‘Good!’ he said, smiling down on her and slowly nodding his head back and forth. As she watched him striding back to the sulking Martha, Emma believed that the day when she had to run to him for help would never come. But Emma could not know that in the hard years to come, there would be occasions when Silas Trent proved to be both a friend and an invaluable tower of strength to her.
When the last guest had gone and Gregory had reluctantly said goodnight, Emma went to her room, took off her clothes, slipped into a nightgown and, after brushing out her long rich hair, climbed gratefully into bed. Yet, in spite of her tiredness, she felt strangely restless. There was something uniquely sad about seeing out the old year, she thought, and for her, it wasn’t just a farewell to 1860, but to her life as she had come to know it. Soon, she would leave this house. She would be a wife and, one day, she must also mother Gregory Denton’s children. For the moment the prospect was too daunting to dwell on at any length – especially when, in her deepest heart, Emma had prayed that it could be Marlow who was about to make her his wife, and Marlow’s children whom she might bring into the world. But, however much she found herself wishing it, she knew that this could never be. She was wise enough to accept that.
‘If you have any influence up there with the angels, Papa,’ she murmured into the darkness, ‘will you ask them to send a little good fortune down here? Help me to be a good wife to Gregory and see that his mother might grow fond of me?’ Then, with all kinds of unsettling images and thoughts in her mind, Emma fell into a restless sleep.
The short sleep was feverish and fitful. In the early hours, Emma woke suddenly from her nightmares with a cry of alarm. Realizing that she was safely alone in her room and that the clawing monsters had remained behind in the realms of her frantic dream, she relaxed against the cold brass bars of the bed-head. With a grateful sigh, she brought up her hands to wipe from her face the sweat which stood out in small wet beads, clinging to her skin like early morning dew. Then, stretching out her arms and locking her slender fingers together behind her neck, she leaned back again and closed her eyes. ‘You’d best shake your feathers, Emma Grady!’ she reproached herself. ‘Dreaming isn’t for the likes of you!’
She found herself thinking of Martha, who at least had been given some say in choosing her man. The thought of Martha brought a wry little smile to Emma’s face, and as she imagined her cousin with a brood of children she couldn’t help herself from laughing out loud. She wondered for a fleeting moment whether, given the choice, she would prefer to swap places with her cousin Martha. The thought terrified Emma! No! She was who she was – Emma Grady, daughter of Thadius and Mary. She had some wonderful memories and she had Manny. If her lot now was not everything she might have wished for, then there were many more worse off than her.
In the face of such reasoning, Emma chided herself and decided that she must be grateful for every mercy, small or otherwise. After all, Gregory Denton was a good man, and he loved her. But, try as she might to console herself with this, Emma’s heart could not wholly accept it, for the image living there was not of Gregory. Nor was that deep well of love she felt meant for him. And, even though her memories of her beloved Marlow warmed her heart and gave her immeasurable pleasure, she yearned for more: she longed for those dark eyes to gaze on her and for those strong arms to hold her close. Emma knew she could never be truly happy without Marlow; she could never forget him. But she could – she must – learn to live without him.
Getting up from the bed, Emma crossed over to the window where she opened wide the curtains and looked out at the sky. Soon, the sun would rise and a new day begin. A new year, and, for her, the start of a whole new life. What would it be like, she wondered, with that deep anxiety which would not leave her.
Emma went across to the small circular table where she lit the oil lamp. Then, glancing at the small brass clock on the mantelpiece which told her it was almost five a.m., she realized that the day had already begun for her because it would be futile to return to her bed and try to sleep. There was no more sleep in her, not now. She grabbed a shawl from the back of the stand-chair, which she flung about her shoulders before going out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Seeing that the fire had been well stacked the previous evening and was still giving out a cheery glow, Emma half filled the big blackened kettle with water and wedged it on top of the coals. When she thought it must be warmed, she took a cloth from the bar which fronted the big oven, and, wrapping it firmly round the kettle handle, she lifted it from the fire.
