Emma was now five months pregnant. She herself was conscious of a thickening around her waist and hips, but her condition was not yet obvious to anyone else. The suit emphasized her willowy figure and enhanced her natural gracefulness. Her burnished hair, full of golden lights in the late-afternoon sunshine, was swept back from her oval face and brought the striking widow’s peak into focus. That afternoon she had piled those glossy tresses on top of her head in a modified pompadour, experimenting with a style she had not previously worn, and it not only made her appear taller than her five feet six inches but also gave her a sophisticated air. There was a decided spring to her light step. She was feeling revitalized and her exhilaration was apparent to every passer-by.
Emma knew she had set out far too soon. She slowed her pace, not wanting to reach the pub before Blackie did. On arriving in Leeds in August, she had already worked out the story she would tell him. At this time in her life there was little duplicity in Emma. However, now that she was pregnant she was more self-protective than ever and her inbred wariness was increasing daily. The last thing she wanted was her father or Adam Fairley swooping down on her, a situation quite likely to arise if Blackie knew the facts and sprang gallantly to her defence. And so, with a degree of artifice, she had concocted a story within the realm of truth yet deceptive enough to dupe Blackie whilst being eminently plausible. She rehearsed the story as she walked, although she had committed it to memory weeks ago.
A small troop of Salvation Army ladies, resplendent in their long black uniforms, their bonnets bobbing, were marching down York Road from the opposite direction, singing lustily and thumping a drum. Rather than hang around outside and expose herself to the ritualistic Saturday-night dissertation of the evils of drink, Emma went immediately into the public house. She could always chat with Rosie if Blackie was not already there. She pushed open the heavy front doors and moved along the narrow corridor rank with the smell of stale beer and smoke. She paused briefly before going through the inner swinging doors. Blackie had beat her to it. His voice was distinguishable over the hum of the noise inside. Emma stepped through the doors and stood to one side.
There he was in all his glorious Irish splendour, vibrant black curls rippling back from tanned face, black eyes dancing, white teeth flashing between rosy lips, his superb looks prominently highlighted in the glare from the burning gas lamps. The pianist was banging out ‘Danny Boy’, and Blackie stood next to him, erect and proud, one hand on the piano top, his marvellous baritone ringing out above the clink of glasses and the subdued murmur of conversation. Emma put a gloved hand to her mouth to hide the laughter springing automatically to her lips. She had never seen this Blackie O’Neill before. But then she had never seen him in a pub either. What a performance he’s giving, she thought in amazement, mesmerized by his theatrical stance.
In point of fact, Blackie O’Neill would have made a splendid actor. He certainly had all the necessary attributes required for that histrionic art—outstanding looks, natural charm, an instinctive sense of timing, emotional depth, and an animal magnetism that was spellbinding when projected to the fullest, and it was being decidedly projected at this very moment. There was not a little of the ham in Blackie and he was now playing outrageously to the crowd, who were electrified. He had come to the last verse of the old Irish air, and he stepped away from the piano, leaned forward, almost bowing, and then drew himself up to his full height of six feet three inches, expanding his broad chest. One great arm swept out and he finished triumphantly:
‘And I shall hear, though soft ye tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
And you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me!’
His voice struck at Emma’s heart as it always did, and as the fading echoes of it washed over her in all-enveloping waves, her throat became tight with that bittersweet sadness she experienced whenever he sang. She blinked and looked around. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place and she saw the flutter of white as handkerchiefs came out to wipe other moist eyes. The crowd was clapping spontaneously and she heard diverse voices shouting out requests: ‘Give us another, Blackie, lad!’…‘How about “The Minstrel Boy”!’…‘Sing us “Cockles and Mussels”, lad!’ Blackie was bowing and grinning and bowing again, obviously enjoying every minute of the approval. He seemed about to oblige with another rendition when he spotted Emma.
‘Later, mates,’ he cried above the din, and crossed the floor in several quick strides, pushing his way through the group surrounding the piano. Emma stood shyly near the door, clutching her reticule. Blackie was towering above her, his eyes sweeping over her in one swift but appraising glance. His surprise at the radical change in her apperance was evident, even though he tried to conceal it. He recovered instantly and said, with his usual enthusiasm, ‘Emma! It’s wonderful to see yer, sure and it is, mavourneen.’
