Читать книгу A Woman of Substance - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 21

‘And what time do yer think this is then, ter be strolling in like there’s no termorrow? And looking as if yer don’t have a care in the world as well! Aay, lass, I’d about given thee up. I had that!’

The sharp voice echoing around the kitchen emanated from a little dumpling of a woman who was as broad of beam as she was short in stature. Birdlike brown eyes, peeping out above apple-rosy cheeks, flashed with indignation, and the starched white cap, perched like a crown on top of her greying auburn hair, bobbed about as she tossed her head.

‘And don’t stand there gawping at me like a sucking duck!’ she went on crossly, waving the ladle at Emma. ‘Get a move on with yer, now that yer are here, lass! We’ve no time ter be wasting today.’

‘I’m ever so sorry, Mrs Turner,’ Emma cried as she ran across the room, pulling off her scarf and struggling out of her coat. Bundling them up in a roll, she went on quickly in an apologetic tone, ‘I set off in time, I did really, Mrs Turner. But it was ever so foggy on the moors and in the Ghyll and—’

‘Aye, and I expect yer stopped ter laik on yon gate as usual,’ Cook interrupted with some impatience. ‘Yer’ll be copping it, lass, one of these fine days, yer will that!’

Emma had disappeared into a cupboard, under the stairs which led up to the family’s living quarters, and her voice was muffled when she called out, ‘I’ll catch up with me work, Mrs Turner. Yer knows I will.’

‘Yer’ll have ter, that’s a certainty,’ Cook retorted with asperity. ‘I can see we’ll have an uproar on our hands today. What with Mrs Hardcastle in Bradford and company coming up from London town and Polly right badly.’ She shook her head, sighed heavily at the thought of her burdens, adjusted her cap, and banged the ladle down on the table. Then she swung around and stared at Blackie, whom she had so far ignored. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked him over appraisingly, her beady eyes suspicious. ‘And what’s this the cat’s dragged in then? Lochinvar,’ she said acidly.

Blackie took a step forward and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Emma’s voice floated out from the cupboard. ‘It’s the navvy, Mrs Turner. The one yer were expecting ter mend the flues and all. His name’s Shane O’Neill, but the whole world calls him Blackie.’

‘Top of the morning to ye,’ Blackie cried, flashing her a cheery smile and bowing elaborately.

Cook ignored this friendly greeting and said, ‘Irish, eh? Well, I can’t say as I hold that against yer. I can see yer a strong lad. No room for weaklings in this house!’ She paused and her eyes now lighted on the sack he had placed on the floor next to him, which was old and very grimy. ‘And what’s in that mucky thing?’ she asked.

‘Just me tools and a few er … er … personal items,’ Blackie said, shuffling his feet in embarrassment.

‘Well, don’t be dragging it over me clean floor!’ she admonished. ‘Put it in that there corner, where it’s out of the way.’ She then marched to the stove, saying in a gentler tone, ‘Yer’d best come ter the fire and get yerself warm, lad.’

Mrs Turner bustled around the stove, clattering pan lids, peering at the contents of her bubbling pots, muttering under her breath. Her temper had abated. This was mostly irritation rather than real anger, and it was chiefly engendered by anxiety for Emma crossing the lonely moors rather than the girl’s tardiness, which was not so important. What was half an hour, after all? She smiled to herself. Emma was a good lass, which was more than you could say for most in this dreadful day and age.

Blackie dumped his sack in the corner and loped over to the enormous fireplace that covered almost the whole of one wall. As he warmed his hands in front of the fire he became conscious of two things. He was frozen stiff and he was hungry. These sensations were precipitated by the steaming warmth of the room and the delicious smells pervading the air. He sniffed and his mouth watered as he inhaled the pungent smell of smoky country bacon frying, the warm, sweet fragrance of freshly baked bread, and wafting over these tempting odours he detected the rich savoury tang of a vegetable broth boiling. His stomach growled and he licked his lips hungrily.

Slowly his body began to thaw and he stretched luxuriously like a great cat, his eyes sweeping quickly over the room, and what he saw cheered Blackie immensely, helped to dissipate his foreboding of earlier. For there was nothing brooding or menacing about this kitchen. It was a splendid, warming, cheerful place and spanking clean. All manner of copper pots and pans sparkled lustrously on the whitewashed walls, and the flagged stone floor shone whitely in the bright light of the gas jets and the crackling fire that leapt and roared up the big chimney. Strong oak furniture, highly waxed, gleamed softly in this roseate glow.

