A Woman of Substance (61 page)

‘Ah, David, ‘tis sorry I am to be telling ye that Emma declined the invitation. I tried, sure and I did, to persuade her to join us. But she was obstinate as always. She’s finishing a blasted frock for a lady at the Towers, and she wouldn’t budge an inch,’ explained Blackie with a little grimace. ‘Still an’ all, she did say she’d be right delighted to see ye for supper at Laura’s later.’ Blackie continued in a cheery tone, ‘Now, me lad, don’t look so downcast! We’ll go back to the house in a few hours. She’ll be finished by then.’ He swung his head to Laura. ‘And what about ye, love? What would ye like to be doing?’

‘Let’s go for a walk, if David doesn’t mind,’ Laura murmured softly.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ David said.

The three of them wandered away from the bandstand and the rousing strains of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. David glanced at Laura. She looked radiant. She was wearing a simple dress made of an inexpensive muslin of the palest yellow, patterned with daisies and sprigs of green, and the gauzy fabric floated around her like a cloud of hazy sunny colour, emphasizing her willowy figure and her grace of movement. A large-brimmed straw hat, trimmed with yellow and pink tea roses, shaded her face and there was something ethereal about her today. Under the brim of the hat her face looked incandescent, framed by her golden hair and illuminated by her liquid eyes.

‘You
are
looking lovely, Laura,’ David said gallantly. ‘And I like your dress. It’s very becoming to you, love.’

‘Thank you, David,’ she said. ‘Emma made it for me. She also trimmed this old hat and turned it into a brand new one. She’s so talented, isn’t she?’

David nodded and Blackie grunted. ‘Aye, but her talent won’t be doing her much good in the graveyard, I am thinking.’

‘Blackie! What a terrible thing to say!’ Laura cried. She gave David a lightning glance. He was silent, but she noticed then that he was biting his lip and looked worried. Laura wisely made no further remarks, but she threw a rather cold glare at Blackie, who had the grace to look chagrined.

They walked around the park slowly. Blackie and Laura talked amiably together about things in general; the usually gregarious David was silent and brooding. Eventually they found themselves at the top of a steep ridge where steps led down to the river Aire. Laura complained of the heat, and so they sat down on a bench under the shade of a weeping willow. David gazed morosely across the river, his eyes resting reflectively on the ruins of the grand Cistercian Abby of Kirkstall on the opposite shore. Then they flitted across the tranquil scenery that stretched towards the horizon, taking in Horsforth Woods beyond the ruins, which were capped further by Rawdon village and Wharfedale’s Reach. He sighed and took out his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Blackie, who accepted it and murmured his thanks. Finally, David could not hold back any longer. He faced Blackie and said, ‘I don’t understand it, Blackie. What is it that drives Emma so hard?’

‘Hatred, pure and simple,’ Blackie replied automatically, and he could have bitten off his tongue. Furious with himself, he turned away.

Laura gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She said, ‘Oh, Blackie, surely not!’

David was equally disturbed by this statement. ‘Hatred!’ he said sharply. ‘Not Emma. She is loving and sweet. And hatred for who?’

Blackie did not answer for a moment. He cursed himself instead. He was a big-mouthed fool. A stupid boyo. He was that, indeed. In Blackie’s opinion Emma’s hatred was for the Fairleys. But he was not about to divulge this to David or Laura.

‘Come on, Blackie. Give me an answer,’ David pressed. ‘Don’t sit there looking so mysterious.’

Blackie roused himself. ‘I don’t really know, David. I shouldn’t have spoken so rashly, lad. But ye know what the Irish are like, always blabbering on. Anyroads, I didn’t mean anybody specific.’ Blackie paused, his face a picture of assumed innocence. ‘I think perhaps it is hatred for the circumstances of her life,’ he suggested, trying to cover his error. ‘And hatred for poverty. That’s what drives Emma. Her terrible need for money.’

David looked a bit sceptical and he frowned. ‘
I
know Emma wants money. But then, so do you, Blackie. So do I. On the other hand, we don’t devote our lives to its accumulation to the exclusion of all else.’

Blackie leaned forward, his black eyes intense. ‘Aye, lad, but we be wanting money for different reasons than Emma. It occurs to me ye be desirous of it to buy yeself a better life. Sure and why not? ‘Tis the fine house ye be wanting, David, and the smart carriage and the elegant clothes. A few of the beautiful things, I am thinking, just like me. And a bit of security for the future, eh?’

