A Woman of Substance (44 page)

When they turned into the cobbled stable yard they saw that the kitchen door was wide open, spilling light. Standing in this corridor of light was a distraught Mrs Turner. She was perfectly still, watching, waiting, her arms akimbo, her plump face a stony mask, yet she gave the impression, in her very quietness, of wringing hands and doom and dire consequences. Emma slipped her hand out of Edwin’s and hung back, allowing him to walk ahead of her.

Mrs Turner was utterly relieved and overjoyed to see Edwin, but her anxiety had been so pronounced, and she had been so overwrought for hours, this relief quickly manifested itself in a flash of intense anger. It was only because Edwin was the young master of the house, and therefore entitled to proper respect, that Cook controlled that anger, but her voice was shrill as she stared down at him.

‘Master Edwin! Where have yer been? Yer gave me a right turn when yer didn’t come home. Why, it’s almost ten o’clock. I thought yer were lost on the moors, or dead, with this raging storm. Aye, I did that!’ She shook her head energetically and her eyes sparked. ‘By gum, Master Edwin, it’s a
good job the Squire’s away, and Master Gerald is in Bradford for the weekend, or yer’d be copping it, yer would indeed. Scared me half ter death, yer did. Why, I’ve had Tom out twice with the lantern, searching for yer up yonder!’

The cook heaved a great sigh that rippled her vast bosom. ‘Well, young man, don’t dawdle about there, come inter the kitchen at once!’ She turned and hurried inside, followed by Edwin, who was mounting the stone steps. She had not noticed Emma, who was reluctantly loitering in the shadows. Edwin stopped at the kitchen door and beckoned. ‘Come on, it’s all right, Emma. I’ll handle Mrs Turner,’ he whispered.

‘I’ve got water boiling in the set pot in the washhouse,’ Cook announced from the centre of the kitchen, her eyes roving swiftly over Edwin’s filthy clothes that dripped water, and his mud-splattered face. ‘Well, aren’t yer a right sight, Master Edwin!’ she snorted. ‘Yer look as if yer’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, yer do that.’

It was then that Mrs Turner saw Emma slipping through the door and down the kitchen stairs. She was incredulous and her jaw sagged. ‘Aay, lass, what are yer doing here? I thought yer were safe at home with yer dad. I never dreamt yer were out in this weather.’

Emma did not answer. Mrs Turner looked from Emma to Edwin, staring at them open-mouthed. Her voice was brusque when she found it. ‘Yer haven’t told me yet what yer doing trailing in at this hour, with Master Edwin, looking like a drowned rat. Come on, lass, speak up!’ She glared at Emma, and tapped her foot impatiently, hands on her hips.

Before Emma could reply, Edwin stepped forward and said with a show of self-confidence, and just enough superiority to remind Cook who he was, ‘I came across Emma on the moors, during the storm, Mrs Turner. She told me she was due back this afternoon, to help you with the jam making, or some such other domestic task. We tried to make it back together, but
I
decided the thunderstorm was too dangerous. We sheltered up at Ramsden Crags as best we could, waiting for the tempest to abate.’ He paused and fixed his cool eyes on the roiling cook. ‘It was rather difficult geting back, even when the rain ceased. The Ghyll is flooded and the beck by the
lower road is dangerously high. But, here we are, safe if a little bedraggled.’ He smiled engagingly, displaying that irresistible charm of his father’s, which was so inherent in him.

‘Bedraggled! I thinks that’s the blinking understatement of the year, Master Edwin, I do that!’ Mrs Turner cried scathingly. ‘Yer looks like a couple of mudlarks, nay, guttersnipes!’ Her head rolled again and her eyes flew open. ‘Thank heaven Murgatroyd’s in Shipley. He wouldn’t take kindly ter the fuss yer disappearance has caused around here, Master Edwin. Mark my words, he wouldn’t.’

‘I didn’t disappear, Mrs Turner,’ Edwin responded quietly but with firmness. ‘I got stranded on those wretched moors, through no fault of my own.’

