‘Oh, Emma Denton!’ she now reproached the image in the mirror. ‘You had your time with Marlow . . . you both clutched at what small happiness you could and it was a memory to cherish for ever. But now . . . oh, now, Emma, your secret will find a way out. In a short time, your condition will surely become evident to all and Gregory will know that the child couldn’t possibly be his!’ The thought made her tremble. Gregory was no fool. Even before she had become pregnant by Marlow, her husband’s urges to take her to himself in their marital bed had greatly diminished. Since being deprived of work, he seemed at times to be so altered in personality that he frightened her. Emma was now haunted by how he would react when he knew that the wife, who seemed destined not to bear his child, was pregnant by another man.
Emma shivered loudly as she turned her attention to brewing the tea. There was no escaping the fact that Gregory would know soon and, in all truth, she would rather confess the whole thing than wait for the horror of it to suddenly dawn on him. But how could she tell him? Dear God above, she thought fearfully, how can I bring myself to tell him such a thing! Yet, however daunting the prospect seemed, Emma told herself that she had no alternative. Of late, the child had begun to move inside her and, though it warmed her heart to feel Marlow’s flesh and blood mingling with her own, it also struck the fear of God in her!
‘Why the hell didn’t you wake me?’ It was eight a.m. when Gregory rushed into the parlour, his braces dangling over his hips, and his chin bristling with sandy-coloured hair-stubble. ‘I must be on that quarry site bright and early if I’m to make a good impression.’ Quickly he dashed about, dressing, shaving, washing and rushing down the eggs and bacon which Emma had prepared. ‘Get me a shilling or two from the jar,’ he told Emma between mouthfuls. ‘There’s the tram fare . . . and, like as not I’ll need something for a bite to eat, because if I get work I’ll start right away.’ Emma was pleased to see him so enthusiastic. It was said that the work in the quarries was hard and demanding, but it was the only prospect which had come up these past weeks. As she took two silver shillings from the earthenware jar in the cupboard, Emma gave thanks that they were still better off than most folk. With the small amount of money carefully put by when Gregory was in work, together with the proceeds from her various bits of jewellery, they were not yet in danger of starving.
Emma often asked herself what she would do if circumstances were ever to become that desperate. Two things she knew for certain: she would never go cap in hand to the Crowthers – nor would Gregory ever allow such a thing – neither would she ever pawn the little watch entrusted to her by her papa. Indeed, as though to put it out of the way of temptation altogether, Emma had slit a tiny pocket in the inner collar of one of her best boots. She had wedged the delicate watch inside and there it had remained. So small and inconspicuous was it, that its presence went undetected even when she wore the boots to church on Sundays. In fact, if Emma didn’t now and again take a private peep at it, she might never even know it was there.
At the door, Gregory snatched his coat from its hook, shrugged himself impatiently into it and, without even a backward glance at Emma, he said, ‘I pray to God he finds me a man’s work on this day!’ As she closed the door after him and the freezing February morning, Emma prayed also. ‘If he gets work,’ she murmured, ‘he’ll get his purpose back, and life might become that much easier.’ She daren’t also ask the Lord for an easy way to tell Gregory of the child. Not now, for she remembered Mrs Manfred’s teaching that, if she dared to ask for too much, she might end up with nothing.
Quickly, before old Mrs Denton started banging her stick on the floor and shaking the ceiling, Emma cleared away the breakfast things and refilled the kettle. While the water was heating, she tiptoed back upstairs and brought down her undergarments, petticoat and a full-skirted soft green dress of serviceable cotton, which had a high white collar, fluted hem and bib front. She also brought her dark stockings and lace-up black shoes with small square heels. When the water was boiled, she filled the bowl from the scullery, stripped herself naked and, in the warm glow from the fireplace, she washed from top to toe. It alarmed Emma to see how evident the rise of her abdomen was becoming and, there and then, she decided that come what may, she must confess all to Gregory within the next few days – placing herself and her unborn child at his mercy. It was not a pleasant thought and, having decided on the only course of action left open to her, she put it deliberately out of her mind.