Quickly, she returned to her room, where she tipped the warm water into the large ceramic bowl on top of her dresser. Then, putting the kettle down in the cold fireplace, she opened the top drawer of the dresser and withdrew from it a face flannel and clean towel. From the second drawer, she collected a freshly laundered set of underclothes. After stripping off her nightgown, Emma took the soap from its stand beside the bowl and washed herself thoroughly all over. That done, she quickly dressed, brushed her hair into its ribbons, wrapped the long, fringed shawl about her, gathered up her small dark boots into one hand and went on tiptoe back down to the kitchen. There, she put on her boots, and going into Cook’s larder she helped herself to a cup of milk, a muffin and a portion of Cook’s special fruit jam. After heartily enjoying her early breakfast, she took the cup and plate to the sink, washed them under the tap and dried them, before returning them to the big pine dresser. Then, going to the great black fire-range, she scooped up a measure of coke from the brass scuttle and got the fire going more cheerfully. That done, she pulled up Cook’s favourite deep, horse-hair armchair and curled up into it.
It was on the stroke of six a.m. that Cook came bumbling into her kitchen, a dumpy vision of clean, starched whiteness with her sleeves already rolled up ready to tackle the day ahead. ‘Well, I never!’ she called out, seeing Emma, fast asleep in the chair, her face warmed to a fetching pink by the glow from the fire, ‘the little rascal!’
Of a sudden, Emma was wide awake, giving her apologies and assuring Cook, ‘I haven’t interfered with anything, except I had a muffin and a drop of milk from the larder.’
‘I should hope you ain’t interfered with anything, young lady!’ remonstrated Cook. ‘You’d best take yerself off while I gets the breakfast underway. I can’t be doing with you under me feet, and that’s a fact!’ She then began ranting about ‘folks as wander around instead o’ sleeping quiet in their beds.’
Thinking it best not to antagonize Cook any further, Emma decided she’d better either return to her room or go for a walk in the early morning air. She decided to go for a walk.
‘And don’t you go far, Miss Grady!’ Cook shouted after her. ‘Ye’ll likely catch yer death o’ cold out there. And breakfast’ll be served within the hour!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Emma told her. ‘I won’t go far.’
Once outside Emma drew her shawl more tightly about her. Cook was right, it was cold; but she was not deterred for, if anything, the cold morning air gave her a feeling of well-being. She stood for a while taking in deep revitalizing breaths, before exhaling slowly and watching with curious delight as her breath curled and danced in the still, crisp air.
As she began walking down the path which would take her across the meadow, round by the spinney and on to the banks of the canal, Emma was cheerily greeted by old Benjamin – the same ancient and bewhiskered old fellow who had been delivering the milk in his churns every morning since she and her papa had first come to this house. Seeing him reminded Emma of what Gregory had told her – that it was about this hour of the morning when the barges began their way along the canal towards Liverpool Docks, where they would be bright and early for their first cotton cargo of the day. It always amused Emma to see how much old Benjamin resembled his faithful horse, who was also ancient and bewhiskered. As it passed her by, the flat waggon rumbled and swayed, making its own kind of music. ‘Good morning, Benjamin,’ she replied with a bright smile, thinking it wouldn’t be long
before the other tradesmen were coming up the path, when the day would snowball into the busy pattern of life that went on, come what may.
There was always plenty of comings and goings to and from Breckleton House. And the day always started when most folks were still in bed. It crossed Emma’s mind to compare how different life here must be from that of the residents along Montague Street in Blackburn town. Well, she reminded herself, she would know soon enough. And in just a short time she would also be brought face to face with the one they called ‘the old tyrant’.
Reaching the canal bank, Emma recalled the last time she had found her way here and her heart ached. Such an innocent little adventure, she thought with both regret and pleasure, yet one which had inflamed Caleb Crowther enough to launch a spiteful and wicked attack on Marlow Tanner. Sitting for a while on the stump of a felled tree, Emma’s attention was caught by the unmistakable snorting of a horse and that soft swishing of water which only a barge on the move could make. Gregory was right, she thought, the canal is already coming alive. Of a sudden, the big piebald cob was in sight, his neck straining hard as he towed the barge around the curve towards the spinney. Emma recognized the horse at once as belonging to the Tanner barge. Her every instinct told her to hurry away from that place as fast as she could; but her heart persuaded her to stay and watch as horse and barge went slowly by. Being some way back from the canal, and being partly hidden by the shrubbery, Emma thought she would not be easily seen.