‘Aye, what yer say is true enough,’ she muttered. She glared at them suddenly. ‘Look at yer both, dripping mucky water and mud all over me clean floor. Upstairs at once, Master Edwin, and inter the bathtub. I don’t want yer getting badly again. And take yer filthy boots off. I can’t be having yer tracking mud all over t’carpet upstairs,’ she admonished, but not unkindly.

Mrs Turner turned to Annie, who had remained silent but wide-eyed and agog with curiosity during this discourse. ‘Annie, run ter the washhouse and get two big pails of water, and hurry upstairs ter Master Edwin’s bathroom with ’em. And then bring two buckets in here for Emma.’

Cook now gave Emma her total attention. ‘Yer shouldn’t have stayed up on the moors, lass, with Master Edwin. Yer should’ve turned back. Fact is, yer could have both made it back ter the village in no time at all,’ she remonstrated, her irascibility in evidence. She shook her head and looked from one to the other penetratingly. ‘I thought yer’d have had more sense than that, lass, and Master Edwin as well. Anyroads, inter the servants’ bathroom, me lass. Yer need a hot tub afore yer catch yer death.’

Emma forced a smile on to her face. ‘Yes, Mrs Turner.’ She hurried to the servants’ bathroom behind the kitchen without looking at Edwin.

Edwin had removed his boots and went up the stairs. He
swung around at the top and said sweetly, with a warm smile, ‘I do apologize, Mrs Turner, for causing you grief and worry. It was not intentional, you know.’

‘Aye, Master Edwin, I knows.’

‘Oh, by the way, I’m afraid I had to abandon the picnic basket. But I’ll retrieve it for you another day.’

‘Aye, I expects yer will, if there’s owt left of it,’ she mumbled. There was such chagrin on his face she softened, for Edwin was her favourite. ‘When yer’ve had yer bath, get straight inter yer bed, and I’ll bring yer up a nice plate of cold lamb and some bubble-and-squeak. I knows how much yer enjoys that,’ she said, indicating the pan of leftover vegetables frying gently on the stove. ‘I’ve kept the bubble-and-squeak warm for hours for yer, Master Edwin.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Turner.’ He smiled and was gone.

Cook gazed after his retreating figure and then sat down with a loud thump in the chair, her face creased with worry. She had seen the two of them, whispering and laughing together in corners of the house, when they were unaware of her keen but silent observation. She had also noticed them in the garden together, too many times for her liking of late. She pondered on Edwin’s story, for a moment doubting it. She frowned. Yet it had a ring of truth to it, and she had never caught Master Edwin out in lies, or deceitfulness, since the day he was born. He wasn’t like Gerald, who was cunning and devious.

Still…small suspicions crept into her mind, which was now awash with perplexed and troubled thoughts. It’s not right, servants and gentry mixing, she said inwardly. Stepping out of her class, that lass is. She pondered further on this. ‘That’s bad. It makes for real trouble. We have ter know our place,’ she said aloud to the empty room. Elsie Turner shuddered unexpectedly and goose pimples ran up her fat arms, as long-forgotten memories rushed back, so clear and vividly alive they brought her up in her chair with a start. Not again, she thought, and shivered. It can’t be happening again.

Emma walked across the terrace and down the path leading to the rose garden, carrying the flower basket on her arm, the garden shears in her hand. Lord and Lady Sydney were coming to luncheon, and Cook had sent her out to cut some blooms for the Waterford crystal vases in the dining and drawing rooms. Emma had a great love of flowers, in particular roses, and this garden was devoted to them, as its name implied. It was her favourite spot in the whole of the vast grounds of Fairley Hall and, to Emma, it seemed oddly out of character with the house, which she found ugly and depressing, for the garden was filled with an enveloping tranquillity that gave her a sense of peacefulness, and its beauty enriched her soul.

