A Woman of Substance (45 page)

Emma now saw with unmistakable clarity the renunciation on his face, was bitterly aware of the repudiation in his eyes. She straightened her back and her head flew up sharply on her slender neck. It took all of her self-control to speak normally, for she was shaking and her anger, hurt, and disgust were living organisms in her heart. ‘I won’t go ter one of them doctors, and yer silence tells me that yer not prepared ter marry me, Edwin.’ She laughed lightly, but it was a cynical laugh. ‘It
wouldn’t be proper, would it,
Master
Edwin? The gentry and the working class going so far as ter actually
marry
,’ she pointed out with her usual stringent perception, her voice icily biting.

Edwin flinched. He had the peculiar sensation that she had just read his mind, and he flushed deeply. ‘Emma, it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t love you. But we’re too young to marry,’ he equivocated. ‘I’m about to go to Cambridge. My father—’

‘Aye, I knows,’ she cut in, ‘he’ll kill yer.’ Her brilliant eyes narrowed as she spoke, resting on his face with great intensity.

Edwin recoiled, and he knew then that he would never forget that piercing stare which condemned him so ferociously and with such loathing. He would never be able to eradicate it from his mind.

‘Emma, I—I—I’m s-s-sorry,’ he stammered, becoming scarlet, ‘but it—’

She interrupted him again with stinging sharpness. ‘I shall have ter leave Fairley. I can’t stay here. I can’t answer for what me dad would do. He couldn’t stand the shame, for one thing, and he has a real violent temper.’

‘When will you go?’ he asked awkwardly, not meeting her eyes.

A look of total disdain slipped on to Emma’s face. He couldn’t wait for her to leave. That was most patently obvious to her. Her disillusionment was complete. ‘As soon as I can,’ she snapped.

Edwin dropped his head into his hands, pondering on what she had just said. Perhaps that was the ideal solution. For her to run away. He felt a little surge of relief and looked up. ‘Do you have any money?’ he asked.

Emma was reeling with nausea. The shock of Edwin’s betrayal, of his weak and contemptible behaviour had stunned her. She thought she was going to keel over and fall off the seat on to the ground. Pain bent against pain, twisting together to form an iron band so crushing it was almost unbearable. Hurt, anger, humiliation, disappointment, and sudden panic merged into one immense heartbreaking ache that suffused her whole body. The scent of the roses lifted on the air in suffocating waves, overwhelmingly sweet and cloying, and it made her
feel faint. Their perfume was choking her. She wanted to run far away from this garden, from him. Finally she said in a small, toneless voice, ‘Yes, I have a bit of money saved up.’

‘Well, I only have five pounds to my name. But naturally I will give it to you. It will be of some help, Emma.’

Emma’s fierce pride rose up in her, commanding her not to accept, to refuse his offer, but for some reason, unknown to her at that precise instant, she changed her mind. ‘Thank yer, Edwin.’ She fixed him with that penetrating glare. ‘There’s one other thing yer can do for me.’

‘Yes, Emma, anything. You know I’ll do anything to help.’

Anything, she thought wonderingly. But he wouldn’t do
anything
, only whatever was convenient for him, only what would absolve him of his responsibility in this matter.

‘I’ll be needing a suitcase,’ she returned coldly, unable to conceal her bitterness.

‘I’ll put one in your room this afternoon, with the five pounds inside.’

‘Thank you, Edwin. That is very kind of you.’

He did not miss the acidity, or the cultured tone she had unexpectedly adopted. He winced. ‘Emma, please, please try to understand.’

‘Oh, I do, Edwin. Oh,
how
I do!’

He stood up, shifting nervously on his feet, flustered and obviously anxious to be gone, to be done with all this. She looked at him standing there, so tall and handsome, the epitome of a gentleman on the outside. But what was he inside? she asked herself. A weakling. A terrified boy with only the physical attributes of a man. That was all. He was nothing. He was less than the dirt under her feet.

Emma herself now stood up and lifted the flower basket on to her arm. The strong fragrance of the roses invaded her nostrils, making her dizzy and sick again. She stared at him, poised near the bench.

‘I won’t be able to return the suitcase, since I won’t ever be seeing you again, Edwin Fairley. Never, as long as I live.’

