A Woman of Substance (62 page)

‘Oh dear, perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I was looking for the home of a Mr Joe Lowther.’

‘Then you’ve found it, miss. I’m Joe Lowther.’

Emma was surprised. ‘Oh! Well, please excuse me, but I thought you seemed a bit young to be the landlord of the shop on Town Street. The shop that’s to let,’ Emma said with her usual forthrightness. She saw at once that the young man was bristling and she rushed on, ‘Are
you
that Mr Lowther?’

‘That’s me, all right,’ said the young man. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you interested in the shop, then? For your
mother
?’

‘No,’ Emma said, faintly amused. He was apparently stinging from her reference to his youthful appearance, and so she smiled that radiant smile and her unwavering green gaze, warm and self-assured, did not leave his face. ‘Actually, I want to rent the shop for myself.’

Joe Lowther said, ‘Oh, you do, do you! Aren’t you a bit
young
? What experience of retailing do you have, miss?’

Emma considered this to be none of his business, but refrained from telling him so, being canny enough not to brush him the wrong way again. Instead she said, ‘I have some experience, and I’ve also done a lot of dressmaking and catering here in Armley. I have a nice business going, and now I want a shop so I can conduct it from there.’ Her voice vibrated with enormous confidence as she added, ‘And I’m certainly not too young, Mr Lowther.’

Joe shook his head. ‘No. No. It wouldn’t work. I can’t say I’d be willing to rent the shop to you, miss,’ he said with a certain brusqueness.

Emma ignored his blunt retort. ‘But I am willing to take the the shop off your hands now, Mr Lowther. At once. Today.’ Emma climbed up two steps until she was on a level with Joe Lowther. She stared at him, exercising all of her considerable charm, smiling beguilingly. ‘Can’t we go inside and discuss this, Mr Lowther?’ she asked in a voice as smooth as silk.

‘I can’t see the sense in that, since I won’t change my mind,’ he declared stubbornly. Her proximity was distracting him and as he looked into her face, only a few inches away from his, Joe felt himself growing hot around the collar.

Emma opened her purse, resorting to the one stratagem in
which she had absolute belief. ‘I can pay in advance, Mr Lowther.’

Joe reluctantly brought his gaze up to meet Emma’s and he discovered he was mesmerized by those brilliant eyes observing him with such cool concentration. Whatever will the neighbours think if I invite her in? he asked himself. But since he was not generally discourteous, Joe was now ashamed of his rudeness and he found himself saying in a kinder voice, ‘Well, you’re right about one thing, we had better go inside.’ This was really prompted by his concern for the gossips in the street and, so she would not think he had changed his mind about the shop, Joe felt obliged to add, ‘It’s not very fitting to discuss business on the doorstep at the best of times, and especially on Sunday. I don’t usually do business on
Sundays
, miss.’

‘Well, there’s always a first time for everything, Mr Lowther,’ said Emma, eyeing him with amusement from under her thick lashes. She was aware that Joe was ill at ease and she intended to use this to her advantage.

Why, she’s as bold as brass, Joe thought, seething with combined annoyance and exasperation. Nevertheless, he opened the door wider and ushered her into the house. He showed her into the parlour. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute. Please sit down,’ said Joe. He closed the door behind him and retreated.

Emma stood in the middle of the room, blinking in the dim light. She grimaced as her eyes adjusted to the dolorous gloom. The room reminded her of Mrs Daniel’s front parlour, all Victorian folderols and a preponderance of overstuffed furniture. But the furniture is good, she thought. There’s just too much of it. She seated herself on an uncomfortable horsehair chair to wait.

Emma had discovered three important things since she had been in Leeds: Money talked in the most persuasive voice. Put cold hard cash down on a table and few people could resist picking it up; payment in advance was another irresistible temptation and the more advance you paid, the stronger you were; and finally, opportunity had to be seized firmly the instant it presented itself, because it did not come knocking on
the same door twice in one week. Emma considered all of these things, but mostly she wondered if Joe Lowther could be swayed by money. For some reason she was not positive of this. She frowned, ruminating on Joe, endeavouring to assess him. He was certainly bashful. She also knew she had unnerved him on the doorstep and, in her shrewd opinion, this gave her the upper hand. Still, that did not mean he would agree to rent her the shop. Apparently he believed her youth to be a disadvantage, and yet he did not appear to be much older than she was. He was perhaps twenty or twenty-one. Nonetheless, it was imperative that she convince him she was capable and experienced at retailing, and that she would therefore be a responsible tenant. Perhaps three months’ rent would be a suitable inducement. It would not only reassure him of her serious intentions, but would also illustrate her business acumen over the past year. It then struck Emma that she must be her most charming self. Joe Lowther would succumb to sweetness. Sweetness and money. An unbeatable combination. Emma smoothed her dress, feeling calm as the door opened.