The lovely old garden was surrounded on all sides by stone walls hundreds of years old, covered with climbers that had been diligently trained over them, and which also scrambled up into two ancient trees at the far end, their blossoms shining amongst the darker foliage of the branches like fragile fragments of spun silk of the purest white. Wide borders under the walls flourished with floribunda roses, chosen especially for their large flowers and long blooming period, and they washed the garden with rafts of flaming colour the summer through. They were planted in large blocks, thickly clustered together, each one of a different variety, a riotous mingling of candescent hues. Blood red faded into deep coral, which in turn edged into blush and paler dusty pinks, with white and yellow adding their delicately fresh tints to this lavish interplay of roseate shades, coils of velvet set amidst the verdant leaves.

In the centre, surrounded by gravel paths, was the display area of the garden. This parterre, with its ornamental arrangement of flower beds of different shapes and sizes, was a stunning formal counterpoint to those wild and abundant borders rambling naturally in their informality, but which had been
precisely planned for this striking contrasting effect. In the parterre, the rose beds of hybrid tea varieties were encircled by box, cut in triangles and diamonds and squares, the box clipped flat-topped, resembling moulded slabs as though meticulously carved out of polished stone. Like the rest of the grounds, the rose garden had suffered severe damage in the violent storm that had torn up the district in June. But Adam Fairley had brought in expert gardeners, including a rose specialist and a landscape artist, to assist his own gardener, and with an enormous expenditure of money and time, and superb skill, they had miraculously restored it to its former glory.

In the shining stillness of this blazing August morning, the garden had an enthralling and poignant beauty that caused Emma to catch her breath and pause to admire its exquisiteness. The sun floated high in a cloudless cornflower sky and the air was limpid and heavy with the heady scent of the fragrant roses that drifted all around her. Not a leaf moved and the only sound was the faint flutter of rushing wings as a lone bird soared up into the pellucid light, its warbling a faintly retreating echo. Emma sighed, marvelling at the loveliness all around her, and then moved on, intent in her purpose.

Since the roses in the parterre were never cut, Emma headed for the wilder borders under the walls. She perspired a little as she hurried down the gravel path and was grateful to reach the trees whose lush bowers, thickly green and low-hanging, offered cool refreshing shade. She knelt down and began to clip the stems, moving from shrub to shrub, selecting her blossoms carefully. The gardener had taught her how to cut only a few blooms from each bush, so that the overall appearance of the magnificent floribunda was never ruined by bare patches. She handled the roses gently, for their heads were fully opened, almost overblown, paying infinite attention to colour and variety, filling the basket slowly.

Emma smiled to herself as she worked. Edwin had returned to Fairley last night with the Squire, who always came back to Yorkshire for the start of the grouse-shooting season. Edwin had been visiting Olivia Wainright at her country house in the South for the last two weeks. To Emma it seemed like two
years. The Hall was a desolate place at the best of times, but especially so with only Gerald Fairley in residence, and it had begun to oppress her even more than usual. The lofty rooms, so vast and shadowy, were lifeless and eerily silent, and she always fled from them as soon as her work was finished. Now Edwin had returned everything would be different. She had missed his smiles, his tender endearments and his adoration, and their picnics on the moors, which had continued through June into July until he had left.

Sometimes Emma had gone up to the Top of the World and sat alone on her flat rock under the shadow of Ramsden Crags, daydreaming, lost in a multitude of thoughts. She never went into the cave without Edwin. Before he had departed for his holidays he had instructed her firmly never to attempt to move the rock without him, for it would be dangerous and she might easily hurt herself.

But now he was back and her loneliness had already been dispelled. Earlier that morning, when they had bumped into each other in the upstairs corridor, they had whisperingly arranged to meet in the rose garden for a few minutes before he went riding. She could hardly bear the agony of waiting for him. She fervently wished he would hurry. Her basket was filled to overflowing; also, Cook would be wondering where she was. A few moments later Emma heard his footsteps crunching on the gravel and looked up expectantly. She felt a quickening of her heart, unreasonably so, and a rush of happiness surged through her, bringing that vibrant light into her eyes, a smile to her face.

