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. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
a fine young lady like thee knows Rosie at the Mucky Duck?’ she asked, suddenly puzzled by the odd association.
Stick to the truth, such as it is, a small voice warned Emma. She said, without the slightest hesitation, ‘A workman, who used to come to Grandmother’s to do repairs to the house, knew she was not long for this world. I had explained to him I hoped to come to Leeds one day, to make a home for Winston, that’s my dear husband, and myself, and perhaps find work in one of the shops. He was a friendly sort and he told me to visit Rosie when I did come to Leeds. He felt she would be helpful.’
Gertrude Daniel had listened attentively, assessing the girl’s story. She spoke so sincerely and with such directness it was certainly a truthful statement. And it did make sense. She nodded, satisfied the girl was above board. ‘Yes, I understand. And Rosie’s a good lass. Help anybody, she would that. Providing they was worthy like.’ She nodded again and motioned for Emma to follow her.
The attic was indeed small, but it was neatly furnished with a few simple pieces, including a single bed, a wardrobe, a washstand under the tiny window in the eaves, a chest, a chair, and a small table. It was also spotlessly clean. Emma could see that from the most cursory of glances. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.
‘It’s three shillings a week,’ intoned Mrs Daniel defensively. ‘It might seem a lot, but it’s the fairest price I can give yer.’
‘Yes, it is fair,’ Emma agreed, and opened her reticule. She counted out a month’s rent. She wanted to be certain she had a roof over her head until Blackie returned to Leeds.
Mrs Daniel looked at the money Emma had placed on the table. She saw immediately that the girl had paid a full month in advance. She was not sure she wanted her here in the house for that length of time. It was almost against her volition that she picked up the twelve shillings and pocketed them. ‘Thank yer. I’ll go and get yer case.’
‘Oh, please, don’t bother. I’ll bring it up—’ Emma began.
‘No trouble,’ said Mrs Daniel, already thumping down the stairs. She returned almost immediately with the suitcase and placed it inside the attic. She had recognized that it was made of real leather and, in fact, she had examined it carefully and another thought had struck her as she had climbed the stairs.
Now she fixed Emma with a fierce stare and said, ‘There’s one other thing I forgot ter tell yer. Since I can only manage ter take care of the two gentlemen’s rooms, yer’ll have ter make yer own bed and clean the attic.’ Her eyes swept over Emma standing in front of her, so tall and beautiful and refined in appearance. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Yer looks ter me like yer’ve led a lady’s life, an easy life, since the day yer was born, if yer don’t mind me saying so. Do yer knows how ter do housework?’
Emma kept her face straight. ‘I can easily learn,’ she remarked, not trusting herself to say another word for fear of laughter breaking loose.
‘I’m glad ter hear that,’ said the landlady bluntly. ‘And by the by, I don’t provide grub, yer knows. Not for only three shillings a week, prices being what they are these days.’ Mrs Daniel continued to study the silent girl who was surrounded by an aura of calm and dignity and, for some reason she could not fathom, she added, ‘But yer can use me kitchen if yer wants, as long as yer clean up after yerself. And I’ll find a spot in one of me cupboards, so yer can store yer groceries if yer wants.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma, almost choking with the suppressed laughter.
‘Well then, I’ll leave yer be, Mrs Harte, so yer can unpack.’ Mrs Daniel nodded more cordially and closed the door behind her.
Emma pressed her hand to her mouth, listening to Mrs Daniel’s thudding footsteps retreating until they finally ceased. She flew across the attic to the bed and pushed her face into the pillow, now permitting herself to laugh unchecked, until the tears rolled down her cheeks. Do I know how to do housework! she kept thinking, and the peals of laughter would start all over again. But eventually her merriment subsided and she sat up, wiping her eyes. She pulled off her crocheted gloves. She looked down at her hands and grinned with amusement. They might not be as work-roughened red as they used to be, but they were hardly the hands of a lady. Not yet. It’s a good thing I kept my gloves on all day, she thought, or my hands would have probably given me away.
Now Emma stood up and walked over to the washstand. She stared at her reflection in the swingback mirror. The black dress and the cream bonnet were discards from Olivia Wainright’s wardrobe and their quality was unmistakable. Her punctilious mimicry of Olivia’s voice had not been difficult to accomplish, once she had commenced. In point of fact, speaking in a genteel fashion had come quite naturally to her, for she had a good ear and had practised with Edwin. The tinker and his gypsy wife, Rosie, and Mrs Daniel all believed her to be a fine young lady of Quality, albeit a trifle impoverished. And it was no accident. This was the precise impression she had strived to create, had hoped to establish immediately.
Before leaving Fairley, Emma had determined to start out in Leeds as she intended to continue – as a young lady who would become a grand lady. And a rich one. She smiled again, but now the smile was cynical and her eyes, turning dark with calculation, seemed, for a moment, as hard as the emeralds they so strikingly resembled. She would show the Fairleys but she could not dwell on that now. Her time was precious and must be planned with exactitude and used to the fullest. Every minute must be made to count. She would work eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, if necessary, to achieve her goal – to become somebody. To become a woman of substance.
Abruptly she turned away from the mirror, untied her bonnet, placed it on the chest, and hurried to the bed. Emma had such an abhorrence of dirt it was almost an obsession, and whilst the room itself appeared to be meticulously clean, she was impelled to examine the bed linen. The quilt was old but not badly worn. She pulled it off and looked at the sheets with her keen eyes. They were not new; in fact, they were neatly darned in places, but they were spotless and freshly laundered. To pacify herself completely, she stripped the bed down to the mattress, scrutinized it closely, turned it over, and with a sigh of satisfaction she remade the bed swiftly and with her usual expertise.
As tired as she was, she unpacked her suitcase and put her clothes neatly away in the wardrobe and the chest. In the bottom drawer of the chest she found two clean face towels. As she took them out her eyes lighted on several books lying in the drawer. Her curiosity aroused, she picked one up. It was a volume of poems by William Blake, bound in dark red leather and beautifully illustrated with engravings. She opened it and looked at the fly leaf. Slowly she read out loud, ‘Albert H. Daniel. His book.’ She put it back and regarded the other volumes, also expensively bound. Her mouth formed the unfamiliar names: ‘Spinoza. Plato. Aristotle.’ She returned them carefully to the drawer, wondering who Albert H. Daniel was, and thinking how much Frank would love to get his hands on books like these.
Frank. Little Frankie. She caught her breath and sat down heavily on the chair, her heart beating rapidly. She thought of her father and she was filled with sorrow tinged with a deep yearning, and then a feeling of guilt flooded through her, leaving her weak and vitiated. She sagged against the back of the chair. That morning she had left him a note, telling him she had gone to Bradford to look for a better position in one of the big mansions. She had explained she had a few savings to keep herself for several weeks. She had urged him not to worry and had promised to return quickly, if she did not find a suitable post, adding that should she be fortunate enough to secure a good place she would write to him with her address.
And what will I write? she asked herself worriedly. She did not know. And she had more important things to think about for the next few days. Survival. That above all else.
Emma had been in Leeds for almost a week and so far had been unable to find work. For the past four days she had diligently visited every shop in Briggate and the adjoining streets, seeking any kind of position, prepared to take even the most menial. But to her growing dismay and alarm there were