A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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