No sooner was Emma washed, dressed and ready to face another day, than the rhythmic, insistent banging began, accompanied by the loud harsh voice of old Mrs Denton. Emma was thankful when, as though summoned, Tilly Watson called through the letter-box just as the mantelpiece clock struck half-past eight.
‘By!’ she exclaimed as Emma let her in. ‘It’s bloody freezing! I’ve left the lad in bed a while, ’cause he was deep in the land of slumber and it seemed a pity to disturb him.’ Inclining her head sideways, she cocked a cheeky grin towards the source of the increasing volume of noise coming from above. The sight of the small brass candelabra swinging to the tune of old Mrs Denton’s stick upon the floor, set her off in a peal of laughter. ‘Old sod!’ she cried above the racket. ‘She’s got more strength than all the rest of us put together.’
Emma also couldn’t help but laugh. ‘That’s true,’ she agreed, ‘and I believe she’ll be the death of us too . . . if we let her.’
‘It’ll be the death of me!’ wailed Agnes Crowther, one hand gripping the frilly lace handkerchief with which she dabbed at her puffy eyes and the other clutching her daughter’s arm, as though without the support of it she might fall in a faint at her husband’s feet.
‘Nonsense, woman!’ Caleb Crowther cried, impatiently shunting his clenched fist back and forth along the mantelpiece. Clearly made more agitated by his wife’s reaction to what he had just told her, he stared hard at his daughter, Martha, saying in a clipped tone, ‘Leave us! Leave the room!’
‘I’d rather stay with Mama, if you don’t mind,’ came the pertinent reply, ‘it’s all come as such a shock to her.’
‘I told you to leave!’ Caleb Crowther thundered, looking impatiently at his wife when she began shaking and crying anew. ‘As a matter of fact, Martha, please take your son and return to your own home! I understand your husband is due back any day. He is your concern – not us! I’ll thank you to remember that this is my house. You have been made welcome here many times since your marriage. Not once, when your husband has seen fit to sail the seven seas, have you been turned away by either myself or your mama.’ Here, his expression darkened and, coming forward a pace or two, he looked her straight in the eye, ‘Now . . . I’m asking you to leave. Please do so, at once!’
One look at her papa’s twitching features warned Martha Crowther to do exactly as she was instructed. Removing her hard round eyes from his face, she gave a kindlier look to her mama, kissed her on the forehead and said, ‘If you need me, please send Thomas and I’ll be here straightaway.’
‘She won’t need you,’ Caleb Crowther interrupted and when, without further argument, Martha flounced from the room, he gave a small, unpleasant smile. Then, taking his wife by the arm, he led her to a nearby chair where, with small ceremony, he sat her in it. ‘The plain fact is, my dear, we must preserve what funds we still have. I’m sure you . . . like myself . . . have no wish to leave Breckleton House. But unless we budget very carefully, there may well be no alternative.’
‘Oh, dear me!’ Agnes Crowther wrapped the fine lace handkerchief round the tip of her nose and blew delicately into it. ‘How will I ever manage without a housekeeper? And with only one maid?’ She found the prospect horrifying.
‘Come now, woman.’ He began to grow impatient at her whining. ‘You’ll still have Cook, and with a maid to see to all the menial tasks, it won’t really be that bad!’
‘But the housekeeper. Oh, I just wouldn’t know where to start.’ It seemed there was no consoling her. ‘I know the mills are cl
osed, Caleb, and perhaps I have been a little too extravagant at times, but I will try. I really will!’
‘You’ll do more than try, my dear,’ he told her with a surly look. ‘In fact, you won’t get a farthing from me before I’ve seen for myself exactly where it is going.’
‘Is all this frugality really necessary? Aren’t you panicking just a little?’ Uppermost in her mind were the cruel, humiliating things people would say.
