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

It was a cold night, dark and without a moon, and snow was falling in light flurries. Fortunately the lamps on the iron gates of each house were burning, and their dim glow lighted her way as she turned up the flagged walk that fronted the mansions in the Towers. The snow was beginning to settle. It would be a white Christmas after all, just as Edwina had so fervently wished. Emma bit her lip. Christmas had suddenly lost its appeal for her. She reflected on Edwina’s snubs, filled with regret, her mind fogged by the hurt she was still experiencing.

A few seconds later Emma was pushing open the gate of the last mansion in the row, where the O’Neills lived. Blackie had bought it in 1913, two years after his marriage to Laura. If it was not the fine Georgian edifice he had talked about building years before, it was rather imposing, and he had made many grand improvements.

The little Irish maid greeted her cheerfully. She took Emma’s coat and scarf along with the baskets, inquiring politely after her health. Emma was just about to ask her where Mrs O’Neill was when Blackie appeared at the top of the red-carpeted staircase.

At twenty-nine Blackie O’Neill was a commanding figure and the years had treated him generously. He and his Uncle Pat had done well and the building firm had grown into one of the largest in Leeds. Success sat well on him. Not yet the millionaire he had bragged of becoming, he was, however, a rich man and he had certainly turned himself into the ‘toff’ he had always yearned to be. He dressed elegantly and expensively. After his marriage to Laura she had tactfully persuaded him to curb his predilection for flashy ties, colourful brocade waistcoats, and gaudy jewellery. Most of his rough edges had been smoothed away and he was even sophisticated to a degree. His thick Irish brogue had all but disappeared, except for an almost indiscernible lilting burr. Laura had had a refining and gentling influence on him, yet without destroying his natural ebullience. And there was still quite a lot of the actor in him, a trait he had discovered was an asset in business.

He waved to Emma and ran lightly down the stairs, his face merry. ‘Emma, me love. You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he cried, sweeping her into his arms so forcefully her feet left the floor. He swung her around, planted her firmly in front of him, and, as was his way, tilted her chin and looked down at her. ‘And what kind of a face is this to be making? You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence.’

Emma laughed in spite of herself, as always infected by Blackie’s good humour. ‘I’m all right, Blackie. Just a bit under the weather, that’s all.’

‘You under the weather! That’s hard for me to believe.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Are you sure nothing is upsetting you?’ he asked, his eyes surveying her perceptively.

‘No, truly not. Where’s Laura?’

‘In the parlour waiting for you.’ He hurried her across the hall. ‘She thought you might drop in.’

Laura was sitting by the fire knitting a khaki scarf and she threw it down and flew to Emma, embracing her lovingly. ‘Emma, darling. I hoped you would have time to visit us tonight. Do you realize it’s been almost a whole week!’

The dismal look on Emma’s face lifted at the sight of her dearest friend. ‘I know. I’ve really been up to my neck.’ She smiled. ‘I brought you the things you wanted from the store. For the Sunday-school Christmas party. The maid took them. Incidentally, I put in a few extra things I’m sure you can use for the needy children.’

‘Oh, Emma, you’re so good. Thank you.’ Laura linked her arm through Emma’s and they walked back to the fireplace chatting.

‘I can see when a fellow’s not wanted,’ Blackie teased. ‘I’ll be leaving the two of you to your female gossipings. But make it brief, me darlin’s. I’ll be back shortly to have a Christmas drink with you.’

Sitting in the charmingly decorated parlour, listening to Laura’s light tinkling voice, Emma discovered that her tension was beginning to slip away. Emma knew these feelings of warmth and ease now enveloping her did not come from the heat of the roaring fire, but from Laura’s comforting presence. This gentle woman, so dear to her heart, always managed to soothe her. Laura was talking about the party she had arranged for the children who attended her Sunday-school classes and as Emma listened she observed her friend with mounting pleasure. Laura looked remarkably lovely this night. Since her last miscarriage, two years ago, she had completely regained her strength and was blooming and full of life. In her dark blue dress, with her honey-blonde hair bound in a chignon to reveal that calm and tender face, Emma thought she looked more Madonna-like than ever. Laura was happy with Blackie, and the only thing that marred her joy was her disappointment that she had not given him a child.

‘The party seems to have taken up most of my time these past few weeks,’ Laura explained. ‘Blackie found me a beautiful tree for the church hall. I’m going to decorate it tomorrow.’

Emma stiffened and she knew her face was tightening.

Laura looked up from her knitting. She stopped, staring at Emma. ‘Goodness, darling, you look awful. Whatever’s the matter?’

Emma shook her head. ‘Nothing. Really,’ she managed, and glanced quickly at her hands.

‘Yes, there is. I know you too well. Please, dear, if you are fretting about something, do confide in me. It might help.’

