He tossed his head cockily and laughed, his face full of youthful optimism. He put his arm around her shoulders and said confidentially and with the utmost self-assurance, ‘I aim to get me a diamond stickpin and be an elegant gent, a real toff, that I do, mavourneen. On the Blessed Heads of the Saints, I swear I do!’
Emma had listened attentively. Blackie’s account had been thrilling and it had held her spellbound, had aroused all manner of longings within her. But it was that magical word ‘fortune’ that had made the most profound impact on her. Thoughts of fancy clothes and theatres were swept away. Those things were insignificant in comparison to Blackie’s revelations about the opportunities for making a fortune in Leeds. Here was someone after her own heart, who knew that money could be earned as well as inherited. Emma’s heart was pounding so hard she thought her chest would burst, and now it took all of her strength for her to retain her composure. She felt she could not speak and then, at last, ‘Can a girl like me make a fortune in Leeds?’ she asked, breathless in her anticipation of his answer.
This was the last thing Blackie had expected. He was dumbfounded. He stared down at Emma and saw the starveling girl who reached only up to his chest, so fragile and wan and undernourished, and his heart clenched with feelings of pity and protectiveness. Poor little mavourneen, he thought, I should have held me tongue. Fool that I am, filling her head with dreams of a better life, a world she’ll never see. He was about to answer her negatively when, with a terrible clarity, he recognized the gleam in her eyes for what it was—ambition, raw and inexorable. He took in the face, now suddenly stern in its fixity, the eyes blazing hard green light. It was the most implacable face he had ever seen and he was shocked by what he saw. Blackie felt a cold chill on the back of his neck and his Celtic intuition told him that she was in deadly earnest. He could not encourage the preposterous idea of her running off to Leeds, yet he must attempt to pacify her.
And so Blackie bit back the ‘no’ he had been about to utter, drew in a deep breath, smiled, and said with all the gallantry he could summon, ‘Faith, and to be sure ye could. But not now, Emma. Ye are but a little colleen. Ye can’t be going off to Leeds until ye are older, I am thinking. ’Tis a fine city, sure and it is, full of prospects, but awesome and dangerous, too, for a little snippet like ye.’
Emma appeared not to hear this. At least she ignored it. ‘Where would I work to make this fortune?’ she rushed on, undaunted. ‘What would I do?’
Blackie realized she was not going to be easily appeased. He pretended to consider the question seriously, for he was only humouring her, in spite of his initial response. She did not look as if she would make it to Fairley Hall, let alone Leeds, and had he not imagined that relentless expression on her face? Anything was possible on these ghostly moors, at this hour, in the depth of winter.
‘Well, let me be thinking this one out,’ he said cautiously. ‘Perhaps ye could work in one of the manufactories making the fine dresses or maybe in one of the elegant shops selling the finery to the ladies. Many things there are ye could do, but as I said afore, I must be thinking on it careful. That’s important, sure and it is. We must find ye the right occupation. That’s the secret of success, ye knows, Emma. Least, so I’ve heard tell.’
She nodded, realizing the truth of what he said, and debated whether to confide further in Blackie, but her canniness, that inbred wariness, made her hold her tongue. She decided she had said enough for the moment. But she did have one more question and it was of crucial importance to her. ‘If I comes ter Leeds one day, when I’m growed up like yer say I should be, will yer help ter show me the ropes like, Blackie?’ She was gazing up at him and he saw that her face was the face of a child again and he breathed a sigh of relief, although he was not certain why.
‘Faith and sure I will, Emma. It will be me pleasure. I live at Mrs Riley’s boardinghouse on the “ham and shank”, but ye can always find me at the Mucky Duck.’
‘What’s that then? The “ham and shank”?’ Her brows puckered in bewilderment.
He laughed, amused at her puzzlement. ‘What rhymes with “ham and shank”?’
‘Lots of things!’ she exclaimed pithily, and threw him a scathing look.