Joe had put on his tie and jacket and his hair was now combed back neatly. Emma could see the water glistening on it. She dropped her head quickly so he would not detect the smile on her face. Joe Lowther had become quite transparent to her. There would be a bit of a tussle between them, but the shop would be hers when she left this house.

Joe sat down opposite Emma and, adopting his brusquest tone, he commenced, ‘Now, about the shop, miss. I’ve been thinking it over, and I have definitely decided I can’t rent it to you.’

‘Why ever not?’ Emma asked in her most dulcet voice.

‘Because two people have failed in it this year, and they’d had a lot more experience than
you.
I don’t want to sound harsh, miss, but you must understand I can’t take a chance on renting to somebody who’s a novice. I’m seeking a tenant that really knows retailing, who’ll make a go of the shop, so I don’t have to be worrying about it being vacant half the time. I’ve better things to do than play nursemaid.’

Emma gave Joe a smile that would have melted half the ice in the Arctic Circle and made her eyes wide but serious. ‘Oh, I
do realize that, Mr Lowther,’ she answered. ‘And, in some ways, I understand your reluctance because of my youth. However, it’s not really of great consequence when you consider that I have been running a business from my home. I have been dealing with people,
selling
to them. My business has been highly profitable. I’ve made a lot of money with my dress-making and homemade foodstuffs. I have good steady customers, mostly the carriage trade, and they would certainly give me their patronage if I had a shop.’ Emma paused and flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Why, they have assured me of that,’ she fibbed adroitly. ‘So you see, I’m not really as inexperienced as you believe, and I do have expectations.’

‘Carriage trade, you say,’ remarked Joe, not unimpressed. ‘And how long have you been running this little business from your home?’

‘About a year,’ said Emma, leaning forward, eagerness washing over her face. ‘And it’s not so
little
either.’

Joe regarded her intently. She was direct and sounded businesslike and certainly she was not lacking in assurance. In fact, he had never met a girl as self-possessed as she was. Her spirit and enthusiasm were refreshing, almost infectious, and his doubts about her youth and ability were rapidly diminishing. However, she disconcerted him, but then he had always been awkward around girls and one as beautiful as she was bound to make him feel insecure. Still, she only wanted to rent a shop from him and that was all. ‘Well, I don’t really know what to say,’ he began hesitatingly.

Conscious that he was wavering, Emma held up her hand. ‘Just a minute, Mr Lowther,’ she said authoritatively. ‘I said earlier I would pay you in advance.’ She opened her black reticule and brought out a thick roll of bank notes. ‘As you can see, Mr Lowther, I don’t make idle claims. I am a woman of some substance, albeit a young one, and indeed I can pay you
well
in advance. I know I can make a go of the shop, Mr Lowther. I expect it to be a success within
six months.
’

Joe stared at her incredulously. ‘Oh, come on! That’s a bit far-fetched. Do you think I fell off a banana boat? I’m not green, you know.’

Emma decided these comments were unworthy of a reply.
Instead she stretched out her hand. ‘I have been so rude, Mr Lowther. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Emma Harte.’

He took her hand tentatively. He felt its dry coolness through the crocheted glove and her grip was firm, strong like a man’s. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Harte,’ he said.

‘It’s
Mrs
Harte,’ said Emma.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ said Joe, assailed by unexpected disappointment.

Emma grabbed the moment to drive her point home. ‘I don’t know what the rent is, Mr Lowther, but I would be prepared to pay you several months in advance.’ She must make the offer so tempting he would not be able to refuse. ‘Shall we say
six months
in advance? Surely that shows you my good faith and also my belief in myself.’