Emma cleared her throat. ‘Well, Edwina was so cutting with me tonight. It really upset me.’ Taking a deep breath, Emma recounted the incident with the Christmas tree.

Laura frowned and then said, ‘Girls always gravitate to their fathers, Emma. You know that. It’s nothing unusual. She’ll grow out of it. I’m sure it’s just a stage she’s going through.’

‘She’s always seemed to prefer Joe to me,’ Emma countered softly. ‘Not that I mind. I’m happy they’re so devoted. It’s these occasional displays of coldness which disturb me. I do try so hard to win her affection.’

‘I know you do.’ Laura sighed and reached out, squeezing Emma’s arm. ‘Children can be so unkind. They don’t mean to be cruel. They’re simply thoughtless, that’s all.’

‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’

‘And she is a very good child, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, almost too good in a sense. I’ve often thought that Edwina was born an adult.’ Emma pondered, and continued, ‘Sometimes I feel Edwina lives within herself, Laura. She can be very distant. And she always has a faraway look in her eyes.’

Laura laughed, trying to dispel Emma’s obvious anxiety. ‘Oh, darling, that’s only natural. Girls are always daydreaming.’

‘I suppose so,’ Emma said, wanting to believe this.

‘As for being distant, I think she’s simply rather reserved by nature. Why, Blackie was saying the other day—’

‘What was I saying?’ Blackie boomed from the doorway, strolling into the room. He hovered over Laura and Emma, puffing on a cigar.

‘I was about to tell Emma that you think Edwina is refined and quite the little lady with charming manners,’ Laura told him.

‘She is that. And a beauty!’ He turned away, moving to the sideboard. ‘What can I offer you, ladies?’ he asked gaily, pouring himself an Irish whiskey.

‘What would you like, Emma? Please do have a little something for once,’ Laura urged gently.

‘I believe I will!’ Emma laughed. ‘I think I need a drink tonight. I’ll have a sherry, Blackie. Thank you.’

‘And the same for you, Laura, me darlin’, I presume.’

‘Yes, please, Blackie. But only a small one.’

‘A Merry Christmas to my best-loved ladies,’ Blackie said with his typical show of exaggerated gallantry, lifting his glass.

‘Merry Christmas,’ they said in unison, and Emma added tartly but in a teasing tone, ‘I should hope we are your best-loved ladies. We’d be very angry if there were any others.’

Blackie grinned. ‘Laura tells me we are joining you on Christmas Day. I’m looking forward to it. We must make the most of this one and have a bit of festivity.’

They both stared at him. ‘What do you mean by that, Blackie?’ Laura asked.

‘Oh, nothing, love,’ he responded smoothly, regretting the remark.

‘Blackie, please don’t hedge. Answer me, dear. Do you know something – something about the war that we don’t know?’ Laura persisted.

‘Not at all, at all,’ he said, reverting to a thick brogue. ‘Come along, no talk of the war tonight, darlin’.’ He joined Laura on the sofa and took her hand in his. Glancing carefully at Emma, he said, ‘I hear Thompson’s mill is in a bad way. Producing poor cloth and falling down on their government orders as well.’

‘So I believe,’ Emma said dispassionately. Her face was inscrutable and she adroitly changed the subject.

The New Year brought more disastrous news for Britain and her allies. Men were dying in thousands in the trenches, and the overall losses were so monumental the world was horror-struck. On January 4, 1916, Prime Minister Henry Asquith stood up on the floor of the House of Commons and introduced a bill for the compulsory military service of all single men deemed fit for enlistment in the army. The bill met enormous opposition, especially from the diehards and defenders of the old voluntary system of military duty. But on Monday, January 24, the bill passed its third reading by a majority of 347 votes, the opposition having fallen to a mere 36. And so the first Compulsory Service Act came into force on March 2.

Although this measure at first applied only to single men, Emma began to experience a feeling of rising alarm as the days passed. She read the newspapers carefully, analysing the developments in the war, aware that more soldiers were needed, and on a continuing daily basis, because of the toll of Britain’s manhood. And she recognized that it was only a question of weeks before married men were called. And she was right.

Reading The Times one morning at the beginning of May, she saw that her fears were indeed becoming realities. She quickly scanned the story which reported that the Prime Minister had asked leave to introduce into the House a new Military Service Bill.

‘Joe, I think married men are going to be forced to enlist,’ she said quietly.

He looked at her across the breakfast table, his eyes grave. ‘It was bound to come, Emma. Kitchener’s been shouting for more men for weeks.’

Emma nodded. ‘The new bill lays down the rule that every male British subject between eighteen and forty years of age is to be deemed duly enlisted in the regular forces for general service, unless he’s exempt for some reason.’ She proffered him a weak smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’re exempt, are you?’