‘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 was a tall, scrawny man. He had a cadaverous face etched with bitter lines which made his countenance forbidding. Small eyes, so pale they were almost colourless, were set closely together in 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 baize 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 hidden mysteries, a secretive house redolent of unhappiness and decay. And yet for all that quiescence there was a sheathed turbulence everywhere, contained but ominous and stealthily waiting to break loose.
Emma was shivering as she glided across the rich Turkey carpet in the vast front entrance hall and pushed open the double doors of the morning room. She stood on the threshold and nervously glanced around. Meagre fingers of gauzy sunlight fought their way into the room through the tall windows, heavily curtained in white silk and draped with thick blue velvet hangings. Dark portraits gazed down from the dim blue flocked-velvet walls and Emma imagined, absurdly, that their ancient eyes followed her as she crept towards the fireplace, squeezing past the many pieces of ponderous Victorian furniture made of mahogany so dark they looked black in the gloomy light. The only sound was the plaintive ticking of the clock on the carved black marble mantelshelf.
Emma deposited the cleaning equipment on the floor and knelt down in front of the fireplace. She dusted off the traces of ash and filled it with the paper spills and chips of wood Murgatroyd had placed in a pile on the hearth, along with the matches. She lit the paper and when the chips took hold she opened the brass scuttle and lifted out small pieces of coal. These she gingerly placed on the burning wood. The coal did not catch light immediately, so she lifted her apron and fanned the fire until it began to blaze.
The monotonous ticking of the clock reminded Emma she had little time to waste. She cleaned the room with efficiency and speed, in spite of the cumbersome and cluttered arrangements of furniture. When she had accomplished this, she took a fine white Irish linen tablecloth from the sideboard drawer and placed it over the great circular table. She arranged four place settings of silver and ran back to the sideboard for the dishes. As she was taking out four blue-and-white Crown Derby plates she tensed and held herself very still. Her neck prickled and gooseflesh sprang up on her arms, for she knew she was no longer alone. She sensed rather than heard another presence in the room. She turned slowly on her haunches. Squire Fairley was standing in the doorway watching her intently.
She stood up quickly and dropped a small curtsy. ‘Good morning, Squire,’ she mumbled timorously, clutching the plates firmly to her breast, so that they would not rattle in her trembling hands. Her legs shook, although more from surprise than fear.
‘Morning. Where’s Polly?’
‘She’s badly, Squire.’
‘I see,’ he said laconically.
His eyes bored into her as he regarded her with the utmost concentration. He frowned and a puzzled expression settled on his face. After a prolonged silence, during which Emma stared at him mesmerized, he nodded tersely, turned smartly on his heels, and left. The banging of the library door as he slammed it harshly behind him made her start in surprise. It was only then that she breathed with relief and finished setting the table for the family’s breakfast.
TEN
Adam Fairley stood in the middle of the library and pressed his hands to his face. He was tired, exhausted, in fact, for he had slept badly yet again. His insomnia was nothing new. He seemed to be cursed with it these days, or rather these interminable nights. Even when he resorted to drinking five, sometimes six large ports after dinner, and vintage port at that, the wine did not act as a sedative. He would sleep for several hours, a drugged and heavy stupor descending upon him, but then he would awaken suddenly in the early hours, perspiring or shivering, depending on his nightmares, his mind a turmoil of painfully dredged-up memories and analytical assessments of his life, which did not please him. It had not for a long time.
He walked up and down the room slowly, lost in contemplation, a compact, trimly built man of about six feet, with an attractive, intelligent face, well modelled and sensitive, which was pale and drawn today, and etched with fatigue. His fine eyes were greyish blue in colour and intensely brilliant, almost incandescent, an
d extraordinarily lucid, filled with hidden depths and the suggestion of spirituality. But today they were red-rimmed and the light in them was dimmed. The most surprising feature in his somewhat ascetic face was his mouth, which was exceedingly sensual, although the sensuality was generally repressed and disguised by the austere expression that constantly played around his lips. His light brown hair had a blondish cast to it, was straight and finely textured. He wore it brushed loosely across his shapely head, slightly longer than was the vogue. He had an aversion to the pomaded hairstyles that were currently the mode for gentlemen of fashion. Consequently, a forelock of hair continually fell down over his wide brow, and he had developed a nervous habit of pushing it back quickly. He did this now as he paced the floor.
Oddly enough, this impatient gesture never seemed to create dishevelment in him, for Adam Fairley was one of those men who looked eternally well groomed, no matter what the circumstance or whatever activity occupied him. His appearance was faultless. He was always superbly attired, befitting the occasion, with the flair usually attributed to a dandy, and yet he was not flashy in the least.
His Savile Row suits were so impeccably cut, so beautifully styled and made with such perfect precision and unerring tailoring, they were the envy of his cohorts in London and his colleagues in the wool trade in Leeds and Bradford. For the most part, they were of fine cloths from his own mills, or from those of his friends—woollens and worsteds from the great looms of Yorkshire, undisputed centre of the world’s woollen business and of which Adam Fairley was the undisputed king. All in all, Adam Fairley was the quintessence of sartorial elegance. He disliked anything shoddy or crude, and his weakness for fine clothes was one of his few indulgences. Conversely, it never occurred to him that the house in which he lived was singularly lacking in beauty. He rarely noticed it.
A Woman of Substance Page 17