A Woman of Substance (47 page)

Adam was thoughtful, reflecting on Wilson’s words, and then he said, ‘What you’re saying doesn’t really make any sense. Why would they start a fire and then expose themselves to it? That would be most foolhardy.’

‘I told yer, sir, I thinks them as started it intended it as a bit of a scare, that’s all, never expecting it ter blaze the way it did, ter get out of control.’

Now Adam was silent, his wrath with Gerald fulminating inside him. He attempted to calm himself, to think clearly. What Wilson said did make sense—to a degree. Raw wool,
because it was oily, smouldered rather than blazed at first. Conceivably, paraffin might well have been poured over one of the bales. Whoever had started the fire probably thought only a portion of the warehouse and a few bales would be damaged. Fools, he thought angrily. The stupid bloody fools. The warehouse was highly inflammable because it was built of wood. They had not considered that aspect or the ultimate consequences of their irresponsible actions. They had not realized the danger to all the mill buildings and the village.

‘Very well, Wilson, I accept your explanation. You could be correct in your assumptions,’ Adam said at last, his face tensely set. ‘And, since the members of that radical group you mentioned were working this morning, we cannot make any accusations, I suppose, can we?’

‘No, sir!’ responded Wilson vehemently. ‘We can’t. We
daren’t.
We’ve no evidence for one thing, and the way the men worked ter help extinguish the fire—by God, sir, they’d take right exception ter it, they would that. Also, the men’d stick together. We’d have a strike on our hands, I guarantee that, if we start talking about arson.’ Wilson nodded gravely and cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps yer could have a word with Master Gerald when he gets back from Shipley tomorrow, sir, if yer don’t mind me suggesting it. Caution him ter temper his manner, his rough ways with the lads.’

‘Oh, I intend to, Wilson. In fact, he’ll get a dressing down the likes of which he’s never had. Believe me, he will!’ Adam declared, his fury rising to the surface again. ‘I never dreamt he would so wilfully defy my instructions about treating the men decently.’ After a short pause he softened his tone. ‘In the meantime, we have a vital problem to contend with—supplies. All the bales in the warehouse were totally destroyed, as you know. How much raw wool do we have in the other warehouse?’

‘Enough ter carry us through this month, I’d say, sir,’ Wilson responded, his mind working rapidly, evaluating their supplies and their orders. He puffed on his Woodbine. ‘We’ve got a shipment due in from McGill, from Australia, in two or three weeks, thank God. I thinks we’ll be able to manage till then.’

‘Do your best, Wilson. Get on to it first thing on Monday
morning. I will come in early myself and we can make our assessments. And you had better build a new warehouse immediately. Use bricks, not wood. And also order another small fire engine. I don’t anticipate a repetition of this disaster, but it’s always wise to be prepared for any contingencies. As you said, we were lucky this time because of the change in the weather.’

‘No, I don’t expect it will happen again, Squire,’ Wilson said, so sharply and with such conviction Adam glanced at him swiftly but made no comment. Wilson did not miss Adam’s reaction and went on in a more even voice, ‘But yer right, it’s allus best ter have plenty of fire-fighting apparatus on ‘and, just in case. I was thinking, sir, if yer likes I’ll go down ter yon mill termorrow and start taking stock. It’ll save time.’

‘That’s an excellent thought, Wilson, if you don’t mind working on Sunday. I shall be there myself and we can do it together.’

‘Right ho, sir.’ Wilson paused, his eyes glinting shrewdly behind his steel spectacles. ‘And yer will have a talk ter Master Gerald, won’t yer?’ he pressed.

‘Rest assured I will, and in no uncertain terms.’ Adam stood up. ‘Let me freshen your drink, Wilson.’

‘Thank yer, Squire. I wouldn’t say no ter one for t’road.’

As Adam poured the whisky a sudden thought struck him most cogently: Wilson knew who the guilty parties were, but he was obviously not prepared to reveal their identities, for his own reasons, undoubtedly very sound reasons. So be it, Adam said to himself. He trusted Wilson to deal with them appropriately. He would deal with Gerald. His mouth tightened as he considered his elder son. The young idiot, he’s undone all the good I strove so hard to achieve. Antagonizing the men was not only a rank display of poor judgement, it was an act of sheer folly. But it’s also my fault, he admitted. I’ve given him far too much rope and my continuing absences have not helped. I shall have to spend more time in Fairley, he decided. But there was Olivia. He found it intolerable to be apart from her. She had become the whole reason for his existence. The rock on which his life was built. It was with sadness that he then acknowledged he had to pay more attention to the mill. That
was, without question, an imperative taking precedence over everything else. Perhaps he could persuade Olivia to come to Fairley. She would understand. Damn that boy! A look of utter distaste crossed his face as he contemplated Gerald and the measures he would have to take with him. Gerald was a bully and therefore a coward. He would toe the line.
By God
,
he will
, Adam muttered under his breath.