Blackie pulled her into his arms and hugged her. Then he stood her away, as was his habit, still holding her arms and gazing into her upturned face. ‘Why, ye be looking more fetching than I ever did see ye, Emma. And quite the young lady. Yes, indeed!’
Emma laughed. ‘Thank you, Blackie, and it’s lovely to see you, too.’
He grinned at her, his delight as obvious as hers. ‘Come on, mavourneen. Let’s be going into the Saloon Bar. It will be quieter in there, I am thinking, and we can talk better. It is also a more suitable spot for a fine young lady like ye.’ He winked as he said this and asked, ‘And what will ye be having to drink?’
‘A lemonade, please,’ she responded.
‘Wait here,’ Blackie ordered, and headed for the bar. Emma’s eyes followed him. She had not seen him since the spring, almost nine months, and he, too, had changed. He seemed somehow more mature and, in spite of that natural exuberance that always bubbled to the surface, there was an air of containment about him, and she thought she also detected a certain sadness. Rosie, her vast body encased in startling orange satin, was beaming from ear to ear and waving at Emma, who returned her greeting. Blackie was back within seconds, carrying the drinks. ‘Follow me,’ he said, shouldering his way through the throng that filled the main room.
The Saloon Bar was relatively empty and certainly quieter, and Emma at once felt less uncomfortable here than in the public bar. She glanced around curiously. It was quite sedate, in fact rather elegant for a pub. Blackie found them a table in the corner, put down the drinks, pulled out a chair for her with a gentlemanly flourish, and seated himself opposite. He took a sip of the frothing pint and regarded her over the rim of the glass attentively. Then he placed it on the table and, leaning forward, said in a sober tone, ‘And what’s all this about, then? What are ye doing in Leeds? A little snippet like ye. I thought I told ye a long time ago this was no place for ye, until ye were older. Sure and I did, Emma Harte.’
Emma threw him a quick glance. ‘I’m doing all right.’
‘Aye, so I can see, by the looks of ye. But ye might not have been so lucky, I am thinking. Come on, out with it! What made ye leave Fairley?’
Emma was not ready to confide in him just yet and she ignored the question. ‘Yes, I was lucky,’ she conceded and, changing the subject, continued, ‘I didn’t know you would be away. I missed you, Blackie. Why were you in Ireland so long? I thought you were never coming back.’
His face became sorrowful. ‘Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen,’ he said through a deep sigh. ‘It was me good friend Father O’Donovan, who was dying. An old priest I truly loved, who taught me everything I know. That is, what bit of learning I do have. I stayed with him till the end. Sad it was, oh, very sad indeed.’ He shook his head and his Celtic soul seemed to be mourning afresh, for his eyes were dimming at the memory.
Emma stretched out her small hand and patted his arm. ‘I am sorry, Blackie. Really very sorry. I know how upset you must be.’ She was silent for a moment, commiserating with him, and then she murmured softly, ‘So that’s why yo
u stayed in Ireland all these months.’
‘No, mavourneen. Father O’Donovan, God rest his soul, died within a couple of weeks. But I did stay on for a bit of a holiday with me cousins, Michael and Siobhan, who I hadn’t seen in many a year. Then me Uncle Pat did write to me and told me I must get meself back to England quick like. I got back to Leeds yesterday. Naturally, it being Friday night, I came in for a pint. And what a surprise I did get when Rosie gave me ye letter. I was thunderstruck, if the truth be known.’ He looked at her quizzically and finished, ‘Out with it, colleen. Why did ye decide to leave Fairley?’
Emma eyed him a little charily and said quietly, ‘Before I tell you the reason, Blackie, you must promise me something.’
Blackie stared at her, amazed more by the seriousness of her tone rather than her request. ‘And what might that be?’
Emma met his direct gaze calmly. ‘You must promise me you won’t tell my father, or anyone, where I am.’
‘And why all the secrecy?’ Blackie demanded. ‘Does not ye dad know where ye be?’
‘He thinks I’m working in Bradford,’ Emma explained.
