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’s face darkened with distress. She had already thought of this herself and it bothered her not a little. She held herself very still, not answering.

‘I can guess what ye are thinking, mavourneen. When the registrar asks ye for the name, ye are going to say “father unknown”, are ye not?’

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged softly.

‘Aye, I knew it. Well, I think ye should be putting me down as the father,’ he said emphatically.

Emma was thunderstruck. ‘Oh, Blackie, I can’t! I won’t! Why should you have that responsibility?’

His piercing stare was unwavering. ‘Do ye want to give the name of the real father, Emma?’ he asked pointedly.

‘No!’ she exclaimed, her eyes flaring.

‘Well, then, wouldn’t it be better to have my name on the certificate? The paper will still show that she’s illegitimate, I realize that. But at least a name, such as it is, would look better than “father unknown”. Think on that one, mavourneen.’

‘But, Blackie—’

He held up his hand to silence her and there was a reproving look on his face. ‘Do ye know how often ye say “But, Blackie”? Always disagreeing with me, ye are. It’s settled,’ he announced in a voice that forbade argument. ‘And I shall come with ye to the registrar’s office, just to make sure ye be doing as I say.’ He stretched out his hand and patted her arm again. ‘Ye’ll see, it will be fine, Emma. And I am happy to take the responsibility, as ye call it, for Tinker Bell.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘I mean Edwina Laura Shane. Me darlin’ godchild, so to speak.’

Emma’s eyes filled up. She fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose, striving to curb her emotions. ‘You’re so good, Blackie. I don’t know why you do so much for me.’

‘Because I care about ye, Emma, and the wee one. Somebody’s got to look out for ye both in this hard world, I am thinking,’ he remarked softly, his affection reflected in his bright black eyes.

‘You might regret it later. I mean, regret putting your name on the birth certificate.’

Blackie laughed dismissively. ‘I never regret anything I be doing, mavourneen mine. I’ve found regrets to be a sinful waste of time.’

A brief smile touched Emma’s lips. She knew it was fruitless to attempt to dissuade him once his mind was made up. He, too, could be very stubborn. She stared into the fire reflectively. ‘I must keep the birth certificate in a safe place. Locked up. Laura must never see it,’ she said. Her voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible.

Blackie was not certain he had heard correctly. He leaned forward and asked, ‘What was that?’

She gave him the benefit of a long knowing look. ‘I said, Laura must never see the birth certificate. Because your name will be on it.’

‘I don’t care about that,’ exclaimed Blackie. ‘But she shouldn’t see it, for the simple reason that she’d know then ye are single, and that the babe’s illegitimate. Did I not tell Laura ye were married to a sailor called Winston Harte? Pack of lies I told that poor girl. Ye are forgetting things, Emma.’ He sighed heavily. ‘That’s the trouble with lying.’

Emma flushed. ‘They were only white lies. I told them for the baby’s sake, and you agreed all along that I was right,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘And I’m not forgetting anything. I was only thinking that I must protect you. And I don’t want Laura to be hurt. She would be, if she saw your name on the birth certificate. She might believe you really were the father.’

‘So what?’ Blackie demanded, further bewildered.

‘Laura loves you, Blackie.’

‘Loves me! Laura! That’s a lot of cod’s wallop, mavourneen.’ He burst out laughing and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Hell could freeze over before Laura would look at me twice. I don’t have to tell ye that she’s a staunch Roman Catholic, and devout, and she knows I’m lapsed. Come on, Emma. That’s a daft idea. Loves me, indeed! On the heads of the Blessed Saints I do swear ye have lost ye mind.’

Emma threw him a fond but impatient look. ‘You are a great fool, Blackie O’Neill. You can’t see what’s staring you in the face. Of course she loves you. Very much.’

‘Did she tell ye that?’ he cried, his glance quizzical.

‘No, she didn’t. But I know she does.’ Observing his sceptical expression, Emma added vehemently, ‘I just know, deep down inside, that she does!’

Blackie could not help laughing again. ‘Ye are very imaginative, Emma. Sure and ye are. I don’t believe it at all, at all.’

Emma shrugged resignedly. ‘You don’t have to, but it’s true,’ she asserted strongly. ‘I can tell by the way she looks at you, and talks about you sometimes. I bet if you asked her, she’d marry you.’

Blackie was stunned. A peculiar look settled on his face, one Emma could not read. Emma said hurriedly, ‘You mustn’t tell her I’ve said anything, though. She’d be upset if she thought we’d been talking about her, behind her back. And anyway, she’s never actually told me she loves you. That’s just my opinion.’

Still Blackie did not answer. Emma rose and went over to him. She touched his massive shoulder lightly and he looked up at her, his eyes suddenly twinkling. ‘Promise me you won’t mention it to Laura, Blackie. Please.’