But, Caleb Crowther was not prepared to discuss the matter any further. He could have pointed out that the bank had foreclosed on the mills. He could have explained how even Breckleton House itself might be in danger if they did not immediately, and drastically, cut down on expenditure. And not by any stretch of the imagination, could he see the financial returns from his judicial office as being sufficient to keep either a full stable or a full staff – certainly not if he was to continue enjoying life’s other little pleasures. Things were desperate! He was desperate! And, though in one or two low moments he had briefly thought about how he had squandered Thadius Grady’s legacy to Emma, Caleb Crowther’s pity and regret was reserved only for his own fate. It was his well-being that was ever paramount in his mind – not Emma’s, not even his own wife’s. It was his own escape from the walls of deprivation which were closing in on him, more and more, that concerned him most.
Even in the midst of his selfishness and greed and his determined fight for survival, Caleb Crowther knew that the day of reckoning with Emma would come eventually, for, even though he hated to admit it, the woman had spirit. She was still young, but she had a strong character. The day would come when she would expect him to hand over that which Thadius had left to her. If he remembered rightly, that particular day of reckoning would come on her twenty-fifth birthday.
Here, Caleb Crowther chuckled. ‘Hmm,’ he told himself, ‘by that time every penny due her will be long gone.’ And, he thought, with the grace of either God or the devil, so would she! Who knows what dreadful accident might befall a young woman before she reaches her twenty-fifth birthday.
The thought gave him a great deal of pleasure as he turned it over and over in his mind. The more he dwelt on it, the more his evil smile deepened, until, feeling benevolent towards his weeping wife, he said, ‘If it will help, you may keep Martha here with you for a further week or so while I’m away about my legal duties. She can perhaps give you a hand about the place, once Mrs Manfred and the upstairs maid have departed.’ If he thought that might cheer her he was mistaken, for his wife suddenly got to her feet and in a sullen mood she told him, ‘You’ll be all right! Staying in the best inns and being waited on hand and foot! Really, Caleb, you have no idea how difficult it will be here without Mrs Manfred!’
‘Then you must learn to cope, my dear,’ came the stiff reply, ‘for I intend to terminate her employment this very evening.’ Turning his back on her, he instructed curtly, ‘Be so kind as to send her in on your way out.’
‘But where will you go, Manny?’ Emma called from the scullery. She was horrified at her old friend’s bad news. It had hardly occurred to her that the present hard times, which had befallen so many of Lancashire’s working population, could ever seriously affect those who seemed too high up for the present tide of need to lap about their ankles. Even in the face of Mrs Manfred’s news this evening, Emma was convinced that her dismissal had less to do with any financial hardship on Caleb Crowther’s part and more to do with his dislike of her. He had never made any secret of that dislike and, when Emma put it to her now, Mrs Manfred made it quite clear that the feeling between her and Caleb Crowther was mutual.
‘He’s not a good man,’ she told Emma, pausing for a while as her mind was beset by images which would not go away. Images of Emma’s papa, lying in his sick-bed and crying out to hold his beloved child. Images of the way in which he had departed this world – with his cries suddenly stifled and Caleb Crowther standing over the bed with the most evil look on his face that she had ever witnessed. ‘No, he was never a good man and it may be that he has good reason to hate me.’ Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, ‘or, even to fear me!’
‘What was that, Manny?’ Emma came rushing in from the scullery with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea. She had not quite heard that last remark and half expected it to be repeated. When it was not, she put the tray down on the sideboard and passed her visitor a freshly brewed, and much welcomed, cup of tea. ‘Help yourself to sandwiches, Manny,’ she said, the concern she felt at the older woman’s predicament still evident in her voice. ‘Oh, Manny, if only I could have you here . . . to stay with us.’ But Emma knew only too well that neither Gregory nor his mother would ever condone such a thing.
