Emma squinted up at him again, trying to examine his face in the dim and vaporous air. ‘Yer not a blackamoor, are yer?’ she asked tremulously, and then rebuked herself for her stupidity. O’Neill was an Irish name and that explained his singsong speech, which was so unfamiliar to her. But she had heard of the Irish brogue and surely this was it.
Her question seemed to tickle this giant even more and he laughed again, saying, ‘No, I’m not a blackamoor. Just a black Irishman. And what might yer be called?’
She hesitated again. Emma believed that the less people knew about you, the better off you were, the safer you were, for if they knew nothing they could do you no harm. But to her fresh amazement she found herself telling him, ‘Emma. Emma Harte’s me name.’
‘Pleased to be a meeting ye, Emma Harte. Well then, now as we are acquainted, so to speak, will ye be kind enough to put me on the road to Fairley Hall, please?’
‘It’s the way yer came, back yonder,’ Emma said, shivering, now thoroughly chilled from lingering in the damp and icy dell. Then once again, much to her annoyance but before she could stop herself, she explained, ‘I’m going ter the Hall. Yer can walk with me if yer wants.’
‘Why, thank ye, Emma. So, let us be a-marching! ’Tis divilish cold and damp out here. Worse than the bogs of the ould sod in winter!’ the man declared, stamping his feet on the frozen earth in an effort to warm them.
Emma slipped out from her hiding place amongst the rocks, and led the way up the track that would take them out of Ramsden Ghyll and on to the flat plateau of moors that stretched all the way to Fairley Hall. It was a narrow and somewhat precarious track, rising steeply upwards, and they had to walk in single file. Emma hurried in front of the Irishman, scrambling and sliding about in her haste to be out of the dell. They did not speak, for it was a steep hill and strenuous to traverse. Also, the path itself was rough, and scattered as it was with rocks and gnarled tree roots embedded in the frozen ground, it was exceedingly treacherous and dangerous in winter.
When they came up out of the Ghyll and on to the flat plateau the mist had dispersed, blown away by the gusting wind that roared down from the soaring fells. The morning air was tinged with opal and the livid sky was filling with incandescent light, a light that seemed to emanate from some hidden source below the horizon, a light peculiar to these northern climes that blazed with the most intense clarity. It was flooding the hump line of hills with sudden bright radiance, so that they were as burnished and shimmering as molten brass.
Emma stopped, panting for breath, and turned to look towards Ramsden Crags in the distance, as she always did. ‘Look at the horses,’ she said, pointing to the huge crags that were poised in solitary splendour against the horizon.
Blackie O’Neill followed her gaze and caught his breath. The girl was right. The rocks did look like great horses rearing up against the skyline, their roughhewn shapes suddenly taking on life, as if they were giant mythical steeds galloping across the heavens and glimmering like struck gold in the radiant light.
‘Why, ’tis a beautiful sight. What is that place?’ Blackie asked.
‘Ramsden Crags, but the villagers sometimes call it Flying Horses. Me mam calls it the Top of the World,’ Emma confided.
‘And indeed it looks as if it is just that, to be sure it does,’ Blackie murmured, dumping his sack on the ground and breathing deeply of the fresh air, now that they were out of the misty Ghyll.
Emma had not yet really looked fully at Blackie O’Neill. He had been behind her on the path leading out of the dell and he stood behind her now at the edge of the Ghyll. Her mother had always instilled good manners in her, and had told her that it was rude to stare, but now Emma’s curiosity got the better of her and she permitted herself to turn slowly. She looked up at the man who had so scared her initially and she was startled to see that he was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. And he was quite the most extraordinary man she had ever set eyes upon.
Blackie returned her gaze, smiling broadly, and in a flash of insight the girl knew why she had so inexplicably lost her fear of him in the Ghyll. In spite of his size, and his roughness of dress, there was something ineffably gentle and fine about this man, both in his expression and in his general demeanour. His face was open, friendly, and quite guileless, and his wide smile was warm, and sunny and somewhat mischievous, while his dark eyes were kind and understanding. Emma found herself smiling back at him unabashedly, warming to him in a way that was unprecedented for her, as wary and suspicious of strangers as she always was.
‘Yer can’t see the Hall from here,’ Emma explained, ‘but it’s not far now, just over the crest of the moors yonder. Come on, I’ll show yer the way, Blackie!’ she cried enthusiastically, much taken with her new friend.
