‘Beg your pardon,’ she murmured apologetically, whereupon, from the rear of the room where the maids were kneeling in their rustling starched print dresses, came the sound of muffled sniggering. This brought a caustic, shrivelling glance from Agnes Crowther and a look of sheer horror from her offspring, Martha, who, up until now had been sitting with her large brown head most piously bowed, depicting the absolute example of solemn and reverent devoutness. Now, with her prayers so rudely interrupted, she began a series of tutting noises, which only appeared to add to the confusion.
Plunged now into a deep and dour mood, Caleb Crowther declared in sombre voice, ‘We shall proceed!’ He resumed reading from the great book in trembling and resonant tones. Emma bowed her head and folded her hands obediently, but try as she might, she could not keep her attention on the proceedings. Her heart and her thoughts were down the corridor, in that large sunny room at the rear of the house, where the window lent a lovely view of the curved and spectacular lawns which ran right down to the brook and were interspersed with ancient oak trees and all manner of shrubs and greenery. Emma pictured herself and her papa seated by the window: he propped up in the wicker chair, the high-domed back of which gave support to his wasting limbs; and she perched on the window-seat with her legs tucked beneath her and her great love for her papa spilling over in her excited chatter. How she enjoyed bringing a smile to his face and how wonderful it would be if now and then he would give a small delighted chuckle. Suddenly, Emma found herself praying, confiding in God her innermost fears. ‘Please don’t let Papa suffer too much,’ she asked, ‘for he is such a good man.’
Meanwhile, Martha Crowther walked sedately across to the splendid piano which was beside the huge open fireplace, and, with much ceremony, she seated herself on the carved stool of the floral-tapestry seat. She immediately began fussing with the voluminous, cream-coloured, taffeta skirt which rubbed and squeaked as she moved about. Firstly she clutched two handfuls on either side and spread the material out with great deliberation, until it was most admirably draped either side of the stool. Then she began patting and smoothing it, with her ample figure threatening to pop open the seams of her tight-fitting bodice at any moment. When it seemed like she might finally be ready, she paused to bestow a complacent smile on one and all. Though the smile worked her mouth and caused her head to incline slightly, and in so doing highlighting the fact that one of her nostrils was somewhat larger than the other, her small speckley brown eyes remained hard and glittering like pebbles on a beach. As they moved with precision over the sea of heads, they met Emma’s warm gaze and, for a brief moment, they were held reluctantly mesmerized until, alerted by the impatient cough of her father, she swung them stiffly away to examine the sheet of music on the piano-stand. She placed her stubby fingers in the correct position on the keyboard, ready to begin the morning hymn. In anticipation of the first note, everyone simultaneously took a deep breath, but were forced to let it out again as Martha Crowther lifted her two hands, to ensure that the tight spirals of brown hair, which sat priggishly above each ear, were satisfactorily secure. This was her moment – the moment when the plain, otherwise untalented, daughter of Caleb and Agnes Crowther considered herself to be the star of the stage. As always, she intended to savour every second of it. Unfortunately, she had chosen the wrong occasion to play prima donna, for her papa was not in the mood to be entertained.
‘We will forgo the hymn this morning,’ he declared, slamming shut his prayer-book. ‘Go about your business,’ he instructed the servants, who were looking at each other with mouths aghast. As for his wife and daughter, they appeared extremely exasperated: the latter rose from the piano and, pausing only to ask that she may be excused, flounced out of the room with an austere expression on her large, unattractive face. His wife, meanwhile, clapped her hands at the departing servants, with the order to ‘serve breakfast at once!’ Then she hurriedly followed her daughter out of the room, with not so much as a glance at Emma, who was now on her feet and quite taken aback by the speed of events.
‘May I sit with Papa while he has his breakfast?’ she asked her uncle, her heart sinking when he abruptly replied, ‘You may not! . . . I expect you to be seated at the breakfast table in five minutes. After which, please remain behind!’ Emma felt an impending doom, knowing from experience that such an instruction could only mean one thing – she was to be given yet another lecture. But, for the life of her, she could not think what she had done since Sunday to evoke his wrath. On the contrary, she had made every effort to remain inconspicuous for her papa’s sake.