Joe was floundering, his resolve crumbling under the force of her compelling and winning personality. He recognized he was drawn to her. Dangerously attracted to her. The unworldly Joe was horrified. A married woman! Then it came to him in a rush. That was the real reason he did not want her as a tenant. He was afraid of falling under her spell.

Emma knew she was holding all the cards and she made her final move. She leaned forward and touched his arm gently. Joe jumped as if bitten by a snake. ‘Look here, Mr Lowther,’ Emma said firmly. ‘I have another idea. Apart from paying you the rent in advance, I’m also prepared to give you a letter of agreement stating that should my business fail I will not vacate the premises until you find another tenant. In other words, I will guarantee to give you sufficient warning before leaving. Shall we say three months’ notice?’ she suggested in a guileless voice.

Joe found it impossible to argue with this girl. Not only were her terms sound, they were all in his favour. He would look like an imbecile if he refused such an offer. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you are certainly confident of your success in the shop, Mrs Harte. Otherwise you wouldn’t suggest such an arrangement. But it’s fair enough, I suppose. Don’t you want to look over the shop first, before going into this venture?’

‘I know the shop, Mr Lowther,’ Emma said with an airy
wave of her hand. ‘I went into it several times. Your previous tenant was badly organized, the stock was shoddy and far too expensive for its quality, and she was obviously not a very clever buyer. Not only that, she didn’t know her customers!’

‘Oh,’ said Joe, dumbfounded.

‘I presume it’s settled, Mr Lowther,’ said Emma briskly.

‘Er, yes, of course. I’ll rent the shop to you,’ he said. ‘For a guinea a week. That makes it four guineas a month. There are living quarters attached to the shop. A large kitchen-parlour, a bedroom, and a huge cellar for storage. You could live there, behind the shop, and very comfortably, if you had a mind to.’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I probably will live there. It makes sense. Now, four guineas a month is around forty-eight guineas a year, give or take a few shillings, isn’t it?’ She began to peel off the notes, doing some fast mental arithmetic. ‘Could I have a receipt, please?’ she asked politely, handing over the cash.

‘Naturally,’ said Joe. ‘And I will get you the key and the rent book. I’ll mark the book paid for six months. Should it be in your name or your husband’s?’

‘Mine, please. My husband is in the navy, Mr Lowther. In foreign parts.’

‘Is he really!’ said Joe.

Emma nodded and went on, ‘I’ll write you the letter of agreement about the three months’ notice. I’ll bring it around tomorrow evening. Is that convenient? You can show it to your solicitor, if you want.’

‘No. No. That’s not necessary. And tomorrow night is perfectly convenient,’ said Joe. He stood up. ‘I’ll go and get the key and the rent book. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

‘Aren’t you going to count the money?’ Emma asked, nodding at the pounds in his hand.

‘I trust you,’ Joe said. ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Harte.’

Emma heard him whistling as he went through into the kitchen. A wide smile of self-congratulation mingled with exultation flew on to her face. She could hardly contain herself.

She now had her first shop.

Joe Lowther shrugged into his black overcoat and dug his hands into his pockets, shivering as he strode along at a brisk pace. A fierce wind was whistling down the lane and it blew the sleet and snow against his body in swirling flurries. He was drenched again, as he had been every night this week. December had ushered in the foulest weather, which now at the end of the first week appeared to have settled in for a long siege. He was later than ever tonight. Once again he had been inveigled into staying at the foundry to finish the books as a special favour to Mr Ramsbotham, who had lately acquired the annoying habit of piling extra work on him. His tardiness irritated him for another, more significant reason. Usually on Friday evening, after his supper, he went to Emma Harte’s to look over the books for her. Tonight he would not be able to get there until almost ten o’clock, and Joe, the product of a lower-middle-class upbringing, was rigid in his observance of the proprieties. It did not seem correct to go calling on a young woman who lived alone at such a late hour. Still, he had promised and he felt honour-bound to keep his word.