David nodded, for Blackie did indeed speak the truth. ‘But you said Emma wants money for a different reason. What does she want it for?’

Blackie smiled a small, odd smile. ‘As a weapon.’

‘A weapon! Against whom?’ Laura demanded.

Blackie took her hand gently. ‘Don’t be upsetting yeself, Laura. Ye be misunderstanding me, love.’ He regretted having embarked on this discussion and he was loath to continue, but they had him cornered. Two pairs of questioning eyes pinned him down. He had to explain his statements as best he could. Blackie cleared his throat. ‘I mean that Emma
herself
believes that money is a weapon—’

‘Against who!’ David cried, interrupting him abruptly. ‘You still haven’t answered Laura.’

‘Not
against
anyone in particular, David.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe against the world. Yes, I am thinking she will use her money, when she has it, against the world. Or rather, them in it that might try to do her wrong. Ye see, Emma wants money to protect herself and Edwina. She aims to build a fortress around herself and that child, so that nothing can hurt them. Ever.
That’s all I meant, lad.’

David was not only disbelieving but shocked. ‘You are painting a very strange picture, Blackie. That’s not the Emma I know.’

‘Aye, lad, but I know her better than ye and for much longer. And I think I understand what drives her,’ Blackie murmured, remembering that exigent look in Emma’s eyes the first day they had met on the moors. ‘I know for a fact she won’t rest until she gets that shop. And then it’ll be another shop, and another, and another, Emma aims to be a very rich woman one day. You know something, David? She’ll succeed. Sure and she will.’

‘But at what cost?’ asked David. ‘Look at her now. She’s as thin as a rail and worn out. She has black rings under her eyes far too often these days.’ His eyes rested on Laura. ‘
You
must admit I’m right.’

Laura confessed, ‘Yes, you are correct to some extent, David, but, in all fairness to Emma, she does eat properly and takes care of herself.’

‘Except that she never sleeps.’

‘Oh, she does, David!’ Laura countered in defence of her friend. ‘At least five hours. She doesn’t seem to need as much rest as other people. But, of course, to be truthful, I am worried about her, too.’ Laura touched Blackie’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should speak to her again. I mean, about taking it more easily.’

‘How little ye be knowing her, Laura, if ye think anything I say would do any good. She won’t listen,’ said Blackie regretfully.

‘You mean we just have to stand by and watch her kill herself with work!’ cried David heatedly.

Blackie could not resist chortling. ‘Don’t let Emma hear ye say that,’ he said through his laughter. ‘She doesn’t believe hard work killed anybody. Sloth, maybe. And ye know yeself what she said about moderation, David.’ Blackie shook his head, his eyes still merry. ‘Aye, she’s unique, Emma is.’

David gazed at him for a moment and then he turned away and sat puffing on his cigarette, attempting to evaluate Blackie’s words.

‘You know, I thought Emma’s idea about having a shop was foolish at first, Blackie,’ Laura ventured, ‘but now I am beginning to think it might be the best thing. It would get her out of the mill. She hates that place.’

David said, ‘I had hoped she would come into partnership with me. By this time next year I will have saved up enough to start my own factory. I intend to make a line of women’s clothes, as well as take on outside contracting, like my father does. Emma has already designed a line for me.’ His face lit up. ‘Have you seen it, Laura?’

‘Yes, Emma showed me her sketches. Her ideas are marvellous. I think. Why, that coat with the detachable cape, and the reversible jacket are brilliant and her maternity clothes—well—they are revolutionary, wouldn’t you say? I don’t know of anyone making those wraparound skirts, blouses, and dresses that expand to fit the figure as it gets larger. Do you, David?’

‘No. She’s far ahead of her time as far as styling is concerned.’

‘I can’t argue with ye about that,’ interjected Blackie. ‘Listen, both of ye, don’t let’s be looking on the black side. Emma will be all right in the long run. She’s a real survivor. But if it makes ye both feel better, why don’t we
all
talk to her tonight. Careful like, so we don’t upset her. Perhaps we can get her to slow down for a bit. The three of us together might be able to make some headway.’ Blackie was not convinced Emma would pay any attention to them, but he wanted to alleviate their worry, Laura’s in particular.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ agreed David. He now looked at Blackie guardedly before commencing in a cautious voice, ‘Look here, Blackie, I know this is none of my business, but where the hell is that husband of Emma’s? It seems a bit queer to me that he hasn’t been home on leave. Emma came to work for Dad in August of 1905. That’s almost two years ago and her husband has been noticeably absent all that time.’

