Ernest Wilson was left in charge of the mill, much to Gerald Fairley’s secret delight. For the callous, brainless, and irresponsible Gerald, quite unmoved by his mother’s death, thought only of the infinite opportunities which now presented themselves. He fully intended to assert himself at the mill, and stringently so, in his father’s absence, which he fervently hoped would be prolonged.
TWENTY-THREE
On a warm Sunday afternoon, in June of the following year, Edwin Fairley set out from Fairley Hall for the moors. He carried a picnic basket in one hand, laden with all sorts of delicious tidbits from Cook’s groaning pantry, and in the other a sack containing some gardening implements and a few necessary items.
He and Emma had some hard work to do at Ramsden Crags, a task they had been planning for several weeks. Because of the inclement and frequently rainy weather, they had had to postpone this venture several times. On Friday, when Emma went home for her weekend off, Edwin had walked with her as far as the Crags. They had made an assignation to meet there at three o’clock today, the weather permitting.
And the weather does permit, Edwin thought. He glanced up. The pale sun was continually flitting in and out from behind the patchwork of grey and white clouds that littered the powder-blue sky, but there was no hint of rain. Even the light wind barely rustled the trees and the translucent air was so mild it was almost balmy.
Edwin purposely avoided the stables. A few minutes earlier, when he had gone down to the kitchen to collect the picnic basket, he had observed Annie Stead and Tom Hardy chatting and laughing together in the yard. They were courting, so Emma had informed him, and it was more than likely they would have paid no attention to him whatsoever, as immersed in each other as they appeared to be. On the other hand, he did not want to put them to the test, for he had no particular desire to arouse even their mildest curiosity. Not that it was unusual for him to picnic on the moors, but the sack might create a flicker of interest. He walked swiftly through the walled rose garden and out under the clump of old oaks. In a short time he was across the Baptist Field and mounting the slope rising on to the flat plateau of moorland and the narrow track that ran all the way to the Ghyll, and Ramsden Crags beyond.
Edwin breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the pure air, which was so much more bracing on this higher ground. His health was now fully restored and he felt vital again. At the beginning of May he had caught a summer cold, which had settled on his chest and developed into a bronchial condition. After two weeks in the school sanatorium he had been sent home to recuperate at the insistence of the school doctor.
Tom Hardy had driven the carriage over to Worksop to collect him, since his father was away, not an unusual circumstance these days. As far as Edwin could ascertain, his father made only periodic trips to Fairley, when absolutely necessary, and was often in London, or travelling on the Continent attending to unspecified business. However, his father had engaged a tutor for him, so that he would not fall behind in his studies. Although Edwin was a disciplined student, and perfectly capable of working alone, his father had wanted to be certain he sustained his brilliant scholastic record. It had been decided he would go to Cambridge when he was eighteen, to study for the bar under the Downing Professor of English Law at Downing College. Edwin and the tutor were alone at the Hall, except for Gerald and the servants. Edwin did not mind. Actually, he rather relished it. He was pretty much left to his own devices, except for the mornings of intense study with the tutor. Gerald ignored his existence, and barely addressed a remark to him. He was far too busy. Because the mill in Fairley, and the other two in Stanningley Bottom and Armley, took up most of Gerald’s time, the two brothers only saw each other at meals, and not always then. Sometimes Gerald took one of Cook’s packed lunches to the Fairley mill and ate there, an idea so unpalatable to Edwin it positively nauseated him.
Edwin began to whistle merrily as he headed along the ridge to Ramsden Crags, striding out at a brisk pace, his fair hair blowing in the breeze. He was looking forward to seeing Emma, and also to their impending project. Emma had challenged a theory he had about the Crags, and for some reason he felt compelled to prove his point. He wondered if he was being juvenile. Perhaps.
