The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules

Emma flushed and bit her lip and looked down at the crumpled dress and pinafore with dismay and great embarrassment. ‘Yes, ma’am. For winter, that is. I’ve got a cotton one for summer,’ Emma had mumbled selfconsciously.

‘We must rectify that at once. If you tell me your size I shall attend to it myself, when I go to Leeds later this week,’ Olivia announced, and had added, ‘I shall buy you several uniforms, for winter and summer, Emma. One of each is simply not enough.’

‘Ooh! Thank yer, ma’am, ever so much!’ cried Emma. A thought struck her and she had said respectfully, ‘Begging yer pardon, Mrs Wainright, ma’am, but I could make ’em meself, if I had the cloth. Me mam taught me how ter sew, ever so good like.’

‘Did she indeed? That’s excellent. I shall ask the Squire for some lengths of cloth from the mill and I shall purchase the cotton for the summer uniforms in Leeds. You may go now, Emma, and incidentally, I am glad you came to see me with your problems. You must always do that, for as long as I am staying here at Fairley.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank yer, ma’am. And I will come ter see yer if owt else bothers me,’ Emma had promised. She bobbed a curtsy and hurried out of the library, clutching her timetable as if it were the crown jewels. She did not see the look of compassion mingled with admiration on Olivia Wainright’s face; nor was she aware that she had set in motion a chain of events that were to change everybody’s life at Fairley Hall.

There was no ugly uproar or altercation in the kitchen about Emma’s unprecedented display of independence. Murgatroyd tactically ignored it, since it suited his own purpose admirably. In fact, he paid little attention to Emma’s activities, and Emma knew this was because he was too preoccupied maintaining his own position in the household to care about her. Now that he was under the eagle eye of Mrs Wainright he had to watch his step and, undoubtedly, whatever she had said to him had been effective. Observing Murgatroyd out of the corner of her eye, as he scurried to and fro, bowed and scraped, and pulled his weight in the household for once, Emma would often smile to herself and there was both irony and a flicker of smugness in the smile that flitted across her young face. Emma had begun to comprehend that Murgatroyd had met his match in Olivia Wainright. Gentle of manner though she was, Emma knew that the courteous demeanour disguised a strong will and an exacting but fair nature.

However, as the weeks passed, the timetable and Emma’s rigid adherence to it had begun to amuse Cook, who had long forgotten her own objections to it. She had never witnessed anything like it in all her years of service. It sent her into gales of loud, though kindly, laughter. She would slap her pendulous thighs and shake her head and say between gusting peals of mirth, ‘Aye, lass, yer a rum ’un, yer are that. Whoever heard of a blinking timetable, ’cept at the railway station. And yer tek yerself so serious, yer do that, Emma lass. Yer run about this ’ere house like the Devil himself is after yer, slaving yer fingers ter the bone. And where’s it all going ter get yer, when all’s said and done? I’ll tell yer summat, and yer should mark me words, lass. The more yer do in life, the less yer gets thought of. I knows, aye, that I do.’

At these raucous but genial outbursts, Emma would look at Cook with large eyes, but said nothing. She did not have time to explain her reasons. Time now meant money to Emma, and she would not waste her precious time chattering. And anyway, Emma was sure Cook would not understand. How could she know that the timetable was, in a sense, a kind of protection for her? It enabled her to work in a more efficient and orderly manner. She could ease the work load on various days and conserve her strength. Not only that, because of it, Emma was able to steal a little time for herself and this stolen time was of vital importance to her. Several afternoons a week, and early most evenings, she retreated to her attic room and worked on the dresses and other clothes she altered or repaired for Mrs Wainright and Mrs Fairley. She was paid separately for this work, at Olivia Wainright’s insistence, and her little tobacco box of shillings and sixpences was slowly growing. Nothing was going to deter her from making this money, her own secret money, even if she had to occasionally skimp on some of her chores to make time for the sewing. It was with a grim determination that she sewed diligently into the middle of the night, by the light of three candles, her eyes scratchy, her fingertips sore, her shoulders aching as she hunched over the elaborate gowns and blouses and skirts and dresses and fine undergarments, plying her exquisite stitches. For the money she earned from this sewing was being acquired, most methodically and religiously, to finance Emma’s Plan, which she always thought of with a capital P.

