‘Build it yerself, ter yer own design,’ she repeated in a hushed tone, her face full of wonder. ‘Do yer know how ter design houses then, Blackie?’
‘Aye, to be sure I do,’ he responded proudly. ‘I go to the night school in Leeds to be learning draftsmanship, and that’s the next best thing to architecture. Ye’ll see, Emma, I’ll build that house one day and ye’ll come and visit me when ye are a grand lady.’
Emma looked at Blackie in awe. ‘Can anybody go ter this night school ter learn things?’ she asked, thinking of her brother Frank.
Blackie looked down at her expectant face, so filled with hope, and told her confidently, ‘Sure and they can. At the night school they teach ye everything ye might want to be learning.’
His answer delighted Emma and she stored the information at the back of her mind to tell Frank later, and asked, with her usual avid curiosity, ‘Who’s this Robert Adam then, and them others yer mentioned? Yer knows, Sheraton and Hepplewhite and Chippendale?’
Blackie’s face glowed, for they were embarking on a subject close to his heart. ‘Robert Adam was the great architect of the eighteenth century, Emma. He built many grand and beautiful houses for the gentry that are wondrous to behold. Ah, but Adam was more than that, I am thinking, for he furnished them, too, with style and taste. Nobody has ever bettered him, mavourneen. The others I spoke about,’ he went on enthusiastically, ‘were the three greatest furniture makers of the Georgian period, sure and they were. Master craftsmen who made the furniture for the Quality folk.’
He grinned and winked at her. ‘Ye see, I aim to have nothing but the best when I’m a rich boyo. For I often says to meself, “What’s the point of having money, Blackie O’Neill, if ye don’t get the pleasure from it?” So I aim to be spending it. That’s what it’s for, I am thinking. Are ye not after agreeing with me?’
Emma regarded him soberly. Mostly when she thought of money it was in terms of the necessities of life. Blackie had presented new possibilities to her. ‘Aye, I suppose so,’ she said cautiously. ‘As long as yer’ve got enough money ter spare, ter buy all them fine things.’
He roared with laughter. So much so that tears of merriment squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. ‘Ye are a canny Yorkshire colleen, I can see that,’ he said through his laughter. ‘But what’s enough, Emma? I’ve heard tell of some men who never have enough money to satisfy them.’
Like Squire Fairley, she thought sourly, but said, ‘And where will yer build yer beautiful house, Blackie? Will it be in Leeds then?’
He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve, his merriment subsiding, and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think it will. I am considering building it in Harrogate, where all the toffs live,’ he said importantly. ‘Aye, that will be the place, I am thinking,’ he continued, the certainty in his voice more pronounced. ‘’Tis a fine town. A spa. Just the place for a spalpeen like me. Have ye heard of it, Emma?’
‘Yes, me mam has been ter Harrogate, a long time ago, when she went ter visit her cousin Freda in Ripon. She told me about it once. She said it’s a real posh place.’
He laughed. ‘It is, it is! And tell me, Emma, do ye like the sound of me house, that I shall be building for meself one of these fine days?’
‘Ooh, I do, Blackie! Yer house’ll be luvely, I just knows it will. Not like this place. Yer should see this house at night. It frightens me more than when I have ter walk past the cemetery,’ she confided.
Blackie frowned and looked swiftly at her small face, which was childlike and trusting, and he smiled reassuringly. ‘Ah ’tis only a house, little colleen. A house can’t harm ye.’
She did not respond to this comment but compressed her lips and quickened her steps, as they were suddenly engulfed by the giant blue-grey shadows cast by Fairley Hall. Now that they were close to it, Blackie became conscious of another aspect of the house and it was one which instantly disturbed him. It seemed to Blackie, as he regarded it, that the great mansion was strangely brooding and hostile, as if it had never known life or laughter or gaiety. He had the oddest feeling that all those who crossed its threshold were held captive for ever.