‘Ah, Emma, that’s not right. Now why would ye not be telling ye dad where ye are?’
‘Blackie, you haven’t promised me yet,’ she insisted in her coolest voice.
He sighed. ‘All right, then, if that’s the way ye be wanting it. I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints that I won’t be telling a living soul where ye be.’
‘Thank you, Blackie.’ There was a dignified expression on her face and she was not at all nervous or apprehensive as she said, ‘I had to leave Fairley because I am going to have a baby!’
‘Jaysus!’ Blackie exploded in stunned disbelief. ‘A baby!’ he repeated, mouthing the word as if it were foreign to his tongue.
‘Yes, in March,’ Emma informed him calmly, ‘and I had to leave because the boy, that is the father, well, he let me down.’
‘He did what!’ Blackie bellowed, his face growing scarlet. ‘By God, I’ll thrash the living daylights out of him! I will that. We will go to Fairley tomorrow and see ye dad and his dad. And by God he’ll marry ye if I’ve got to beat him to a pulp to get him to the church!’
‘Hush, Blackie,’ Emma said. She could see he was in the grip of a terrible fury. ‘It’s no use, Blackie. When I told the boy the way it was, he said he would marry me. That I shouldn’t worry. But then do you know what he did, that very night?’
‘No, mavourneen, I cannot be imagining,’ muttered Blackie through clenched teeth. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to kill. The idea that anyone would abuse Emma enraged him to a point of madness.
Emma had been watching Blackie very carefully and she said softly, ‘He did a terrible thing, Blackie. He ran away. To join the Royal Navy. Fancy that!’ Her eyes were large and her voice was low. ‘He took a leaf out of my own brother’s notebook,’ she went on, ‘he copied Winston and did a moonlight flit. Just like that. When he didn’t come to the Hall to see me, as he had promised, I went down to the village to see him. It was then his dad told me that he had run off. He even showed me the note the boy had left.’ She shook her head. ‘What could I do, Blackie? I couldn’t tell his dad. And I certainly couldn’t tell mine. So I ran away to Leeds.’
‘But perhaps ye dad would be understanding—’ Blackie began, endeavouring to keep his voice steady.
‘No, he wouldn’t!’ Emma cried with alarm, her face paling. She had known he might take this attitude and she must convince him she had to stay in Leeds. ‘He would be angry and hurt! It would kill him, coming on top of my mother’s death. I don’t want to take any trouble to my father’s doorstep. It’s better this way.’ Emma now softened her voice. ‘Honestly, Blackie, it is. I know my father. He has a terrible temper and there would be a dreadful scandal in the village. It would ruin my life and the baby’s. And my dad’s, too. It’s best he doesn’t know. He couldn’t stand the shame.’
‘Aye, mavourneen, I can see ye point.’ He stared at her, his face thoughtful. As she had so accurately assessed, he was not at all shocked by her revelation. Surprised, of course. And infuriated with the cowardice of the boy who had got her into trouble and then deserted her. But Blackie was familiar with human weaknesses, especially of the flesh, and he was not one to pass judgement. And yet, as he continued to observe her, he was immensely disturbed. It occurred to him that her story did not sit too well on his shoulders. His native intuition told him there was something terribly wrong with it, although he was not exactly sure what this was. He gave her the most penetrating look. There seemed to be no deception in her face. She was regarding him openly, her eyes innocent, and her lovely face overflowed with sweetness. Blackie pushed back the feelings of disquiet he was experiencing and said, in a controlled tone, ‘And what will ye do when the baby comes? What will ye do with the baby, Emma?’
‘I don’t know yet, Blackie. I’ll think of something. For the moment I must protect my father—let him continue to believe that I ran away to better myself, that I’m working in Bradford. After the baby’s born, of course I shall go and see him, so that he knows I’m really all right. In the meantime I will keep writing to him, and then he won’t worry so much.’ Before Blackie had a chance to make any comment, Emma rushed on to explain about the letters she had sent from Bradford, and also told him everything else that had happened to her in Leeds. She painted a picture that was a trifle rosier than reality.
