The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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face was livid with volcanic wrath and his eyes flared dangerously. ‘Thee’s not going into no navy and that’s last I’ll hear of it in this house, me lad! Thee’s under age and no permission will thee get from me. Now drop it once and for all, our Winston, or thee’ll feel me strap across thee back. Thee’s not too old yet for a good hiding, me lad, and don’t thee forget it!’
Winston glowered back at his father, his unusually beautiful face flushed and contorted with frustration and anger, his blue eyes icy. ‘If I want ter go, I’ll go,’ he screamed passionately. ‘Yer can’t stop me if I runs away and run away I will, out of this godforsaken hole, here there’s nowt but misery and poverty and dying—’
‘Little monkey! Talk back ter me, would thee! We’ll soon see about that!’
The boy could not move for a split second and then, as the bubble of rage burst in his head, he stepped forward and lifted his arm as if to strike his father. But through the dizzying haze of his blinding anger he saw something menacing in those eyes and he paled and backed away, faltering, mortally afraid of his father’s strength. Although he was not as tall and as muscular as his father, Winston was well built and strong, but he was made of finer stuff, more like his mother. And he knew he was no physical match for Big Jack Harte. Winston had strong instincts for self-preservation and especially so when it applied to his person, for the fifteen-year-old boy was increasingly conscious of his striking looks and he knew them to be his most powerful asset.
‘Don’t think I didn’t see that, our Winston! I’ll teach thee ter raise thee hand ter me, lad! That I will. I’m going ter give thee a good hiding thee won’t forget as long as thee lives. And it’s long overdue!’ As he spoke he began to unbuckle the black leather belt around his trousers, pulling it off hurriedly in his excitement. He wrapped it around his right hand, buckle first, moving towards Winston threateningly and with immense power.
‘Ah, yer can’t scare me!’ Winston cried shrilly, nonetheless retreating to the Welsh dresser, putting the table safely between them. ‘Yer wouldn’t dare hit me! Me mam won’t never forgive yer, if yer puts that strap on me!’ he warned.
Big Jack Harte appeared not to hear. He moved forward rapidly and with agility, the black leather strap dangling ominously in his tightened fist. He lifted his arm and would have brought the strap down across the boy’s head if Emma had not rushed across the room at this moment and jumped in front of her father. She grabbed his arm and held it with both hands, using all of her strength. Her face was gaunt in the firelight and she shook with rage. She stood before her father unflinchingly. She was the only one who dared defy him, who had the nerve to stand up to him. And she could usually quell his wrath, subdue him into docility.
Although her voice was quiet when she spoke there was vehemence in her words. ‘Shut up, Dad! What’s got in ter yer? Shouting and bawling at this hour and our mam lying badly upstairs. Yer should know better, our dad. And yer should be ashamed of yerself! Now sit down and drink yer tea, or I’ll be the one that runs away, and then where would yer all be, eh?’ She held tightly on to his raised arm, which she could not move. ‘Come on, Dad,’ she cajoled in a softer tone, ‘don’t be stubborn. Our Winston won’t run off ter the navy. That’s all big talk on his part.’
‘That’s what yer think, is it, Miss Nosy Parker?’ Winston interjected furiously from the safety of his corner on the other side of the room. ‘Well, yer wrong for once in yer short life, our Emma. I mean it. Yes, I do.’
Emma swung around to face her brother. She strove to control herself. ‘Stop it, Winston,’ she hissed. ‘Yer’ll have me mam downstairs next and her so poorly. And stop this stupid talk of joining the Royal Navy. Me dad’s right, yer are too young. And yer’ll break our mam’s heart if yer runs away. So stop it. And now!’