He looked up. Immense windows gazed down at them, heavily draped against the world, and to Blackie they were like the eyes of blind men, empty, hollow, and dead. A shaft of sunlight struck the blackened walls and those dim and mysterious windows, and this light, hard and full of clarity, appeared to emphasize the impregnability and bleakness of Fairley Hall. Blackie told himself he was being ridiculous and over-imaginative, but these emotions did not diminish as Emma led him around the corner of the house and out of the shadows. They headed across a cobbled stable yard, full of sunlight and blue sky, towards the servants’ entrance. Automatically he put his arm around her shoulders and then he grinned at the absurdity of his action. She had been coming here far longer than he had and was surely without need of his protection. And protection against what? he wondered, mystified at himself.
Emma looked up at him and smiled, as if once again she had read his thoughts. But as they mounted the steps that smile faltered and the light in her eyes dulled. A watchful expression settled on her face as she turned the iron handle of the door and walked into the kitchen.
NINE
‘And what time do yer think this is then, ter be strolling in like there’s no termorrow? And looking as if yer don’t have a care in the world as well! Aay, lass, I’d about given thee up. I had that!’
The sharp voice echoing around the kitchen emanated from a little dumpling of a woman who was as broad of beam as she was short in stature. Birdlike brown eyes, peeping out above apple-rosy cheeks, flashed with indignation, and the starched white cap, perched like a crown on top of her greying auburn hair, bobbed about as she tossed her head.
‘And don’t stand there gawping at me like a sucking duck!’ she went on crossly, waving the ladle at Emma. ‘Get a move on with yer, now that yer are here, lass! We’ve no time ter be wasting today.’
‘I’m ever so sorry, Mrs Turner,’ Emma cried as she ran across the room, pulling off her scarf and struggling out of her coat. Bundling them up in a roll, she went on quickly in an apologetic tone, ‘I set off in time, I did really, Mrs Turner. But it was ever so foggy on the moors and in the Ghyll and—’
‘Aye, and I expect yer stopped ter laik on yon gate as usual,’ Cook interrupted with some impatience. ‘Yer’ll be copping it, lass, one of these fine days, yer will that!’
Emma had disappeared into a cupboard, under the stairs which led up to the family’s living quarters, and her voice was muffled when she called out, ‘I’ll catch up with me work, Mrs Turner. Yer knows I will.’
‘Yer’ll have ter, that’s a certainty,’ Cook retorted with asperity. ‘I can see we’ll have an uproar on our hands today. What with Mrs Hardcastle in Bradford and company coming up from London town and Polly right badly.’ She shook her head, sighed heavily at the thought of her burdens, adjusted her cap, and banged the ladle down on the table. Then she swung around and stared at Blackie, whom she had so far ignored. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked him over appraisingly, her beady eyes suspicious. ‘And what’s this the cat’s dragged in then? Lochinvar,’ she said acidly.
Blackie took a step forward and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Emma’s voice floated out from the cupboard. ‘It’s the navvy, Mrs Turner. The one yer were expecting ter mend the flues and all. His name’s Shane O’Neill, but the whole world calls him Blackie.’
‘Top of the morning to ye,’ Blackie cried, flashing her a cheery smile and bowing elaborately.
Cook ignored this friendly greeting and said, ‘Irish, eh? Well, I can’t say as I hold that against yer. I can see yer a strong lad. No room for weaklings in this house!’ She paused and her eyes now lighted on the sack he had placed on the floor next to him, which was old and very grimy. ‘And what’s in that mucky thing?’ she asked.
‘Just me tools and a few er…er…personal items,’ Blackie said, shuffling his fee
t in embarrassment.
‘Well, don’t be dragging it over me clean floor!’ she admonished. ‘Put it in that there corner, where it’s out of the way.’ She then marched to the stove, saying in a gentler tone, ‘Yer’d best come ter the fire and get yerself warm, lad.’
Mrs Turner bustled around the stove, clattering pan lids, peering at the contents of her bubbling pots, muttering under her breath. Her temper had abated. This was mostly irritation rather than real anger, and it was chiefly engendered by anxiety for Emma crossing the lonely moors rather than the girl’s tardiness, which was not so important. What was half an hour, after all? She smiled to herself. Emma was a good lass, which was more than you could say for most in this dreadful day and age.
Blackie dumped his sack in the corner and loped over to the enormous fireplace that covered almost the whole of one wall. As he warmed his hands in front of the fire he became conscious of two things. He was frozen stiff and he was hungry. These sensations were precipitated by the steaming warmth of the room and the delicious smells pervading the air. He sniffed and his mouth watered as he inhaled the pungent smell of smoky country bacon frying, the warm, sweet fragrance of freshly baked bread, and wafting over these tempting odours he detected the rich savoury tang of a vegetable broth boiling. His stomach growled and he licked his lips hungrily.