Joe had taught Emma bookkeeping, and supervising her ledgers was a practice he considered unnecessary these days. Nevertheless, it was one he did willingly and, if he was honest with himself, he looked forward to doing it. Emma had a staggering aptitude for figures and kept meticulous books. It had struck him recently that she actually enjoyed toiling over those endless columns of figures in a way he did not. If the truth be known, he did not like bookkeeping at all. It was hardly his vocation. However, he had been apprenticed in the accounting office at the foundry when he was fifteen, and after nine years it had become a way of life for him. It never occurred to Joe to seek a more congenial employer. He was too set in his ways and, since he was not ambitious and lacked the drive to strike out in new directions, he remained shackled to
Ramsbotham’s dreary books. Nor did it ever occur to the stolid Joe that he did not have to work at all, if he chose not to. He detested idleness and, more importantly, he harboured a palpable fear of boredom. His job at the foundry filled his days and helped to counteract the empty evenings of solitude that yawned inexorably before him month after month, year after year.

But Joe Lowther could have stopped working when his mother had died four years ago. It was then that Frederick Ainsley, the family solicitor, had sent for him to hear the will read and Joe had discovered, to his profound astonishment, that his mother had left him not only in comfortable circumstances but extremely well off. ‘It is An Inheritance, my boy,’ Mr Ainsley had said, speaking in capitals as befitted the occasion and the size of the estate. ‘A tribute to your poor departed mother’s prodigious and most commendable efforts over the years, and to your grandmother’s before her,’ the solicitor had intoned. Frederick Ainsley had then gone on to enumerate the number of properties Joe now owned, thanks to the unflagging industriousness of those two women on the maternal side of the family. The Inheritance, which Joe immediately felt obliged to think of in Mr Ainsley’s large letters, included eight shops in Town Street, a row of cottages in Armley, several terrace houses in nearby Wortley, and, to Joe’s further incredulity, two large plots of land near St Paul’s Street in Leeds itself. ‘Better hang on to those, Joe,’ Ainsley had instructed. ‘They will increase in value. Lots of building going on in Leeds. When you do sell it should be for a high price.’ Finally, the speechless Joe had learned that his mother had left him fifty-five thousand pounds in cash in the Midland Bank. Joe had staggered out of the solicitor’s office reeling from shock on that awesome day. Later, sitting on the tram on his way home to Armley, a cold anger had settled over him. His mother had never ceased her querulous warnings of financial disaster looming on the horizon. His sweet-tempered and henpecked father had been mercilessly driven into an early grave from overwork and lack of nourishing food and proper medical attention. Why had his mother been so cruel when they had had so much? he had asked himself, and his resent
ment of her had not lessened with time.

Joe had not touched that capital during these past few years. He had simply added to it, paying the revenue from the properties into the bank every month. Unlike his avaricious mother, there was little cupidity in Joe and as long as he had sufficient for his daily needs that was good enough for him Most of the time money never crossed his mind at all.

However, he thought about it this night as he trudged through the dark wet streets. Two weeks earlier Emma had mentioned that she was investing in David Kallinski’s first clothing factory in York Road. She had already designed a line of ladies’ clothes for David and her enthusiasm was infectious. When Emma had suggested David might let him invest as well, Joe had been surprised. ‘Money should be made to work, Joe,’ Emma had pronounced, and she informed him that she hoped to double her money in no time at all.

Although Joe was cautious by nature, this was chiefly engendered by shyness, rather than any particular canniness. His laissez-faire attitude about finances had prompted him to shrug nonchalantly and agree to invest, if David wanted him to do so. Emma had said she would arrange it. ‘I think two thousand pounds would be just the right amount,’ she had gone on. ‘If you can afford it. As a financial man, you should know, without me telling you, that money is a tool to be used to make more money, Joe. What good is it doing in the bank?’

I don’t really need to make more money, Joe now said to himself. He was settled for life. On the other hand, he did not particularly want to lose two thousand pounds. He dismissed this negative thought. Joe had an infallible belief in Emma’s innate shrewdness, having witnessed it at first hand, and he had long recognized her brilliance in business matters, amazing for a twenty-year-old girl. He trusted her judgement. Also, Joe was intelligent enough to acknowledge that he was really investing in the clothing factory for the fun of it. He liked David and Emma, and because he had few friends and was miserably lonely, he longed to be involved in their lives, to be part of this exciting venture.

So caught up was he in his diverse thoughts Joe found himself on his own doorstep in no time at all. He knocked the snow
off his boots as he climbed the steps. Delicious aromas of food cooking greeted him, and the warmth of the sparkling kitchen dispelled his lonely feelings.