‘I promise I won’t mention it to a living breathing soul,’ he said, patting the small hand resting on his shoulder. Satisfied that he would keep his word, Emma nodded and glided into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to start preparing things for tea,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘Aye, mavourneen,’ he said, and threw another log on the fire. Blackie settled comfortably in the wing chair and lit a cigarette, chuckling to himself from time to time, vastly amused at Emma’s words and not at all convinced of their veracity. ’Tis romantic girlish notions Emma is harbouring, he thought, and drew deeply on his Woodbine. Nonetheless, he discovered she had given him something disturbing to think about. He sat dwelling on the possibility of Laura loving him; an idea that previously had never entered his mind and one so stagering he was shaken. Slowly, numerous things Laura had said and done in the past few years came back to him with vividness; things he had considered irrelevant but which now assumed significance in the light of Emma’s comments. Was Emma correct in her conjectures about Laura’s involvement with him? For the life of him he did not know. Yet Emma was nobody’s fool. She was perceptive and, in fact, he had often been startled at her insight into people. Bemused, he ruminated on Laura Spencer and he discovered he found it quite difficult to gauge the depth and extent of his own feelings for her. Oh, he loved her. There was no doubt about that. It was virtually impossible not to love that gentle and tenderhearted girl. But how did he love her? Was he in love with her? Did he want her for his wife, as the mother of his children? Did he want to share the rest of his life, and his bed, with her? Was it she who was the object of his masculine desire and passion? He shook his head, nonplussed, unable to isolate and understand his true feelings for Laura. And what about Emma? He loved her, too. He had always believed this had been merely a fraternal interest; now he wondered if he had unconsciously deluded himself. He remembered the night in the Mucky Duck when he had asked her to marry him, out of a sense of protectiveness; yet that night he had seen that she was a highly alluring young woman. Blackie found he was jolted into annoyance with himself. Could it be, was it conceivable, that he actually loved Emma in the way a virile man loves a woman, with all his heart and his very soul? He strove to examine, with objectivity, his emotional involvement with both girls, only to find that he was even more perplexed and confused than ever, on the horns of a dilemma. How can a man love two women at the same time? he asked himself with mounting irritation. He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. This is a fine kettle of fish, Blackie O’Neill, he said to himself. The gaze in his black and brilliant eyes was inward and contemplative, as he endeavoured to answer these disquieting questions which Emma’s conversation had posed. But the answers eluded him maddeningly, and they would continue to do so for some considerable length of time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#ulink_3ce36fac-f3d6-5d2b-be15-e623520d460d)

The main street of Fairley village was deserted, it being two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. It was a cool April day and, as was normal at this time of year, the sky was heavy with cinereous clouds that rolled in a gathering mass along the crest of those black implacable moors which stretched in eerie silence towards the smudged horizon. The watery sun had retreated hours ago and the village looked inhospitable, the grey stone walls and slate rooftops of the cottages fusing into the forbidding semi-industrial landscape, an unrelieved etching of monotones beneath that sullen metallic sky. The wind blowing in from the nearby limestone dale country was tinged with North Sea rain and a shower was imminent. It had already poured earlier, and the roofs and cobblestones held a silvery sheen that was glassy and stark in the dismal environment.

To Emma, climbing the steep hill, the village appeared smaller than she remembered, oddly diminished, but she had broader comparisons to draw upon now, and she recognized that her eyes had become accustomed to the imposing buildings of Leeds, the fine establishments of Armley. The depressing aspects of her surroundings were dimmed, became irrelevant, for she was filled with happiness. She smiled to herself. She was looking forward to seeing her father and Frank, and this reunion, so yearningly longed for, was uppermost in her thoughts, as it had been for days. They did not know she was coming today; she had not written to announce her impending visit, wanting to give them a lovely surprise. Her anticipation was fully revealed on her eager and shining face. Frank must have grown in the past ten months, she thought. She wondered how they would look, little Frank, now thirteen, and her father. She herself had taken great pains with her appearance, before setting out that morning, determined to look her very best. This was partially prompted by her sense of pride, but also to prove to her father that she had been successful out on her own in the world. She was wearing the red silk dress and the black wool coat which had formerly belonged to Olivia Wainright, and new black button boots purchased only last week. The shopping bag she carried contained thoughtfully selected presents: socks, a shirt, and a tie for her dad, plus his favourite pipe tobacco; socks, a shirt, and writing materials for Frank, along with an edition of David Copperfield. And, carefully placed on top of these things there was a bunch of spring flowers for her mother’s grave. She had dipped into her precious savings to buy everything, but she had done so joyfully and with love; and in her black reticule there were three crisp pound notes for her father, to help with the family expenses.

The hill was steep, but Emma climbed it easily. There was a decided bounce to her step and she felt wonderfully alive. Optimistic as she was by nature, Emma was now inordinately confident of the future.