Blackie had been anticipating this question, dreading it, in fact, for months. He had warned Emma time and again to prepare a plausible story. Last week she had told him she was soon going to announce that her sailor husband had deserted her. Taking a deep breath, Blackie now decided to save her the trouble. ‘Ah, David, I’m glad ye asked me, sure and I am.’ He
turned swiftly to Laura and took her hand in his. ‘And ye might as well be knowing, too, me love. Emma has been a trifle embarrassed, not knowing how to be telling ye both her news. Ye see, that bleeding husband—’ He stopped short and squeezed Laura’s hand apologetically. ‘Sorry, love, I know ye don’t like me to be swearing. Anyroads, that rascally husband of hers has done a bunk, ye might say. He deserted Emma some time ago.’ Blackie, praying he was being convincing, went on, ‘Seems he wants a big naval career, sure and he does. He told Emma he didn’t want to be tied down by a wife. I don’t expect we’ll see hide nor hair of him in these parts. No, he won’t ever be back. That’s my guess.’

‘Oh, Blackie, how terrible for poor Emma and the baby,’ Laura cried, and he felt her hand tremble in his.

Blackie put his arm around her. ‘Now, mavourneen, there’s no reason for ye to be getting all worked up. Emma isn’t that bothered, not at all, at all. ’Tis glad, she is, I am thinking. Sure and did she not say to me, “Good riddance”, after she be telling me all the details,’ he lied smoothly.

David was utterly still, but his heart was beating rapidly and a tingling excitement surged through his veins. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he remarked in an even voice that did not betray the jubilance he was feeling. ‘Still, if Emma is not unhappy, then perhaps it is for the best.’ He wondered, as he spoke, how much a divorce cost.

Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, ye are right.’

David sprang up. His despondency had vanished. ‘Shall we make our way back and then listen to the music for a while, before going on to the house?’

‘Sure and why not,’ agreed Blackie. He helped Laura up off the bench and they walked slowly in the direction of the bandstand. And Blackie thought: I must warn Emma I’ve neatly disposed of that sailor husband of hers.

Whilst these discussions had been taking place in Armley Park, Emma was not at home sewing, as her friends believed. She was on her way to see Joe Lowther, who lived in another part of Armley.

The minute Laura and Blackie had departed, Emma had quickly changed into her black silk dress, donned her Leghorn straw bonnet, and taken sixty pounds out of the black tin box, that contained her savings. She had rushed out of the house, close on the heels of her friends, a look of resolve on her face.

Quite by accident, when she had been shopping for groceries yesterday, she had seen it. The shop.
Her shop.
It was one of three that adjoined each other in a small block that fronted on to Town Street, and it was vacant. Emma had stopped abruptly, gazing at it hypnotized. It appeared exactly right for her in every way. The timing was perfect; she now had the money required for the rent and the stocks. The large empty window had been whitewashed, but there was a small clear space in the centre, where a notice had been neatly stuck on the inside. TO LET, it had read, and underneath was printed the name of the landlord, Mr Joe Lowther, and his address. Emma had memorized the details and hurried home late on Saturday afternoon, determined to be the first applicant the following day. She did not care that this was Sunday, a day when business was not normally conducted, since she was prepared to do business any day of the week.

Now as she walked briskly through the labyrinth of streets, almost breathless with mounting excitement, she half regretted selecting the black dress. It was really too warm for this scorching day. But in spite of the heat and the warmth of the dress, Emma did not slow her pace, and within fifteen minutes she was approaching the street where Joe Lowther lived. She found the house and marched up the stone steps resolutely. She knocked soundly three times and waited. A few moments elapsed before the door was opened by a tall, sturdily built young man. He was fair, with large grey eyes and light brown hair, and his pleasant face was open and honest. He was in his shirt sleeves and his hair was rumpled.

He stared down at Emma, obviously surprised to see a visitor. ‘Yes, miss, what can I do for you?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I’d like to see your father, please,’ Emma said politely, and proffered a tentative smile.

‘My father? I think you must have the wrong house, miss. My father’s been dead these past six years.’