Whether it was the bite of the morning air so near the water or whether it was the nearness of Marlow, Emma didn’t know, but she found herself trembling more the closer the barge came. So much so that suddenly she was afraid. She must go! She must not stay here to torment herself so! Emma could not control the emotions which raged through her, emotions which brought with them their own kind of pain. Already she was on her feet, but even as she began to turn away, she saw Marlow standing tall and straight at the tiller, his dark, magnificent eyes stretching ahead to scour the water. What great delight the sight of him brought to Emma. Joy and a searing tide of love surged through her. Yet, she knew she must hurry away, for this love was not to be, and it could bring nothing but heartache for both of them. But she lingered too long . . .
‘Emma!’ He had seen her, and like the wind his anguished cry sailed the water towards her. But Emma did not look back. Instead, she ran faster and more blindly, until in her haste she was slipping and tumbling over the bracken beneath her feet – her heart racing with both fear and excitement, and the overhanging branches catching her face and hair as she fought her way through the spinney. In her determination to flee, Emma did not see the deep rabbit-hole ahead. When she ran headlong into it the heel of her boot caught fast, throwing her to the ground and knocking the breath out of her. She had heard Marlow pursuing her, and now, when he came upon her, Emma was frantic. ‘Go away!’ she told him. ‘Please, leave me be.’ For a moment he stood quite still as she began struggling to her feet. But then, with a cry of ‘You can’t send me away from you, Emma’, he came forward to catch her in his arms. As he rained kisses on her face and mouth, all of Emma’s resolves melted away. She clung to him, kissing him back, and wanting him so much that it hurt.
‘You love me! Tell me you love me, Emma!’ he demanded, half laughing, half afraid as he pulled her to him and covered her mouth with such fierce demanding kisses that left her weak and vulnerable in his arms. Her response was every bit as passionate and eager as his own, until, somewhere in the distance, the sound of Sal Tanner’s voice could be heard shouting, ‘Marlow! Yer a bloody fool! That lass means nothin’ but grief an’ all kind o’ trouble. I’m warnin’ yer. If yer don’t come back this very minute, I’m leavin’ . . . I’m washin’ me ’ands o’ yer. D’yer’ear me, Marlow Tanner?’
Marlow paid no heed, except to hold Emma even tighter and kiss her harder. But for Emma, Sal Tanner’s warning was enough.
‘Go back!’ she told Marlow, snatching herself away, ‘Your sister’s right. I will bring you only grief.’
‘Emma, do you love me? That’s all I need to know,’ he asked in a soft voice, holding her by the shoulders, his fiery dark eyes gazing pleadingly into hers. ‘Just say you love me, and nothing else in the world matters.’
Emma gave her answer, though it stuck in her throat. ‘No, I don’t love you. I’m to be married in two weeks time, you must know that.’
‘Aye, I do ! You’re to be wed to Gregory Denton, or so they say. But you can’t love the fellow . . . not when you love me, Emma, and you do love me, I know it. Don’t try to hide that from me, Emma. Don’t deny what we feel for each other.’
‘You’re wrong, Marlow. I do love Gregory, very much,’ Emma lied. ‘Caleb Crowther warned you away, didn’t he?’
‘He did.’
‘Then do as he says. You must stay away, or you’ll ruin us both.’
‘Do you really want me to stay away?’ Marlow asked now, his grip on her relaxing and his eyes filled with pain and disbelief. When, in a firm, quiet voice, Emma assured him that yes, that was what she wanted and he must forget her, he took away his hands, saying, in soft anger, ‘There will never come the day when I forget you, Emma Grady. Nor when I stop loving you! But I’ll not go against your word, don’t fear!’ Then he turned from her and disappeared into the spinney.
‘That day will never come for me either, Marlow,’ whispered Emma, as she watched him go, the tears running freely down her face, ‘but it’s for the best, believe me. Please believe me.’ She cared not for what might happen to her, but Emma knew in her heart that should she go against Caleb Crowther’s wishes, he would move heaven and earth to have Marlow transported to Australia as a convict. She sensed it, and was terrified by it.
