‘Keep still, child!’ ordered Mrs Manfred, who was growing more agitated by the minute. ‘I’m blessed if I’ve ever come across such unruly hair as yours, in all my born days!’ When Emma immediately sat still, saying ‘Sorry, Manny’, she continued her efforts to pin the wild auburn hair into a cluster on the crown of Emma’s head. ‘It’s no use!’ she declared after another frustrating moment. ‘These pins are too delicate . . . I shall have to fetch a few of my own. Just you sit still!’ she told Emma, before hurrying from the room. ‘I’ll not be a minute.’
No sooner had the amiable housekeeper departed the room, than there came a knock on the door and a quiet voice asking, ‘Can I come in, Miss Grady?’
‘Please don’t,’ Emma replied, turning on the dresser stool to look towards the half-closed door. ‘I’m not ready yet, Mr Denton.’
‘Will you be long then?’ he asked, but before Emma could say anything, there came another voice, assuring the timid young man hovering at Emma’s door, ‘She’ll be twice as long if you don’t let me by, so I can finish her hair!’ Much as she had tried to dislike Gregory Denton for taking away her darling Emma, Mrs Manfred found that she could not – although she would never take to the idea of Emma being wed so young. And not if she lived to be a hundred could she ever forgive Caleb Crowther for ridding himself of the girl in such a way. She still had her suspicions regarding the manner in which Emma’s papa had departed this world, and now this whole hurried and unexpected business of Emma’s betrothal to Gregory Denton had only increased her suspicions. Mrs Manfred had worked hard at convincing herself that her suspicions were groundless and were rooted in her dislike for the Crowthers. But that cold uneasy feeling remained with her. Caleb Crowther was a bad, heartless fiend, of that she had no doubts whatsoever, and his wife was little better. Right from the moment Emma told her the news and then wept on her shoulder, the belief that Caleb Crowther had first helped Thadius Grady meet his maker and then sacrificed young Emma to an ill-suited marriage – all in the name of greed – haunted her.
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Manfred,’ muttered Gregory Denton, turning an uncomfortable shade of pink and stepping quickly away to hasten towards the stairway, ‘only . . . I’m so looking forward to seeing her,’ he explained.
‘Of course you are,’ Mrs Manfred declared with a warm smile. ‘Be patient, young man. Miss Grady won’t keep you waiting much longer, I promise.’ When he gave a small nervous laugh and thanked her, she went into Emma’s room, closed the door behind her and remarked to Emma, ‘He’s a nice enough fellow, I’m sure.’
Emma’s response was a quiet smile and a thoughtful look. During the next few moments, as her hair was pulled this way and that, pinned up then loosened, and finally arranged such that the centre portion was pinned up with the outer curls falling naturally about her face, Emma resigned herself to take just one day at a time. That way she felt more able to face what lay ahead and more determined to try and make the very best of it. However, there was one particular event which was to take place on the morrow which she was positively dreading; she was due to meet, for the very first time, Gregory Denton’s old mother, a woman who, according to talk below stairs, was a ‘cantankerous and bloody-minded old tyrant!’
‘Manny,’ she asked now, looking into the mirror and anxiously gazing at the older woman, ‘will it be just awful, meeting the infamous Mrs Denton?’
‘Awful . . . nothing!’ retorted Mrs Manfred, who in spite of her efforts to put Emma at ease with regard to the girl’s forthcoming trial, suffered no illusions where the elderly woman was concerned; for, if there was anybody more spiteful and more demanding than that old bully, then Mrs Manfred had not heard of her. There were only two things that mattered to Gregory Denton’s aged mother – her own comfort and the absolute attention and obedience of her only offspring. Her domineering nature regarding the latter was well known., and it would not be easy for Emma to successfully fit into this strange and rigid set-up; nor would it be without a certain degree of pain and determination. But, Mrs Manfred was confident that Emma, who had known enough pain to help her cope, would prove a good match for that determined old woman. Mrs Manfred concealed a little smile, for she truly believed that, if this possessive parent meant to break Emma’s will, she must expect to see sparks fly.