Blackie nodded and lifting the large sack, he slung it over one shoulder with apparent ease, as if it were a small and insignificant bundle in his large strong hands. He fell into step with Emma, who was already marching briskly along the top road, and began to whistle nonchalantly, his head thrown back, his vibrant curls blowing in the breeze.
From time to time, Emma looked up at him surreptitiously. She had never met anyone like him before and he fascinated her. Blackie, in turn, was not unconscious of this scrutiny; in fact, he was very much aware of it and it amused him. He had sized up the girl in a flash, for he was quick and had a perceptive eye. He guessed she must be about fourteen, or thereabouts, and a local girl going on an errand to Fairley Hall. She was such a small sprite. No wonder he had frightened her in the fog. As they traversed the road together he smiled, admiring the stalwart way she stepped out, endeavouring to keep up with his long strides. He slowed down considerably when he saw how breathless she was becoming.
Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, commonly known to the world as Blackie, was about six feet three inches tall, but he appeared to be so much bigger in stature because of the largeness of his frame, his broad sweeping back and his powerful shoulders. He was brawny and well built, but there was no excess flesh on him. He was all muscle and sinew. He exuded virility, a ruddy health, and indomitable strength. He had long legs and a surprisingly narrow and well-defined waist below an expansive chest. It was easy to understand why the world called him Blackie. His thick heavy hair, which flowed back from a clear brow, was as black as ebony and just as shiny, and his eyes, of a brown so deep they also looked black, resembled great chunks of glittering coal. Set widely apart, under thick curving brows, these eyes were large and soft and very often wise, although they could gleam and flash with anger when Blackie’s temper was aroused. Likewise they could just as easily turn mournful and tragic when his Celtic soul was troubled by melancholy thoughts. But, for the most part, they were filled with merriment.
His skin was dark, yet not swarthy; rather, it was a nut brown and tinged with ruddiness across his high cheekbones, a sort of light mahogany colour that undoubtedly came from long exposure to the elements. His nose was straight and fairly narrow, although it broadened slightly at the tip, and his nostrils were flaring. His wide mouth and long Irish upper lip betrayed his Celtic origins. He had a cleft in his strongly moulded chin and when he laughed, which was often, his cheeks dimpled and his face took on an amazing vitality.
Blackie O’Neill was, in fact, an exceptionally handsome young man. But it was his manner and his attitude that were most intriguing and which, in many ways, set Blackie apart from other men. He exuded liveliness and gaiety. His face was full of vivacity, and it had great mobility and not a little wit. An easy, careless charm was second nature to him, and he was buoyant of spirit, as if he accepted life for what it was, and was constantly entertained by it. There was a lighthearted self-confidence inherent in him, and to Emma, observing him, he seemed untouched by the weariness and the fear and the hopelessness that haunted the men of the village, bowing them down and ageing them prematurely.
For the first time in her young life Emma had met someone with an unquenchable spirit and a soul that was joyous and wi
thout rancour, a man who loved his life and lived it to the fullest, and she had a vague glimmering of all this, and it intrigued and mystified and impressed her.
As she hurried along next to this handsome young giant her eyes turned to him often, and she found she was filled with an intense and voracious inquisitiveness about him. He was a cheerful companion, who in the oddest and most inexplicable way made her feel safe as he tramped by her side, saying little, smiling his vivid smile, sometimes whistling merrily, his bright eyes scanning the crest of the moors expectantly, anticipating the sight of the spires of Fairley Hall. And something of his light and genial good humour seemed to mysteriously transfer itself to Emma, and her face, so unremittingly stern and intent for one so young, was softened by a hint of hidden gaiety.
She was taken by surprise when Blackie opened his mouth and began to sing, his rich baritone filling the silent air with the most melodious sweet sounds that startled her, so beautiful were they.
‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him. His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him…’
As she listened to Blackie singing, Emma was filled with a swift and piercing pain, and tears rushed to her eyes, for she was touched in a way she had never been before. There was something hauntingly sad yet bittersweet about the words and the poignant melody, and her throat ached with the tears, so sudden, so unexpected, which she tried to choke back, afraid of appearing childish, and even a little foolish, to this man as he finished the ballad of the Minstrel Boy.
Blackie looked at her, and observing the glistening tears that trembled on her lashes, asked softly, ‘Did ye not like me song then, little one?’
