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.
the floor next to him, which was old and very grimy. ‘And what’s in that mucky thing?’ she asked.
‘Just me tools and a few er … er … personal items,’ Blackie said, shuffling his feet in embarrassment.
‘Well, don’t be dragging it over me clean floor!’ she admonished. ‘Put it in that there corner, where it’s out of the way.’ She then marched to the stove, saying in a gentler tone, ‘Yer’d best come ter the fire and get yerself warm, lad.’
Mrs Turner bustled around the stove, clattering pan lids, peering at the contents of her bubbling pots, muttering under her breath. Her temper had abated. This was mostly irritation rather than real anger, and it was chiefly engendered by anxiety for Emma crossing the lonely moors rather than the girl’s tardiness, which was not so important. What was half an hour, after all? She smiled to herself. Emma was a good lass, which was more than you could say for most in this dreadful day and age.
Blackie dumped his sack in the corner and loped over to the enormous fireplace that covered almost the whole of one wall. As he warmed his hands in front of the fire he became conscious of two things. He was frozen stiff and he was hungry. These sensations were precipitated by the steaming warmth of the room and the delicious smells pervading the air. He sniffed and his mouth watered as he inhaled the pungent smell of smoky country bacon frying, the warm, sweet fragrance of freshly baked bread, and wafting over these tempting odours he detected the rich savoury tang of a vegetable broth boiling. His stomach growled and he licked his lips hungrily.
Slowly his body began to thaw and he stretched luxuriously like a great cat, his eyes sweeping quickly over the room, and what he saw cheered Blackie immensely, helped to dissipate his foreboding of earlier. For there was nothing brooding or menacing about this kitchen. It was a splendid, warming, cheerful place and spanking clean. All manner of copper pots and pans sparkled lustrously on the whitewashed walls, and the flagged stone floor shone whitely in the bright light of the gas jets and the crackling fire that leapt and roared up the big chimney. Strong oak furniture, highly waxed, gleamed softly in this roseate glow.
Blackie heard the click of a door and he looked up as Emma emerged from the cupboard. She had changed into a dark blue serge dress, obviously cut from the same cloth as Cook’s, and she was fastening on a large blue-and-white-striped cotton apron. ‘Did yer say Polly was poorly again, Mrs Turner?’ she asked, moving hurriedly in the direction of the stove.
‘Aye, lass. Bad cough she has. Summat terrible. I made her stay abed this morning. Yer might look in on her later, ter see if she wants owt.’ There was true warmth in Cook’s voice and her face softened as she regarded the girl. Blackie looked at her and recognized there was no real animosity in her. It was apparent, from the loving expression now flooding her face, that Mrs Turner was inordinately fond of Emma.
‘Yes, I’ll pop up after breakfast is served and take her some broth,’ Emma agreed, trying not to look overly concerned about Polly. Emma was convinced she had the same sickness as her mother, for Emma had detected all the telltale signs: the weakness, the fever, and the terrible coughing.
Mrs Turner nodded. ‘Aye, that’s a good lass.’ She frowned and peered at Emma through the steam. ‘Yer’ll have ter do Polly’s work today, as well as yer own, yer knows, luv. Can’t be helped! Murgatroyd tells me Mrs Wainright arrives for a visit this afternoon and with Mrs Hardcastle still away we’re really shorthanded.’ She exhaled a loud sigh of exasperation and banged the spoon against the side of the pot furiously. ‘Aye, I wish I was the housekeeper here, I do that! It’s a right cushy job Nellie Hardcastle’s got and no mistake. Always tripping off, that she is!’
Emma repressed a smile. This was an old bone of contention. ‘Yer right, Mrs Turner, but we’ll manage somehow,’ she said reassuringly. She liked Cook, who was the only one who showed her any kindness at the Hall, and she always tried to please her. Emma ran back to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out a large basket containing brushes, cloths, polishes, and black lead, and headed for the staircase. ‘I’ll make a start,’ she called, beginning to mount the stairs, waving to Blackie as she did.
