To Emma’s amazement Cook had not only been thunderstruck but had thrown a temperamental fit that was unprecedented, and had gone on to warn her, in the most dire terms, of Murgatroyd’s most certain and deadly wrath at such unthinkable and unwarranted cheekiness, her plump red face clouded with worry and also alarm. Only then did Emma recognize the magnitude of what she was proposing and she had trembled at the thought of Murgatroyd’s bellicose temper, his strident invectives and stinging blows.
But Mrs Turner had not reckoned with that streak of stubbornness in Emma, that implacable will. Almost at once, both of these characteristics overcame the girl’s initial misgivings and she firmly resolved, in her doggedly wilful way, to be neither thwarted nor forestalled in her efforts to bring a little ease and orderliness to her work. As she listened impatiently to Mrs Turner’s continued and overly ominous rantings, it occurred to Emma, now coldly calculating, that she could not permit herself to be deterred by Cook, whom she had just decided was a fool. She determined there and then that the only way to accomplish her purpose was to circumvent Murgatroyd altogether.
‘I’m going upstairs ter show this plan of mine ter Mrs Wainright,’ Emma had announced in a hard, firm voice, her face sternly set. ‘We’ll see what she has ter say about it all. She’s already been planning them there menus since she’s been here, and I bet she’s going ter start running this house afore long. And about time somebody did!’ she had finished defiantly, and, as was later proven, quite prophetically. Without another word to Cook she had turned and marched up the kitchen stairs, before her nerve failed her, leaving Cook aghast at her temerity. For a split second, the usually verbose Mrs Turner was rendered speechless, flabbergasted at this unexpected display of vociferous rebellion on the part of Emma.
She finally found her voice. ‘Going up ter see Mrs W. won’t be doing yer no good, lass,’ she had cried vehemently as Emma continued to climb the stairs without looking back. ‘Yer stepping out of yer station in life, my girl, and that’ll get yer nowt but the sack!’ she continued as the door had banged loudly behind a silent and determined Emma.
Emma had barely spoken more than two words to Olivia Wainright in the short week she had been visiting at Fairley, and she had felt shy and awkward as she had tapped on the library door. At Olivia’s bidding she had entered the room and had stood nervously in the doorway, hesitating, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, paralysed by unanticipated fright. Olivia Wainright was sitting behind Adam’s desk, attending to the sadly neglected household accounts he had asked her to look into, and which previously had been handled by Murgatroyd. In her tailored dark serge skirt and white lace blouse, with its high neck and leg-of-mutton sleeves, she looked the epitome of aristocratic elegance. A large and exquisite cameo brooch relieved the severity of the high neckline and a long strand of rosy pearls gleamed lustrously against the guipure lace bodice, and there were matching pearl studs at her ears. Her dark hair was swept up into an elaborate pompadour and it gave her face a fragile appearance, like a lovely flower on a long and slender stem.
Emma, timorous and quaking, was rooted to the spot. She gazed at Olivia, mesmerized by her beauty, grace, and sophisticated stylishness, and as she had continued to stare in awe she became painfully conscious of her own old patched blue dress and the stained and greying striped pinny that had seen better days. She ran her hands down her rumpled skirt and across the creased pinafore in an effort to smooth out the wrinkles, but it was a vain effort. She had looked down at her old boots with their worn cracked uppers and then flushed with embarrassment, and she felt shame for the first time in her life. It was a shame that made her heart clench in a way she had not experienced before, and it filled her with the most intense feelings of inferiority and worthlessness, feelings she was not to forget as long as she lived. Emma knew that poverty was not a crime, even if the world treated it as such, yet she felt like a criminal as she hovered, shamefaced, anxious, and tongue-tied, on the edge of the luxurious carpet, acutely aware of the picture she made. Why should this rich and elegant lady take what she had to say seriously? she wondered.