Emma swallowed deeply and cleared her throat several times. Finally she was able to speak. ‘Oh yes, I did, Blackie. I really did. It’s just that it’s so sad.’ She brushed her hand across her eyes, wiping away the tears quickly, and noting the look of concern clouding his face, she added hurriedly, ‘But yer have a luvely voice, yer do that.’ She smiled, hoping her tears had not offended him.
Blackie had been surprised by the girl’s sensitive and emotional reaction to his singing, and he returned her smile and said with great gentleness, ‘Aye, ’tis a sad song to be sure, but a beautiful one, Emma. Still and all, ’tis only an old ballad. Ye must not be upset. And since ye are kind enough to say ye like me voice, such as it is, I’ll be singing ye a song that will surely make ye laugh, I am thinking.’
And he did. His rich and splendid voice formed the most merry sounds now, the lively words of an Irish jig tripping lightly from his facile tongue. He had purposely selected an amusing bit of nonsense, filled with tongue-twisting clan names, and soon Emma was laughing delightedly, the momentary sadness of the ballad forgotten in her newly found merriment.
When he had finished she cried gaily, That was funny. Yer’ll have ter sing it for Mrs Turner, the cook at the Hall. She’ll like it, I bet she will, and I bet it’ll make her laugh.’
‘Sure and will I not be happy to, Emma,’ Blackie replied kindly, and then he said curiously, ‘And why are ye off to Fairley Hall so early in the day, might I be asking?’
‘I’m in service there,’ Emma answered solemnly, returning his friendly gaze with unflickering, steady eyes.
‘Indeed ye are, are ye! And what can a little snippet like ye do to earn ye keep?’ he asked.
‘I’m the kitchen maid.’ Seeing her half-averted eyes, the downcast drooping of her mouth, and the grim expression that swept across her face, Blackie decided she did not savour her work at the Hall. She volunteered no more information, and retreated behind the mask-like expression which had settled on her small countenance. Sensing her discomfort, he did not question her further and they walked on in silence, something of the gaiety they had so recently shared washed away in the wake of her mood, which had so abruptly changed.
She was a funny little thing to Blackie, this colleen of the moors whom he had come upon so unexpectedly, a shabby starveling creature, all skin and bone. This Emma Harte looked to him as if she needed a good meal, several good meals, for many months to come. Indeed she did. She was a poverty-stricken child who should be at home and in bed, and not wandering these moors, so godforsaken and lifeless, at the crack of dawn in the midst of a bitter winter.
In spite of her shabbiness, her clothes were tidy and neatly patched, and he could see that her face was scrubbed and shining clean. Not that too much of that face was visible, swathed as it was in the thick black woollen scarf. But her eyes, whenever she turned them on him, were of incredible beauty. They were large and luminous and vividly green, just about the greenest eyes he had ever seen.
Emma cut into Blackie’s thoughts when she asked, ‘Yer said afore yer were a black Irishman. What’s that, then?’ Blackie turned to Emma and saw that the stark strained look had disappeared from her face.
His eyes held a mischievous glint as he said, ‘Well, mavourneen, not a blackamoor from Africa, as ye suspected, but a man with my colouring, the black hair and the black eyes ’tis said we inherited from the Spanish.’
She had been about to ask him what ‘mavourneen’ meant, but this last statement so astounded her the question was swept out of her mind. ‘Spanish! There aren’t no Spanish in Ireland. I knows better’n that!’ Emma scoffed with a degree of fierceness, her eyes flashing. ‘I’ve been ter school, yer knows,’ she informed Blackie as an afterthought, and proudly, wondering if he thought she was a fool.
Blackie was amused by her reaction, but he kept a straight face. ‘Then, being as how ye are such an ejicated young colleen, ye must be a knowing that King Philip of Spain sent a great Armada to invade England in the time of Queen Elizabeth. ’Tis said that some of the galleons foundered and sank off the coast of Ireland and that the survivors, Spaniards all, settled in the Emerald Isle. ’Tis them, they say, the black Irish are descended from, and maybe that’s the God’s truth, I am thinking.’
‘I know about Spain and that Armada, but I didn’t know owt about the Spaniards living in Ireland,’ said Emma, looking up at him carefully.
There was such scepticism in her eyes that Blackie slapped his leg and roared with laughter. ‘Faith and it’s doubting me that she is! But ’tis the truth I be telling ye, Emma. On the heads of the Blessed Saints I do swear it’s the truth I am speaking, mavourneen.’
