Free Mulligan's Yard by Ruth Hamilton Page A

a decent brooch. ‘Let her play on the grand, Mr Mulligan,’ Louisa had asked.
‘She’s happiest when making music.’
    Against a background of clinically correct Chopin, the adversaries eyed one another. James, who had never received so many visitors in one day, met Louisa’s gaze without flinching. Louisa,
having informed no-one of her plans, stared into an uncertain future in trade. Even in its unspoken state, the word terrified her.
    ‘And how may I help you?’ he asked.
    ‘I . . . er . . . I find myself at a disadvantage here,’ she stammered, ‘as I don’t quite know how to express my thoughts.’ Her thoughts? Emotions simmered near the
surface. Here she sat in her husband’s study, the room which had housed his guns, his collection of ugly toby jugs, his pipes. This room had lost its tobacco-and-brandy smell, was no longer
an extension of Alex.
    ‘Being here is distressing for you,’ said James. ‘Would you rather I came to you?’
    She shook herself visibly, as if waking from sleep. ‘I beg your pardon?’
    English pride, he thought. Was it any worse than, any different from, Ireland’s pride? He wanted to tell Louisa of his plans, but he dared not. She would honour her husband’s word
until she, too, lay beneath six feet of soil. So he could not say, ‘This will go to your daughters . . .’ Nonetheless, he had to say something. ‘If you would rather discuss your
business at Caldwell Farm . . .’
    She eyed him frostily. ‘My daughter – Amy – has pointed out to me that we need to acquire income. I wish to offer a service to people of means.’
    ‘I see.’ He awaited further explanation, watched this poor soul as she avoided looking around the walls in search of memories. ‘I shall help you in any way I can, of
course.’
    ‘Amy tells me also that the fabric shop on Deansgate will soon be available.’
    ‘Yes. Mrs Hooper will be retiring shortly.’
    Louisa inhaled deeply and lifted her head high. Everyone was working these days, she repeated in her head for the hundredth time. She was not an old woman; she was capable of dragging herself
into a century that had served almost a quarter of its time. ‘Eliza is an excellent designer and seamstress, as, indeed, am I. My other two daughters are also competent in the field of
dressmaking. It has been something of a hobby, but now . . .’
    ‘Now it becomes a necessity.’
    Her eyes narrowed even further. ‘I could manage as things are, Mr Mulligan, were I alone. My children, however, are going to find their circumstances rather more straitened than we might
have hoped.’
    All from the turn of a card, thought James. All from a card up a sleeve. ‘So, you will be wanting the shop?’
    ‘Yes.’ She seemed to spit the word, as if it tasted bad.
    ‘Then you shall have it.’
    ‘And I shall pay rent at the going rate.’
    He shuffled some papers, picked up a pen, laid it down again. ‘Instead of rent, would you let me use your top field, the one furthest away from the house? I’m bringing over some more
horses, you see—’
    ‘That will be satisfactory. Thank you.’ Again, the last two words were forced. ‘I shall require the first as well as the ground floor of the property.’
    ‘Naturally. The upper storey is already nonresidential, as Mrs Hooper has always used it for storage.’
    There was little more to be said, yet Louisa needed to justify herself. What was it about this man that rendered her so awkward? Although she was poorer than he was, she was definitely his
social superior. Perhaps his discomfort was infectious – no, that was not the crux of the matter. At the age of forty-five, Louisa Burton-Massey had to confront the fact that she was
disturbed by his extraordinary attractiveness. Why, he was almost magnetic. She brought herself out of the reverie. ‘I shall not be in the shop all the time, of course. I shall need a
manageress, someone who will wear my clothes with elegance, someone who will sell