Blackie heard the click of a door and he looked up as Emma emerged from the cupboard. She had changed into a dark blue serge dress, obviously cut from the same cloth as Cook’s, and she was fastening on a large blue-and-white-striped cotton apron. ‘Did yer say Polly was poorly again, Mrs Turner?’ she asked, moving hurriedly in the direction of the stove.

‘Aye, lass. Bad cough she has. Summat terrible. I made her stay abed this morning. Yer might look in on her later, ter see if she wants owt.’ There was true warmth in Cook’s voice and her face softened as she regarded the girl. Blackie looked at her and recognized there was no real animosity in her. It was apparent, from the loving expression now flooding her face, that Mrs Turner was inordinately fond of Emma.

‘Yes, I’ll pop up after breakfast is served and take her some broth,’ Emma agreed, trying not to look overly concerned about Polly. Emma was convinced she had the same sickness as her mother, for Emma had detected all the telltale signs: the weakness, the fever, and the terrible coughing.

Mrs Turner nodded. ‘Aye, that’s a good lass.’ She frowned and peered at Emma through the steam. ‘Yer’ll have ter do Polly’s work today, as well as yer own, yer knows, luv. Can’t be helped! Murgatroyd tells me Mrs Wainright arrives for a visit this afternoon and with Mrs Hardcastle still away we’re really shorthanded.’ She exhaled a loud sigh of exasperation and banged the spoon against the side of the pot furiously. ‘Aye, I wish I was the housekeeper here, I do that! It’s a right cushy job Nellie Hardcastle’s got and no mistake. Always tripping off, that she is!’

Emma repressed a smile. This was an old bone of contention. ‘Yer right, Mrs Turner, but we’ll manage somehow,’ she said reassuringly. She liked Cook, who was the only one who showed her any kindness at the Hall, and she always tried to please her. Emma ran back to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out a large basket containing brushes, cloths, polishes, and black lead, and headed for the staircase. ‘I’ll make a start,’ she called, beginning to mount the stairs, waving to Blackie as she did.

Mrs Turner’s head jerked up quickly. ‘Nay, lass, I’m not that heartless! Yer looks nithered ter death. Go ter the fire and warm up, and drink a cup of this broth afore yer goes up yonder.’ She lifted the lid off the large iron pot, stirred it vigorously, clucked with satisfaction, and began to ladle broth into a large mug. ‘Will yer have a cup, lad?’ she called to Blackie, already filling a second mug.

‘To be sure I will and it’s thanking ye I am,’ Blackie cried.

‘Come on, lass, give Blackie this mug and take yer own,’ Cook said, and went on briskly, ‘And how about a bacon buttie, lad? It goes down well with me broth.’

‘Thanks. I don’t mind if I do. It’s famished that I am.’

‘Can yer eat one, Emma luv?’

‘No, thanks, Mrs Turner,’ Emma replied as she took the mugs from Cook. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Cook gave her a sharp look. ‘Aay, lass, yer don’t eat enough. Yer’ll never get fat on broth and tea.’

Emma carried the mugs carefully to the fireplace and handed one to Blackie without a word, but as she sat down on the other stool and looked up at him a sweet smile drifted over her face, the wariness abating. ‘Thank ye,’ he said, returning her smile, and then his eyes narrowed as he became aware of her for the first time since they had met on the moors.

As they sipped the broth in silence, Blackie regarded Emma surreptitiously, endeavouring to conceal the surprise he was feeling. He was stunned really. Now that she had removed the camouflaging scarf and shed the tight old coat, he could see her more clearly and he noted that the girl was not such a starveling creature as he had originally thought. He could not call her beautiful, if he was to measure her by the popular picture-postcard standards of the day. She was no typical Edwardian beauty, all pink marshmallow softness and swooning femininity; neither was she fluffily pretty or pert. But she was arresting and there was something indefinable about her that captured his imagination, held his attention, and made him catch his breath as he studied her. Her face was a perfect oval, with high, rather prominent cheekbones, a straight and slender nose, and a delicately curved mouth that dimpled at the corners when she smiled. Her teeth were small, even, and very white between her pale pink lips, which he noticed held a suggestion of sweetness and vulnerability when she was unguarded. If her smooth forehead was a little too broad it was by no means unattractive, and it was balanced by the widow’s-peak hairline that cut into her clear skin so dramatically, and by the exquisitely shaped brows that were sweeping golden-brown arcs above her wide-set eyes. These eyes, which had struck him so forcibly earlier, were indeed as shining and as green as emeralds, set below thick and curling golden-brown lashes that cast gentle dusky shadows on her skin. This was like pale cream silk and as smooth, and without blemish. Her luxuriant russet-brown hair was simply dressed, pulled back smoothly to reveal her face most strikingly. The gleaming hair was plaited and then twisted into a bun that nestled in the nape of her neck and, in the dancing firelight, it seemed like a rich velvet cap threaded through with golden strands.