In Emma’s experience breakfast was always a trying occasion, but today it was unbearable. From the moment Emma entered the room, a heavy, forbidding atmosphere descended over the table. Even the maids, who might normally be seen to occasionally lift up the corners of their mouths in a secret shared smile with Emma, went scurrying about their business with sorry faces and deliberately averted eyes.
Emma was not the slightest bit hungry although, in an effort to keep the peace, she did manage to swallow a mouthful or two of the scrambled eggs and, surprisingly, she enjoyed her cup of tea so much that she indulged in a second one. For the most part, however, she picked at her food, skilfully pushing it about her plate, until it appeared that she had eaten more than she actually had. But her mind was preoccupied with what her uncle had in store for her and, throughout the meal, her attention constantly wandered. At present, it was captured by the monstrous sideboard which spanned almost the length of one wall, its twisted decorative pillars reaching up beyond the picture-rail and supporting numerous small oval- and square-shaped mirrors. On some of its many shelves stood large, black, prancing horses, and in the various arched cubicles all manner of bric-a-brac were displayed: heavily-decorated Chinese vases; assorted small glass containers, and little silver candlesticks. All along the top there were plates of every description; some depicting floral sprays, and others boasting hunting scenes. The accumulated impression was one of clutter and chaos. Emma also contemplated the idea that a small forest must have been sacrificed to provide the wealth of timber from which the huge ornate sideboard was constructed. The same could be said of the table at which the family sat, which was some five feet wide and twice as long, with bulbous legs of enormous dimension.
Emma’s gaze went quietly about the room, going from place to place and seeing little there to give her pleasure – apart from the magnificent piano. It was a beautiful object in highly polished walnut, displaying two exquisite candelabras positioned at either end, with a selection of silver-framed photographs between them. This piano had been Emma’s salvation since her arrival at Crowther House. She had enjoyed so many hours of pleasure at its keyboard, particularly in the early days when her papa had had the strength to sit close by and watch her play. Strangely enough, her uncle had not thought fit to punish her by forbidding her access to the piano. On the occasions when she had played for the family gathering, Emma had actually witnessed expressions of pleasure on her uncle’s face – though not on the faces of her cousin and aunt, who remained po-faced throughout and showed little appreciation afterwards.
Emma sneaked a look at them now. As usual, there was little joy on either of their countenances, although, to Emma’s left, Martha had a look of absolute bliss on her face as she stuffed great helpings of food into her rather large mouth. So intent was she not to miss a mouthful, that she took her own breath away, causing her odd-sized nostrils to flare open in their frantic gasp for air. When Caleb Crowther impatiently tapped his teaspoon against the side of his cup, Martha lifted her eyes to him. Upon seeing that he was not pleased with her table-manners, she gave a sheepish half-smile, straightened her back and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. Then she proceeded with her usual irritating habit of picking at the deep pleats of her dress, lifting up great handfuls of her abundant skirt and arranging it about her with painfully laborious deliberation. When her mother let out a tight gasp of irritation, Martha immediately switched her atte
ntion to the muffin on her side-plate, collecting it daintily between finger and thumb in preparation for spreading it with butter. Unfortunately, Martha Crowther’s thick, clumsy fingers were not designed for dainty behaviour, so when the muffin flicked out of them and somersaulted into the centre of the table, Emma was not at all surprised. Seeing the expressions of exasperation on the faces of her Aunt Agnes and Uncle Caleb, Emma desperately tried to restrain herself from laughing out loud.
‘Really, Martha!’ Agnes Crowther shook her head in disapproval, her dark green eyes virtually closed into angry slits. However much Emma thought of her aunt as being a sour-faced individual, she could still appreciate that she was a very attractive woman. She had the darkest of hair, drawn back from her high forehead and parted in the middle with exact precision, before being gathered up above each ear, where it was plaited and wound into thick, tight circles which nestled over her perfectly shaped ears – like sleeping snakes, Emma thought, not for the first time. Her dresses were always high at the neck, buttoned from there down to the tight-fitting waist. At the rear was a bustle as large and grand as Emma had ever seen and the skirt, as always, was extravagantly folded in layered pleats, culminating in a beautifully embroidered hem which swept out at the back in an exaggerated train. Her dresses were of the finest taffeta, always exceptionally handsome, yet never glamorous. The one she wore today was burgundy.
