The atmosphere was frivolous, and the kitchen rang with Blackie’s boisterous laughter, the girls’ high-pitched giggles and squeals of delight, and Cook’s occasional reprimands ‘ter keep the noise down’, uttered goodnaturedly enough through her own pealing laughter.
When they had finished eating, Emma said, ‘Sing us a song, Blackie. Will yer, please?’
‘Sure and I will, mavourneen. And what will ye pleasure be?’
‘Would yer sing “Danny Boy”, Blackie? Mrs Turner likes t—’ Emma broke off and looked at the kitchen door, which had burst open wildly and was swinging on its hinges in the wind. She was flabbergasted to see her brother Frank standing on the threshold. He banged the door shut furiously, and hurtled down the stone steps, his boots clattering loudly, his small face white and cold, his thin body shivering in his threadbare jacket.
‘Good gracious me! What’s all this, then?’ cried Mrs Turner, looking perturbed.
Emma jumped up and flew across the room. ‘Frank lad, what’s wrong?’ she asked, pulling him to her protectively. Frank was gasping for breath, his eyes were wide with fright, and the freckles stood out on his drawn face. Emma led him to the fire gently, clucking to him in her motherly way and patting his shoulder soothingly. The boy’s breathing was laboured, for he had run all the way from the village, and, as yet, he was unable to speak. Finally he managed to gasp, ‘Me dad says yer’ve got ter come right sharpish, our Emma. Now!’
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ said Emma, staring into his face with alarm, her mind racing. Frank’s eyes filled with tears and before he spoke Emma knew instinctively exactly what he was going to say. She held her breath and prayed to God she was wrong.
‘It’s our mam, Emma. Me dad says ter tell yer she’s right badly. And Dr Mac’s there. Come on!’ he yelled, frantically tugging at her arm.
Emma’s face went chalk white and fear darkened her eyes, so that they took on the colour of malachite. She pulled off her apron, ran to the kitchen cupboard, and grabbed her coat and scarf without uttering a word. Blackie and Mrs Turner exchanged worried glances. Mrs Turner said, ‘Now, lass, I’m sure it’s nowt serious. Don’t be fretting yerself. Yer knows yer mam has been a lot better lately.’ Her tone was reassuring, but her plump face was the picture of concern.
Blackie had risen and solicitously helped Emma into her coat. He squeezed her arm and said consolingly, ‘Mrs Turner’s right. To be sure she is, Emma. Don’t be afeared now. Ye mam’s in good hands with the doctor.’ He paused and looked into her stricken face. ‘Would ye like me to come with ye?’
Emma looked up at him and shook her head. ‘But if Dr Mac’s with her it must be summat serious.’ Emma’s voice quavered and her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Now, don’t be jumping to the conclusions,’ Blackie said with great gentleness, endeavouring to calm her fears. ‘Ye mam will be fine, mavourneen. Sure and she will.’ Emma looked up at him sorrowfully and she did not answer. Blackie put his strong arms around her and hugged her to him. After a few seconds he released her and touched her face tenderly. ‘Ye must have faith,’ he whispered softly, gazing into her eyes.
‘Yes, Blackie,’ she whispered, tying on her scarf. Then she grabbed Frank’s hand and hurried him across the room. ‘I don’t think I’ll get back in time ter help yer with dinner, Mrs Turner,’ she called, running up the steps. ‘But I’ll try. Ta’rar.’ The door slammed behind Emma and Frank.
Mrs Turner sat down heavily in the chair. ‘It seemed too good ter be true. The way her mam improved in the last few weeks. The calm before the storm, if yer asks me,’ she muttered dourly. ‘Poor bairn, and she was having such a good time for once.’
‘Let’s not look on the black side, Mrs Turner. Her mam might be having a small attack, that’s all. It could be a false alarm,’ said Blackie with a show of cheeriness, but his heart was heavy and a melancholy look clouded his black eyes.
Once they were outside, Emma did not attempt to question Frank at all. She knew, deep in the marrow of her bones, that it was imperative for her to get home as quickly as possible, without wasting a minute of precious time. Her father would not have sent for her unless her mother had taken a turn for the worse. In spite of the confident reassurances Blackie and Mrs Turner had given her, Emma was quite positive of this, and she trembled as her alarm fired into cold terror.