She is thin and still small, he thought. But he also knew she had some growing to do in the next few years. Blackie could tell from her build that she would be tall and slender when she matured into young womanhood. She was already beginning to flower, for he saw the swell of tender young breasts and shapely hips under the voluminous apron, and long legs that contributed much to her easy gracefulness.

Blackie’s innate sense of beauty and fineness was not solely restricted to architecture, art, and artefacts, but extended to women and horses as well. His ardour for women was almost, but not quite, surpassed by his predilection for horses and the races, and he particularly prided himself on his ability to judge horseflesh and single out a thoroughbred when he saw one. Now as he looked at Emma more fully he thought: That’s it! She has the look of a thoroughbred! He knew she was a poor girl from the working class, yet her face was that of an aristocrat, for it contained breeding and refinement. It was these aspects that combined to create that indefinable quality he had detected earlier. She was patrician and she had an inbred dignity that was unique. He saw only one feature that betrayed her station in life – her hands. They were small and sturdy, but also chapped and reddened, and the nails were broken and rough. He knew only too well that their ugly condition was caused by the hard work she performed.

He wondered what would become of Emma, and he was filled with a sadness alien to his nature as he contemplated her future. What was there for her in this house and this bleak mill village on the desolate moors? Perhaps she was right to want to try her luck in Leeds. Maybe there she had a chance of living and not merely surviving.

Mrs Turner interrupted his musings as she bounced over to the fireplace and thrust a plate of sandwiches at him in her bustling manner. ‘Here’s yer bacon butties, lad. Eat ’em now afore Murgatroyd comes down. He’s a real nip scrape and likes ter keep us all on a starvation diet. Mean old bug—’ She bit back the last word and looked with a degree of apprehension at the door at the top of the stairs.

Turning to Emma, she went on, ‘Yer don’t have ter blacklead the grates this morning. They’ll do till tomorrow. But light the fire in the morning room, dust the furniture, run the carpet sweeper over the rug, and set the table for breakfast, like Polly showed yer afore. Then come back and help me with the breakfast. Later yer can clean the dining room, the drawing room, and the library – oh! and pay attention when yer dust that there panelling in the library, lass, straight across with the duster and then down, so that the dust falls along the edge of the moulding – and do all the carpets as well. Then yer’ll have ter clean Mrs Fairley’s upstairs parlour. When yer’ve finished that it should be just the right time for yer ter take her breakfast up. Yer can make the beds afore lunch and dust the children’s room. This afternoon yer can start on the remainder of the ironing. There’s the silver ter polish and the best china ter wash …’ Mrs Turner paused, somewhat breathless, and drew a piece of crumpled paper from her pocket. She straightened it out and pursed her lips in concentration as she read it.

‘Yes, Mrs Turner,’ Emma murmured softly, and jumped off the stool. She smoothed down her large apron and waited for further instructions, wondering how she would cope with these multitudinous duties.

Blackie looked at Emma carefully, a small knot of anger twisting in his stomach. He had listened to Cook’s recital at first with amusement, but now he was outraged. Nobody could do so much work in one day, least of all Emma, who was only a child. Yet Emma seemed unconcerned as she stood patiently at Mrs Turner’s side. Observing her more closely, Blackie realized that a certain geniality concealed the anxiety in her dark eyes, and her mouth had tightened unconsciously. He glanced quickly at Cook. He knew she was not trying to exploit Emma, for basically she was a kind woman, but he was still appalled. She was using Emma as a workhorse and this truly dismayed him, and he could not resist saying, ‘That’s a heavy load for a little colleen, I am thinking.’

Mrs Turner stared at him with surprise, and flushed. ‘Aye, lad, it is. But Polly’s right badly and there’s nowt I can do about it, what with company coming and all. That reminds me, Emma,’ she went on hurriedly, looking embarrassed, ‘yer’ll have ter prepare the guest room for Mrs Wainright.’