‘I do so want us to get on,’ Emma said, getting down from her seat and walking the few steps to the full-length mirror where she looked at her reflection, her expression still troubled by the thought of leaving one tyrant behind only possibly to be faced with another.
‘Don’t dwell on it, child,’ remonstrated Mrs Manfred, coming to stand by Emma’s left side. ‘If she does start her old games, then you just stand up to her . . . like you often do with me!’ she laughed. ‘The old bugger’ll soon learn to respect you.’
Emma was so astonished to hear Mrs Manfred using a swear word that she promptly forgot about the troublesome subject which had prompted such colourful language.
‘There!’ declared Mrs Manfred. ‘For the first time in my life the old sod’s got me swearing!’ Whereupon Emma began chuckling, and soon they were both convulsed in laughter and holding on to each other when Emma pointed out, ‘If she has that effect on you, Manny, whatever might become of me ?’
Two weeks before the New Year’s Eve ball, Caleb Crowther had ordered his wife Agnes to accompany Emma into Manchester where they were to purchase a gown which ‘will show how the girl has matured into a woman.’ Emma suspected his intention was to show all who might have quietly thought her still a child, too young to be married, that she was in fact a woman, more mature than they had realized and ready for marriage. Finding a suitable gown had not been easy, since Emma was so slim and petite and the adult gowns so heavy and overwhelming. After Agnes Crowther had impatiently rejected several rather loud and fussy articles, a particular gown in a warmly attractive shade of burgundy was brought out. The skirt was not full and flouncy, but long and flowing, with a silky look; the hem was deeply scalloped and edged with fine black braiding; and the waist was tiny, and at the back was the merest suggestion of a bustle. When Emma slipped it on and came out for inspection, Agnes Crowther was visibly taken aback; for there before her stood not a young girl, but an incredibly beautiful woman, possessed of poise and graciousness.
Now, as Emma came down the stairs, every admiring pair of eyes were turned in her direction. Agnes Crowther’s gaze was also drawn to her. As she followed Emma’s every step, her narrowed eyes swept from the top of Emma’s lovely hair, which shone the colour of polished chestnuts, to the straight delicate lines of her bare shoulders, which were enhanced by the small unfussy dropped sleeves. She looked the whole length of Emma’s tiny and exquisitely formed figure, her young breasts rising from beneath the gown, and her small feet dressed in black button-over shoes to match the pretty frilled bag at her wrist. Agnes Crowther suffered such terrible pangs of envy as she gazed at her niece’s beautiful face, with that perfectly generous mouth and those deep grey smiling eyes, and saw the natural and elegant way in which she moved. She saw Emma’s papa’s – her own brother’s – qualities so evident in Emma’s own proud, handsome features, and was so affected that she hurriedly averted her eyes, turning her head away and moving to where she need not gaze on her brother’s child any longer. Instead, she looked at her own daughter, Martha, and tried, with extreme difficulty, not to draw comparisons.
‘Oh, Emma!’ Gregory Denton felt as though he had waited a lifetime, and all of that lifetime had been lived only for this moment, with Emma as the focal point of his every dream. As he took her hand and threaded it through his arm, there wasn’t a prouder man alive on God’s earth. ‘You’re the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen,’ he murmured, leading a path through the dancers and into the centre of the floor where they might find a space. Having done so, he stopped and turned to face her, ‘I do love you so,’ he whispered above the music.
‘I know you do,’ Emma whispered back. It would have given her a lot of plea
sure to be able to say ‘And I love you,’ but she could not, as there would be no truth in such a statement. However, she was fond of him, and gazing into his sincere eyes, which now looked on her with such warmth and shining adulation, Emma was deeply moved. ‘You’re such a good man, Gregory,’ she told him with an affectionate half-smile. ‘I pray I won’t disappoint you. I do so want to make you a good wife.’