Cook knew about the sewing, but not about the late hours Emma kept, and had she known she would have been annoyed, for she was fond of the girl and had her welfare at heart. So Emma did not enlighten her about this either, preferring to keep her own counsel.

Although Mrs Turner was a woman with a degree of native shrewdness, she was not blessed with great intelligence or perception, and she did not understand Emma’s character in the least. Nor did she have the foresight to recognize that the girl was displaying the first youthful glimmering of an amazing organizing ability that was to prove formidable; or that her punctuality, diligence, and unrelenting efficiency were the first outward signs of an immense self-discipline and the driving ambition that would grow to monstrous proportions, and which would prove to be the very roots of her success later.

At this moment in her life, Emma certainly did not understand this either, and the future was far from her mind as she remembered the events of the past few months whilst attending to the fire. She sighed softly. Those days had been bad days, but they had passed now. She visibly brightened. Things had improved. Her timetable worked successfully and her life was a lot easier. Mrs Wainright had kept her word and had hired another girl, Annie Stead, from the village, whom Emma was patiently, and sometimes vociferously, training as the between-maid. The domestic routine was running as smoothly as clockwork, so much so it was like a miracle and one that Emma prayed would last. But apart from this and most importantly, Mrs Wainright had increased Emma’s wages by two shillings a week, a welcome addition to the family income.

Emma lifted a large log with the tongs and dropped it on to the fire, which was now burning merrily and throwing off so much heat Emma’s face was warm and flushed. She stood up, smoothed her pinafore, adjusted her dainty cap, and straightened her cuffs, for she took exceptional pride in her appearance ever since Blackie had told her she looked ‘fetching’ and was the prettiest colleen in the whole county of Yorkshire. She glanced around the sitting room and scowled. The thunderstorm had ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but the sky was still overcast and it filled the room with gloomy shadows. It’s ever so dark in here, she said to herself, and turned up the lamps on the black lacquered chinoiserie tables flanking the fireplace. The room was immediately suffused with brighter light, warm and glowing, which counteracted the dismal atmosphere and the chilliness produced by the preponderance of blue furnishings.

Emma stepped back and regarded the mantelpiece, her head on one side, her eyes thoughtful as she appraised the objects aligned along the marble shelf. There were a pair of silver candlesticks, beautiful Georgian pieces holding white candles, an elaborate porcelain clock, supported in the paws of two lions rampant on either side, and which chimed like a tinkling bell on the half hour, and Dresden figurines of a lady and gentleman in old-fashioned dress. Emma, by herself, had rearranged all of these objects in a more harmonious way, as she had done with numerous other pieces elsewhere in the room. Sometimes she was sorely tempted to hide half of the bric-à-brac in various cupboards and drawers, since she considered it to be superfluous, but she did not dare go that far. Occasionally she wondered where she had found the courage to regroup most of it without permission, not that Mrs Fairley seemed to notice, or anyone else for that matter. She was still contemplating the mantelpiece, congratulating herself on the attractive effect she had created, when a slight rustling sound caught her attention. She turned swiftly to see Adele Fairley standing in the doorway of her adjoining bedroom.

‘Oh, Mrs Fairley! Good morning, ma’am,’ Emma said, and dropped a curtsy. Although the Squire had told her weeks ago not to curtsy to him, because it annoyed him, Emma felt obliged to do so in the presence of her mistress and Mrs Wainright.

Adele nodded and smiled weakly, and then she seemed to sway and stagger, as if she was ill, and she clutched at the door-jamb to steady herself, and closed her eyes.

