The Other Cathy by Nancy Buckingham Page B

plain looks. Blanche was acutely conscious of her own two-score years.
    Matthew raised his hat and bade the servant good afternoon. ‘ Is Mrs Hardaker at home?’
    ‘I will ask madam. What name shall I say, sir?’
    He smiled. ‘Please tell your mistress Mr Sutcliffe would be grateful for a few minutes of her time.’
    She showed him into the drawing room to wait, where he stood appraising the gracious apartment that was furnished in a style so typical of Blanche, with two sofas and a settee upholstered in purple and gold, three pairs of cane chairs and several tapestry footstools. A grand piano was open near the windows, and he idly counted six tables scattered about the room. Above the Adam-style fireplace hung the portrait of her deceased husband. Though lean of flesh, William Hardaker had possessed his family’s impressive broad frame, and more than the usual measure of good looks, but the perfection of the features was spoilt by the petulant set of the lips. He was a man who had thought of himself first in all things, and Matthew had never had much regard for him.
    Meanwhile, in the parlour Blanche had been thrown into a fluster. Instructing her daughter Priscilla to continue the water-colour painting she was working on, she hurried upstairs to her boudoir, followed breathlessly by the maid servant. From the wardrobe she selected her newest gown of coral silk, rapidly shedding the serviceable dark poplin day dress she had been wearing. Her hair, mercifully still a fine rich honey colour once the few grey threads were plucked out, she decided to have rearranged, the sides plaited and looped to expose her prettily-shaped ears. There was no need to rouge her cheeks, for they were becomingly touched with natural colour prompted by the thought of the man who waited for her below. He had already waited for over twenty minutes, Blanche realised with a spurt of apprehension. She made haste to go down to him. Outside the drawing room she took a deep breath, then throwing open the door she stood poised on lie threshold, a hand to her throat.
    ‘Mr Sutcliffe, how kind of you to visit me,’ she said charmingly, and called over her shoulder to the servant, ‘Bertha, please bring tea at once.’ As the door closed behind her, Blanche went on in a voice that was soft and warm, ‘Matthew, I was wondering if you would come. I so hoped you would.’
    He stood over by the window smiling at her, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. But he did not speak, and she continued nervously, ‘I have thought of you so often, Matthew. Oh, you cannot know how often I wept at the thought of what was happening to you, and where you were. Was it so very dreadful?’
    ‘Let us not talk of it, Blanche. Tell me instead how you discovered the secret of adding only one year to your age when every other woman is obliged to add two. I swear you are more beautiful than ever.’
    She smiled delightedly. ‘I perceive you haven’t changed. Matt. Even as a very young man you possessed the art of pay ing a gallant compliment.’
    ‘But I deny it! I never spoke anything but the unvarnished truth to you. I adored you, Blanche. You were the sun and the stars to me.’
    With a surge of confidence she seated herself on one of the velvet sofas, and patted a silken cushion beside her.
    ‘Then you had better come and make some more of those oh-so-honest remarks. Matt.’
    Seeming not to notice her invitation, he went to stand before her on the hearthrug, one elbow resting on the marble mantelpiece.
    ‘I am sadly uninformed about the happenings in the Brackle Valley. You must bring me up to date. I gather your husband died some years ago.’
    ‘Yes, in 1851. William was in very poor health – when wasn’t he? Yet he insisted on travelling to London for the Great Exhibition. The Brackle Valley Mill had quite a large display and he rather relished his connection with it, and the thought of being presented to royalty. The dear Queen was most