Emma turned to Mrs Turner, who was studying the piece of paper attentively. ‘Shall I go upstairs, then?’ she asked. Emma was no fool, and whilst she had listened to Cook’s allocation of the work without complaint, she was, nonetheless, dismayed. She wouldn’t have time to stop for breath if she was to finish by suppertime and she was anxious to get started on her chores.

‘Aye, in a tick, lass,’ Cook said distractedly. ‘Just let me read these here menus. Maybe I can manage the breakfast meself, after all.’ She screwed up her eyes and peered at the paper. ‘Now, let’s see. Scrambled eggs and bacon for Master Edwin. Kidneys, bacon, sausages, and fried potatoes for Master Gerald. A kipper for the Squire. Tea, toast, fresh bread, butter, jam, marmalade. That’s it and it’s enough!’ Her head moved violently on her short plump neck and she grumbled, ‘I don’t know why they can’t all eat the same thing in this family!’

After a short pause, Mrs Turner asserted, ‘Well, I believe I can cope with breakfast, luv. And lunch is simple. Just cold ham, Madeira sauce, mashed potatoes, and apple pie with custard.’ She turned the paper over and clucked to herself. ‘I’m thinking yer’ll have ter give me a hand with dinner though, lass. Murgatroyd’s got some menu suggested. Mmm! He has indeed. Clear chicken soup, saddle of mutton with caper sauce, roasted potatoes and cauliflower with a cheese sauce. Trifle. Wensleydale cheese and biscuits. And a Welsh rarebit for Master Gerald—’ She stopped and blinked and glared at the paper. ‘A Welsh rarebit for Master Gerald indeed!’ she repeated in disbelief. ‘As if he doesn’t eat enough all day long as it is. He’s getting to be a real little pig, our Master Gerald is. If there’s owt I can’t stand it’s greediness!’ she declared to the room at large. Bristling, she pushed the paper into her pocket. ‘Yer can go up then, luv, and be careful when yer dusting,’ she cautioned.

‘Yes, Mrs Turner,’ Emma said evenly, her face devoid of expression. ‘I expect I’ll see yer later, Blackie,’ she cried, and flashed him a small smile.

‘To be sure ye will, mavourneen, for I shall be here for a few days, I am thinking.’

‘Aye, that’s true,’ Mrs Turner interjected. ‘Squire has neglected things around here of late, what with Master Edwin sick since Christmas and the missis so frail these days – I’m glad Mrs Wainright’s coming, she always cheers things up around here – yes, the missis has been out of sorts—’ Mrs Turner stopped midsentence and clamped her mouth shut.

Blackie and Emma followed her gaze, which was directed towards the door at the top of the stairs. A man had entered and was ponderously descending the stairs. Blackie assumed it was the butler.

Murgatroyd was a tall, scrawny man. He had a cadaverous face etched with bitter lines which made his countenance forbidding. Small eyes, so pale they were almost colourless, were set closely together in deep hollow sockets. These porcine eyes appeared to be even smaller than they really were, since they were partially obscured by bushy black brows that sprouted like bristles in a heavy unbroken line across his forehead. He wore black trousers, a black-striped white shirt with a high collar, and a green baïze butler’s apron. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal long gangling arms, corded with bluish veins.

There was a mournful expression on his face and his eyes gleamed with hostility. ‘What’s all this? What’s all this?’ he cried in a high-pitched voice as he paused at the bottom of the stairs. ‘No wonder we’re behind today. Gabbing like a lot of magpies. I can see yer in dereliction of yer duty, Cook,’ he continued pompously. ‘That lazy, good-for-nowt lass should’ve been up yonder a good half hour ago, she should that! The Squire’s not in the charity business, yer knows. She does little enough work as it is, for what she gets paid. Overly generous the Squire is. Three shillings a week indeed. A princely sum for doing nowt.’ He scowled at Emma, who was standing near the cupboard under the staircase. ‘What are yer waiting for? Get up yonder at once!’ he snarled.

Emma nodded mutely and picked up the basket, the dustpan, and the carpet sweeper, and made for the stairs. As she edged past Murgatroyd some of the utensils fell out of the basket, including the black-lead powder. The tin rolled across the floor and the lid flew off, spilling the black powder at Murgatroyd’s feet. Emma gasped with horror and bent to pick it up. As she did, Murgatroyd swung his arm and struck her hard across her head with the back of his hand.