She walked away slowly, erect and proud and with great dignity, a dignity that masked the terrible desolation in her soul. The silence in the garden was a tangible thing she could
reach out and touch. Everything looked unreal, attenuated and fading, then piercingly brilliant, stabbing at her eyes aching in their sockets. The air went dark around her and her eyes misted over. It was as if the clinging fog that shrouded the moors had descended. A deadening coldness seeped into her and her insides were shrivelling into nothing. Eroding. Eroding. Her heart fluttered in a rapid burst and then was still. And it hardened into stone. She placed one foot before the other, automatically moving them. They were like dead weights. She wondered if she had really expected Edwin to marry her. She was not sure. But she did know she had not expected him to behave with such a lack of concern for her predicament, her well-being, nor with such an abject display of cringing fear it was despicable. He had not even shown any concern for the child she was expecting. His child. What a pitiful specimen of humanity he was. She smiled with irony. Imagine him only having five pounds to his name. She had more than that herself. Fifteen pounds, to be exact. Plus her iron will. And her resoluteness.

Edwin watched her retreating figure soberly and with increasing unease, and then on an impulse he went after her. ‘Emma,’ he called. She ignored him. ‘Emma, please wait,’ he called again. She stopped and he held his breath, hoping she would turn back. But he realized she had paused because she had caught her dress on a shrub. She disentangled herself and went on up the steps to the terrace, without once looking back.

Edwin stood rigidly on the gravel path, clutching his riding crop so tightly his knuckles were sharp and pointed in the brilliant sunshine. Panic assailed him as she disappeared into the house. His legs were watery, his mind was swimming with confusion, and then the oddest sensation took hold of him, settling in the pit of his stomach. He felt as though something vital was draining out of him, and a strange aching emptiness engulfed him, sweeping away all other emotions. Standing there in that ancient rose garden, Edwin Fairley, at seventeen, did not know that this sickening, all-enveloping emptiness, this hollowness in his heart and soul, was a feeling which would never desert him as long as he lived. He would take it with him to his grave.

Emma carried the roses into the plant room next to the greenhouse and put the basket down on the table. She latched the door behind her firmly and rushed to the sink. She retched until she thought she would die, her eyes watering, her insides heaving. After a few seconds the nausea subsided and she wiped her face with her hands, resting against the old zinc sink, breathing deeply. Then she turned automatically to the roses and began to clip off some of the leaves, arranging the blooms carefully in the crystal vases, concentrating all of her attention on them. She could not stand the scent of the roses now. In fact, she would detest their pervasive perfume for ever, but she did have her work to do and this diligent effort on her part helped to calm her troubled mind, her quivering limbs.

It occurred to her, as she worked, that Edwin had not even asked her where she was going. Only when. Where would she go? She was not certain. But she would leave tomorrow. Her father and Frank worked at the mill on Saturday mornings, as did some of the other workers who wanted to make overtime. As soon as they had departed she herself would disappear. She would leave her father a note, just as Winston had done. She did not know what she would say in that note. She would think about that later.

Emma cursed herself under her breath as she worked. What a fool she had been. She felt no remorse or even regrets about their trysts at the cave. What had been done could not be undone, and to have regrets was a waste of valuable time. She was a fool for a different reason: she had allowed Edwin to distract her from her purpose, to interfere with her Plan with a capital
P
, in the same way she had permitted her mother’s death, Winston’s scarpering off, and her father’s desperate need of her to make her waver in her determination to leave Fairley.

A faint hollow echo of a voice came back to her from the past. They were words said to her over a year ago, that night of the dinner party, that night before her mother’s death, words long forgotten but remembered now. It was Adele Fairley’s voice saying to her, ‘You must get away from this place, Emma. Away from this house. Before it’s too late.’ Mrs Fairley was not as daft as everybody thought, Emma said to herself.
She
had
known. Somehow
she
had known that doom and disorder and danger lurked within these walls.

Emma paused in her work and stood perfectly still, lost in thought. She gripped the table as a sudden tremor swept through her, and closed her eyes, concentrating on her thoughts. After a few moments she opened her eyes, staring blindly at the roses. Emma did not realize that a wholly new and dangerous light had entered those remarkable emerald eyes. It was a terrible awareness compounded of her bitter comprehension and the most unremitting calculation. It was then that she made a vow to herself, a vow intensely pledged with every fibre of her being, every ounce of her strength.
It would never happen again.
She would never allow anyone or anything to dissuade her from her course, to stand in her way, to thwart her, or weaken her determination. She would, from this day on, be single-minded of purpose to the exclusion of all else. The purpose: money. Vast amounts of it. For money was power. She would become so rich and powerful she would be invulnerable to the world. And after that? Revenge. She smiled and it was a smile that was both unyielding and vindictive.

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.

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. Mercifully, 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.