Mrs Turner’s head jerked up quickly. ‘Nay, lass, I’m not that heartless! Yer looks nithered ter death. Go ter the fire and warm up, and drink a cup of this broth afore yer goes up yonder.’ She lifted the lid off the large iron pot, stirred it vigorously, clucked with satisfaction, and began to ladle broth into a large mug. ‘Will yer have a cup, lad?’ she called to Blackie, already filling a second mug.
‘To be sure I will and it’s thanking ye I am,’ Blackie cried.
‘Come on, lass, give Blackie this mug and take yer own,’ Cook said, and went on briskly, ‘And how about a bacon buttie, lad? It goes down well with me broth.’
‘Thanks. I don’t mind if I do. It’s famished that I am.’
‘Can yer eat one, Emma luv?’
‘No, thanks, Mrs Turner,’ Emma replied as she took the mugs from Cook. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Cook gave her a sharp look. ‘Aay, lass, yer don’t eat enough. Yer’ll never get fat on broth and tea.’
Emma carried the mugs carefully to the fireplace and handed one to Blackie without a word, but as she sat down on the other stool and looked up at him a sweet smile drifted over her face, the wariness abating. ‘Thank ye,’ he said, returning her smile, and then his eyes narrowed as he became aware of her for the first time since they had met on the moors.
As they sipped the broth in silence, Blackie regarded Emma surreptitiously, endeavouring to conceal the surprise he was feeling. He was stunned really. Now that she had removed the camouflaging scarf and shed the tight old coat, he could see her more clearly and he noted that the girl was not such a starveling creature as he had originally thought. He could not call her beautiful, if he was to measure her by the popular picture-postcard standards of the day. She was no typical Edwardian beauty, all pink marshmallow softness and swooning femininity; neither was she fluffily pretty or pert. But she was arresting and there was something indefinable about her that captured his imagination, held his attention, and made him catch his breath as he studied her. Her face was a perfect oval, with high, rather prominent cheekbones, a straight and slender nose, and a delicately curved mouth that dimpled at the corners when she smiled. Her teeth were small, even, and very white between her pale pink lips, which he noticed held a suggestion of sweetness and vulnerability when she was unguarded. If her smooth forehead was a little too broad it was by no means unattractive, and it was balanced by the widow’s-peak hairline that cut into her clear skin so dramatically, and by the exquisitely shaped brows that were sweeping golden-brown arcs above her wide-set eyes. These eyes, which had struck him so forcibly earlier, were indeed as shining and as green as emeralds, set below thick and curling golden-brown lashes that cast gentle dusky shadows on her skin. This was like pale cream silk and as smooth, and without blemish. Her luxuriant russet-brown hair was simply dressed, pulled back smoothly to reveal her face most strikingly. The gleaming hair was plaited and then twisted into a bun that nestled in the nape of her neck and, in the dancing firelight, it seemed like a rich velvet cap threaded through with golden strands.
She is thin and still small, he thought. But he also knew she had some growing to do in the next few years. Blackie could tell from her build that she would be tall and slender when she matured into young womanhood. She was already beginning to flower, for he saw the swell of tender young breasts and shapely hips under the voluminous apron, and long legs that contributed much to her easy gracefulness.
Blackie’s innate sense of beauty and fineness was not solely restricted to architecture, art, and artefacts, but extended to women and horses as well. His ardour for women was almost, but not quite, surpassed by his predilection for horses and the races, and he particularly prided himself on his ability to judge horseflesh and single out a thoroughbred when he saw one. Now as he looked at Emma more fully he thought: That’s it! She has the look of a thoroughbred! He knew she was a poor girl from the working class, yet her face was that of an aristocrat, for it contained breeding and refinement. It was these aspects that combined to create that indefinable quality he had detected earlier. She was patrician and she had an inbred dignity that was unique. He saw only one