Edwin Fairley, who had just celebrated his seventeenth birthday, now considered himself to be quite grown-up, and he did appear much older than his actual years. This was due, not unnaturally, to the events that had taken place in the past year, not the least of which was his mother’s death, so sudden and tragic. Her passing away had had a more profound effect on him than on his brother, for he had been so much closer and more intimately involved with his mother than Gerald. Edwin’s sorrow was, at first, overwhelming, but being of a scholastic nature and a voracious reader like his father, he had inevitably buried himself in his studies. This intense dedication to learning prevented him from dwelling morbidly on her death, and its appalling circumstances. He had thrown himself, and with a vengeance, into innumerable other school activities, and all manner of sports, and these too had helped him to assuage his grief. They kept him busy from early morning until late at night. Eventually he had been enabled to adopt a more philsophical attitude, and now, finally, he accepted her loss with considerably less heartbreak.
Olivia Wainright had also played a crucial role in Edwin’s development, albeit indirectly but, nonetheless, most effectively. When he visited her in London, for a portion of the school holidays, he was exposed to a wide circle of her friends—politicians, writers, journalists, and artists, many of them celebrated and outstanding men in their fields. These privileged encounters, in a society that was gay, pleasure-loving, and sophisticated, always had a tremendous impact on him. Olivia, aware of his charming manners and acutely attuned to his intelligent mind, made a point of including him at many of her soirées, which he thoroughly enjoyed and at which he executed himself admirably. Consequently, he had matured and had acquired a measure of polish and self-confidence. In certain subtle ways he was quite a different boy from the pampered ‘mummy’s darling’ he had been when Adele was alive.
But, apart from the changes in his personality and attitudes, Edwin had also undergone an amazing physical transformation, due in no small measure to his newly acquired interest in sports. He had grown in height and filled out, and he was a strikingly handsome youth whose marked resemblance to his father was becoming more pronounced. He had inherited Adam Fairley’s expressive bluish-grey eyes, his sensitive mouth with its hint of sensuality, and his intelligent, well-articulated face, although Edwin’s was much less ascetic than his father’s. He was now almost as tall and as broad as Adam. His physique, which was already quite splendid, and his father’s classically handsome face, had earned him the nickname of ‘Adonis’ at Worksop, much to his irritation. He was constantly embarrassed by the flurry his looks created with the sisters and cousins of his school friends.
Edwin considered them twittering, inspid, and callow creatures. He loathed their vapid attentions, which flustered him. He much preferred to be in the company of Emma, who had been such a consolation to him during his bereavement. Not one of those young ladies of Quality, or the rich debutantes his father foisted on him, could compare to his Emma in beauty and grace, wit and spirit. And by God, she was beautiful. Every time he returned to Fairley she delighted him even more. At sixteen she was fully and exquisitely developed. Her shapely and feminine figure was that of a young woman and her face was sublime.
Edwin smiled happily. It would be grand to be with Emma, away from the prying eyes of the other servants. She made him laugh with her quick wit and her penchant for striking at the heart of the matter. He chuckled to himself. Murgatroyd came in for a great deal of her acerbity. She called him ‘Frozen Face’ behind his back, but only to Edwin. His brother Gerald had been dubbed ‘Skinny Ribs’, which made him laugh uproariously, since the obese Gerald was disgustingly fatter. These thoughts of Emma made him increase his pace and he was soon at the Crags. He put down the picnic basket and the sack and stepping
forward, he shaded his eyes with his hand, scanning the landscape.
Emma, climbing up over the last crest, saw Edwin before he saw her. She began to run. The heather and bracken brushed against her feet, the wind caught at her long skirts so that they billowed out like puffy clouds, and her hair was a stream of russet-brown silk ribbons flying behind her as she ran. The sky was as blue as speedwells and the larks wheeled and turned against the face of the sun. She could see Edwin quite clearly now, standing by the huge rocks just under the shadow of the Crags above Ramsden Ghyll. When he saw her he waved, and began to climb upwards towards the ledge where they always sat protected from the wind, surveying the world far below. He did not look back, but went on climbing.
‘Edwin! Edwin! Wait for me,’ she called, but her voice was blown away by the wind and he did not hear. When she reached Ramsden Crags she was out of breath and her usually pale face was flushed from exertion.
‘I ran so hard I thought I would die,’ she gasped as he helped her up on the ledge.
He smiled at her. ‘You will never die, Emma. We are both going to live for ever and ever at the Top of the World.’