‘The Bank, that’s what. Ham and shank. The Bank. See? It rhymes. Rhyming slang we calls it in Leeds. ’Tis the railway bank though, not the riverbank, near the Leylands. But that ain’t such a good neighbourhood, full of roughs and toughs it is! Not the place for a colleen to be a-wandering in alone, I am thinking. So if ye wants to find me, just go to the Mucky Duck in York Road and ask for Rosie. She’s the barmaid and she’ll know where I am, if I ain’t in the pub. Ye see, I might be at the Golden Fleece in Briggate. Ye can be leaving a message with Rosie, to be sure ye can, and she’ll get it to me or me Uncle Pat the same day.’
‘Thank yer, Blackie, ever so much,’ said Emma, mentally repeating with the greatest of care the names he had reeled off, so that she would remember them. For she did intend to go to Leeds and make her fortune.
She fell silent. They walked along not speaking, both of them lost in their own thoughts, yet it was a harmonious silence, without unease or awkwardness. Strangers though they were, they had taken to each other and a kind of understanding had sprung up between them, brief as their acquaintance was.
Blackie looked about him, thinking how grand it was to be alive, to have a job of work to do, a few shillings warming his pocket, and most importantly, the prospect of lots more to come. Even the moors had a strange compelling beauty now that he could see them properly. The fog had lifted long before and the air was no longer damp and moisture-laden. It was a brisk day, with a light wind that imbued the naked trees, so rigid and lifeless at this season, with a new and graceful mobility as they waved in the breeze. And the sky was no longer the colour of dull lead. It leaked a hard metallic blue.
They had almost reached the end of the flat pleateau of moorland, and Blackie was beginning to wonder when they would arrive at Fairley Hall, when Emma announced, ‘The Hall is yonder, Blackie,’ as if she had read his thoughts. She was pointing straight ahead.
His eyes followed the direction of her outstretched arm. He could see nothing but the empty moorland. ‘Where? I must be the blind one, Emma. I can’t see no spires and chimneys, like himself described to me last week.’
‘Yer will when we gets ter the top of the ridge over yonder,’ she asserted, ‘then it’s downhill all the way. In a couple of ticks we’ll be in the Baptist Field and that’s right next ter the Hall.’
EIGHT
Emma and Blackie were now standing on top of the ridge she had indicated. Behind them, sweeping into the cloudless sky, were the high fells where the last of the snow shimmered here and there like uneven swatches of white satin rippling in the watery sunlight. Below them was a small valley, typical of the West Riding, cradled in the arms of the encircling moors that extended to the rim of the horizon.
And in this dun-coloured valley, all dim greys, dusty charcoals, and earthy browns, stood Fairley Hall. Only the tops of the spires and the chimneys were visible to the eye from where they were standing, for the house itself was obscured by a copse of trees. Unlike the stunted trees that intermittently broke the barrenness of the moors, these trees were tall and stately oaks, their widely splayed branches intertwining to form an intricate pattern. Plumes of smoke from the chimneys twisted upward behind the trees, filling the chill blue sky with wispy grey question marks. Suddenly, a flock of rooks fluttered out of the copse, winding up and out in a long wavy line like a coil of thick black rope flung carelessly into the air. Otherwise there was no sign of life in this neat little valley which slumbered undisturbed at this early hour, serene and peaceful in the infinite silence.
Surprisingly, the ridge on which Emma and Blackie stood did not drop down precipitously as Blackie had anticipated, but fell away into a short gentle slope that rolled towards the edge of a small field. Drystone walls, built long ago by the crofters, surrounded this field and othe
rs in the distance, cutting out a patchwork design on the floor of the valley, a design that to Blackie seemed extraordinarily orderly and tidy, juxtaposed as it was against the wild and sprawling moors. It looked as though a giant hand had neatly carved up the land most precisely and then enclosed each portion with the old and rugged walls.
Emma ran ahead, calling to Blackie as she did, ‘Come on then, I’ll race yer ter the gate!’ She flew off down the slope at such a speed he was momentarily taken aback, both by her incredible swiftness and her unexpected burst of energy. She was wiry, this one. Gripping the sack tightly in one hand, Blackie leaped after her, at first at a goodly pace. With his great physical strength and long legs he could have outstripped her easily, but when he had almost caught up with her he fell back, slackening his speed, so that she could win her race.