Hand in hand, Emma and Frank ran across the stable yard, down the path by the copse of great oaks, and through the Baptist Field. Together, they struggled up the small slope rising to the plateau of moorland and the wide track that led to the village. By this time, Frank was fighting for breath and he found it difficult to keep up with Emma’s increasing pace. She gripped his hand tighter and pulled him along after her relentlessly, ignoring his protestations and little gurgling cries.
He tripped and fell, but Emma did not stop, nor did she pay any attention to him. With an almost superhuman strength she dragged him along in her wake, his little body trailing limply in the dirt behind her. His wailing cries and ear-piercing screams finally registered, and pulled her up short.
‘Frank! For heaven’s sake,’ she yelled wildly, staring down at him furiously. ‘Get up, lad! This minute!’ She attempted to pull him to his feet, but Frank lay inertly on the path.
‘I can’t keep up with yer, our Emma.’
Emma, who was not a naturally cruel person, was now disturbed almost to the point of hysteria. Her only thought was to get home to her mother, who needed her. ‘Then yer’ll have ter follow me,’ she shouted with coldness.
Emma set off along the rough moorland track, her iron will pushing her forward with a preternatural energy. She gathered speed as she ran, her skirts flying out behind her in the wind. And one thought filled her mind as she ran: Don’t let me mam die. It was a prayer really, and she repeated it over and over again. Please, God, don’t let me mam die.
When she reached Ramsden Ghyll, Emma stopped and looked back. She could see Frank following on behind. But she could not wait for him, and she plunged down into the Ghyll without slowing her pace. At one moment she stumbled and almost fell, but she recovered herself quickly, and flew on. It was dark in the Ghyll, where the overhanging rocks cast giant shadows and excluded all light, but Emma did not notice the eeriness or the gloom. She was soon scrambling up the path on the other side of the Ghyll, and out into the bright sunlight. She was panting excessively and her breathing was impaired. Yet she did not stop. She hurtled forward along the top path, stones and bits of dirt flying out behind her, until, sobbing and breathless, she staggered up to Ramsden Crags. She rested against a rock, trying to regain her breath. The sound of pounding horse’s hooves thundering along the path suddenly broke the silence. Emma looked back, startled. She was surprised to see Blackie galloping towards her on one of the Squire’s horses. He held Frank in front of him.
Blackie brought the horse to a standstill and Emma recognized Russet Dawn, Master Edwin’s chestnut. Blackie leaned down and gave her his large hand. He stuck out his foot and said, ‘Jump up, Emma. Use me foot to mount.’ Emma did as he instructed and pulled herself up on to the horse behind him. ‘Hang on,’ he cried as they set off again at a brisk canter. Soon they were in sight of the church spire and within minutes they were pulling up at Top Fold.
TWENTY
The kitchen of the Harte cottage was deserted when Emma entered and closed the door softly behind her. It was gloomy in the late-afternoon light, and desolate. The fire had burned out and the grate was filled with cold ashes and there was a smell in the air of cabbage and fried onions and burnt pots. Me dad spoilt the Sunday dinner again, Emma thought absently, as she took off her coat and scarf and looked around. The cottage was ominously silent and Emma shivered as she crept up the stone steps to her mother’s room, her heart beating rapidly as her alarm increased.
Her father was alone, bending over Elizabeth. He was gently wiping her sweating face with a flannel and he stroked her damp and tangled hair lovingly. He looked up as Emma tiptoed in. Hi
s eyes were dark and brooding and filled with sorrow, and his face was harshly set and the colour of dull lead in the twilight.
‘Me mam—what happened?’ Emma whispered hoarsely.
Jack shook his head wearily. ‘Dr Mac says it’s a relapse. She’s been growing weaker and weaker these last few days. She’s no fight left in her,’ he mumbled in a strangled voice. ‘Doctor just left. No hope—’ His voice cracked and he looked away swiftly, biting down his grief, swallowing hard on the incipient tears aching in his throat.
‘Don’t say that, Dad,’ Emma cried softly but with great vehemence. She glanced around. ‘Where’s our Winston?’
‘I sent him ter get Aunt Lily.’ Elizabeth stirred restlessly. Jack turned back to her quickly and sponged her face again, and with tenderness. ‘Thee can come over ter the bed, Emma. But don’t make a noise. Thee mam must rest quiet like,’ Jack said, his voice low and sorrowing. He stepped back, so Emma could sit on the small stool, and he touched her shoulder gently. ‘Thee mam’s been asking for thee,’ he murmured.