Emma rushed across the room to her side. ‘Mrs Fairley, are yer all right? Do yer feel badly?’ Emma inquired solicitously, taking her arm.

Adele opened her eyes. ‘I felt faint for a moment. But it’s nothing. I didn’t sleep very well.’

Emma scrutinized her through narrowed eyes. Mrs Fairley looked paler than ever, and her hair, normally so beautifully groomed, was uncombed and she looked dishevelled, which was also unusual. Emma noticed that Adele’s eyes were red and swollen.

‘Come ter the fire and get yerself warm, ma’am, and have some of this nice hot tea,’ Emma said sympathetically, and led her firmly across the floor. Adele, swaying and leaning heavily on Emma, drifted into the room on a cloud of Jasmine scent that was momentarily overpowering, her silvered robe dragging limply behind her.

Emma settled her in the wing chair, glanced at her anxiously, and said briskly, ‘I made scrambled eggs for yer this morning, Mrs Fairley. I knows yer enjoys ’em, and yer didn’t eat much of yer dinner last night, I noticed.’ As she spoke she removed the lid from the silver dish and pushed it forward, drawing her mistress’s attention to it.

Adele Fairley brought her distant gaze from the fire and looked at the eggs without interest, an absent expression on her face as pale as death. ‘Thank you, Polly,’ she said, and her voice was listless and without any emotion. She lifted her head slowly and stared at Emma, a puzzled expression flickering on to her face. She blinked in bewilderment and shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s you, Emma. Of course, I’d forgotten, Polly is sick. Is she any better? When is she coming back to work?’

Emma was so completely unnerved by these remarks she stepped back involuntarily and stared with disbelief at Adele, her eyes widening, the silver lid in her hand poised in mid-air. In an effort to disguise her alarm, she plopped the lid back on the dish with a loud clatter and cleared her throat nervously. And then she said in a voice that quivered, ‘But, Mrs Fairley, don’t yer remember?’ She paused and gulped and continued tremulously, ‘Polly’s – Polly’s—’ She stopped again and then blurted out quickly, ‘Polly’s dead, Mrs Fairley. She died last week and they buried her on Thursday—’ Her voice, so low now it was almost a whisper, trailed off, as she stared at Adele with growing disquietude.

Adele Fairley passed her hand over her brow wearily and covered her eyes and then, after a second, she forced herself to look directly at Emma. ‘Yes, I do remember, Emma. Forgive me. These headaches, you know. They are quite dreadful and leave me utterly exhausted. Sometimes I am inclined to be forgetful, I am afraid. Oh dear! Yes, poor Polly. So young.’ Adele’s face, only briefly lucid, glazed over and she turned to the fire in a trance.

Emma, who had grown accustomed to Adele’s chronic absent-mindedness, was, nevertheless, appalled at this particular lapse of memory, which was shocking to her, and unforgivable. How could Mrs Fairley forget someone’s death so quickly and apparently with such ease? Emma asked herself, horrified. Especially Polly, who had worked like a little Trojan for her for five years, and had been devoted. Until this moment Emma had, for the most part, been able to excuse Adele’s heedless indifference to the troubled lives of others, ascribing it to her pampered life and her unrealistic and even childish view of the world. But this incident she found hard to overlook. Emma did not attempt to conceal the contemptuous expression that slid on to her face and her mouth tightened into a stern and unyielding line. Why, she’s no different from the rest, she thought condemningly. They’re all the same, the rich.

Emma looked at Adele staring so unconcernedly into the fire and she was outraged and also disgusted, and it occurred to her that Adele was not only shallow and selfish but heartless. In Emma’s opinion, even Adele’s gentleness no longer seemed a redeeming characteristic. But after a long moment, Emma pushed the anger down, controlling it with steely determination until it was finally quelled into partial submission, for she knew it was a wasted emotion. Emma also knew that it was ridiculous to dwell on the natures of the gentry. Where would that get the likes of her in the long run? What would it achieve? Nothing! Neither could she afford to squander her valuable time trying to understand the rich, whose ways were so mysterious to her. She needed her time and energy to make things easier for her mam and dad and Frankie, who was only just recovering from the whooping cough.