He composed himself and carried the drinks back to Wilson. ‘I wish Dr Mac would get here. I am extremely worried about Jack Harte,’ Adam said, handing Wilson the glass of whisky.

‘Aye, Squire, so am I. But Harte’s a fighter. He’ll pull through. He’s got them bairns ter think about, yer knows.’

Adam sighed. ‘I hope you’re right, Wilson. I sincerely do. I can never repay the debt I owe him for saving Edwin’s life.’

’Tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,
Whereto the climber-upward turns
his face…

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
,
Julius Caesar

‘There’s the Mucky Duck, luv,’ said the tinker, drawing his horse and cart to a standstill in York Road and pointing a stubby and none too clean finger at the public house.

‘But it says “Black Swan”,’ exclaimed Emma, reading the name on the sign swinging in the breeze. Confirming the lettering was a picture of a white pond upon which floated a somewhat primitive painting of an ebony swan, neck arched in such an ungainly fashion it was hardly a lifelike rendition of that elegant bird.

The tinker’s wife, all Romany-dark curls and wrinkled tanned face, cackled uproariously at Emma’s astonishment. ‘Aye, lass, that’s wot they calls the Black Swan in Leeds. The Mucky Duck. Don’t yer get it?’ She cackled again, displaying several gold teeth that glittered as brightly as the golden rings looped through her ears and which dropped below the red-and-white-checkered scarf draped on top of her gypsy hair.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Emma with an amused smile. She clutched her reticule to her and climbed down carefully from the cart. The tinker handed her the large leather suitcase which Edwin had deposited in her room yesterday with the five pounds. She looked up at the tinker and his gypsy wife and said gravely, and with enormous politeness, ‘Thank you very much for giving me the ride all the way from Shipley. It was very kind of you.’

‘Nay, lass, it weren’t no trouble,’ said the tinker kindly. ‘Glad ter be of service ter a fine young lady like thee.’ He flicked the reins and the dilapidated cart moved off, pots and pans strung on the sides rattling and banging merrily as the old wheels turned in rickety rhythm. The tinker’s wife looked back, shouting, ‘Lots o’ luck in Leeds, me pretty ’un.’

‘Thank you,’ Emma called, waving at the retreating cart. She stood outside the pub for a moment and then picked up the suitcase, took a deep breath, and pushed open the swinging
doors made of heavy wood, the upper panels inset with opaque glass embellished with engraved lilies and swans. She immediately found herself in a narrow and gloomy passage that smelled strongly of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and the faint reek of gas from the jets on the walls. The latter were lined with a dull brown wallpaper that only reinforced the forbidding atmosphere, which prevailed in spite of the burning gas jets and was not very inviting.

Emma looked about curiously. There was a carefully printed notice pinned on one wall which declared in large letters:
Women in shawls not allowed in here!
It seemed to her like an ominous warning. The opposite wall sported a repulsive painting of a charging bull in an equally ugly ornate gilt frame. Emma shuddered, her critical eye offended by its hideousness. Ahead of her was another set of double swinging doors, also inset with opaque glass, and she hurried forward and went through them. Emma stood in the entrance of what was obviously the main bar. It was brightly illuminated and infinitely more cheerful, with its colourful wallpaper and attractive sepia prints, and there was a piano in one corner. The bar was empty, except for two men leaning against the back wall drinking their frothing pints and chatting amiably together. Emma’s sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, missing nothing. Two other rooms opened off the main bar. The sign hanging above the archway leading into one proclaimed it to be the Saloon Bar, while the other was labelled Tap Room. In the Tap Room she could see a lone workman playing darts, and two old men were seated at a table absorbed in a game of dominoes, clay pipes firmly clenched between their individual sets of nicotine-stained teeth, smoke swirling fuggily around them.

Emma now glanced towards the bar itself. Several large mirrors hung on the wall behind it, each one extolling the virtues of Tetley’s pale ale and other local beers in black and gold lettering. There were innumerable bottles of spirits glittering against the mirrored backdrop and below them great kegs of beer. The long and expansive mahogany counter was polished to a sheen as glassy and almost as shimmering a surface as the mirrors themselves, and just visible above the
mahogany bar was a mop of blonde hair. Emma walked sedately across the room, her boots tip-tapping lightly on the wooden floor. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of the two men regarding her, but she paid no attention and kept her glance fixed unwaveringly ahead.

When she reached the bar she put down the suitcase, but gripped the reticule in her hands. The blonde head bobbed about below the bar. Emma cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

The blonde head swivelled to reveal a cheerful face that was open and honest. It was a pink and white face, and extremely pretty, with full cheeks and dimples and merry brown eyes that danced under shapely blonde brows. ‘Yes, luv?’ said the blonde lady, rising slowly and somewhat ponderously from her crouching position, holding a glass tankard and a cloth in her hands.