Mrs Hewitt was setting the table for his supper. ‘There yer are, Joe,’ she cried, her face beaming. ‘By gum, yer look nithered ter death, luvey. Come ter the fire and get yerself warmed up.’

‘Hello, Mrs Hewitt,’ Joe said, taking off his cap and struggling out of his coat. He hurried over to the sink, rubbing his hands to dispel their iciness. He dried his hair and face, washed his hands, and then sat down by the fire. ‘It’s a blustery night, Mrs Hewitt, and very cold. I think there’ll be a hard frost.’

Mrs Hewitt nodded. ‘Aye, yer probably right, lad.’ She glanced at him and frowned, ‘Nay, Joe, don’t sit there in yer wet boots, luv. Take ‘em off at once. That’s how yer get toothache, yer knows, luvey, sitting in wet boots.’

Joe smiled at this old wives’ tale, but he unlaced his boots and placed them on the hearth to please her. She was a nice old body and looked after him far better than his mother ever had, and three nights a week she helped to transform this depressing house into a home.

‘Look at this custard flan,’ Mrs Hewitt exclaimed, pointing to the dessert on the table. ‘Have yer ever seen owt as luvely? I bought it as pudding for yer, at Mrs Harte’s. By gum, Joe, no wonder she does a roaring trade. And the way she’s trained them two lasses of Mrs Long’s to be her helpers, why, it fair takes me breath away.’

Joe smiled at her. ‘I never thought she’d make such a go of it when she took that first shop. But she proved
me
wrong, and a lot of others as well.’

‘Aye, lad, she’s a right good tenant for yer,’ Mrs Hewitt conceded.

‘What’s for supper?’ Joe asked, warming his hands. ‘It smells good.’

‘I can’t be taking no credit for yer dinner tonight, Joe,’ the old woman replied. ‘I bought yer a steak-and-kidney pie from Mrs Harte’s, being as how yer liked the last one.’

‘It sounds grand, Mrs Hewitt.’

‘I was talking to Laura Spencer today, in the haberdashery,
and do yer know, that wedding dress they’re making for me cousin’s lass is one of Mrs Harte’s own designs. Miss Spencer told me that Mrs Harte is going to be designing clothes for one of them big factory places in Leeds.’

‘So I understand,’ said Joe.

‘Fancy that and yer never told me, Joe.’

‘It didn’t occur to me, Mrs Hewitt. Is it so important?’

‘Of course it is, Joe. Anything ter do with Emma Harte is important. Why, everybody thinks she’s a right luvely young woman. So polite and dignified. The talk of Town Street with her fancy shops. And such a bonny lass.’ She carried the bowl of turnips to the oven and continued, ‘Would yer like a beer, Joe? I’ve got one cooling on the cellar head.’

‘I wouldn’t say no, Mrs Hewitt. Thank you.’ Joe lit his pipe and settled back in the chair, warming his damp feet.

‘Well, it’s all ready now, Joe,’ Mrs Hewitt proclaimed. ‘I’ve finished the pots and yer supper’ll stay nice and warm in the oven, luvey. Drink yer beer first, and then yer can help yerself later. I’ll have ter be off. Ta’rar.’

Later, after he had read the paper, Joe took out the meat pie and vegetables and settled down to his supper. He had just finished eating when a loud banging on the door brought him up with a start. The door burst open to admit a flurry of snowflakes along with Mrs Minton, one of his tenants. Her face was purple and from the furious glint in her eyes Joe knew this was not caused by the icy wind but rather by her roiling temper.

‘Good heavens, Mrs Minton—’ he began.

‘Don’t Mrs Minton me, Joe Lowther!’ she yelled. ‘It’s a crime! A bloody crime.
I just knew it!
Ever since she moved in I knew she was after me shop. And when yer rented her that other one on t’corner I told me husband it wouldn’t be long before she had me out. There I am, plonk in the middle, between her food shop and her haberdashery, and she’s aiming ter squeeze and squeeze till she get’s me out inter the middle of Town Street. Yer can’t deny I’m right!’ The enraged Mrs Minton paused for breath, her hands on her hips, her stance defiant.