But Emma, for all her intelligence and precocious perception, had no way of knowing that Olivia Wainright was an exceptional woman, understanding of heart and generous of spirit, who put great store in justice, fair play, and compassion, and was only too willing to help the deserving better themselves if they so desired. Nor did Emma realize that Olivia was not regarding her critically or with derision or the self-serving pity of the patronizing do-gooder, but with enormous curiosity and a most genuine interest. Preoccupied as she had been with her sister’s poor health and Adam’s depressed state since her arrival, she had not as yet had time to delve into the domestic situation at the Hall. And whilst she had noticed the little maid flitting about the house, this was the first opportunity she had had to observe her so closely. From the moment Emma had entered the library Olivia had been struck by her refined good looks, which were not at all diminished or obscured by the disreputable uniform and the grimy cap that so dismayed Olivia, whose own servants were dressed attractively and decently, albeit in plain utilitarian attire. Returning Emma’s steady gaze, she noticed that the girl’s face and hair were scrupulously clean and she had an aura of neatness and grooming about her, in spite of that dreadful clothing, and this Olivia found commendable.
Emma meanwhile had taken a diffident step forward. Her boots creaked horribly in the quiet room, much to her mortification, and she stopped, abashed and self-conscious, a look of discomfiture on her face.
Olivia had paid no attention to the squeaking, if she heard it at all, and had smiled kindly and said in a gentle voice, ‘What is it? Do you have a problem you wish to discuss with me?’ Olivia Wainright had been blessed since girlhood with an extraordinary ability to make everyone, and especially servants, feel comfortable in her presence. This inherent quality quite obviously transmitted itself to Emma, who now approached the desk more confidently, praying her boots wouldn’t squeak again. They did. Emma winced and cleared her throat loudly, hoping to counteract the sound. She stood in front of Olivia, swallowed hard, remembered to curtsy, and said with a kind of shaking firmness, ‘Yes, I do have a problem, so ter speak, ma’am.’
‘First, tell me your name, child,’ said Olivia, smiling again.
‘It’s Emma, ma’am,’ said Emma nervously.
‘Well then, Emma, what is this problem you have? The only way we will solve it is to talk about it. Isn’t that so?’ asked Olivia.
Emma had nodded, and in a voice that was almost a whisper, she had explained the domestic routine, its basic difficulties, and her own problems of coping with them because of the poor organization. Olivia had listened patiently, a warm smile on her calm and lovely face, a thoughtful expression in her lucent blue eyes. But as Emma continued her doleful recital, Olivia had become quietly enraged, and her blood had boiled at the inequity of the situation and the execrable management of her brother-in-law’s home, an establishment of some standing and enormous wealth, where matters should not have been allowed to deteriorate so disgracefully, as they most apparently had, and nearly beyond redemption from the sound of it.
When Emma had finished speaking, Olivia studied her intently, somewhat surprised by the girl’s sweet and melodious voice and her concise explanation. This had been perfectly lucid, despite her limited vocabulary and her idiomatic speech pattern, which fortunately was not so broad in dialect as Olivia had expected it to be. Olivia had instinctively perceived that the girl was neither exaggerating nor embellishing, and she knew she had listened to a veracious witness to the prevailing circumstances at the Hall, and she was shocked.
‘Do you mean to tell me, Emma, that at this moment you are the only maid employed in this house?’ Olivia had asked.
‘Er, no, not exactly, ma’am,’ Emma had replied quickly. ‘There’s a girl that sometimes helps Cook. And Polly. But she’s still badly as I said afore. She’s really the parlourmaid.’
‘And since P
olly’s sickness you alone have been doing Polly’s work as well as your own? Cleaning this entire house and looking after Mrs Fairley as well? Am I correct, Emma?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Emma said, shuffling her feet nervously.
‘I see,’ Olivia had responded quietly, and she was further outraged. Olivia Wainright was accustomed to order and tranquillity in her own homes, and being an able and proficient administrator of her London house, her country estate, and her business affairs, she was, not unnaturally, astounded at the preposterousness of conditions at Fairley. ‘Inexcusable and utterly ridiculous,’ murmured Olivia, almost to herself, straightening up in the chair.
Misunderstanding these words and detecting the edge of annoyance in Olivia Wainright’s voice, Emma became alarmed. ‘I’m not trying ter get out of owt I’m supposed ter do, ma’am,’ said Emma, fearful that she might be dismissed for her boldness and presumption, which conceivably could be taken for shirking. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work, I’m not that! It’s just that Murgatroyd’s got it—got it planned bad, ma’am.’
