Mrs Kenny.’
Kate heard the boldness, the audacity. ‘Get that parlour polished. God help you should Mr Mulligan ever open up the rest of this house, because I’ve seen more shape in a potato cake
than in yourself. Would it hurt to get a bit of a move on? I’ve known snails go faster. Go on, get on with the work you’re paid for.’
Mary took her time gathering up the tools of her trade. She found beeswax and cloths, wandered about looking for a bowl, filling it with soapy water, letting the tap run slowly.
Kate shaped her bread. One of these days, she would shape that young woman’s backside, really she would.
Mary ambled off, her footsteps echoing in the large, under-used house. She reached a vast, museum-like hallway, heard the doorbell. Sighing, she placed her small burdens on a table, then
answered the door.
It was Amy Burton-Massey, the eldest of three girls whose father had allowed Pendleton Grange to slip into Mulligan hands. It must have felt funny, Mary thought, to ring the bell for admission
to a house that was rightfully the Burton-Masseys’ property. ‘Come in, miss,’ she said sweetly. ‘Did you want to see Mr Mulligan?’
‘Yes, please.’ Amy stepped into her childhood home. Unlike her mother, Amy carried very little baggage from the past. She accepted all that had happened, felt only the merest twinge
of sadness whenever she strayed on to the old homestead. Life went on. It went up, down, sideways, backwards, and humanity had been designed to cope with all its twists and turns. Except for Louisa
Burton-Massey, that was.
Summoned by the maid, James Mulligan came out of his study to greet Amy. He held her arm and led her beyond the reach of the chatterbox maid’s ears, taking her into the study and closing
the door firmly. ‘Miss Burton-Massey,’ he said, once she was settled in a chair. ‘So nice to see you.’
‘Amy,’ she replied, before getting on with business. ‘I’m afraid Mother doesn’t want to play. I tried to explain about the hydro, but she wouldn’t listen. I
think it’s pride. Also, she would consider her territory thoroughly invaded if you opened up the house as a business. I’m so sorry.’
He placed elbows on the desk, steepled long, brown fingers and rested his chin on the apex. ‘I do not intend to remain here, Miss Burton-Massey – I beg your pardon – Amy. My
home is elsewhere.’
She awaited further explanation, received none.
He stared at a point above her head, went into one of his quiet stretches of time. ‘I have given myself two years to get this place up and running,’ he said, after a sizeable pause.
‘There is potential here, but there is also much to be done. I should need a manager, of course, someone who could be trusted.’
It was almost impossible to discuss anything thoroughly with this man, Amy decided. His mind worked in its own mysterious way, taking a path that did not necessarily run parallel with anyone
else’s road through life. She wondered what he did with his time. Apart from his horses, cows and a few hours each day in town, he seemed to have no hobby, no interests. There was a handful
of books on the shelves, some papers stacked neatly on his desk, a letter tray, a letter opener, pens, inks, blotters. The room was all but intellectually sterile.
‘If I were to offer you the position, or if you were to become a working partner, your mother would not be pleased. You see, I wanted her to take the partnership so that we might all
benefit from Pendleton Grange. Clearly, your mother is not thinking positively about the future.’
Immediately, Amy was on the defensive. Whatever her own opinion of Louisa, she would not allow anyone else to criticize her. ‘My mother is a hurt woman, Mr Mulligan.’ She could not
quite manage to call him James, not just yet. One would certainly not address him as Jim, or Jimmy. ‘Our father committed suicide.’
He nodded. ‘A heavy burden for a widow.’
‘It was not her
Kate heard the boldness, the audacity. ‘Get that parlour polished. God help you should Mr Mulligan ever open up the rest of this house, because I’ve seen more shape in a potato cake
than in yourself. Would it hurt to get a bit of a move on? I’ve known snails go faster. Go on, get on with the work you’re paid for.’
Mary took her time gathering up the tools of her trade. She found beeswax and cloths, wandered about looking for a bowl, filling it with soapy water, letting the tap run slowly.
Kate shaped her bread. One of these days, she would shape that young woman’s backside, really she would.
Mary ambled off, her footsteps echoing in the large, under-used house. She reached a vast, museum-like hallway, heard the doorbell. Sighing, she placed her small burdens on a table, then
answered the door.
It was Amy Burton-Massey, the eldest of three girls whose father had allowed Pendleton Grange to slip into Mulligan hands. It must have felt funny, Mary thought, to ring the bell for admission
to a house that was rightfully the Burton-Masseys’ property. ‘Come in, miss,’ she said sweetly. ‘Did you want to see Mr Mulligan?’
‘Yes, please.’ Amy stepped into her childhood home. Unlike her mother, Amy carried very little baggage from the past. She accepted all that had happened, felt only the merest twinge
of sadness whenever she strayed on to the old homestead. Life went on. It went up, down, sideways, backwards, and humanity had been designed to cope with all its twists and turns. Except for Louisa
Burton-Massey, that was.
Summoned by the maid, James Mulligan came out of his study to greet Amy. He held her arm and led her beyond the reach of the chatterbox maid’s ears, taking her into the study and closing
the door firmly. ‘Miss Burton-Massey,’ he said, once she was settled in a chair. ‘So nice to see you.’
‘Amy,’ she replied, before getting on with business. ‘I’m afraid Mother doesn’t want to play. I tried to explain about the hydro, but she wouldn’t listen. I
think it’s pride. Also, she would consider her territory thoroughly invaded if you opened up the house as a business. I’m so sorry.’
He placed elbows on the desk, steepled long, brown fingers and rested his chin on the apex. ‘I do not intend to remain here, Miss Burton-Massey – I beg your pardon – Amy. My
home is elsewhere.’
She awaited further explanation, received none.
He stared at a point above her head, went into one of his quiet stretches of time. ‘I have given myself two years to get this place up and running,’ he said, after a sizeable pause.
‘There is potential here, but there is also much to be done. I should need a manager, of course, someone who could be trusted.’
It was almost impossible to discuss anything thoroughly with this man, Amy decided. His mind worked in its own mysterious way, taking a path that did not necessarily run parallel with anyone
else’s road through life. She wondered what he did with his time. Apart from his horses, cows and a few hours each day in town, he seemed to have no hobby, no interests. There was a handful
of books on the shelves, some papers stacked neatly on his desk, a letter tray, a letter opener, pens, inks, blotters. The room was all but intellectually sterile.
‘If I were to offer you the position, or if you were to become a working partner, your mother would not be pleased. You see, I wanted her to take the partnership so that we might all
benefit from Pendleton Grange. Clearly, your mother is not thinking positively about the future.’
Immediately, Amy was on the defensive. Whatever her own opinion of Louisa, she would not allow anyone else to criticize her. ‘My mother is a hurt woman, Mr Mulligan.’ She could not
quite manage to call him James, not just yet. One would certainly not address him as Jim, or Jimmy. ‘Our father committed suicide.’
He nodded. ‘A heavy burden for a widow.’
‘It was not her
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