Emma had to stifle a gasp, for that face, so sweet and dimpling and extraordinarily pretty, and that blonde head with its array of elaborately dressed curls, sat atop an enormously fat body that was also amazingly tall. Her incredible body was tightly encased in a bright yellow cotton dress with a low square neckline and short puffed sleeves. Gargantuan bosom, portions of wide shoulders, and long plumpish arms were in striking evidence and were also white and pinkly tinted and soft.

The lady was looking at her questioningly and Emma said courteously, ‘I’m looking for a Miss Rosie. I was told she was the barmaid here.’

The pink face broke into a wide and friendly smile that was also highly engaging and full of the most natural charm. ‘Well, yer’ve found her, luv. That’s me. I’m Rosie. What can I do for yer, miss?’

Emma’s taut body relaxed and she found herself automatically smiling back at the beaming Rosie. ‘I’m a friend of Blackie O’Neill’s. He told me that you would take a message for him. Get it to him quickly, or to his Uncle Pat.’

Ho! Ho! thought Rosie, concealing a knowing look. So Blackie was up to his tricks again with the lasses, was he! Well, he certainly knows how ter pick ’em, commented Rosie to herself. This one’s a real looker. Rosie planted the glass and the
cloth on the bar and said, ‘Yes, luv, I can get a message ter Blackie. Trouble is, it won’t do yer any good. He’s not in Leeds, yer see. He went off yesterday. Yer’ve just missed him. Aye, he went ter Liverpool ter get the boat ter Ireland. Summat about going ter see an old priest who was very badly, mebbe dying, so Blackie was telling me afore he left.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma, and distress registered on her face so acutely Rosie could not fail to notice it. The Junoesque barmaid stretched out her plump arm and rested plump fingers on Emma’s hand gently. ‘Are yer all right, luv? Yer look a bit faintish ter me. How about a brandy or a rum and pep, mebbe? Do yer good, yer knows.’

Emma shook her head, endeavouring to quell the anxiety flaring within her. ‘No, thank you, Miss Rosie. I don’t drink spirits,’ she murmured. The possibility that Blackie would be away had never occurred to her. She was so shaken she found it difficult to speak.

‘Then how about a nice glass of lemon pop?’ went on Rosie, regarding Emma carefully. ‘It’s refreshing and yer looks ever so peaked ter me.’ Without waiting for a response, Rosie uncorked a bottle of lemonade and poured a glass. Emma did not want to spend the money for the lemon drink. Every penny was precious to her; yet, then again, she did not want to offend Rosie either, who was being so kind and friendly.

‘Thank you,’ Emma said softly, and opened her handbag. ‘How much is it, please?’

‘Nay, lass, it’s nowt. This one’s on the ’ouse. On Rosie,’ she said, placing the brimming glass in front of Emma. ‘Go on, ’ave a sip. It won’t kill yer,’ she added jocularly, and laughed. Then her merry face sobered. The girl had turned as white as chalk and Rosie immediately noticed that the small hand in the white crocheted glove trembled as it picked up the glass.

‘ ’Ere, ’Arry! Fetch me one of them there stools from out of the Tap Room, will yer, please?’ called Rosie to one of the men at the far end of the bar. ‘This ’ere young lady looks a bit wobbly on her pins ter me.’

‘Right, Rosie,’ said the man named Harry. He returned instantly, carrying a tall stool. ‘ ’Ere yer are, luv, sit yerself down,’ he said, and gave Emma a warm smile before he
rejoined his mate.

‘Thank you.’ Emma perched on the stool gratefully. She felt weak and her head was swimming at the alarming news Rosie had imparted about Blackie.

Rosie leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at Emma intently, a concerned expression on her face, her jolliness dissipated. ‘Look, luv, I knows it’s none of me business, but do yer have troubles? Yer seems ever so upset ter me.’

Emma hesitated. Distrustful by nature, she also firmly believed in the old north-country adage, ‘a still tongue and a wise head’, and she was therefore not given to confiding anything in anyone. Now her mind worked rapidly and with its usual shrewdness. She was in a strange place. An enormous city. She did not know her way around. With Blackie in Ireland she had no one to turn to for help. And so she came to a swift decision. She would trust Rosie—but only to a certain extent. She had no choice, really. But first she had one other question and it was of vital importance.

She returned Rosie’s steady gaze and instead of spilling out her troubles, as the barmaid probably expected, she said, ‘What about Blackie’s Uncle Pat? Could I go and see him and perhaps find out when Blackie is returning? He is, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes, luv. Blackie’ll be back in a couple of weeks or so. A fortnight he said he was going for. But it won’t do yer any good going ter see Pat either. He’s in Doncaster doing a right big building job. He’s gone for a bit, I expects.’