Winston’s eyes gleamed with unfamiliar resentment and hostility. ‘Miss Bossy Knickers, that’s what yer are,’ he cried derisively. ‘Mind yer own business, Miss Bossy. Always interfering. Yer make me sick. Yer nowt but a slip of a lass and what do yer knows about owt, Emma Harte!’ There was a tinge of venom in his voice, but he recoiled under her piercing gaze, which was full of coldness. Her expression was one of indifference as she turned her back on him with deliberateness. Winston was vaguely conscious that he was afraid of his sister. Not afraid in the sense that he was afraid of his father’s brute force, but in another, wholly different way which he did not fully comprehend. As if to belie his feelings, he sucked in his breath and cried, ‘Too big for yer boots, Emma Harte. That’s what yer are!’ Emma ignored this last outburst and pressed her lips together, willing herself not to respond.
Jack had been dimly aware of this heated exchange between his two eldest children and he had used the few seconds to cool his rage. Now he turned his leonine head slowly and regarded his son with penetrating intensity. ‘Enough’s enough, Winston,’ he said in a voice still roughened with the residue of anger, yet controlled. ‘Leave thee sister alone. Thee’s done plenty of damage for one day, and I won’t be forgetting it for a hell of a long time.’
‘She’s always poking her nose inter me business—’ Winston retorted, but stopped short when he saw the irate glint in his father’s eyes, the flush rising on his neck to suffuse his face. Jack moved restlessly under Emma’s loosening grip and Winston thought better of arousing his father again. He slid with catlike grace to the far end of the kitchen, towards their younger brother Frank, who had been cowering against the set pot shaking with fear and whimpering during the uproar.
Emma was seething at his stupidity and inability to gauge their father’s moods, to know when to hold his tongue. Watching him whispering to Frank and consoling him, she wished he would run away and then perhaps they would have some peace. This disloyal thought so paralysed her she let go of her father’s arm. Winston’s presence had always been necessary to her and they were inseparable. He was her ally, her only friend, and as such she had considered him to be indispensable. The realization that perhaps he was not stunned her. She turned back quickly to her father, took his arm, and, somewhat shaken, said quietly, ‘Come on, Dad, sit down now.’
For a moment Jack Harte would not yield under the determined but light pressure of her hands on his muscular body. He looked down at the girl and thought how thin she was and he knew how easy it would be to free himself from her grip. With a flick of his wrist he could send her frail body hurtling across the room. But he had never struck Emma and he never would. He relaxed and allowed her to manoeuvre him into the chair. He gazed at the pale face, usually so grave and thoughtful, which still slightly twitched with aggravation, and he was moved as only she, of all his children, could move him. And as he contemplated his daughter, the only one who dared to challenge him, Big Jack had a rare and sudden flash of insight. He recognized with great clarity of vision that he was facing implacable will. A will wrought of iron and, in one so young, frightening and shocking. That unyielding little countenance filled him with a mixture of emotions, new emotions for him, compounded of pride and fear. He was proud of Emma’s strength, yet afraid for her because of it. It would get her into trouble one day, of that he felt sure. She was independent of spirit and there was no room for independent spirits in their world. Their class was inevitably ground under the heels of the bosses. Emma’s fierce will would be broken and he dreaded that day. He prayed then that he would not be around to see it, for it would break his heart, just as surely as it would break hers.
As he continued to stare at her, he saw the girl clearly for the first time in years. He saw the undernourished body, the thin neck, and the scrawny shoulders underneath the shabby little nightgown. But he also saw something else. He saw the transparency of the skin, as white as the snow that lingered still on the highest fells. He saw the sparkling eyes full of emerald fire, twin reflections of his own. He saw the richness of the russet hair that came to a widow’s peak above the proud brow. He saw in that undeveloped childish body the beginning of prettiness, but would it ever come to flower? His heart shifted and seemed to move imperceptibly with an unbearable ache and he was filled with profound anger and grief when he thought of the life of drudgery that lay ahead of her. She was a drudge already, here and at Fairley Hall, and she was so young.
Her light, girlish voice brought him out of his reverie. ‘Dad, Dad, don’t yer