Emma unlatched the door and picked up one of the vases, carrying it through into the dining room. She must get through her work today without the slightest show of emotion or panic, and she must avoid Edwin at all costs. She could never look on that face again, for her contempt had turned to bitter hatred; a hatred so consuming, so virulent it filled her mind absolutely, obliterating all else. She did not even think of the child she was carrying or the overwhelming problems facing her. This deadly hatred for Edwin Fairley, born in her that day, only served to reinforce the loathing she had always, held for Adam Fairley, and it was a dreadful living force within her, lingering in her heart for almost all the days of her life. In essence it became a motivating factor, coalescing with her inherent ambition, her drive, her energy, and her shrewdness to propel her to heights not even she, at that moment, dreamed possible.
TWENTY-SIX
The following morning Edwin Fairley strolled across the mill yard, a disconsolate expression on his face. From time to time he glanced up at the village on the hill, wondering miserably about Emma.
He knew she would leave Fairley this weekend, if she had not already gone. He was quite positive about that. Very late last night, unable to sleep, beset by worry and twinges of guilt, he had crept up to her attic room. The suitcase he had deposited there that afternoon had disappeared, along with her clothes from the closet and the other small and pitiful things she kept at the Hall, such as the small vase of dried heather on the windowsill and bits of jewellery, including her prized possession, a horrid little green-glass brooch.
Edwin sighed. He was feeling wretched. He had behaved like an unspeakable cad. If only she had told him less abruptly, had waited until his head had cleared after the terrible shock of her disastrous news. Perhaps then he would have been able to think more intelligently, could have been more helpful. How? nagged a small voice. If he were honest with himself he had to admit he would not have married her. That was out of the question. But—Oh, God, stop driving yourself crazy, he told himself furiously, unable to cope with the turbulent thoughts racing through his head.
Emma had gone. And that was that. Under the circumstances, maybe she had been wise to leave immediately. Had she stayed she might have dragged him into the situation, albeit unwittingly, and there would have been a scandal the likes of which he did not dare to contemplate. That’s unfair and unworthy of you to think that, Edwin Fairley, he chided himself with a stab of shame and a flash of rare insight into himself and Emma. She would never have claimed him as the father of her child. He knew her well enough to recognize that somehow she would have protected him. Sickeningly, he wondered how she would manage on her own, what she would do, where she had gone, or was going. In his state of panic, and stunned disbelief yesterday, he had not even bothered to find out her intended destination and now it haunted him.
He stopped his pacing when he reached the horses tethered near the mill gates. He stroked Russet Dawn, trying to still those distressing feelings so paramount within him. A brisk ride over the moors would do him good. He looked up. Not that it was a very good day. It was excessively gloomy. The sky was overcast and heavy and there was a strong wind. On the other hand, the visit to Kirkend would certainly preoccupy his mind and might conceivably prevent him from dwelling on the problem of Emma, and also alleviate the discomfort he was feeling within himself.
Edwin stared into space, his eyes vacant, and so at first he did not notice the little trickles of smoke eddying out from under the doors of the great warehouse nearby. It was only when Russet Dawn suddenly whinnied and pranced that he looked about quickly and spotted the smoke, which was becoming increasingly more obvious. Edwin caught his breath, soothed the horses, and ran towards the warehouse apprehensively.
As Edwin sped across the yard Jack Harte was coming around the corner from the weaving shed, carrying a pile of empty sacks. The side window of the warehouse was in his direct line of vision and his eyes flared open as he saw the red glow inside. He also saw Edwin Fairley tugging at the latch on the heavy doors. Jack started to run, fear flickering across his face, calling to Edwin to get away from the doors. ‘Don’t open ‘em, lad,’ he screamed, ‘it’s the worst thing thee can do. Get away from there, lad!’ Edwin glanced at him, but ignored his words and continued his fumbling efforts to open the doors. He finally managed this and went inside, just as Jack reached the warehouse. Jack dumped the sacks on the ground and rushed in after Edwin, still crying out his warnings of imminent danger.