Edwin strode swiftly down the path with a nonchalant and carefree air, blithely swinging his crop in his hand. He was wearing a white shirt with a yellow silk ascot at his throat, buff breeches, and highly polished brown riding boots that glinted in the sunlight. He looked taller, broader, more grown-up than ever. How handsome he is, thought Emma, and her throat tightened. She felt a sharp stab of pain, and she recognized it fully as the bittersweet pain of love.

Edwin’s face lit up when he saw her and he increased his pace. Then he was standing over her, smiling widely, his greyish-blue eyes reflecting his own obvious delight at being
back again. Emma thought her heart would burst. He stretched out his hand and helped her up, walking her to a corner out of view of the house. He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, running a suntanned hand down her back caressingly. Then he stood away, his strong fingers gripping her shoulders, and he gazed deeply into her face as if seeing it for the first time. By God, she is a beauty, he thought, excitement trickling through him.

‘I’ve missed you, Emma,’ he said vehemently, his ardour apparent on his face. ‘I couldn’t wait to get back. Did you miss me?’

‘Oh, yes, Edwin, I did. It was lonely with yer gone.’ She smiled. ‘Did yer enjoy yer holidays, then?’

He laughed and made a face. ‘Well, yes, in some ways. But it was all a little too social for my liking. Aunt Olivia had tons of other guests coming and going interminably. She also gave two dances, which I could well have done without. Those silly debutante daughters of her friends do so get on my nerves.’

Emma held herself very still under his hands gripping her so tightly. Jealousy flicked into her mind at the thought of Edwin holding other girls in his arms, if only to dance with them. She found herself quite unable to speak.

Observing the pained look which crossed her face, he chided himself for his thoughtlessness, and then he grinned engagingly. ‘I much prefer to be with you, Emma, my sweet one. Surely you know that.’ He relaxed his hold. ‘Let’s go and sit over there,’ he suggested, nodding to the old rustic seat made of knotted branches resting under a shady tree in a dim far corner of the garden.

He carried the flower basket for her, and when they were settled on the seat he said, ‘Can we meet at the Top of the World on Sunday for a picnic? It is your weekend off, is it not?’

‘Yes, it’s me weekend off,’ said Emma.

‘You will meet me then, won’t you?’

Emma looked at him, her eyes serious as they searched his face, now so dear to her and rarely out of her mind’s eye, day or night.

Edwin smiled lovingly. ‘You look very pensive all of a sudden. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about our
trysts? It can’t be that you don’t love me any more.’

‘Of course I love yer,’ she exclaimed. ‘Edwin—’ Emma hesitated and swallowed. The words she knew must be said were lodged in her throat.

Edwin touched her shoulder fondly. ‘Well then, why are you hesitating about meeting me?’

‘Edwin, I’m going ter have a baby!’ she blurted out harshly, not knowing how to tell him more gently, no longer able to carry this worrisome burden alone.

As Emma spoke her eyes did not leave his face, and she clasped her hands together to stop them trembling. In that tortuous moment of silence that hung between them like a lead curtain Emma’s heart dropped. She was acutely aware of the stiffening of Edwin’s body, the imperceptible drawing away from her, the look of disbelief that wiped the smile off his face, the dawning horror that followed swiftly and settled there, a frozen mask that bespoke his shock.

‘Oh, my God!’ he cried, slumping back against the bench. He gaped at her, his face now pale and twitching. Edwin felt as if he had been dealt a violent and crippling blow in his stomach. He was utterly devastated. He vainly endeavoured to still the shaking sensation that seized him, but with little success. At last he managed to speak. ‘Emma, are you absolutely certain of this?’

She bit her lip, eyeing him, trying to assess his attitude. ‘Yes, Edwin, I am.’

‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ he cried, forgetting his manners in his anxiety. He gazed into space, a spasm working on his face. A smothering feeling enveloped him. He thought he couldn’t breathe. Eventually he turned and stared at her, his eyes wide with apprehension. ‘My father will kill me,’ he gasped, envisioning his father’s towering wrath.