‘Not at all, child!’ Mrs Manfred was at once alerted to Emma’s distress. ‘I have my plans already made,’ she said with a kindly smile, ‘and Mr Crowther gave me four weeks’ severance pay. If you ask me, the owners are also finding this depression most uncomfortable . . . though they’ll allus have a guinea or two tucked away, no doubt. Even Mr Trent has had to sell off a number of his ships. Apparently, he’s been hit bad, what with the blockades on American ports. It’s the transportation of convicts to Australia that keeps his business from floundering, so they say. It’s all a sorry state of affairs, and no mistake! But I have a lot to be grateful for, child, when I think of the soup queues, the bulging pawnshops and the faces of starvation and misery I’ve seen.’
‘Oh I know, Manny, I know.’ Emma had also witnessed these things. ‘But where will you go? Oh Manny, I couldn’t bear it if I never saw you again!’ Through all the bad times, Manny had been like a rock of support to Emma and the thought that she might be gone from her for good was too painful for Emma to contemplate.
‘I shall travel down south, to Luton,’ she told Emma. ‘You remember, I have an older sister there?’ When Emma nodded, vaguely recalling Mrs Manfred’s mention of such a relative, the older woman continued, ‘But I shan’t stay, oh no! We’re very fond of each other, d’you see . . . but we’ve never been the sort to live in each other’s pockets. No, I shall likely stay a week or two, then I’ll make my way back to settle in these parts. There’s allus plenty of work for women who don’t mind a bit of skivvying and I’ve done enough of that in my time. Happen I’ll secure a position in one of the bigger places along Preston New Road or up by the park. We shall see.’ While she had been talking, Mrs Manfred had grown increasingly aware of how pale and troubled Emma looked. Somehow, she wasn’t convinced that it was altogether her own predicament that was at issue here. She ventured to ask, ‘There’s something else on your mind, child, isn’t there?’
Ever since Mrs Manfred had arrived, Emma had been deeply tempted to confide in her the secret she was carrying. In fact, although Emma was as certain as she could be that she was with child, she knew very little of these things and would have welcomed Mrs Manfred’s advice. But, when she had seen that she wasn’t the only one with problems, she hadn’t the heart to pour out her troubles. ‘What makes you ask that?’ she queried her caring friend now.
‘Oh, child, I’ve known you since you were this high.’ She lifted her hand to signify a height no more than three feet. ‘D’you think I don’t know when there’s something preying on your mind?’ She brought her hand up to pat Emma’s knee and with her soft, devoted eyes bathing Emma’s face, she coaxed, ‘You’ll have to tell me, y’know, because I won’t go until you do.’ When Emma made no reply and just dropped her eyes to the floor, Mrs Manfred said nothing. Instead, she let her gaze wander over Emma’s countenance more closely. She saw the pinched white face full of anxiety; she saw how Emma’s hitherto small breasts appeared somewhat fuller beneath the bib of her dress; she noticed that Emma’s waist was not as reed-thin as it had been and there was a gentle rise beginning to show below it, which perhaps only a woman might perceive. Yet if, as Mrs Manfred suspected, Emma was at long last with child, why should it make her so unhappy? She could have sworn it was what Emma wanted. All the same, she mustn’t force
matters, because no good ever came of such a thing. If Emma wanted her to know, she’d confide in her in her own good time. What she did say, however, as she patted Emma’s hand more vigorously, was, ‘If you’d rather I didn’t pry, then of course I won’t. But, there’s an old adage that a troubled shared is a trouble halved. And if you need me, I’ll never be that far away from you.’ Her voice was soft and her homely face a great comfort to Emma, who lifted her eyes to meet her old friend’s anxious gaze as she went on, ‘I mean it. Whatever it is that worries you so, well, it can’t really be so bad now, can it, eh?’
For a long time there was such a deep, undisturbed silence between them that Mrs Manfred suspected Emma might not have heard a word she’d said. Presently, she got up from the chair. ‘I’ll just take the tray out for you,’ she told Emma, thinking it might be best to potter about and give Emma a few quiet moments to herself. But she was worried, very worried, and did not really want to abandon Emma in such a strange, quiet mood.
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