Emma sighed and stared fixedly at the lemonade. Rosie waited patiently, not wanting to appear nosy but, riddled with curiosity, she insisted, ‘Why don’t yer tell me yer troubles, luv? Perhaps I can help.’

After only a moment’s further hesitation, Emma said, ‘Yes, I do have a problem. I have to find a place to stay. A boardinghouse. Perhaps you can advise me, Miss Rosie. That’s why I wanted to see Blackie.’

‘ ’Ere, lass, what’s all this
Miss
Rosie? We don’t stand on ceremony around ’ere. Everybody calls me Rosie. Just Rosie, plain and simple like. And why don’t yer tell me yer name, being as how yer a friend of a friend.’

Emma thought of her father and the possibility of him
searching for her. But from the note she had left he would believe she had gone to Bradford and he did not know about the Mucky Duck or Blackie’s last name. She was safe. ‘It’s Emma Harte,’ she said, and added, to her own amazement, ‘Mrs Harte.’

Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘Are yer married, then?’ she asked, thinking: And where’s the husband? but refrained from prying. Emma nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else for the moment. She had surprised herself more than she had surprised Rosie.

‘Well, seeing as we’re properly acquainted, so ter speak, and now that I knows yer problem, let’s get down ter brass tacks. Yer looking for a place ter park yerself. Mmmmm. Let me think on that.’ Rosie frowned, her eyes thoughtful.

‘What about that boarding-house where Blackie lives? Couldn’t I go there?’ Emma volunteered. She was feeling a little calmer, thinking more clearly.

‘By gum, no lass!’ exclaimed Rosie with such vehemence Emma was startled. ‘I couldn’t be letting a luvely young lady like thee go down there, ter the blinking “ham and shank”—that’s the Bank, yer knows, near the Leylands. Full of toughs, it is. No, luv, that wouldn’t be fitting like.’ Rosie scowled and seriously pondered this problem, wanting to help the girl. After a moment her face resumed its usual jolly expression and she smiled. ‘I ’ave it. Yer can go ter see Mrs Daniel. She rents out rooms in her ’ouse. It’s not far from ’ere. Yer can walk it easy. I’ll write down the address for yer. Tell her Rosie from the Mucky Duck sent yer. Yer’ll be safe there. She’s a bit of a gruff ’un, Mrs Daniel is, but kindly enough.’

‘How much will a room cost?’ Emma asked quietly.

Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t yer have much brass, luv?’ she probed but not without sympathy. The girl looked visibly troubled again and her consternation at not finding Blackie had been more than apparent. What’s that young boyo been up ter? Rosie wondered, staring at Emma. Yet the girl had said she was married. Still, there’s more ter this than meets the eye, decided the shrewd Rosie.

Emma was conscious of Rosie’s scrutiny. She cleared her throat and adopted a calm expression, ‘Oh, yes, I do have a
few pounds,’ she said confidently, quite unconsciously tightening her grip on the bag, which had not left her hands since she had departed from Fairley early that morning. It contained every penny she had and her few bits of jewellery.

Rosie flashed Emma a reassuring smile. ‘Well, then, that’s not so bad, is it! And Mrs Daniel is fair and square like. She won’t sting yer. I expects she’ll charge yer a few shillings a week for a room, that’s all. I don’t thinks she gives yer any grub for that. But yer can buy yer own. There’s a fish-and-chip shop at the end of her street, and there’s allus a man with a cart selling pies and peas and roamin’ around by her.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Emma, swallowing hard again. The mere thought of food nauseated her these days. The sickness she was now experiencing every morning seemed to last all day sometimes. She said, ‘I’m grateful, Rosie, for your help. Really I am. And I’m sure Mrs Daniel’s room will be fine.’

‘Aye, it will, luv. And she’s clean and honest. Look, sit and rest yerself. I’ll go ter the back parlour and get a bit of paper and write down Mrs Daniel’s address for yer.’ Rosie paused and added, ‘Yer a stranger in Leeds, aren’t yer, Emma?’

‘Yes, I am, Rosie.’

‘Then I’ll put it all down for yer. How ter get there like. I’ll only be a tick.’

‘Thank you, Rosie, you are kind.’

Rosie bustled off to the parlour, numerous thoughts running through her head. She was much taken with this girl who had appeared from nowhere. In point of fact, she was intrigued by her. Emma Harte had such—Rosie paused in the middle of the parlour, seeking the appropriate word to describe Emma. Dignity! Yes, that was it. She was good-looking, too. That face! thought Rosie with not a little wonder. Why, she had never seen so striking a face in all her life before. She was a beauty, really, even if it was a different sort of beauty. Uncommon like.