Emma threw him a swift and knowing glance. ‘If yours doesn’t, mine will,’ she informed him bluntly, her voice low and hoarse.

‘What in God’s name are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Don’t yer mean what are
we
going ter do, Edwin?’ This was asked mildly enough, but Emma was conscious of the alarm rising up into her already constricted throat. Not for one
moment in the past few weeks had she anticipated such a reaction from him. She had known he would be disturbed and upset and worried at her news, just as she was herself. But she had not thought he would act as if this was her responsibility, and hers alone. It frightened her.

‘Yes, of course I mean
we,
’ he answered hastily. ‘Emma, are you really and truly certain? Couldn’t you just be—be—late?’

‘No, Edwin. I’m positive.’

Edwin was silent, his mind floundering, a thousand thoughts pounding in his head. He had never contemplated this eventuality in his entrancement with her beauty, and the flaring passion she aroused in him. What an imbecile he had been not to have considered such an inevitability, the most obvious natural consequence of their lovemaking.

Emma broke the silence. ‘
Please
, Edwin, talk ter me! Help me! I’ve been ever so worried while yer’ve been away, knowing about the baby, not knowing what ter do. I couldn’t tell anybody else. It’s been summat terrible for me, it really has, waiting for yer ter get back ter Fairley.’

Edwin racked his brains. Eventually he cleared his throat, somewhat nervously. His voice was shaky. ‘Look, Emma, I’ve heard there are doctors—doctors who take care of such matters, in the early stages of pregnancy, for a goodly sum of money. Maybe there would be one willing to do it. In Leeds or Bradford. Perhaps we can find one. I could sell my watch.’

Emma was flabbergasted. His words were like daggers plunging into her flesh. Their very cold-bloodedness was so shocking and repugnant to her she went cold all over. ‘Go ter some quack!’ she cried angrily and with increasing amazement, her eyes widening. ‘Some charlatan who’ll butcher me up with a knife and maybe kill me! Is that what yer suggesting, Edwin?’ Her eyes were now immensely cold and darkly green and watchful. She could hardly believe he had uttered those dreadful words.

‘But, Emma, I don’t know what else to suggest! This is an absolute disaster. A catastrophe. You can’t have the baby.’

Edwin continued to gaze at her in stupefaction, his mind in chaos. The decent thing to do would be to marry her. They could elope. To Gretna Green in Scotland. He had read about
couples being married there. It was legal if you resided twenty-one days. He opened his mouth, about to say this, and then clamped it shut. But then what? The thought of his father’s fury paralysed him. Of course, his father wouldn’t kill him. He would do much worse. He would disown him. Cut him off with nothing. Edwin thought then of Cambridge, his future as a barrister. He couldn’t be saddled with a wife now, at his age, at this most crucial time of his life. His eyes roved over her. She
was
a beautiful girl. This morning her russet-brown hair was swept up and away from her face, plaits forming a circle on top of her shapely head like a crown. The oval face, paler than usual, was like gleaming porcelain, exquisite and refined. The widow’s peak protruding on to her wide brow, and those large emerald eyes lifted her beauty out of the ordinary. She was startling, there was no question about that. The right clothes…elocution lessons…an invented background. Such things were possible, and the proper tutoring could work miracles. Perhaps there was a way to solve this.
No
,
there is not. It would never work
, a small voice insisted at the back of his mind. He would be ruined. He could clearly evaluate his father’s reaction. He would be infuriated to a point of madness. She was a girl from the village. Edwin’s eyes rested on Emma and he thought of her with calculated objectivity, and for a split second her beauty dimmed.
She was a servant
,
after all.
The class differences between them were too enormous to be bridged.

And so Edwin swallowed hard and remained silent, biting back the words he had originally been ready to utter. And that was a mistake he would live to regret, for had he spoken up, claimed her as his own, braved his father and the world, Edwin’s life would have been so very different.