Slowly his body began to thaw and he stretched luxuriously like a great cat, his eyes sweeping quickly over the room, and what he saw cheered Blackie immensely, helped to dissipate his foreboding of earlier. For there was nothing brooding or menacing about this kitchen. It was a splendid, warming, cheerful place and spanking clean. All manner of copper pots and pans sparkled lustrously on the whitewashed walls, and the flagged stone floor shone whitely in the bright light of the gas jets and the crackling fire that leapt and roared up the big chimney. Strong oak furniture, highly waxed, gleamed softly in this roseate glow.
Blackie heard the click of a door and he looked up as Emma emerged from the cupboard. She had changed into a dark blue serge dress, obviously cut from the same cloth as Cook’s, and she was fastening on a large blue-and-white-striped cotton apron. ‘Did yer say Polly was poorly again, Mrs Turner?’ she asked, moving hurriedly in the direction of the stove.
‘Aye, lass. Bad cough she has. Summat terrible. I made her stay abed this morning. Yer might look in on her later, ter see if she wants owt.’ There was true warmth in Cook’s voice and her face softened as she regarded the girl. Blackie looked at her and recognized there was no real animosity in her. It was apparent, from the loving expression now flooding her face, that Mrs Turner was inordinately fond of Emma.
‘Yes, I’ll pop up after breakfast is served and take her some broth,’ Emma agreed, trying not to look overly concerned about Polly. Emma was convinced she had the same sickness as her mother, for Emma had detected all the telltale signs: the weakness, the fever, and the terrible coughing.
Mrs Turner nodded. ‘Aye, that’s a good lass.’ She frowned and peered at Emma through the steam. ‘Yer’ll have ter do Polly’s work today, as well as yer own, yer knows, luv. Can’t be helped! Murgatroyd tells me Mrs Wainright arrives for a visit this afternoon and with Mrs Hardcastle still away we’re really shorthanded.’ She exhaled a loud sigh of exasperation and banged the spoon against the side of the pot furiously. ‘Aye, I wish I was the housekeeper here, I do that! It’s a right cushy job Nellie Hardcastle’s got and no mistake. Always tripping off, that she is!’
Emma repressed a smile. This was an old bone of contention. ‘Yer right, Mrs Turner, but we’ll manage somehow,’ she said reassuringly. She liked Cook, who was the only one who showed her any kindness at the Hall, and she always tried to please her. Emma ran back to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out a large basket containing brushes, cloths, polishes, and black lead, and headed for the staircase. ‘I’ll make a start,’ she called, beginning to mount the stairs, waving to Blackie as she did.
Mrs Turner’s head jerked up quickly. ‘Nay, lass, I’m not that heartless! Yer looks nithered ter death. Go ter the fire and warm up, and drink a cup of this broth afore yer goes up yonder.’ She lifted the lid off the large iron pot, stirred it vigorously, clucked with satisfaction, and began to ladle broth into a large mug. ‘Will yer have a cup, lad?’ she called to Blackie, already filling a second mug.
‘To be sure I will and it’s thanking ye I am,’ Blackie cried.
‘Come on, lass, give Blackie this mug and take yer own,’ Cook said, and went on briskly, ‘And how about a bacon buttie, lad? It goes down well with me broth.’
‘Thanks. I don’t mind if I do. It’s famished that I am.’
‘Can yer eat one, Emma luv?’
‘No, thanks, Mrs Turner,’ Emma replied as she took the mugs from Cook. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Cook gave her a sharp look. ‘Aay, lass, yer don’t eat enough. Yer’ll never get fat on broth and tea.’
Emma carried the mugs carefully to the fireplace and handed one to Blackie without a word, but as she sat down on the other stool and looked up at him a sweet smile drifted over her face, the wariness abating. ‘Thank ye,’ he said, returning her smile, and then his eyes narrowed as he became aware of her for the first time since they had met on the moors.