The baby was comfortably settled with her cousin Freda in Ripon. As Emma had predicted to Blackie, Freda had been more than willing to take Edwina in, and for as long as Emma wished. If she had been surprised at Emma’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep, or shocked at her story, the loving and compassionate Freda had not betrayed this at all. She had taken everything in her stride. Her welcome had been genuine and she had fussed over Emma and commented ecstatically on Edwina’s prettiness and her docile temper. She had promised to care for the child as if she were her own, and had faithfully pledged to keep Emma’s circumstances a secret from Jack Harte, with whom she was not on very good terms, and whom, she explained, she had not heard from since Elizabeth’s death in 1904. When Emma had left Ripon to return to Armley she was in a calmer frame of mind and, although she was saddened to leave the child, her confidence in Freda, who was so like her mother, had helped to assuage her wistfulness considerably. She knew Edwina was in capable hands, and that she would be looked after and cherished with complete devotion.

Now, as she passed the White Horse halfway up the hill, Emma quickened her steps, not wishing to encounter any of the men or boys from the village, those perennial stragglers who indulged in a last pint and never left the pub before two o’clock. They might appear at any moment on their way home for a late Sunday lunch. She was only a few steps past the pub when she heard the door open and the sound of raucous voices echoing in the chilly air, as a handful of men staggered out into the streets, vociferously merry with the vast amounts of beer they had consumed. Emma hurried faster.

‘Emma!’

Her heart dropped and she had the urge to run, reluctant to become embroiled in a conversation or to expose herself to curious questions from the locals. She increased her pace, without looking back. Drunken louts, she thought disdainfully.

‘Emma! For God’s sake wait. It’s me. Winston!’

She stopped abruptly and swung around, her face lighting up. Her elder brother, resplendent in his naval uniform, was chasing up the street after her, waving his white sailor hat in his hand, his mates forgotten. They were staring after Winston, mouths agape, ogling Emma poised on the hill. Winston panted up to her. He threw his arms around her and hugged her to him, showering her face and her hair with kisses. A warm flush of happiness swept through her and she clung to him tightly, her love for him as fierce and as real as ever. With a sharp stab she realized how much she had missed him.

After a few seconds clutched in this tight embrace, they pulled away and automatically stared at each other, their eyes searching, questioning. Emma caught her breath as she looked up at Winston. His face had always been beautiful, but in an almost girlish way. Now it was extraordinarily and staggeringly handsome. Since she had last seen him he had matured. The high cheekbones, the wide brow, the straight nose, the generous mouth, and the well-shaped chin were all as finely drawn as ever, and yet they appeared much less delicate. There was strength in his face that bespoke his enormous masculinity. And those cornflower-blue eyes, widely set below the arched black brows and fringed with thick and curling black lashes, were brighter than she remembered, positively blinding in the cold northern light. His black hair was blowing in the breeze and his perfect white teeth flashed in his fresh-complexioned face as he smiled at her. He had grown and filled out. He was practically as tall as their father, and wide-shouldered and muscular. He’s too handsome for his own good, Emma thought. Women must adore him but men must surely hate him, she decided, and then wondered how many girls had already fallen at his feet, how many broken hearts lay scattered in his ports of call. He would be irresistible to the opposite sex, she saw that only too clearly. She marvelled to herself that this incredible specimen of manhood was her brother; the skinny, hot-tempered boy who had teased her unmercifully, pulled her hair, quarrelled with her and fought her, but who had always been her staunch ally when necessary, and whom she had never ceased to secretly worship.

Winston, gazing back at Emma, was thinking: She’s changed enormously. There’s something very different about her. She’s more self-assured, even worldly. By God, she’s a stunning girl. He corrected himself. No, Emma is a woman now, and ripe for the plucking. A feeling of jealous possessiveness raced through him, was so powerful, so searing he was shaken at the intensity of his feelings. The brightest man breathing is not good enough for my sister. And he recognized then that he truly adored her. In point of fact, that was to be the major problem all of his life. No other woman would ever measure up to his sister in his eyes.

‘You look wonderful,’ Emma said at last, breaking the silence, her eyes overflowing with the tenderest of lights.

‘So do you, little sister,’ Winston said. ‘Quite grown-up, too.’ He smiled at her lovingly and with pride, and then the smile congealed. His joy was dampened when he remembered how poor little Frank had grieved for Emma, was still grieving for her, and a furious glint entered those startling eyes. He grabbed her arm roughly. ‘Hey, our Emma, where the hell have you been all these months? We’ve been worried to death! How could you run off like that?’

There was a hidden smile on Emma’s face. ‘Oh, the pot’s calling the kettle black, is it?’

Winston glared. ‘I’m a man. That’s different. You’d no business sneaking off that way. You were needed at home.’

‘Don’t shout, Winston,’ said Emma. ‘Dad knows where I’ve been. I’ve written to him regularly, and sent him money.’

Winston was scrutinizing her closely and scowling darkly. ‘Yes, but you never put an address on those letters – where we could write back. That was wrong of you, Emma.’

‘Dad knows I’ve been travelling with my lady, Mrs John Smith of Bradford. Please, Winston, don’t look so angry, and let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’