Emma stood triumphantly by the gate. ‘Yer’ll have ter look more sharpish and get a move on if yer wants ter beat me,’ she proclaimed with a small swagger. ‘I’m a good runner, yer knows,’ she added, panting.
Blackie grinned at this tiny display of vanity and then adopted an admiring attitude. ‘Indeed, so I can see, mavourneen! Ye are as fast as a greyhound at the dog tracks, I am thinking. I’d put me money on ye any day, sure and I would.’
Emma bestowed a gratified smile on him and a gleam of satisfaction flickered across her face briefly. Then she turned quickly, unlatched the gate, pushed it slightly, and jumped on to the first rung, clinging to it fiercely as the gate swung forward into the field, carrying her with it. Glancing back at Blackie over her shoulder, she called, ‘I always have a swing on this gate here, even though I’m not supposed ter.’ When the gate groaned to a quivering standstill she stepped off briskly and pulled it back, apparently intending to repeat the operation, her face slightly flushed, her eyes merry.
Blackie threw down his sack. ‘Here let me give ye a push, Emma.’
Nodding excitedly, she climbed on to the first rung again and clutched the gate tightly with her small chapped hands, as Blackie sent it flying into the field much faster than before. Her worn coat billowed out behind her and laughter washed over her face. Blackie watched her, enjoying her delight in this simple pleasure. Why, she’s only a bairn at that, he thought, a rush of warmth filling his throat. How could I have imagined otherwise? Sure and it’s stupid that I am.
Emma dropped off the gate and beckoned to him. ‘Come on! Let’s be going. I’m ever so late and I’ll be copping it from Mrs Turner.’
Blackie picked up his sack and joined her. He put his arm around her in a brotherly fashion and fell into step with her as they proceeded to the bottom of the field. ‘I have to be confessing to ye that I’m mighty curious about the folk at Fairley Hall. What are they like, mavourneen?’
There was a tiny silence.
‘Yer’ll see in a minute.’ Emma smiled oddly. ‘We’re almost there now.’ Freeing herself from him, she ran ahead without another word.
Blackie looked after her, frowning, puzzled by that curious smile. She was such a small figure on the path in front of him, skipping along almost with a carefree air. He had to admit she baffled him. One minute she was a child, her face soft and laughing; the next she seemed like an old woman, her face cast in bronze. Yet they were all queer, these Yorkshire folk, with their flat harsh accents, their self-reliant characters, their dour and opinionated natures, their rabid suspicion of strangers, their shrewdness and lightning perception of character. And their veneration of money. Still, he had discovered they could be generous-spirited and hospitable, and they had a sense of humour, even if it was somewhat blunt and pithy at times. Indeed, they were funny folk, and perhaps the very peculiarities he had discerned in Emma were simply vestiges of these Yorkshire traits. Yes, that must be it, he thought, and he quickened his steps to catch up with her.
Emma was waiting for him at the copse of trees which skirted the end of the field. ‘There’s the Hall, Blackie,’ she said in a voice totally devoid of emotion.
Blackie stopped dead in his tracks and let out a long low whistle in stunned astonishment. Fairley Hall was in their direct line of vision and it bore no resemblance to the images he had conjured up in his head after his recent talk with Squire Fairley in Leeds.
‘Mary, Mother of Jesus!’ he cried, his eyes opening wide in disbelief. ‘It’s not possible, mavourneen. Nobody could have built a house like that!’ He closed his eyes convulsively and when he opened them again he discovered he was not only disappointed in what he saw, but utterly appalled as well.
‘The Hall’s the grandest house for miles around. Nowt as big as it by here,’ Emma pointed out in the same toneless voice. ‘Me dad calls it Fairley’s Folly.’ He did not notice the faint bitter smile on her lips.
‘I can see why,’ Blackie murmured, thinking that it was the most grotesque house he had ever seen. As he stared at it, his jaw slack and his mouth drooping open, he recognized with dismay that it had no redeeming features at all. For Blackie O’Neill had an unusually accurate eye for perspective and line and, in fact, his one dream in life had been to study architecture. This had not been possible, but encouraged by his parish priest, Father O’Donovan, when a boy, he had taught himself as much as he could from a few books, and because of his desire to learn and his very natural talent, he had become exceedingly knowledgeable about designs and construction.