‘So it would appear, from what you tell me, Emma,’ Olivia had responded, the thoughtful expression lingering in her eyes. Emma looked at her carefully, and encouraged by the woman’s outwardly tranquil appearance, she had finally pulled out the crumpled bit of paper and smoothed it out.
‘I made this here plan, ma’am. Well, anyways, I think it’ll be easier for me to do me chores this way. I worked it out proper like.’ Emma stepped closer to the desk and handed Olivia the paper. As she did, Olivia noticed the girl’s terribly chapped and sore hands and was appalled. She looked into the solemn face hovering before her and saw the dark smudges under her enormous eyes, became aware of the tired droop of the painfully thin shoulders, and she was so unexpectedly moved her heart ached with the most genuine sorrow. Olivia was seized with a sudden sense of shame for Adam, even though she was perfectly sure that he was not cognizant of the facts. She sighed and looked down at the grubby bit of paper. Olivia studied it carefully and was both newly amazed and impressed. The girl was obviously above average intelligence and most certainly had an efficient and practical turn of mind. The household routine had been worked out precisely and in an organized manner, and Olivia decided she herself could not have improved upon it.
‘Well, Emma, I see exactly what you mean. Seemingly you devoted a lot of thought to this timetable and I must compliment you. Indeed I must.’
‘Yer mean yer think it’s more—more better my way?’ asked Emma, relieved and not a little elated.
‘More efficient, I believe you mean, Emma,’ Olivia had responded, suppressing a smile. ‘I think we should put your timetable into operation immediately, Emma. I certainly approve of it and I am confident Murgatroyd will recognize the sense of it as well,’ she had said, pronouncing the butler’s name with coldness. Observing the worried expression that flickered in Emma’s eyes, she had added reassuringly, ‘I will speak to him about it myself. I shall also instruct him to engage another girl from the village to assist you with the heavier work. It is still rather a lot for you to cope with single-handedly, Emma, in spite of your most practical timetable.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank yer, ma’am,’ said Emma, bobbing a curtsy and smiling for the first time in days.
‘Well then, run along, Emma. And please tell Murgatroyd I wish to see him. At once,’ said Olivia.
‘Yes, ma’am. Please, ma’am, can I have my plan back? Me timetable, I mean. So as I knows what I’m doing.’
Olivia concealed another smile. ‘Of course. Here it is. By the way, Emma, is that the only uniform you have?’ asked Olivia.
Emma flushed and bit her lip and looked down at the crumpled dress and pinafore with dismay and great embarrassment. ‘Yes, ma’am. For winter, that is. I’ve got a cotton one for summer,’ Emma had mumbled selfconsciously.
‘We must rectify that at once. If you tell me your size I shall attend to it myself, when I go to Leeds later this week,’ Olivia announced, and had added, ‘I shall buy you several uniforms, for winter and summer, Emma. One of each is simply not enough.’
‘Ooh! Thank yer, ma’am, ever so much!’ cried Emma. A thought struck her and she had said respectfully, ‘Begging yer pardon, Mrs Wainright, ma’am, but I could make ‘em meself, if I had the cloth. Me mam taught me how ter sew, ever so good like.’
‘Did she indeed? That’s excellent. I shall ask the Squire for some lengths of cloth from the mill and I shall purchase the cotton for the summer uniforms in Leeds. You may go now, Emma, and incidentally, I am glad you came to see me with your problems. You must always do that, for as long as I am staying here at Fairley.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank yer, ma’am. And I will come ter see yer if owt else bothers me,’ Emma had promised. She bobbed a curtsy and hurried out of the library, clutching her timetable as if it were the crown jewels. She did not see the look of compassion mingled with admiration on Olivia Wainright’s face; nor was she aware that she had set in motion a chain of events that were to change everybody’s life at Fairley Hall.