Emma glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and laughed. Then she looked down and said, ‘I see yer brought the sack.’
‘Of course. And a picnic, too, for later.’
‘I thinks we’ll be needing it, after all the hard work we’ve got ter do.’
‘It’s not going to be as difficult as you think, Emma, and I’ll be doing most of the work.’ He scrambled down over the small boulders that were like roughhewn steppingstones, and dropped to the ground. He opened the sack, removed a hammer, a chisel, and a large nail. These he stowed away in his pocket.
Looking up at Emma on the ledge above him, Edwin said, ‘I’m going to prove to you that this central rock is not part of the actual formation of the Crags, but is quite separate. And also that it can be moved.’ As he spoke, Edwin kicked the base of a rock about four feet high and two feet wide. This was wedged between the larger boulders that soared up well beyond the ledge and into the sky.
‘Well, maybe it can,’ Emma said, glancing down at him. ‘But I still thinks that even if yer moves it yer won’t find owt behind it. Only more rocks.’
Edwin shook his head. ‘No, Emma, I disagree. I am convinced there is a hollow space behind the rock.’ He climbed back up on to the ledge, edged past her carefully, and positioned himself next to the peak of the rock in question. This was adjacent to the ledge, but a few inches lower, and it protruded slightly. Edwin knelt down on the ledge and took out the hammer and chisel. He moved closer to the rock and leaned over it.
‘What are yer going ter do, Edwin?’ Emma asked curiously, and cautioned quickly, ‘Be careful yer don’t topple over.’
‘I’m quite safe,’ he responded, and went on, ‘You remember the crevice where I lost that shilling weeks ago. I heard it rattling as it fell, even though you say you didn’t. I am going to make this crevice larger, into a hole, so that I can look down and see what’s there, below the rock.’
‘Yer’ll see nowt but more rocks,’ she said bluntly.
Edwin chuckled, and began to chip away at the crevice. Emma watched him patiently, shaking her head. She was quite certain Edwin was wasting his time, but she had decided to humour him when he had first lost his shilling. After ten minutes of constant chipping he had made a hole in the crevice about two inches in diameter. He lowered his head and pressed one eye to the hole, gripping the sides of the rock to balance himself.
‘Can yer see owt, then?’ asked Emma.
Edwin straightened up and shook his head. ‘No, it’s all black.’ He pulled the nail out of his pocket, and half turned his head so he could see Emma. ‘Edge closer to me, Emma, and listen very carefully.’ She did as he told her, shuffling along the ledge and squeezing up to him. They both bent towards the hole and he dropped the nail into it. There was no sound at all for a few seconds and then they heard a distinct tinkle as it landed.
‘Now! Did you hear that, Emma?’
‘Yes, I did. But it might have dropped on another rock, that’s all.’
‘No, I don’t think it did. It took too long to fall. It’s on the ground,’ Edwin cried firmly. He returned the implements to his jacket pocket. ‘Move back along the ledge and climb down, but go slowly, so you don’t slip. I’ll follow you.’
Emma lowered herself on to the boulders below the ledge, backed down them cautiously, and jumped to the ground. Edwin was right behind her. He took off his jacket, threw it carelessly on one side, and rolled up his sleeves. Emma stood watching him as he fished around in the sack, a sceptical look on her face. ‘What are yer going ter do now?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to remove all the moss and bits of heather and weeds growing here,’ he exclaimed, indicating the base and lower sides of the rock. ‘And you can help me.’ He handed her a garden trowel and took up a small spade himself. ‘You work at that side, and I’ll work here.’
Emma thought this whole idea was a waste of time and energy; nevertheless, she began to work vigorously, digging out clumps of heather and moss which had crusted the rock for years. After a while she began to perspire. She put down the trowel, rolled up her sleeves, and opened the collar of her dress. Feeling more comfortable, she began to dig again. After about twenty minutes of hard toil they had accomplished a remarkable job of cleaning up the face and base of the rock.