As Emma’s mind wandered, Agnes Crowther secretly compared her own daughter and her brother’s daughter. The former appeared much older than her sixteen years; she was coarse and ungainly, and Agnes Crowther held out little hope that finishing-school would do much to improve her. Her attention then turned to Emma, born a few months after Martha, and already showing the promise of great beauty. Indeed, she was wilful, and she cared little for material things, but even if she were dressed in rags Agnes knew she could command the eye of every man, for she had that elusive beauty which emanated from within and a God-given talent for making the most out of all things. There was a light in those magnificent eyes that shone from a pure and joyous soul – and Agnes Crowther resented her for it.
She glanced at Emma and saw how her longing gaze had sought out the door which would take her from this room, down the corridor and to her papa. She knew how Emma yearned to go to him. She knew also that, long after Thadius had been laid to rest, Emma’s love for him would continue to live on. She envied her brother such steadfast devotion. She let her eyes follow the strong, classic lines of Emma’s lovely face – the small neat nose, the delicate chin, that laughing full mouth. She noted how her sun-kissed hair fell naturally in deep tumbling waves. Her young figure was perfect – small and dainty, adding to the overall picture of everything a young girl growing to womanhood should be. Agnes Crowther saw all this in Emma, and envied her. She also begrudged the fact that, without her brother’s intervention, there would be no finishing-school for Martha, no Breckleton House or comfortable way of life. She ought to feel grateful but all she felt was deep bitterness, since half of the business left by their father should rightly have been hers. It did not matter that the business was already ailing when Thadius took it on, nor that she herself might never have rescued it in the same way as Thadius had done. The fact remained that she had been cheated of her share, so whatever came her way now was no more than her rightful due.
When, presently, breakfast was over, Emma thought it not a moment too soon. Whatever it was her uncle had to say, it was better said sooner than later. When he dismissed all but her, telling the maids to ‘Leave the table . . . You may return when I’m finished,’ Emma’s stomach felt as if it were going to jump out of her mouth. Yet, despite her inner anxiety, she felt that she was ready to hear whatever it was he had to say. However; even she was not prepared for the news he gave her. Her astonishment was clearly written on her face when it became evident that her uncle’s intentions were to put her out to work.
‘How do you mean, Uncle Caleb?’ she enquired as politely as she could. She was not afraid to have to work – indeed, if anything, she welcomed it – but she was anxious to learn exactly what he had in store for her.
‘It is, of course, your papa’s wish that you be made wise in the matters of business, and as his business has always concerned the cotton mills, as did his father’s . . . your grandfather’s . . . before him, it is my belief that you will learn much from being involved in the day-to-day running of such a concern.’
‘I’m not being sent away to school, then . . . like Martha?’ asked Emma, with wide, relieved eyes. She had been dreading such a prospect these past weeks, ever since the dismissal of the woman who had tutored both her and Martha in the rudiments of education – of which embroidery, music and religion and the necessities of keeping house, were given paramount importance. When Martha’s finishing-school was chosen, Emma believed it would be only a matter of weeks, once the holidays were over, before she herself would be packed off. She had respectfully raised the matter with her papa, who was under no illusion regarding her reluctance to leave him. But the issue was always side-stepped and Emma had to finally concede that it was her papa’s wish for her to be sent away. Such a consideration had been painful for her to accept, but as a dutiful daughter it was not for her to question. At her Uncle Caleb’s revelation, she was at first shocked, then delighted, but now she had become apprehensive. Would she have more time for her papa . . . or would she have less?
‘May I ask how I am to be made knowledgeable in the family business?’
