A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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