‘Yer stupid little sod!’ he screamed. ‘Can’t yer do owt right? Look at the mess yer’ve made on the clean floor.’

Emma reeled from the unexpected and violent blow and she staggered back, dropping the carpet sweeper and dustpan. Blackie jumped off the stool in horror. Anger bubbled up in him. He clenched his fists and stepped towards the butler. I’ll kill him! he thought. I’ll kill the bastard!

Cook was already halfway across the kitchen, and as she passed Blackie she pressed him back and shook her head warningly, hissing, ‘Yer’d best stay out of this, lad. Leave him ter me.’

Mrs Turner faced Murgatroyd like a bantam fighting cock. Her face was purple with rage and the look in her eyes was murderous. She raised her small fist and shook it at him, full of spunk. ‘Yer nasty bugger!’ she cried passionately. ‘It was only an accident. The lass didn’t do it on purpose.’ She regarded Murgatroyd through blazing eyes. ‘If I ever sees yer strike that lass again, yer life won’t be worth living. I promise yer that. I won’t go ter the Squire. Indeed I won’t! I’ll tell her bloody father! And yer knows what’s in store for yer if Big Jack Harte gets his hands on yer. He’ll make bloody mashed potatoes out of yer!’

Murgatroyd glowered at Mrs Turner, but refrained from any response. Blackie, whose eyes had been riveted on Murgatroyd like a hawk’s, detected sudden apprehension in him. Why, he’s a coward, thought Blackie. He’s a blustering poltroon, lily-livered, and full of hot air!

Cook swung away from Murgatroyd with disgust and turned to Emma, who was kneeling on the floor neatly replacing all the items which had fallen from the basket. ‘Are yer all right, luv?’ she asked with concern. Emma lifted her head and nodded slowly. Her face was like carved white marble and just as immobile. Only her eyes had life, for they burned with an intense hatred for Murgatroyd. ‘I’ll get a wet cloth and clean up the black lead,’ she said softly, sheathing her anger.

Murgatroyd now turned his attention to Blackie. He proceeded into the room smoothly as if nothing had happened. ‘O’Neill, right? The navvy from Leeds. The squire said ter expect yer this morning.’ He weighed Blackie with those cold eyes and nodded approvingly. ‘Well, yer looks like a strong bloke. I hopes yer not afraid of work, lad.’

It was a considerable effort for Blackie to speak civilly to the butler, but he knew he had no alternative. He swallowed hard and said in the most matter-of-fact tone he could summon, ‘That’s me, to be sure. If ye gives me the details of the work I’ll get to it.’

Murgatroyd pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Blackie. ‘It’s all written down here. Yer can read, I suppose?’

‘I can that.’

‘Good. Now, as ter yer wages. Fifteen shillings for a week’s work and yer board and lodgings while yer here. That’s what the Squire instructed.’ His eyes were full of cunning.

Blackie bit back a knowing smile. Why, he’s trying to swindle me, the crafty divil, he thought, but said, ‘No, sir! One guinea was the price that the Squire arranged with me in Leeds. And one guinea it is, Mister Murgatroyd.’

The butler’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘Yer don’t expect me ter believe that the Squire himself came ter see yer, do yer, lad? His agent in Leeds always deals with such trifling matters,’ he declared.

Regarding Murgatroyd acutely, Blackie recognized immediately that the man’s amazement was genuine. His handsome Irish face broke into a broad smile. ‘Faith, and sure it was himself that came to see me and me Uncle Pat. We own a small building business, ye see. He engaged me to do the repairs here, and me Uncle Pat to work at the mills and the newspaper offices in Leeds. And I am certain about the price, to be sure I am. Perhaps ye should be after asking the Squire again. There’s been a mistake, I am thinking.’ Blackie chuckled inwardly, for the butler was obviously not only flustered but vexed by the turn of events.

‘Indeed, I will speak ter the Squire!’ Murgatroyd snapped. ‘He must have forgotten what he arranged with yer. He’s more important matters ter be thinking about! Well, get on with yer, lad. The yardman’s in the stables. He’ll show yer where everything is, and yer room above the stables, where yer’ll be sleeping.’

Murgatroyd dismissed Blackie with a curt nod and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’ll be having me tea and a bacon buttie,’ he called to Cook, who threw him a nasty glance. She picked up the knife and began to attack the loaf of bread with great ferocity and from the expression on her face it was apparent that she wished it was Murgatroyd she was demolishing.