Emma began to busy herself around the Queen Anne tea table, concealing her feelings behind a show of efficiency, her composure restored to its usual quiet containment, her face so inscrutable it was like pale stone. But as she poured the tea, buttered the toast, and served the eggs, Emma kept seeing Polly’s pathetically dwindled face and her dark eyes burning feverishly in their hollow sockets and her heart lurched with a terrible sadness, and the pity she had felt for Adele only a short while before was diluted.

‘Eat this afore it gets cold, Mrs Fairley,’ said Emma stonily.

Adele looked up at Emma with her silvery eyes and smiled her deliquescent smile, that melting smile that lighted up her face, and it was as if the conversation about Polly had never taken place at all. Tranquillity dwelt in her face and her eyes were clear and comprehending.

‘Thank you, Emma. I am a little hungry. And I must say, you do take good care of me.’ She sipped the tea and went on chattily, ‘How is your mother, Emma? Is she still improving in health?’

So sudden and incredible was the change in Adele that Emma stared at her in puzzlement. And then she said quickly, ‘Yes, ma’am, thank yer. She’s not half as badly as she was, being as the weather’s improved, and it’s easier on me dad now that he’s working down at yon mill.’

Adele inclined her head. ‘The eggs are good, Emma,’ she said, finishing a forkful.

Emma understood that the brief moment of friendly discourse was over and she reached into her pocket and fished around for the menu for dinner, which Cook had given to her. Although Adele had long ago relinquished her control of the household affairs to Murgatroyd, and more recently to her sister, Cook persisted in sending up the menus daily for her approval. Mrs Turner had worked for Adele since she had come to Fairley as Adam’s bride and she was always deferential to Adele, and would brook no interference with this ritual of the menus, and made no bones about the fact that, to her way of thinking, Mrs Fairley was still the mistress of Fairley Hall, and nobody else. And so she treated her as such and with the utmost consideration and respect. It never occurred to the loyal Mrs Turner that Adele paid little attention to the menus, nor did it seem to disturb her that no comment, favourable or otherwise, was ever forthcoming.

Emma pulled the menu from her pocket and held it out to Adele. ‘Cook says will yer please look over this here menu for dinner, Mrs Fairley,’ she said.

Adele made a little moue and laughed lightly. ‘I can’t be bothered with that this morning, Emma. You know very well I trust Mrs Hardcastle to plan suitable menus and she always does. I am quite sure today is no exception.’

Emma shifted on her feet nervously, the paper fluttering in her hand. She gave Adele a curious look. What’s wrong with Mrs Fairley? she asked herself, her heart pounding unreasonably. She’s worse this morning than she’s ever been. Emma bit her lip, as a most disturbing thought struck her. Was Mrs Fairley touched? It had not occurred to her before that the rich could be daft in the head. She had always thought that such a terrible affliction was the prerogative of the poor, but perhaps she was wrong. And Mrs Fairley was acting so peculiar it was enough to make anybody wonder. First she had forgotten Polly was dead, and now she was talking about Mrs Hardcastle as if she didn’t know she had been relieved of her duties as housekeeper weeks ago.

Emma hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Mrs Fairley might be offended if she kept referring to her forgetfulness. So she said slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘Didn’t I tell yer afore, Mrs Fairley, that Mrs Hardcastle left? It must’ve slipped me mind. It was when yer were badly in bed. Mrs Wainright gave her the sack. She said Mrs Hardcastle had a bad habit of tekking a holiday when it wasn’t no holiday.’