At the far end of the vast warehouse several wooden skips used for transporting the wool and the bobbins had somehow caught fire. Flying embers from these had embedded themselves in the bales of raw wool packed in sacks, and which were stacked on top of each other. They were blazing furiously, other stacks adjacent to them catching light in rapid succession. The warehouse itself, as well as the enormous quantities of wool stored there, was going up in flames like a tinder box, sparks and embers flying, smoke billowing, beams and wooden walls cracking and splintering away as tongues of fire rose up to the ceiling and spread out in all directions. In a few minutes it would be a conflagration of terrifying proportions, for the wind coming in through the open doors was fanning the flames into a molten furnace and the heat was sweltering, the smoke overpowering.
‘Get out of ’ere, Master Edwin,’ Big Jack yelled above the roar of the flames devouring the wooden building.
‘We must do something at once!’ gasped Edwin, who was staring at the blazing scene as if mesmerized.
‘Aye, I knows that, lad. But this is no fit place for thee!’ Jack grabbed his arm with a show of force and pulled him away. ‘Come on, out of ’ere this minute. We’ll have ter get the steam engine and the pumps going right fast if we’re ter stop this spreading.’
They turned together, Jack leading the way through the heavy smoke swirling like a maelstrom in the warehouse, choking and blinking their watering eyes as they groped their way outside. Because of the density of the smoke, which was increasing by the second, Edwin did not see the iron ring attached to a trapdoor in the floor and he caught his foot in it, falling flat on his face. He tried to free himself, shouting to Jack, who was ahead of him. Jack pivoted swiftly and ran back. Dismay flashed across his face when he saw the toe of Edwin’s riding boot wedged in the ring. He knelt down, endeavouring to release it.
‘Can thee get thee leg out of thee boot, lad?’ Jack cried.
‘Not in this position.’ Nevertheless, he wriggled and twisted his leg, but to no avail.
‘This ring’s a bit loose. I’ll try and wrench it out of t’floor,’ Jack spluttered, coughing harshly and wafting the smoke out of his face. Using all of his strength, he pulled on the iron ring and to his relief, after several strong tugs, it began to tear away from the wooden trapdoor.
At this moment, the wide platform running around the warehouse, just below ceiling level, began to glow as the fire rolled along it unchecked, a river of white-hot roaring flames. Bales of burning wool were being released as the platform sagged, disintegrated, and collapsed. Jack looked up with horror, a cry strangled in his throat. Huge bales were plummeting haphazardly from the platform just above them, like fiery meteors intent on destruction, and Edwin was trapped immediately below. Without hesitation or thought for himself, Jack threw himself on top of the boy protectively, shielding Edwin’s body with his own. One of the flaming bales landed on top of Jack’s back. Jack bit down on the scream that bubbled in his throat. Pain tore through him from the crushing weight of the bale and the fire that immediately ignited his clothes and began to sear his flesh. He struggled violently to throw off the bale, heaving his great shoulders and kicking with his legs. With a burst of energy he managed to thrust it partially away from his shoulders, and with one final desperate heave that took all of his diminishing strength it rolled over to one side. Jack leapt up, choking on the smoke he had inhaled. He ignored his excruciating pain and his burning clothes, and wrenched again on the ring with both of his powerful hands. Mercifu
lly, because he had managed to loosen it before, it came away at once, and Edwin scrambled to his feet, his face livid with fear as well as distress for the man who had so selflessly and valiantly saved him.
Coughing and spluttering, the two of them stumbled out of the warehouse as a central portion of the roof crumbled. Jack staggered and fell convulsively on to the ground, twisting and writhing in agony, chest heaving, unable to breathe. Coughing himself, but inhaling the fresher air, Edwin ripped off his jacket and began to beat out Jack’s burning clothes with it.
Adam Fairley was racing across the yard with Wilson, shouting orders to the couple of dozen mill hands close on his heels. He was aghast when he saw Jack Harte’s blazing clothes and Edwin’s vain efforts to smother the flames. Shrugging out of his jacket, he cried to Wilson, ‘Bring buckets of water and get me those sacks over there.’