Emma now said challengingly, ‘Hey, what does that mean, that word “mavourneen”? Yer keep calling me that, Blackie. I never did hear such a word afore. It’s not rude, is it?’
Blackie shook his head, his vital curls rippling and dancing as he did, the perpetual laughter flickering in his eyes and across his wide mouth. ‘It’s the Irish word for dear or darlin’, Emma. Like the word “luv” the Yorkshire folk are always using. It ain’t no rude word, little colleen. Affectionate is the best way of describing it, I am thinking. Besides, who would be rude to a spry young ejicated lady like ye?’ he finished, adopting his most serious voice, his most gallant manner.
‘Oh, aye,’ Emma said, a flick of that hard Yorkshire scepticism noticeable in her voice.
There was a small silence and then, half turning and touching his arm impulsively, she asked, ‘Do yer live in Leeds then, Blackie?’ Her face was suddenly animated and interested and he sensed a new excitement in her.
‘I do. I do. Sure and it’s a grand town. Have ye ever been there, Emma?’
Her face fell. ‘No. But I will go one day! Me dad promised ter take me on a day trip, and I knows he will when he can spare the time like.’
And the money for the fares, Blackie thought astutely. But detecting the lack of conviction in her voice, and sensing her dejection, he said vigorously and with some positiveness, ‘Sure and he will, Emma! Faith and ye will find it the most exciting place. Aye, ’tis exceedingly exciting. And busy! A virtual metropolis, I am thinking. It has great arcades with the most wondrous shops filled with grand finery for the ladies, and the gents, too. Yes, finery like a queen would wear,
Emma. Silk and satin gowns beyond description. Beautiful hats with great feathery plumes and veils, fancy stockings and soft leather buttoned boots and parasols and reticules. All ye little heart could be desiring. And silk cravats for the gents as can afford ‘em. Aye, and diamond stickpins, too, and ebony walking canes with silver knobs and sleek top hats. Such finery like ye never did see in ye whole life, I am thinking, Emma.’
Blackie paused, and then observing the wonderment in her eyes, the vibrancy now illuminating her face, and acutely aware of her eagerness to hear more, he continued his description of Leeds. ‘There are elegant restaurants serving the most incredible delicacies to tempt ye palate, Emma. And dance halls, and a music hall called the City Varieties and plush theatres where they put on plays that come all the way up from London town. Why, I’ve seen Vesta Tilley and Marie Lloyd on the stage in Leeds meself, with me own eyes, mavourneen. Then there are the new tramcars. Amazing vehicles, to be sure, that run on tracks without the need for horses to pull ‘em any more. They go from the Corn Exchange to all parts of town. I have ridden on one, sure and I have. I sat on the top deck, that’s open to the world and the weather, viewing the town like a real gent. Faith and there are many wonders to see in Leeds, yes indeed.’
Emma’s eyes glowed, all the weariness and worry which had enveloped her earlier that morning miraculously dissipated, her imagination inflamed, and her emotions stirred most palpably by Blackie’s recital. She attempted, as always, to contain herself, but in her anxiousness for further information about this most extraordinary place, her voice rose and became shrill. ‘Why did yer got ter live in Leeds then, Blackie? Tell me more about it!’
‘I went to live in Leeds because there was no work in me native Ireland.’ His voice dropped, was low now and sad, yet there was no disgruntlement or rancour in it, only dim resignation.
‘It was me Uncle Pat, settled in Leeds for this many a year, who did bid me come over to be a working by his side as a navvy. Lots of work in Leeds, being as how it’s a growing metropolis, as I told ye afore, Emma. When I saw all the new manufactories going up and the mills and the foundries, as well as the handsome carriages and the elegant houses of the gentry, I thought to meself: Sure and this is the place for a boyo like ye, Blackie O’Neill, a spalpeen that’s not afeared of hard work, strong and brawny and a match for any man. This is indeed the place to be a-staying, faith and it is, for the streets are surely paved with gold! A man can make a fortune in Leeds, I was believing, so stay I did. That was five years ago. Now me Uncle Pat and me have our own business going. We do repair work and building for the mill-owners and the gentry. Doing well, sure and we are, little colleen. Small it is now, but I know it will be growing. Ye see, I aim to be rich one day. I am going to make meself a pile and be a millionaire!’
A Woman of Substance Page 14