Adele stared down at the breakfast tray. Of course! Olivia had sent Hardcastle packing in a flurry of disfavour. Olivia had stood here in this very room and told her she had let Hardcastle go. She had been infuriated at her sister’s presumption, but she had been unable to countermand her orders. She had been too ill, and anyway Adam had backed Olivia to the hilt and it would have been useless to oppose them. Now she must watch herself. Pay more attention to the things she said, even to Emma, otherwise the girl might become suspicious of her, just as Olivia and Adam were suspicious. Yes, she must be more careful. She lifted her head and smiled warmly, her face a picture of innocence.

There was a clever and deadly cunning in Adele. She had the uncanny ability to dissimulate, and to disguise her bizarre foibles when she so chose, slipping easily behind a façade that simulated rationality, and her behaviour at times could appear very normal, as it did now.

‘Perhaps you told me, Emma. I know Mrs Wainright mentioned it. But I was very sick and so worried about Master Edwin at the time, and it obviously did not register. Well, let us not worry about that now. And let me see the menu.’ She held out her hand and took the paper. She gave it only a cursory glance, as always, and handed it back to Emma.

‘Excellent! A repast for royalty, I would say,’ declared Adele smilingly. And for once, she added, ‘Give Cook my compliments and tell her she has outdone herself, Emma.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Emma, replacing the menu in her pocket, tactfully not bothering to point out that it was not Cook who had planned the menu but Olivia Wainright. ‘Here’s the Gazette, Mrs Fairley,’ Emma went on, passing the newspaper to her mistress. ‘I’ll go and do the bedroom now,’ she finished, bobbing a small curtsy.

‘Thank you, Emma. And when you have finished you can draw my bath, so that I can bathe and dress after breakfast.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Emma said, and hurried into the bedroom.

Emma stifled a cry of amazement when she entered the room and saw the clothes Adele had pulled out of the wardrobe strewn all over the floor in chaotic heaps. She clamped her hand over her mouth, horror-struck, and stood perfectly still, glaring at the dresses and gowns and robes and other beautiful garments lying in tangled disarray. Whatever’s got in ter her? she muttered under her breath, gaping at the clothes incredulously, and then added inwardly: She might not be touched, but she’s acting as daft as a brush, she is that! As she stepped carefully around the clothes, a feeling of anger mingled with acute frustration made a tight knot in Emma’s stomach. She realized furiously it would take her some time to bring order to the clothes and return them to the wardrobe and their former neatness. Her timetable would really be ruined now! Methodically she began picking them up, slipping each garment on to a coat hanger and placing it in the wardrobe, working with efficiency and her usual swiftness, in a concentrated effort to save as much of her precious time as possible.

Meanwhile, Adele continued to peck at her breakfast delicately and after a few mouthfuls she pushed the plate away, feeling revolted by the food. She shook her head violently from side to side, as if to clear it of cobwebs. As she did, she told herself she must try to be more alert and cease her perpetual daydreaming; otherwise she would never reinstate herself as mistress of the house. She would ring for Murgatroyd later, who at least recognized her authority, and order him to bring her the whisky.

There was a sharp knock on the door and it was flung open with a certain abruptness. Engrossed as she was in her musings about the butler, Adele half expected to see Murgatroyd standing there, and she opened her eyes, sat up smartly, and turned to the door, smiling her melting smile, ready to greet the butler. She was therefore astonished to meet the cool and contemplative gaze of her husband. The smile congealed and she froze in the chair. He rarely came to her room.

Adam noticed her fearful reaction and, although it dismayed him, he wisely disregarded it.

‘Good morning, Adele. I trust you slept well,’ he said.

Adele looked at him carefully, filled with antagonism and the most virulent resentment. In her present disturbed state of mind, feelings of fear and doubt were paramount within her, and she viewed everything he said and did with unwarranted mistrust. Consequently, she had become guarded with him.

Finally she spoke. ‘No, I did not sleep very well,’ she said coldly.