For a long, lingering moment, Gregory Denton continued to gaze at her, his eyes feasting on her gentle beauty and his face saturated with pleasure at her words. At length, he said quietly, ‘Any man would be more than proud to have you for his wife, Emma. I know how lucky I am. And, if you don’t love me now the way I love you, I feel you will . . . in time.’ He stepped closer to murmur in her ear, ‘I know it in my heart. You will come to feel as I do.’
But Emma thought not. She had already given her heart to Marlow Tanner. It had been given freely, and for ever. It did not matter that she may never see him again, for she was powerless in her love for him. His tall, strong image and those dark, brooding eyes, which simultaneously tortured and pleased her, were always in her heart and more alive with every life’s beat – and, Emma knew, would remain with her for the rest of her life.
Telling herself that she mustn’t think of him, not here, not now, Emma took to the floor with her partner and, for the remainder of the evening, she danced and smiled, she listened attentively to the meaningless chatter of others, and she gave to one and all the appearance of a young woman looking forward to her imminent marriage. She fooled everyone but those who knew better. She did not fool Caleb Crowther, who spent most of the evening huddled in a quiet corner with other industrialists, whose intense conversations covered everything from the rebellious attitude of the common worker to the persistent rumours regarding the unrest in North America.
Neither did Emma’s forced gaiety fool Agnes Crowther and her daughter, Martha, who commented, ‘How clever of Papa to hand over the burden of Emma to that peculiar little man. By all accounts he has a nasty and overbearing mother . . . who, no doubt, will curb Emma Grady’s wilful ways at the first opportunity!’
‘Really, Martha, that’s a very strong and condemning attitude, if I may say so.’ The speaker was a large, well-built fellow with quiet brown eyes, a military-type moustache and thick mop of hair – all of the same shade of brown. His skin was of an even deeper shade and, because of his seafaring interests, was leathery in texture. He and Martha had met when, during her recent holiday, she had accompanied her mother into Lancaster to purchase shoes and accessories for the New Year’s Eve ball. With their shopping finished, they had begun to make their way across the busy main thoroughfare, when, through her own foolishness, Martha was almost trampled underfoot by a coach and four. It was the quick thinking of Silas Trent which had saved her. Afterwards, finding certain things in common, they had struck up a friendship which had later deepened into a manner of courtship. Both Caleb and Agnes Crowther heartily approved of the relationship. Agnes believed him to be a stabilizing influence on her daughter, and, at the age of twenty-four years, he made both a commanding and kindly figure. Also, in spite of Martha’s many faults and plain appearance, he was obviously extremely fond of her. Caleb Crowther’s reasons were two-fold and very different from those of his wife: one stemmed from the recent and shameful business regarding Martha’s deceitful behaviour at her school; but much more importantly were his enquiries which revealed that Silas Trent was the only son of Marcus Trent – founder and sole owner of the highly lucrative Trent Shipping Line out of London and Liverpool. The Trent fleet of ships was most impressive, and from the execution of his duties as Justice of the Peace, Caleb Crowther recalled that, not only did the Trent fleet sail various other cargoes across the Atlantic, but these ships were the foremost carriers of convicts to Australia. The company was a proud and successful one. Therefore, never being one to miss an opportunity, Caleb Crowther was seen to actively encourage the relationship between Martha and the young man Silas Trent. Yet, he was most careful not to confuse the character of this accomplished young man with that of the timid and subservient Gregory Denton: the latter was easily cheated, but Silas Trent was no fool, and had strong opinions of his own which he would express without hesitation.
‘Martha . . . don’t you think it would be proper to introduce me to your cousin?’ Silas Trent’s disapproval of Martha’s spiteful remarks concerning Emma sharpened the tone of his voice. ‘I should like to be allowed to form my own opinion of the young lady in question.’ The smile on his face belied the frown in his voice. His smile deepened on seeing Martha pout in that familiar manner which he had become accustomed to – a bad habit which he intended to break at the first opportunity.
Agnes Crowther also had noticed her daughter’s immature and sulky attitude, and at once she had stepped from Martha’s side and was graciously assuring Silas Trent that ‘Of course you must meet Emma.’ She did not want this eligible young man to be left with the impression that Martha was churlish in her attitude towards Emma, nor that she possessed a spiteful side to her nature. Quickly now, she made her way around the perimeter of the dance floor to where Emma was seated, waiting for Gregory to return with her glass of sarsaparilla.