Edwin stepped back and regarded it thoughtfully. ‘Look, Emma,’ he said. He took hold of her hand and pulled her to him. He pointed to the rock. ‘Do you see how the rock itself is more clearly outlined, now that we’ve removed all the overgrowth. It’s not part of the entire formation of the Crags at all. See how it has been wedged in between the great boulders. No rock could fall so accurately, Emma. I am certain it was placed there.’
Emma nodded her head. She had to agree. He was right, and she said so, adding, ‘But, Edwin, it’s still a fair size. How do yer think we’re going ter shift it?’
He strode over to the rock and said, with absolute self-confidence, ‘I am going to make this crevice here larger.’ He tapped the central rock, and pointed out a small space at the base, between the rock itself and the soaring Crags rising up behind it. ‘Then I am going to use a crowbar and a wedge to push the rock away from the Crags.’
‘It’ll never work, Edwin. And yer might hurt yerself.’
‘No, I won’t, Emma. And I’ve thought it all out very carefully.’
Working with the hammer and chisel, Edwin had soon made the space big enough to take the crowbar. He put the crowbar into the hole and wedged a small but strong log behind it, placing this on the ground to the left of the rock. ‘Stand back, Emma,’ he warned, ‘go over there by the trees. The rock will fall forward, and I don’t want you standing in its path.’ Using all of his strength, Edwin pressed on the crowbar, pushing the protruding end of it on to the log, using it as a lever to force the rock away from the Crags. But it did not move. Edwin began to sweat profusely, and his arms ached, but he forced himself against the crowbar determinedly.
Emma held her breath, clasping her hands together. Edwin was wrong. It would not work. She had no sooner thought this than she saw it moving.
‘Edwin! Edwin! I think I saw it coming away,’ she shouted.
‘I know,’ he gasped, ‘I felt it myself.’ With a final thrust of energy he pressed against the crowbar, and, as he did, the rock toppled forward as he had predicted it would. A small aperture on the face of Ramsden Crags was revealed. This was about eighteen inches wide and two feet high. Edwin could not conceal his excitement. He swung around.
‘Look, Emma! There’s a hole here,’ he cried triumphantly. He knelt down and peered into it, and then he inched his head inside. ‘It’s like a little tunnel. And here’s the shilling and the nail!’ He picked them up and pulled back. He held them out to show her, his face wreathed in smiles.
‘Where do yer think it goes?’ Emma asked, running to join him at the a
perture.
‘I don’t know. Under the Crags, I suspect. They do stretch back for miles, you know. I’m going in.’
‘Oh, Edwin, do yer think yer should?’ A worried look settled on her face. ‘It might be dangerous. What if yer started a rockslide and got stuck in there?’
Edwin stood up and pulled out his handkerchief. He mopped his damp face and brushed his hair back. ‘I’ll only go in a little way. And I brought candles and matches. They’re in the sack. Would you get them for me, Emma, and that length of rope, please.’
‘Yes, course I will.’ She brought him the items he had requested. ‘I’m going in with yer,’ she announced.
He stared at her and frowned. ‘I don’t think so. Not at first. Let me go and investigate, and then I’ll come back for you.’
She compressed her lips and said stoutly, ‘I’m not afraid, yer knows.’
‘Yes, I know that. But I think you should stay here, just in case I need something.’ As he spoke Edwin tied the rope around his waist. He handed her the other end. ‘Hold on to this. There could be a labyrinth of tunnels in there. I’ve been reading up on rock climbing and potholing, and potholers always tie a rope around themselves, for safety.’
Emma, who was now visibly impressed that Edwin’s deductions had been accurate, immediately saw the sense of this. ‘Well, just be careful—’ She looked at Edwin, so tall and muscular, and then at the aperture. ‘How are yer going ter get in there? That’s what I wants ter know. It’s ever so tiny.’
‘I’ll have to squeeze in, and then crawl along.’
‘Yer’ll get yerself all mucky, Edwin Fairley. Cook’ll wonder what yer’ve been up ter. Yer’ll cop it!’
Edwin’s mouth twitched and he burst out laughing. ‘Emma, do stop worrying so much, and about trivialities. Cook’s not going to say anything. We’ve come this far. Let’s at least complete the project.’
A Woman of Substance Page 37