‘Fools, the lot of them!’ Caleb Crowther folded the newspaper into a tight rod before flinging it down on the table in disgust. ‘They haven’t got the slightest idea. Not the slightest idea!’ He snatched up his napkin and viciously wiped each corner of his mouth. Of a sudden, he grabbed the newspaper again, opened it out and spread it before him. Then, peering down at it, he told his wife, ‘I shall make it my business to have words with the editor about this.’ He prodded his finger over and over again at the offending article, and Agnes Crowther became so curious that she leaned over the breakfast table in order to see more clearly. What she saw was a large cartoon, over which was a bold black caption which read, ‘WHO ARE THE SLAVES?’
The cartoon showed a prosperous and surly-faced fellow standing on a barrel in the centre of the picture, his arms flung wide open – his left hand pointing to a family of dark slaves in the American South, and his right one pointing to a Lancashire cotton mill family. The former appeared to be well fed and clothed, with the child in its mother’s arms positively chubby; while the Lancashire family were shabbily dressed and painfully undernourished. The man in the middle was drawing a comparison and concluding that of the two, it was the Lancashire cotton mill worker’s family who seemed more subdued by slavery than did their dark-skinned counterparts.
‘I pay my workers good money, and if they’ve got no more self-control than to breed like rabbits, then they deserve to starve!’
Seeing the look of utter disgust on his face, Emma wondered whether there was even one ounce of compassion in Caleb Crowther’s bitter heart. It was no wonder that of all the men previously employed by Thadius Grady, not one of them either liked or respected her uncle. That much she had learned during her time working alongside Gregory Denton, and it had come as no surprise to Emma. Indeed, she would have been surprised had it been otherwise.
‘Emma, go along and get yourself ready. Mr Denton is due to collect you within the hour, is he not?’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Emma excused herself from the breakfast table and was almost out of the room when Agnes Crowther instructed her, ‘As Mrs Manfred is to accompany you, I would like a word with her first. Of course, I myself would be taking you,’ here she made a small grimace and moved about in the chair, ‘but I really
haven’t been feeling too well. Still, it is only a courtesy meeting between yourself and Mr Denton’s mother. A necessary and dutiful one, however . . . since you will be moving in with her, in her own home. Yes, indeed. Send Mrs Manfred to me straight away. I’ll be in the drawing-room.’ She turned her head to where Caleb Crowther was still brooding, his eyes scouring the page before him. ‘That is all right, isn’t it, dear?’ she asked.
‘Yes! Yes!’ He did not look up, but he waved his hand with some impatience. ‘Do as you think best. I intend to leave all this woman’s business to you. As for myself, I must attend the courts at Manchester.’ With that he pushed the newspaper aside and straightened his neck to peer at Emma, who was still waiting at the door. ‘Be off with you, girl!’ he told her. ‘You have your instructions from your aunt. Inform the Manfred woman that she’s wanted in the drawing-room.’
As he rose from his chair Emma nodded and, grateful to depart from their company, she excused herself again, and closed the door behind her. As she approached the stairs, Amy came rushing along, her cap askew and a look of apprehension on her face. In one hand she carried a dustpan and brush, in the other a large wooden tray.
‘Oh, Miss Grady!’ she cried. ‘I shall get the full length of the mistress’s tongue an’ no mistake. I ’ad a bad night . . . a real bad un! An’ I can’t seem to catch up with me work no how!’
‘Are you on your way to clear the breakfast table?’ Emma asked, noticing how dishevelled Amy appeared and seeing that she was in such a state of agitation that she would probably end up by breaking every cup and plate on the table. When the frightened maid nodded in response, Emma continued in a kindly voice, at the same time putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder to turn her back in the direction from which she had just come, ‘Mrs Crowther is on her way to the drawing-room, and Mr Crowther is about to depart for the Manchester Assizes, so there’s no need for you to panic. How about if you go and straighten your cap and calm yourself down? Mrs Crowther would not be too pleased to see you like this, now would she?’
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