Emma took hold of her mother’s wasted hand. It was icy and lifeless. Elizabeth opened her eyes slowly, as if the effort to lift her lids was almost too enormous. She stared blankly at Emma. ‘Mam, it’s me,’ Emma said quietly, tears brimming into her eyes. Her mother’s face was utterly without colour and there was a peculiar sheen to it. Faint purple smudges stained the skin around her eyes, and her delicate lips were as white as the bedsheet. She continued to look at Emma dazedly. Emma clutched her mother’s hand more tightly and fear rose in her like a fierce wave. She said again, and more insistently, ‘Mam! Mam! It’s me, Emma.’
Elizabeth smiled faintly and recognition illuminated her eyes, which suddenly lost their cloudiness and became more comprehending. ‘Emma luv,’ she said weakly. She attempted to touch her daughter’s face, but she was too exhausted and her hand dropped limply on to the bed. ‘I waited for yer ter come, Emma.’ Her voice was a fluttering whisper. Her breath came in small, rapid pants, and she shivered under the blankets.
‘Mam! Mam! Yer’ll be all right, won’t yer?’ Emma said, her voice urgent with apprehension. ‘Yer’ll get better, won’t yer, Mam?’
‘I am better, luv,’ Elizabeth said. A gentle smile played around her lips. She sighed deeply. ‘Yer a good lass, Emma.’ She paused and her breathing became belaboured. ‘Promise me yer’ll look after Winston and Frank. And yer dad.’ Her voice was now so faint it was hardly audible.
‘Don’t talk like that, Mam,’ cried Emma, her voice quavering.
‘Promise me!’ Elizabeth’s eyes stretched wide with mute appeal.
‘Yes, I promise, Mam,’ Emma said chokingly. The tears rolled down her cheeks silently. She leaned forward and touched her mother’s dwindled face and kissed her lips, and laid her face next to her mother’s. ‘Fetch yer dad,’ cried Elizabeth, with a little panting gasp, and the last of her rapidly diminishing strength.
Emma turned and motioned to her father, who was standing by the window. He strode over to the bed and sat down, and took Elizabeth in his arms and held her to him desperately. He felt as if a scythe was ripping at his insides, tearing out his heart. He did not know how he could endure the pain, the agony of her dying. She lay back on the pillows. Her face was waxy and turning grey. She opened her eyes and he saw they were filled with a new and radiant light. She tried to clutch his arm, but she was far too weak and her hand fell away, trembling. He bent towards her. She whispered to him and he nodded, unable to speak in his searing grief.
Jack pulled back the bedclothes and lifted Elizabeth in his strong arms, carrying her carefully to the window. She was so light, as light as a fallen leaf, and she barely stirred in his arms. The window was open and the curtains billowed out in the evening breeze, and her dark hair was blown around her face. He looked down at her. She had the most rapturous expression on her face and her eyes were shining. She breathed deeply of the fresh air, and he felt her whole body stretch tautly in his arms as she lifted her head and looked out longingly towards the moors.
‘The Top of the World,’ she said, and her voice was so clear and so strong and so young at that moment, he was momentarily startled. It echoed around the room with a vibrancy that was almost abnormal. She fell back in his arms. A tender smile flickered briefly on her lips. She sighed several times, long deep sighs that rippled through her whole body. And then she was still.
‘Elizabeth!’ Jack cried, his voice raw with emotion, and he cradled her body in his arms, rocking her to him, and his tears drenched her face.
‘Me mam!’ Emma screamed, and flew across the room. Jack turned and looked at Emma blindly, tears coursing down his cheeks. He shook his head. ‘She’s gone, lass,’ he said, and he carried Elizabeth back to the bed and covered her body with the bedclothes. He crossed her hands on her breasts and smoothed her hair away from her face, so tranquil in death, and touched her eyelids. He bent down and kissed her icy lips, and his own shook with his pain and despair.