As they sipped the broth in silence, Blackie regarded Emma surreptitiously, endeavouring to conceal the surprise he was feeling. He was stunned really. Now that she had removed the camouflaging scarf and shed the tight old coat, he could see her more clearly and he noted that the girl was not such a starveling creature as he had originally thought. He could not call her beautiful, if he was to measure her by the popular picture-postcard standards of the day. She was no typical Edwardian beauty, all pink marshmallow softness and swooning femininity; neither was she fluffily pretty or pert. But she was arresting and there was something indefinable about her that captured his imagination, held his attention, and made him catch his breath as he studied her. Her face was a perfect oval, with high, rather prominent cheekbones, a straight and slender nose, and a delicately curved mouth that dimpled at the corners when she smiled. Her teeth were small, even, and very white between her pale pink lips, which he noticed held a suggestion of sweetness and vulnerability when she was unguarded. If her smooth forehead was a little too broad it was by no means unattractive, and it was balanced by the widow’s-peak hairline that cut into her clear skin so dramatically, and by the exquisitely shaped brows that were sweeping golden-brown arcs above her wideset eyes. These eyes, which had struck him so forcibly earlier, were indeed as shining and as green as emeralds, set below thick and curling golden-brown lashes that cast gentle dusky shadows on her skin. This was like pale cream silk and as smooth, and without blemish. Her luxuriant russet-brown hair was simply dressed, pulled back smoothly to reveal her face most strikingly. The gleaming hair was plaited and then twisted into a bun that nestled in the nape of her neck and, in the dancing firelight, it seemed like a rich velvet cap threaded through with golden strands.
She is thin and still small, he thought. But he also knew she had some growing to do in the next few years. Blackie could tell from her build that she would be tall and slender when she matured into young womanhood. She was already beginning to flower, for he saw the swell of tender young breasts and shapely hips under the voluminous apron, and long legs that contributed much to her easy gracefulness.
Blackie’s innate sense of beauty and fineness was not solely restricted to architecture, art, and artefacts, but extended to women and horses as well. His ardour for women was almost, but not quite, surpassed by his predilection for horses and the races, and he particularly prided himself on his ability to judge horseflesh and single out a thoroughbred when he saw one. Now as he looked at Emma more fully he thought: That’s it! She has the look of a thoroughbred! He knew she was a poor girl from the working class, yet her face was that of an aristocrat, for it contained breeding and refinement. It was these aspects that combined to create that indefinable quality he had detected earlier. She was patrician and s
he had an inbred dignity that was unique. He saw only one feature that betrayed her station in life—her hands. They were small and sturdy, but also chapped and reddened, and the nails were broken and rough. He knew only too well that their ugly condition was caused by the hard work she performed.
He wondered what would become of Emma, and he was filled with a sadness alien to his nature as he contemplated her future. What was there for her in this house and this bleak mill village on the desolate moors? Perhaps she was right to want to try her luck in Leeds. Maybe there she had a chance of living and not merely surviving.
Mrs Turner interrupted his musings as she bounced over to the fireplace and thrust a plate of sandwiches at him in her bustling manner. ‘Here’s yer bacon butties, lad. Eat ‘em now afore Murgatroyd comes down. He’s a real nip scrape and likes ter keep us all on a starvation diet. Mean old bug—’ She bit back the last word and looked with a degree of apprehension at the door at the top of the stairs.
Turning to Emma, she went on, ‘Yer don’t have ter blacklead the grates this morning. They’ll do till tomorrow. But light the fire in the morning room, dust the furniture, run the carpet sweeper over the rug, and set the table for breakfast, like Polly showed yer afore. Then come back and help me with the breakfast. Later yer can clean the dining room, the drawing room, and the library—oh! and pay attention when yer dust that there panelling in the library, lass, straight across with the duster and then down, so that the dust falls along the edge of the moulding—and do all the carpets as well. Then yer’ll have ter clean Mrs Fairley’s upstairs parlour. When yer’ve finished that it should be just the right time for yer ter take her breakfast up. Yer can make the beds afore lunch and dust the children’s room. This afternoon yer can start on the remainder of the ironing. There’s the silver ter polish and the best china ter wash…’ Mrs Turner paused, somewhat breathless, and drew a piece of crumpled paper from her pocket. She straightened it out and pursed her lips in concentration as she read it.
A Woman of Substance Page 16