With speed and efficiency and great presence of mind, Adam threw his jacket on to Jack’s burning shirt, grabbed Edwin’s jacket from him and wrapped it around Jack’s legs. He added the sacks Wilson had flung to him and rolled Jack on the ground in them, unconscious of the flames which singed his own hands. Wilson panted up with two buckets of water, followed by other workers carrying extra pails. Adam and Wilson threw water over Jack to cool the heat and deaden the flames until they were entirely extinguished, leaving behind charred clothes and sacks clinging to Jack, who lay inert and seemingly lifeless.
Adam knelt down and felt Jack’s pulse. It was faint but there was a beat. Jack looked up at Adam, a glazed expression in his bloodshot eyes. He blinked. A small groan escaped his lips before he passed out from shock and the pains of his extensive burns.
Adam stood up, shaking his head worriedly. ‘Carry him into my office, and gently!’ Adam barked at two of the workers. He glanced swiftly at Edwin hovering by his side. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, Father. My clothes are a bit scorched,’ Edwin answered between the coughing that racked him, ‘and I’m full of this rotten smoke. But that’s all.’
‘Then you’re fit enough to ride up to Clive Malcolm’s. Tell him Jack Harte has been badly burned. Tell him to get here at once!’
Edwin was rooted to the spot. He gaped at his father speechlessly, sudden comprehension trickling into his mind.
‘Confound it, Edwin! Don’t stand there like an idiot!’ Adam screamed angrily. ‘Get going, boy. The man’s life is in danger. He needs medical attention at once.’
‘Yes, Father.’ He stared at Adam again and then his eyes swivelled after Jack’s body being carried into the offices. ‘He saved my life,’ he said quietly. ‘The bale would have fallen on me if he hadn’t thrown himself over me.’
‘All right, Edwin, all right! I understand!’ Adam snapped impatiently. ‘I understand what you’re saying. But we’ll discuss that later. Now for God’s sake do as I say. Go to Clive and ride like the very devil. Time is of the essence. Tell Clive this is extremely urgent.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Edwin swung himself up into the saddle and galloped out of the mill yard, one thought piercing into his brain with the most penetrating clarity: Emma’s father had saved his life.
Adam now turned his attention to the burning warehouse. Fortunately, he had had the foresight to buy one of the new small steam-powered fire engines several years before, for just such an emergency. Ten of the men had already dragged it out of the shed where it was stored. The coal to power it was burning and the men were expertly coupling two hoses to the hydrants. Other mill hands from one of the back buildings were swelling into the yard, including the bully boys and little bobbin liggers. Amongst them was Frank Harte, who had not witnessed his father’s accident in the fire. Under Wilson’s organization, this group was formed into a chain between the mill yard and the river Aire, passing the brimming buckets of water up to their mates, returning the empty ones down the line to be filled and refilled again and again, until their arms ached. Issuing orders, fully in command of the situation, Adam worked alongside the mill hands grateful for these tough and hardy Yorkshiremen who were going about their duties with cool heads and extraordinary courage in this unexpected and dangerous emergency.
Suddenly the wind shifted. Adam sighed with relief and then he groaned, dismay flooding his face when he saw that part of the burning roof had toppled on to a patch of shrubs adjoining a small copse of trees which edged right up to the main street of the village. Now, with the change in the direction of the wind, the copse was in danger.
‘Wilson, send some of the other men over to me,’ Adam yelled. ‘They’ve got to handle that copse at once! The trees will go next, if we’re not careful. The wind’s blowing the fire that way.’
‘But the mill itself—’ Wilson began.
‘Damn it, man! Do as I say. I can always rebuild the mill. But there are women and children in those cottages. If the trees catch, the fire will spread up into the village itself in no time at all.’