Emma was sobbing by his side. ‘Dad, oh, Dad,’ she cried, clinging to him. He straightened up and looked down into her streaming face. Then he put his arms around her and pulled her to him comfortingly. ‘She’s free now, Emma. Free at last of the terrible suffering.’ He choked back his own sobs and held Emma closer to him. He stroked her hair and consoled her, and they were locked together for a long time in their mutual anguish.
At last Jack said, ‘It’s God’s will,’ and he sighed.
Emma moved away from him and lifted her tear-stained face. ‘God’s will!’ she repeated slowly, and her young voice was excessively harsh and unremitting. ‘There’s no such thing as God!’ she cried, her eyes blazing. ‘I knows that now. Because if there was a God, He wouldn’t have let me mam suffer all these years, and He wouldn’t have let her die!’
Jack stared at her aghast and before he could respond she was running out of the bedroom. He heard her feet hammering on the stairs and the front door banging behind her. He turned wearily, his great body sagging, and he looked down at his dead wife and a sob rose in him again, and he was engulfed by a terrible darkness. He stumbled like a sleepwalker to the window and looked out. Dimly, through his pain, he saw Emma running up Top Fold towards the moors. The sky was saffron bleeding into scarlet as the sun fluttered down below the bleak hills. Its last shimmering rays were streaking across Ramsden Crags, just visible in the gloaming.
‘If Elizabeth is anywhere, that’s where she is now,’ he said. ‘At the Top of the World.’
TWENTY-ONE
When Adam Fairley returned from Worksop, early on Sunday evening, he found Olivia sitting alone in the library. He hurried over to her, smiling with delight, his eyes lighting up with love. He was still overwhelmed by the emotions of the night before, and this showed in his glowing face, which had lost its ascetic gauntness, in the buoyancy of his step, in the joyfulness of his whole demeanour.
But when Olivia looked up at him, he drew in his breath sharply and stared at her, his intelligent eyes sweeping over her face swiftly. She was excessively pale and she seemed burdened by a certain weariness, and he saw at once, and to his enormous dismay, that she was greatly disturbed.
Adam took hold of her hands and pulled her up from the Chesterfield, without speaking. He kissed her cheek and took her into his arms, embracing her warmly. She clung to him and buried her head on his shoulder, and he felt her body trembling against his own. After a few seconds she drew away gently, and looked up at him. Her gaze was penetrating, and in her lovely aquamarine eyes Adam detected confusion and misery.
‘What is it, Olivia?’ he asked softly. ‘You are troubled and that sorely grieves me.’
Olivia shook her head and sat down. Her face was etched with sadness and her shoulders drooped dejectedly. She folded her hands in her lap, staring at them studiously, and still she did not speak. Adam joined her on the sofa and picked up one of her hands. He held it tightly in both of his own, pressing it lovingly.
‘Come, come, my dear, this
won’t do,’ he exclaimed in a falsely cheerful voice. ‘Did something happen to upset you?’ Adam knew, as he spoke, that this was the most ridiculous question. She was obviously disturbed about the development in their relationship, and this both alarmed and frightened him.
Olivia cleared her throat and finally lifted her head slowly. Her eyes shone with tears. ‘I think I must leave here, Adam. At once. Tomorrow, in fact.’
Adam’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach and he was filled with dread. ‘But why?’ he cried, leaning closer. He tightened his grip on her hand.
‘You know why, Adam. I cannot remain here after—after last night. I am in an untenable position.’
‘But you said you loved me,’ he protested.
Olivia smiled faintly. ‘I do love you. I’ve loved you for years. And I will always love you. But I cannot stay here, Adam, in the same house as my sister, your wife, and conduct a clandestine love affair. I cannot!’
‘Olivia, Olivia, let us not be hasty. Surely, if we are discreet—’
‘It’s not only that,’ she interrupted quickly. ‘What we did last night was wrong. We committed a terrible sin.’
Adam said, almost roughly, ‘Because I committed adultery. Is that what you’re saying, Olivia? It was not you, but I, who committed a sin, in the eyes of the law. That is a matter for my conscience, not yours. So let me worry about that.’
‘We both committed a sin—in the eyes of God,’ she answered very softly.
Observing the grave look on her face, he knew, with an awful sense of foreboding, that she was in deadly earnest. He did not want her conscience to drive her away from him. He could not let her go. Not now. Not ever again. Not when they had found each other at last, after all the years of loneliness and unhappiness they had both endured, trapped in their worthless marriages.
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