Blackie strode over to his sack and hoisted it on his shoulder. Emma was collecting her cleaning materials together at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll see ye tonight, mavourneen,’ he said softly, and smiled.

‘Aye, if I’ve finished me work by then,’ she responded glumly. Seeing the disturbed look that flashed on to his face, she smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll be finished. Don’t worry about me. Ta’rar, Blackie.’ He watched her disappear up the stairs before he opened the kitchen door and went out into the cold morning air, his mind full of disturbing thoughts about the occupants of Fairley Hall, and most especially Emma, who was so defenceless in this strange house.

Emma paused in the small upstairs lobby that adjoined the kitchen staircase and put down the cleaning utensils she was carrying. She eased the basket on her arm and leaned against the wall. Her face was drawn and her head ached from the stunning blow, and she was seething with resentment. Murgatroyd never lost an opportunity to mistreat her. It seemed to her that he enjoyed cuffing her, and even though he continually snarled at Polly, he was not as brutal with her. His reprehensible display of temper a few minutes ago had been nothing unusual and she knew he would have walloped her again if Cook had not interceded. He’ll hit me once too often, she thought grimly, and then I’ll show him.

She adjusted the heavy basket on her arm, picked up the other items, and walked slowly down the corridor, her senses alert, listening acutely for any untoward noises in the house. But there were no sounds, for the family were still asleep. The corridor was filled with murky light and smelled faintly of wax and dry dust and a peculiar mustiness that bespoke windows long shuttered and cloistered, airless rooms. She wished she was back in the kitchen, which was the only cheerful spot in Fairley Hall.

In spite of its grandness and rich furnishings, the house filled Emma with a nameless terror from which she wanted always to flee. There was something fearful and oppressive about the chill dark rooms with their lofty ceilings and heavy furniture, the immense halls, and the winding corridors that drifted endlessly through the house. It was a place of hushed silences, seclusion, and hidden mysteries, a secretive house redolent of unhappiness and decay. And yet for all that quiescence there was a sheathed turbulence everywhere, contained but ominous and stealthily waiting to break loose.

Emma was shivering as she glided across the rich Turkey carpet in the vast front entrance hall and pushed open the double doors of the morning room. She stood on the threshold and nervously glanced around. Meagre fingers of gauzy sunlight fought their way into the room through the tall windows, heavily curtained in white silk and draped with thick blue velvet hangings. Dark portraits gazed down from the dim blue flocked-velvet walls and Emma imagined, absurdly, that their ancient eyes followed her as she crept towards the fireplace, squeezing past the many pieces of ponderous Victorian furniture made of mahogany so dark they looked black in the gloomy light. The only sound was the plaintive ticking of the clock on the carved black marble mantelshelf.

Emma deposited the cleaning equipment on the floor and knelt down in front of the fireplace. She dusted off the traces of ash and filled it with the paper spills and chips of wood Murgatroyd had placed in a pile on the hearth, along with the matches. She lit the paper and when the chips took hold she opened the brass scuttle and lifted out small pieces of coal. These she gingerly placed on the burning wood. The coal did not catch light immediately, so she lifted her apron and fanned the fire until it began to blaze.

The monotonous ticking of the clock reminded Emma she had little time to waste. She cleaned the room with efficiency and speed, in spite of the cumbersome and cluttered arrangements of furniture. When she had accomplished this, she took a fine white Irish linen tablecloth from the sideboard drawer and placed it over the great circular table. She arranged four place settings of silver and ran back to the sideboard for the dishes. As she was taking out four blue-and-white Crown Derby plates she tensed and held herself very still. Her neck prickled and gooseflesh sprang up on her arms, for she knew she was no longer alone. She sensed rather than heard another presence in the room. She turned slowly on her haunches. Squire Fairley was standing in the doorway watching her intently.

She stood up quickly and dropped a small curtsy. ‘Good morning, Squire,’ she mumbled timorously, clutching the plates firmly to her breast, so that they would not rattle in her trembling hands. Her legs shook, although more from surprise than fear.

‘Morning. Where’s Polly?’

‘She’s badly, Squire.’

‘I see,’ he said laconically.

His eyes bored into her as he regarded her with the utmost concentration. He frowned and a puzzled expression settled on his face. After a prolonged silence, during which Emma stared at him mesmerized, he nodded tersely, turned smartly on his heels, and left. The banging of the library door as he slammed it harshly behind him made her start in surprise. It was only then that she breathed with relief and finished setting the table for the family’s breakfast.