Now he scanned the house with keen and critical eyes. The closer they drew to it, the more Blackie perceived what a monstrosity it was. It appeared to crouch like an implacable monster amidst carefully planned yet oddly incongruous gardens, its blackened stone walls grim and unwelcoming. Gothic-like spires leapt up from the four corners of the central building, which was square and dominating and was crowned with a bizarre cupola. It struck him that this central building was the oldest part, probably dating back to the late 1790s, and if it had been left alone it would have had a semblance of dignity, perhaps even a touch of grandeur. But other wings had obviously been added over the years, seemingly with little thought, and they sprouted off on both sides without regard to form or design. He could now see that they were bastardized interpretations of Regency and Victorian styles, and all of them mingled together to create a chaotic effect.
In essence, Fairley Hall was a hodgepodge of diverse periods that competed with each other to create a façade that was without proportion, symmetry, or beauty. The house was large, solid, and rich, a veritable mansion, in fact, but its architectural inconsistencies made it hideous. Blackie sighed. He loved simplicity and he thought wistfully of the lovely old Georgian houses in Ireland, with their fluid lines and classical proportions that gave them such perfect balance. He had not expected to find such a house on these rough Yorkshire moors, but not unaware of the standing and importance of the Fairley family, and their great wealth, he had anticipated a structure that had more taste and refinement than this.
They had almost reached the house when Emma cut into his thoughts as she said, ‘What do yer think ter it then?’ She looked up at him curiously, tugging at his arm.
‘Not much! ’Tis a Folly to be sure, just as ye dad says. It may be the grandest house in these parts, but it ain’t to the tastes of me.’
‘Won’t yer have a house like the Hall then, when yer gets ter be this toff, this millionaire yer said yer’d be one day?’ she probed, scrutinizing him shrewdly. ‘I thought all millionaires lived in grand houses like Fairley.’
‘True! True!’ he said quickly. ‘They do live in grand houses, but not always ones as ugly as Fairley Hall, Emma. I would never want such a house for meself. It offends me eyes, sure and it does, for it has no beauty or harmony or style.’ Blackie glanced ahead and grimaced at the thought of occupying such a grotesque mausoleum.
That bitter smile played around Emma’s mouth again and there was a tiny gleam of malicious satisfaction in her eyes. Although she lacked exposure to the world beyond the moors, and so had no basis for comparison, she had always instinctively known that the Hall was an eyesore without
grace or beauty. Her dad and the villagers might sarcastically call it Fairley’s Folly, but, none the less, they were still impressed. She laughed to herself, a little spitefully. Blackie had just confirmed her own opinions of Fairley Hall and this pleased her.
Now she turned to Blackie, who had risen even more in her esteem, and said inquisitively, ‘What kind of a house will yer live in then, when yer gets ter be this rich millionaire?’
The gloomy expression on his face lifted and was instantly replaced with a throbbing vibrancy. His black eyes shone as he exclaimed, ‘It will be in the Georgian style, built of pure white stone, with a handsome portico and great soaring columns and wide front steps. There will be many tall shining windows, looking out on to fine green lawns and gardens. It will have lots of spacious rooms, with lofty ceilings, and they will all be full of light and airiness. The floors will be made of polished oak and the fireplaces will all be in the Robert Adam style. In the entrance hall, which will be huge, I am going to have a floor made of white marble and a great curving staircase will lead to the upper floors. In every room I will use pastel colours, the light blues and pale greens that are soft and restful to the eyes, and I intend to purchase excellent furniture for all of these rooms. Yes, indeed! I shall select the best styles of Sheraton and Hepplewhite and maybe a little Chippendale. Paintings, too, I shall have, and many other fine and beautiful things. Ah, mavourneen, it will be a house to take ye breath away, faith and it will. I promise ye that. I aim to build it meself to me own design, sure and I do!’
A Woman of Substance Page 15