He gave her all of his attention and, as he listened, Blackie O’Neill began to realize that the change in her ran deeper than her outward appearance. Indefinable and subtle though this difference was, it was there, and it had not been wrought simply by the sophisticated upswept hairdo and the elegant clothes, undoubtedly castoffs from the Hall. There was a profound alteration in Emma herself. But that’s to be expected, he decided. She’s about to become a mother and her experiences of the last few months most certainly would affect her. Then it hit him. Emma was no longer the starveling child of the moors. She was a young woman and a beautiful one at that, and somehow she had managed to transform herself into a lady overnight. No, not overnight. It had been happening gradually over the past year and a half. He recognized that now. He himself had detected the thoroughbred strain in her the day they had met and now it was apparent for all to see. He smiled wryly. That explained Rosie’s glowing description of her.
Her musical voice intruded on his thoughts. ‘The Kallinskis are very nice, and so kind, Blackie. I hope you’ll meet them. And I like working in the tailoring trade. I’m doing very well, you know,’ Emma was saying. ‘I will be fine in Leeds, Blackie. I know I will.’
‘Yes, I suppose ye will, Emma. But ye are not looking ahead,’ he pointed out. ‘How will ye look after the baby and work as well?’ he demanded with fierceness.
Emma gave him a sharp look. ‘I told you before, I’ll think about that problem later! Right now, I have to make money. To keep myself and to save up for the baby coming.’ She leaned forward and took his hand, squeezing it, hoping to reassure him. ‘Please don’t worry. There’s always a solution to everything,’ she said in a positive voice.
She smiled and her face, so close to his, bewitched him, and once again he became conscious of her as a woman, and his heart beat all that faster. He saw her in a different light than he had ever seen her before.
Without a second thought Blackie said urgently, ‘I have a solution, Emma! Marry me! Then ye will be safe and secure. I’ll take care of ye and the baby, too. Marry me, mavourneen!’
Emma was utterly astounded. She stared at Blackie, quite unable to speak, and for the first time since she had left Fairley she broke down, so moved was she by this loving and unselfish gesture on his part. She lowered her head and the tears spilled down her cheeks and dropped on to her hands fumbling in her bag for her handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and, through her tears, she said tremulously, ‘Oh, Blackie, how wonderful of you to ask me to marry you! What a lovely thing for you to do.’ She paused and g
azed into his burning eyes. ‘But I couldn’t do that. It just wouldn’t be fair to hamstring you with a wife, and another man’s child. You have your plans, after all. You’re going to be that toff, that millionaire. You don’t need the responsibility of a family. I couldn’t do that to you, Blackie.’
Blackie had spoken impulsively, not even certain of his real emotions or his true feelings for Emma, and yet, although he recognized the veracity of what she said, he felt a peculiar stab of disappointment at her refusal. ‘But ye cannot be by yeself,’ he persisted, grasping her small hand in his. ‘Ye would be better off with me, mavourneen. Sure and ye would.’
‘And what about you, Blackie O’Neill? Would you be better off with me?’ She smiled a little timorously, the tears still glistening on her lashes. ‘No, I think not. I won’t do that to you, Blackie. The answer is no. I won’t marry you. But thank you anyway. I’m honoured and flattered that you would ask me. Really I am, Blackie.’
He could see that she was adamant and he was not fully certain whether he was relieved or not. He was filled with a variety of emotions. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to say, ‘Very well, mavourneen, we won’t be discussing it further. At least for the time being. Let’s just say me offer is open—in—definitely!’
Emma could not help laughing through her subsiding tears. She shook her head. ‘Oh, Blackie, what will I do with you!’
His anger was slowly dissipating, his doubts about her story were temporarily forgotten, and he joined in her laughter. After a few moments he said, ‘I’ll tell ye what ye’ll do with me, mavourneen mine. Ye’ll come and have a bite of supper with me, at one of them fancy cafes I told ye about, and then I’ll be taking ye to the City Varieties. Vesta Tilley is appearing tonight and ye’ll enjoy the show, I am thinking. Would ye be liking that, Emma? Sure and it’ll be grand to be having a bit of fun for a change. What do ye say? Will ye be accepting me invitation, then?’
A Woman of Substance Page 51