From her place in the hallway, where she watched to see that all was going well, Mrs Manfred saw Agnes Crowther collect Emma from her chair. She saw how the woman ignored Emma’s protests that Gregory would wonder about her disappearance, and she saw the two of them returning to where Martha waited with her rather large but good-natured young man. When Emma was introduced to Silas Trent and he, gallantly taking her hand to his lips, smiled down at her, it warmed Mrs Manfred’s heart to witness the stony and petulant features of Martha Crowther as she looked on reluctantly and with some disgust But it also hurt the dear woman to realize how this selfish and undeserving girl had secured for herself a strong and wealthy man, while her own lovely Emma had been fobbed off with second best as usual. Oh, it wasn’t that Mrs Manfred had not come to like Gregory Denton, for she had, yes indeed. But, to her mind, Emma’s going from the Crowthers to that old Denton woman, was akin to falling from the pan into the fire. She only prayed she might be proved to be wrong. But, somehow, she doubted it.
As Emma looked up into Silas Trent’s kindly smiling eyes, something in their genuine honesty made her heart warm to him. She liked him instantly and she considered Martha to be very fortunate in having gained his affection. ‘Martha’s told me about you, Mr Trent,’ she said with a smile, when in all truth she should have said that Martha had never stopped bragging about him and cruelly comparing him to poor, harmless Gregory. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you at last.’
‘And I you, Emma . . . if I may call you that?’ When she gave a half-smile and nodded, he ventured, ‘I wonder whether your intended might object to me dancing with you?’
For a moment Emma was quite taken aback. She could feel Martha’s eyes glaring at her, daring her to accept. And she was not unaware of Agnes Crowther, standing rigidly, with her hands joined and pointing to Heaven. Probably praying to God that I’ll fall through the floorboards and out of sight, mused Emma, with the desire to laugh aloud. She was also aware that Silas Trent still had hold of her hand and was waiting for her answer.
‘Thank you, Mr Trent,’ she said, ‘I’d love to dance . . . I’m sure Gregory won’t mind.’ As he swept her on to the dance floor, Emma couldn’t resist glancing back. As she expected, there stood Martha in her severe grey dress – which was adorned with a huge, unsightly bustle and frilled with broad white ribbon – with such a dark and furious scowl on her face that would surely be enough to curdle the cream! And there beside her, looking regal and splendid in a cream-coloured, extravagantly designed, voluminous gown, was Agnes Crowther, her familiar posture of prayer even more fiercely disciplined and her lips drawn in with such severity that her mouth had become a thin, taut line and the muscles in her neck stood out like tramlines.
‘Now I can see where Martha gets her fits
of petulance from,’ remarked Silas Trent as he began with much enthusiasm, the steps of a foxtrot. ‘Looks like I’ve got my work cut out when I take her for my wife,’ he laughed. It was an easy, infectious laugh which enthused Emma to reply light-heartedly, ‘I think I’d rather you than me, Mr Trent.’ To which, and to the fury of the two Crowther women watching, they both burst out laughing.
In a quieter mood, Emma asked him, ‘You love her very much, don’t you?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ he replied, ‘but I’m not blinded to her faults. But then we all have faults, do we not?’ To which Emma replied that there was nothing surer.
When the dance was over and each about to return to their respective partners, Emma thanked him. ‘Not at all!’ he replied with a sweeping smile, ‘I can’t think when I’ve had so much fun!’ But suddenly, the smile disappeared from his face and in its place was a tender concern. ‘Emma . . . I know enough of your background to suspect that there may come a day when you need someone to turn to. I hope such a day never does come. But, if it does, I want you to consider me as a friend. Will you do that?’
For the second time since meeting him, Emma was deeply surprised by this man. But, there was something about him – an honesty, a compassion and truth – that prompted her without hesitation to say ‘Yes. To have you as a friend would be a fine thing.’
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