There was no ugly uproar or altercation in the kitchen about Emma’s unprecedented display of independence. Murgatroyd tactically ignored it, since it suited his own purpose admirably. In fact, he paid little attention to Emma’s activities, and Emma knew this was because he was too preoccupied maintaining his own position in the household to care about her. Now that he was under the eagle eye of Mrs Wainright he had to watch his step and, undoubtedly, whatever she had said to him had been effective. Observing Murgatroyd out of the corner of her eye, as he scurried to and fro, bowed and scraped, and pulled his weight in the household for once, Emma would often smile to herself and there was both irony and a flicker of smugness in the smile that flitted across her young face. Emma had begun to comprehend that Murgatroyd had met his match in Olivia Wainright. Gentle of manner though she was, Emma knew that the courteous demeanour disguised a strong will and an exacting but fair nature.
However, as the weeks passed, the timetable and Emma’s rigid adherence to it had begun to amuse Cook, who had long forgotten her own objections to it. She had never witnessed anything like it in all her years of service. It sent her into gales of loud, though kindly, laughter. She would slap her pendulous thighs and shake her head and say between gusting peals of mirth, ‘Aye, lass, yer a rum ‘un, yer are that. Whoever heard of a blinking timetable, ‘cept at the railway station. And yer tek yerself so serious, yer do that, Emma lass. Yer run about this ‘ere house like the Devil himself is after yer, slaving yer fingers ter the bone. And where’s it all going ter get yer, when all’s said and done? I’ll tell yer summat, and yer should mark me words, lass. The more yer do in life, the less yer gets thought of. I knows, aye, that I do.’
At these raucous but genial outbursts, Emma would look at Cook with large eyes, but said nothing. She did not have time to explain her reasons. Time now meant money to Emma, and she would not waste her precious time chattering. And anyway, Emma was sure Cook would not understand. How could she know that the timetable was, in a sense, a kind of protection for her? It enabled her to work in a more efficient and orderly manner. She could ease the work load on various days and conserve her strength. Not only that, because of it, Emma was able to steal a little time for herself and this stolen time was of vital importance to her. Several afternoons a week, and early most evenings, she retreated to her attic room and worked on the dresses and other clothes she altered or repaired for Mrs Wainright and Mrs Fairley. She was paid separately for this work, at Olivia Wainright’s insistence, and her little tobacco box of shillings and sixpences was slowly growing. Nothing was going to deter her from making this money, her own secret money, even if she had to occasionally skimp on some of her chores to make time for the sewing. It was with a grim determination that she sewed diligently into the middle of the night, by the light of three candles, her eyes scratchy, her fingertips sore, her shoulders aching as she hunched over the elaborate gowns and blouses and skirts and dresses
and fine undergarments, plying her exquisite stitches. For the money she earned from this sewing was being acquired, most methodically and religiously, to finance Emma’s Plan, which she always thought of with a capital P.
Cook knew about the sewing, but not about the late hours Emma kept, and had she known she would have been annoyed, for she was fond of the girl and had her welfare at heart. So Emma did not enlighten her about this either, preferring to keep her own counsel.
Although Mrs Turner was a woman with a degree of native shrewdness, she was not blessed with great intelligence or perception, and she did not understand Emma’s character in the least. Nor did she have the foresight to recognize that the girl was displaying the first youthful glimmering of an amazing organizing ability that was to prove formidable; or that her punctuality, diligence, and unrelenting efficiency were the first outward signs of an immense self-discipline and the driving ambition that would grow to monstrous proportions, and which would prove to be the very roots of her success later.
At this moment in her life, Emma certainly did not understand this either, and the future was far from her mind as she remembered the events of the past few months whilst attending to the fire. She sighed softly. Those days had been bad days, but they had passed now. She visibly brightened. Things had improved. Her timetable worked successfully and her life was a lot easier. Mrs Wainright had kept her word and had hired another girl, Annie Stead, from the village, whom Emma was patiently, and sometimes vociferously, training as the betweenmaid. The domestic routine was running as smoothly as clockwork, so much so it was like a miracle and one that Emma prayed would last. But apart from this and most importantly, Mrs Wainright had increased Emma’s wages by two shillings a week, a welcome addition to the family income.
A Woman of Substance Page 23
