brother just had.
And yet, how kind Ambrose had been to them since they arrived … His personality seemed at odds with itself and, now, her feelings were conflicted. Perhaps he was simply having a trying day? Everyone was entitled to one now and then. Aye yes, that’s what it’ll be, she told herself, and her uneasiness abated. Flashing him a small smile, she turned her attention to her meal.
They were almost finished when Amos entered. ‘Kenneth?’ he enquired immediately upon seeing his brother.
Ambrose brushed aside his concerns. ‘The horse is settled and well, don’t fret none. Come, lad. Sit and eat.’
Bridget, hovering nearby, needed no telling; she’d collected Amos’s meal and placed it on the table before his buttocks had met the chair. ‘’Ere ye are, Mr Amos, sir.’
‘Ta, wench.’ He smiled and began to eat. ‘Summat wrong?’ he added to his brother through a mouthful of carrots, catching him staring at him.
Chin resting on his steepled hands, Ambrose shook his head. Then: ‘Well, as a matter of fact …’
‘Aye?’
Ambrose threw his eyes in Bridget’s direction. ‘The maid, there. Beneath this roof, she’s addressed as Figg.’
‘I did explain to the sir and miss earlier, Mr Ambrose—’
He held up a hand, cutting off Bridget’s babbled speech, though his gaze remained fixed on the other man. ‘It ain’t the done thing to get overfamiliar with servants. They forget their place, else. You see?’
Holding his stare, Amos chewed and swallowed. Then he nodded once. ‘As you wish, brother. Your home, your rules, after all.’
‘That’s right. But ay, let’s forget about all that,’ Ambrose added brightly, clapping Amos on the shoulder. ‘My baby brother’s here – that calls forra celebration, I reckon. What say me and thee head to the Soho Tavern forra jar of porter or two, eh?’
‘You go, Father,’ Laura intervened when she saw he was about to refuse. Anything to be free of her uncle’s company. She’d been right all along – he was a down-and-out snob and she had no desire whatsoever to converse with him a moment longer this night. Besides, once the ale had mellowed him, maybe Amos would be able to talk some sense into him. He disapproved as much as she, it was plain.
Minutes later, the brothers had set off into the cool, clear night. After helping the maid – despite her protestations – to clear the table, Laura retraced her steps to her room. Inside was stiflingly warm; Ambrose had instructed Bridget earlier to feed well the bedroom fires. The whole house, in fact, felt like it was baking under a blazing sun. That its owner had access to an ever-ready supply of fuel was acutely apparent – wiping an arm across her clammy forehead, she went to open the window.
She undressed and slipped between the sheets. Hugging her pillow, she watched the fire’s yellow flames playing over the coals through half-open eyes. The sight soon evoked visions of Mrs Hanover’s engulfed shop and she heaved a painful sigh. Just how many more innocent folk would be dragged into this awful situation before those maniacs were through?
How did it come to this, Adam? was her last thought before the heat, coupled with the emotionally draining day, took their toll and a fitful sleep claimed her.
Of the men’s return later that night she heard not a thing. What did reach through the adjoining wall just before dawn break and into her subconsciousness were the dull squeaks of her uncle’s bedsprings, intermingled with Bridget’s muffled cries. Laura’s dislike – now mixed with disgust – of him settled deeper within her.
He’d had the front to pour out disapproval to her father concerning overfamiliarity with servants? The hypocrisy of it. Of that, he was clearly an experienced master.
Had they really done the right thing in coming here, to Manchester? she found herself wondering again, covering her head with her pillow to block out the carnal sounds. More to the point, had they been right to seek out Ambrose Todd?