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.
beautiful sight. What is that place?’ Blackie asked.
‘Ramsden Crags, but the villagers sometimes call it Flying Horses. Me mam calls it the Top of the World,’ Emma confided.
‘And indeed it looks as if it is just that, to be sure it does,’ Blackie murmured, dumping his sack on the ground and breathing deeply of the fresh air, now that they were out of the misty Ghyll.
Emma had not yet really looked fully at Blackie O’Neill. He had been behind her on the path leading out of the dell and he stood behind her now at the edge of the Ghyll. Her mother had always instilled good manners in her, and had told her that it was rude to stare, but now Emma’s curiosity got the better of her and she permitted herself to turn slowly. She looked up at the man who had so scared her initially and she was startled to see that he was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. And he was quite the most extraordinary man she had ever set eyes upon.
Blackie returned her gaze, smiling broadly, and in a flash of insight the girl knew why she had so inexplicably lost her fear of him in the Ghyll. In spite of his size, and his roughness of dress, there was something ineffably gentle and fine about this man, both in his expression and in his general demeanour. His face was open, friendly, and quite guileless, and his wide smile was warm, and sunny and somewhat mischievous, while his dark eyes were kind and understanding. Emma found herself smiling back at him unabashedly, warming to him in a way that was unprecedented for her, as wary and suspicious of strangers as she always was.
‘Yer can’t see the Hall from here,’ Emma explained, ‘but it’s not far now, just over the crest of the moors yonder. Come on, I’ll show yer the way, Blackie!’ she cried enthusiastically, much taken with her new friend.
Blackie nodded and lifting the large sack, he slung it over one shoulder with apparent ease, as if it were a small and insignificant bundle in his large strong hands. He fell into step with Emma, who was already marching briskly along the top road, and began to whistle nonchalantly, his head thrown back, his vibrant curls blowing in the breeze.
From time to time, Emma looked up at him surreptitiously. She had never met anyone like him before and he fascinated her. Blackie, in turn, was not unconscious of this scrutiny; in fact, he was very much aware of it and it amused him. He had sized up the girl in a flash, for he was quick and had a perceptive eye. He guessed she must be about fourteen, or thereabouts, and a local girl going on an errand to Fairley Hall. She was such a small sprite. No wonder he had frightened her in the fog. As they traversed the road together he smiled, admiring the stalwart way she stepped out, endeavouring to keep up with his long strides. He slowed down considerably when he saw how breathless she was becoming.
Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, commonly known to the world as Blackie, was about six feet three inches tall, but he appeared to be so much bigger in stature because of the largeness of his frame, his broad sweeping back and his powerful shoulders. He was brawny and well built, but there was no excess flesh on him. He was all muscle and sinew. He exuded virility, a ruddy health, and indomitable strength. He had long legs and a surprisingly narrow and well-defined waist below an expansive chest. It was easy to understand why the world called him Blackie. His thick heavy hair, which flowed back from a clear brow, was as black as ebony and just as shiny, and his eyes, of a brown so deep they also looked black, resembled great chunks of glittering coal. Set widely apart, under thick curving brows, these eyes were large and soft and very often wise, although they could gleam and flash with anger when Blackie’s temper was aroused. Likewise they could just as easily turn mournful and tragic when his Celtic soul was troubled by melancholy thoughts. But, for the most part, they were filled with merriment.
His skin was dark, yet not swarthy; rather, it was a nut brown and tinged with ruddiness across his high cheekbones, a sort of light mahogany colour that undoubtedly came from long exposure to the elements. His nose was straight and fairly narrow, although it broadened slightly at the tip, and his nostrils were flaring. His wide mouth and long Irish upper lip betrayed his Celtic origins. He had a cleft in his strongly moulded chin and when he laughed, which was often, his cheeks dimpled and his face took on an amazing vitality.
Blackie O’Neill was, in fact, an exceptionally handsome young man. But it was his manner and his attitude that were most intriguing and which, in many ways, set Blackie apart from other men. He exuded liveliness and gaiety. His face was full of vivacity, and it had great mobility and not a little wit. An easy, careless charm was second nature to him, and he was buoyant of spirit, as if he accepted life for what it was, and was constantly entertained by it. There was a lighthearted self-confidence inherent in him, and to Emma, observing him, he seemed untouched by the weariness and the fear and the hopelessness that haunted the men of the village, bowing them down and ageing them prematurely.
For the first time in her young life Emma had met someone with an unquenchable spirit and a soul that was joyous and without rancour, a man who loved his life and lived it to the fullest, and she had a vague glimmering of all this, and it intrigued and mystified and impressed her.
As she hurried along next to this handsome young giant her eyes turned to him often, and she found she was filled with an intense and voracious inquisitiveness about him. He was a cheerful companion, who in the oddest and most inexplicable way made her feel safe as he tramped by her side, saying little, smiling his vivid smile, sometimes whistling merrily, his bright eyes scanning the crest of the moors expectantly, anticipating the sight of the spires of Fairley Hall. And something of his light and genial good humour seemed to mysteriously transfer itself to Emma, and her face, so unremittingly stern and intent for one so young, was softened by a hint of hidden gaiety.
She was taken by surprise when Blackie opened his mouth and began to sing, his rich baritone filling the silent air with the most melodious sweet sounds that startled her, so beautiful were they.
‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him.
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him …’
As she listened to Blackie singing, Emma was filled with a swift and piercing pain, and tears rushed to her eyes, for she was touched in a way she had never been before. There was something hauntingly sad yet bittersweet about the words and the poignant melody, and her throat ached with the tears, so sudden, so unexpected, which she tried to choke back, afraid of appearing childish, and even a little foolish, to this man as he finished the ballad of the Minstrel Boy.
Blackie looked at her, and observing the glistening tears that trembled on her lashes, asked softly, ‘Did ye not like me song then, little one?’
Emma swallowed deeply and cleared her throat several times. Finally she was able to speak. ‘Oh yes, I did, Blackie. I really did. It’s just that it’s so sad.’ She brushed her hand across her eyes, wiping away the tears quickly, and noting the look of concern clouding his face, she added hurriedly, ‘But yer have a luvely voice, yer do that.’ She smiled, hoping her tears had not offended him.
Blackie had been surprised by the girl’s sensitive and emotional reaction to his singing, and he returned her smile and said with great gentleness, ‘Aye, ’tis a sad song to be sure, but a beautiful one, Emma. Still and all, ’tis only an old ballad. Ye must not be upset. And since ye are kind enough to say ye like me voice, such as it is, I’ll be singing ye a song that will surely make ye laugh, I am thinking.’
And he did. His rich and splendid voice formed the most merry sounds now, the lively words of an Irish jig tripping lightly from his facile tongue. He had purposely selected an amusing bit of nonsense, filled with tongue-twisting clan names, and soon Emma was laughing delightedly, the momentary sadness of the ballad forgotten in her newly found merriment.
When he had finished she cried gaily, ‘That was funny. Yer’ll have ter sing it for Mrs Turner, the cook at the Hall. She’ll like it, I bet she will, and I bet it’ll make her laugh.’
‘Sure and will I not be happy to, Emma,’ Blackie replied kindly, and then he said curiously, ‘And why are ye off to Fairley Hall so early in the day, might I be asking?’
‘I’m