Wilson dispatched five men to consult with Adam, who took them aside urgently. He spoke rapidly but concisely. ‘Grab some axes from the shed and get over to the copse. Chop down small trees and bushes in front of those shrubs burning at the edge of the copse. Cut right down to the soil, clearing a narrow strip in front of the fire, so that any embers flying as it encroaches will fall into the strip and can be quickly extinguished. Then get buckets of water and start dousing all of the trees. We must prevent the fire taking hold in the copse at all costs.’
The five men nodded their understanding and silently scattered to fetch the axes and buckets of water. They set to work in the copse at once. Meanwhile, Adam hurried back to Wilson, who was supervising the spraying of the warehouse. Under the force of the water from the hoses and the buckets the fire was beginning to die down, and with the change in the wind it was now relatively well under control.
Adam took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating, smoke-streaked face. Then he swung around as he heard wheels turning into the yard. Clive Malcolm leapt out with his bag almost before the trap drew to a standstill. He threw the reins to his wife, Violet, who had accompanied him. Edwin cantered into the yard, just behind the trap.
Adam pointed grimly at the offices. ‘Harte’s in a bad way, Clive. Do the best you can.’
‘Any other casualties?’ Clive cried as he raced across the yard.
‘A few men have small burns and one was struck by a piece of falling roof. But nothing too serious, as far as I can ascertain. Get to Harte first. Edwin, go along with the doctor and Mrs Malcolm. See if there is anything you can do to assist them.’
Adam coughed. His lungs were filled with smoke and he felt nauseous from it. He looked over at the copse anxiously. The men had already made progress and were preventing the fire from spreading and, although the shrubs were still burning, the trees leading up to the village were unharmed. Embers flying up into the air were falling into the narrow strip which had been cleared, just as Adam had predicted they would. They were being rapidly dampened and put out with water from the continuous supply of buckets being passed along.
As he looked about him, surveying the damage to the warehouse, Adam slowly became conscious that the wind had dropped unexpectedly. He looked up at the sky. Damnation, why doesn’t it rain? he muttered. He glanced yet again at the overcast sky, praying silently. Wilson hurried to him. ‘I thinks we’ve about got it under control, Squire. I don’t believe the mill’s in any danger now.’ As he spoke Wilson stared at Adam and a smile spread itself across his grimy face. ‘By God, sir, I thinks it’s going ter rain. Do yer knows, I just felt a drop.’
And Wilson was right. Rain it did. For once in his life, Adam Fairley welcomed the deluge that began to pour out of the sky, rippling down in heavy sheets, drenching them all and slaking the smouldering warehouse and the bushes in the copse. The mill hands stopped working and all of them turned to Adam, their voices rising in one single triumphant cheer.
‘We’re allus grumbling and grousing abart the blinking weather on t’moors, Squire, but this bloody rain
’s a gift from ’eaven,’ shouted Eddie, one of the foremen.
Adam grinned. ‘I couldn’t have said it better myself, Eddie.’
Eddie now approached Adam standing with Wilson. ‘Do yer mind if I goes up ter see me mate, Jack Harte, sir? There just might be summat I can do for t’doctor.’
‘Yes, Eddie, please do so. I’m coming in myself.’ Adam rested his hand on Wilson’s shoulder. ‘I think you can manage down here now. By the look of the sky this is no light summer shower.’
‘I agree, sir. I’ll get the men organized with grappling hooks and ladders. We can start clearing up a bit of this mess.’ Wilson glanced at the blackened and charred ruins of the warehouse, still smouldering and steaming under the rain falling in torrents. ‘We was lucky, Squire. We was that!’
Adam nodded. ‘I’ll talk to you later about this, Wilson.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It baffles me how the damn thing started in the first place.’ Wilson returned Adam’s steely gaze but was silent.
Before he went into the offices Adam called the men together in front of the wreckage. ‘I want to thank you, lads, for pitching in the way you did, with such efficiency and coolness. And also with such bravery. There will be bonuses for all of you in your pay next week, as an expression of my very sincere gratitude. You saved the mill, and incidentally, the village as well. I won’t forget this.’
A Woman of Substance Page 43