‘Please, Mrs Minton, calm down. I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about Emma Harte, that’s what! She wants me shop! I don’t need a crystal bloody ball ter tell me that. She wants ter expand inter me shop. The shop I’ve had for ten years. The commercial travellers think she’s no good, hoitytoity stuck-up Mrs Harte. Lady Muck, they calls her. Cutting ‘em out, she is, going ter the manufacturers and warehouses herself and buying directly, instead of from the travellers. Then she slashes her prices so’s nobody else in Town Street can get a sale in edgewise. Aye, she’s a crafty cunning bitch, that Emma Harte is.’

‘Mrs Minton!’ Joe bellowed. ‘Emma Harte is a nice girl and she works hard. She isn’t trying to squeeze you out. She’s simply running her shops in a businesslike manner.’ Joe stared with distaste at the slovenly woman in her filthy coat and grimy scarf. She was a living reflection of her dirty shop, which was a triumph of confusion and run in the most slipshod manner imaginable.

‘Aye, I bloody expected yer ter defend her,’ Mrs Minton shouted. ‘I told me husband I wouldn’t be getting nowheres with yer. Stands ter reason yer’d watch out for yer fancy woman! Aye, and don’t look like that. We all knows what’s going on between the both of yer!’ She took a step nearer to Joe and peered into his face, hissing, ‘Yer fancy woman, that’s what Emma bloody Harte is, and she a married woman! I’m surprised yer haven’t put a bun in her oven already. But time will tell, me lad.’

Joe had blanched. ‘Why, you foul-mouthed, despicable old woman. There is nothing between Mrs Harte and myself, other than a business relationship. And you’d better watch your words, Mrs Minton, or you’ll find yourself the recipient of a writ for slander. I will not tolerate this kind of disgusting talk!’

Mrs Minton leaned forward and waved the rent book she was clutching under his nose. Joe thought she was going to strike him with it. ‘I think you had better leave, Mrs Minton,’ he said icily. ‘Before I really lose my temper. I’ve just about had enough of you.’

With a toss of her head she swung on her heels and marched to the door. She looked back, her eyes blazing with animosity, and she shouted, ‘Well, she’s not going ter have the satisfaction
of squeezing me out, because I’m leaving on me own account! And yer can take yer bloody rent book and shove it!’ She flung the rent book across the room at Joe and it landed in the custard flan.

The door banged behind her. Joe stared at the rent book floating in the custard, fished it out, and carried it to the sink, wiping it clean with the dishcloth. He looked inside. Miserable old battle-axe, he thought, she owes me a month’s rent. He knew he would have to whistle for that. He did not care.

Joe was horrified at the things Mrs Minton had said about Emma and himself. Surely they must have been uttered out of her consuming spite. Or did everyone in the neighbourhood really believe there was something between them? ‘Fancy woman’ was not a prestigious name to pin on a woman. It was just another way of saying tart. He might have guessed some people would talk, if only the likes of Mrs Minton. But he had never laid a finger on Emma, and he felt a flush rising to flood his face. It was with a rush of guilt that he recalled those nights when he lay awake in his chaste bed, hardly able to breathe, his desire for Emma blazing until he could not bear it. For desire her he did. On those terrible nights he envisioned himself running his hands over Emma’s beautiful body, pressing his mouth to hers, stroking her firm breasts, and ultimately taking her to him passionately. He shivered and closed his eyes, trying to obliterate those erotic images, those lustful and sensuous fantasies that haunted him.

After a few moments Joe felt calmer. Wanting a woman and craving to possess her was one thing, but it was scarcely a reality, and he resented the ghastly implications of Mrs Minton’s words. Joe sighed wearily, recognizing that Emma had ruined the harridan’s business, albeit unintentionally. She made sure her products and the shops themselves were more appealing and attractive than others in the vicinity. Her specialities, such as her delicious homemade foodstuffs, were renowned, as was her dressmaking, and she had captured the carriage trade for miles around. With her audacity and her merchandising, her two shops had become the busiest in Town Street in just under three years, and her profits were high. Joe was aware of that from his weekly inspection of her ledgers. So
enormously high, in fact, she could now afford to invest two thousand pounds in David’s business, as he himself intended to do. That kind of success was guaranteed to provoke jealousy and vicious talk.