‘It surprises me that you ask so politely, Emma Grady, for you have shown no such respect in the past.’ Emma felt his piercing eyes bearing down on her, seeking as always to shrivel her spirit. But she stood straight and proud, her gaze defiantly meeting his. As he continued to look down on her, Caleb Crowther’s thoughts were abruptly transported back over the years, to Emma’s exquisite and beautiful mother, Mary, who had bewitched him beyond belief, and whose fiery, magnificent character was so painfully evident in this young girl who so often dared to challenge him. But she would not get the better of him – not this side of Hell, she wouldn’t. A pang of regret touched his bitter heart. If only he had been blessed with a son. If he had had a son to carry on his name, he might well have altered the course of things, the consequences be damned. As it was, despite his efforts to escape them, he had been shouldered with certain responsibilities towards this girl and Thadius which he would rather not have had thrust upon him. However, these same responsibilities had afforded him salvation from the debtor’s prison and, because of Thadius Grady’s impending departure from this world, had bestowed upon him a fortune and a great deal of power. That much, at least, he liked.
‘Uncle Caleb?’ Emma felt the need to catch his attention, for he appeared to be so deep in thought it seemed he had forgotten she was there.
‘Hhm? . . . yes!’ He cleared his throat and, taken by surprise at the sound of Emma’s voice invading his secret thoughts, he cast down his gaze for a brief moment to quickly compose himself. ‘Leave me now. All will be explained in good time once your papa has been acquainted with my intentions.’ He straightened both his arms outwards, before placing one behind his back and dipping the long sinewy fingers of the other into the pocket of his waistcoat to draw out a silver watch. As he did so, something else came out with it and tumbled to the floor. It was the tiniest, most delicate, finely chiselled lady’s pocket time-piece, enriched by the most intricate figuring. With a furtive movement, Caleb Crowther bent to scoop it up, but not before Emma had seen it. She was furious, for she knew the watch to be a precious gift from her own papa to her mama. It was a thing he had always treasured and she could not let the matter pass.
‘That pocket-watch doesn’t belong to you !’ she accused, stepping forward a pace. ‘It belongs to Papa!’
‘The devil you say!’ The self-indulgent smile had disappeared from Caleb Crowther’s bearded features, and had been replaced by a look as evil as any Emma had ever seen. But she was not intimidated by him, and where
lesser mortals might have fled, she stood her ground and repeated the accusation, this time with more vehemence.
‘It’s my Papa’s watch, I tell you,’ she confronted him boldly as he began trembling from head to toe.
‘Go to your room!’ he insisted, his voice now hardly more than a whisper. But Emma made no move until, the next moment, Mrs Manfred appeared at the door. Her original intention had been to enquire when the master intended to allow the maids in for the purpose of cleaning away the breakfast things, but when she sensed the impending terrible scene, her enquiry was of a very different nature. She had heard Caleb Crowther order Emma to her room and had witnessed with horror how Emma displayed no such intention. Quickly now, she stepped forward in a bold attempt to diffuse the situation.
‘Excuse me, sir . . . shall I escort Miss Grady to her room?’ Her anxious eyes swept with relief as he threw out his arms in a gesture of helplessness, telling her in an impatient voice, ‘Please do so; and quickly, or I will not be responsible for my actions.’ He then swung round to face the fireplace. Meanwhile Mrs Manfred swiftly came to Emma’s side where, casting a sideways warning look at her, she pleaded, ‘Please, Miss Grady.’ Emma’s heart fell like a stone inside her as she thought, I’ve done it again. However she did not regret having spoken up about the pocket-watch, but rather that the entire incident would be reported to her papa in a way that would put her in the wrong.
As Emma followed Mrs Manfred from the room, Caleb Crowther’s angry voice called after them, ‘See that she stays in her room until I send for her.’ He did not look up, but remained poised with one foot planted on the brass fender, one hand clutching the mantelpiece above, and the weight of his body bent tautly over the fireplace.
It was now two o’clock. Emma had spent over four hours pacing the blue-patterned carpet in her room, asking herself again and again why it was that, without fail, she always managed to get on the wrong side of her Uncle Caleb. Then she would defend her actions by reminding herself that it was not entirely her fault. It was he who was the thief, not she; it was he who instilled in her the need to be ever on her guard; and it was he who saw wickedness in every innocent thing she did.
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