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back his head and laughed, jeering laughter so harsh he quickly clamped his mouth shut to keep it back. Make something of it. Make me and your mother proud of you , John Greenhalgh had said. Well, to hell with that! Toby didn’t intend to dance to the old devil’s tune. He’d make no one proud unless it suited him to do so.
    If his mother had lived it might have been different, because he’d have wanted to make her proud of him, not to mention earning enough to buy her every comfort possible. But she was dead, so he’d do as he pleased now, thank you very much, John Greenhalgh.
    And the condition attached to the gift made no difference. Why would his half-brother want a free drink of beer every January? It didn’t make sense for a man as rich as Jethro Greenhalgh would be once his father John died. Any road, Toby doubted his half-brother would bother to ride all that way to claim his beer, and even if he did, the arrogant sod would wait his turn to be served like any other customer.
    When Toby had left the room, John gestured to his manservant to leave too and beckoned his son closer to the bed. ‘That should get him out of your way. Calico is a good two hours’ walk from Backenshaw.’
    Jethro shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but as I said when we discussed it last time, I’d have preferred to get him right out of the country. Up on the moors isn’t far enough.’ Not when the two of them looked so much alike. He’d hated that since he’d first seen Fletcher in the street years before and noticed people staring at them both – then gone home and examined his own face in the mirror again and again, finding it so like Fletcher’s he’d been shocked to the core.
    ‘I tried that . . . hired men to talk to him about Australia. They promised him a free passage and a good job when he arrived there, but he told them he’d never leave Lancashire.’ John paused, staring into the distance before adding, ‘And I found I’d no stomach for harming him, so that was that. Nor should you hurt him. He is your half-brother, after all.’
    ‘I know he’s my brother. That’s the problem. But you surely don’t think I’d harm him?’
    ‘Who knows? But I want your solemn promise that you’ll not hurt him in any way.’
    ‘Oh, really, Father. Is this necessary?’
    ‘I think so. Men can be pushed into doing things sometimes.’ John paused to stare into a past about which only he knew the full truth, then jerked back into the present to say sharply, ‘I not only want your promise that you’ll not harm him, but that you’ll not let him be harmed by anyone else either. I owe his mother that, at least.’
    So Jethro gave his word, though it hadn’t been necessary. He wasn’t like his father, whose ruthlessness was a byword in the town.
    ‘And I want your promise that you’ll go up to Calico every year for that free pot of beer.’
    Jethro stared at him, read determination in his father’s eyes and shrugged. ‘If you insist.’
    ‘I do. You’re to keep an eye on the place. And on Andrew Beardsworth. He’s too close to it. I don’t trust him. He knows too much, has too much to lose himself.’
    As the silence whispered around them, broken only by hot coals settling in the grate and the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, Jethro asked suddenly, ‘Why the hell did you do it, Father? I’ve never understood that.’
    John stared into the distance. ‘I’d no choice. Her brothers were threatening to kill me, had a knife to my throat. They meant it too. I was rather fond of living. Still am.’ His mocking laughter at his own vulnerability turned into another fit of coughing.
    This time his son held him up for a sip of water then laid him down gently on the soft feather pillow. The old man had always controlled his life too tightly and had a far harsher way of dealing with the world than Jethro would choose, but he found himself regretting the loss he would soon suffer.
    The husky voice whispered on. ‘The last of her