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.
And yer knows what’s in store for yer if Big Jack Harte gets his hands on yer. He’ll make bloody mashed potatoes out of yer!’
Murgatroyd glowered at Mrs Turner, but refrained from any response. Blackie, whose eyes had been riveted on Murgatroyd like a hawk’s, detected sudden apprehension in him. Why, he’s a coward, thought Blackie. He’s a blustering poltroon, lily-livered, and full of hot air!
Cook swung away from Murgatroyd with disgust and turned to Emma, who was kneeling on the floor neatly replacing all the items which had fallen from the basket. ‘Are yer all right, luv?’ she asked with concern. Emma lifted her head and nodded slowly. Her face was like carved white marble and just as immobile. Only her eyes had life, for they burned with an intense hatred for Murgatroyd. ‘I’ll get a wet cloth and clean up the black lead,’ she said softly, sheathing her anger.
Murgatroyd now turned his attention to Blackie. He proceeded into the room smoothly as if nothing had happened. ‘O’Neill, right? The navvy from Leeds. The squire said ter expect yer this morning.’ He weighed Blackie with those cold eyes and nodded approvingly. ‘Well, yer looks like a strong bloke. I hopes yer not afraid of work, lad.’
It was a considerable effort for Blackie to speak civilly to the butler, but he knew he had no alternative. He swallowed hard and said in the most matter-of-fact tone he could summon, ‘That’s me, to be sure. If ye gives me the details of the work I’ll get to it.’
Murgatroyd pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Blackie. ‘It’s all written down here. Yer can read, I suppose?’
‘I can that.’
‘Good. Now, as ter yer wages. Fifteen shillings for a week’s work and yer board and lodgings while yer here. That’s what the Squire instructed.’ His eyes were full of cunning.
Blackie bit back a knowing smile. Why, he’s trying to swindle me, the crafty divil, he thought, but said, ‘No, sir! One guinea was the price that the Squire arranged with me in Leeds. And one guinea it is, Mister Murgatroyd.’
The butler’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘Yer don’t expect me ter believe that the Squire himself came ter see yer, do yer, lad? His agent in Leeds always deals with such trifling matters,’ he declared.
Regarding Murgatroyd acutely, Blackie recognized immediately that the man’s amazement was genuine. His handsome Irish face broke into a broad smile. ‘Faith, and sure it was himself that came to see me and me Uncle Pat. We own a small building business, ye see. He engaged me to do the repairs here, and me Uncle Pat to work at the mills and the newspaper offices in Leeds. And I am certain about the price, to be sure I am. Perhaps ye should be after asking the Squire again. There’s been a mistake, I am thinking.’ Blackie chuckled inwardly, for the butler was obviously not only flustered but vexed by the turn of events.
‘Indeed, I will speak ter the Squire!’ Murgatroyd snapped. ‘He must have forgotten what he arranged with yer. He’s more important matters ter be thinking about! Well, get on with yer, lad. The yardman’s in the stables. He’ll show yer where everything is, and yer room above the stables, where yer’ll be sleeping.’
Murgatroyd dismissed Blackie with a curt nod and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’ll be having me tea and a bacon buttie,’ he called to Cook, who threw him a nasty glance. She picked up the knife and began to attack the loaf of bread with great ferocity and from the expression on her face it was apparent that she wished it was Murgatroyd she was demolishing.
Blackie strode over to his sack and hoisted it on his shoulder. Emma was collecting her cleaning materials together at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll see ye tonight, mavourneen,’ he said softly, and smiled.
‘Aye, if I’ve finished me work by then,’ she responded glumly. Seeing the disturbed look that flashed on to his face, she smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll be finished. Don’t worry about me. Ta’rar, Blackie.’ He watched her disappear up the stairs before he opened the kitchen door and went out into the cold morning air, his mind full of disturbing thoughts about the occupants of Fairley Hall, and most especially Emma, who was so defenceless in this strange house.
Emma paused in the small upstairs lobby that adjoined the kitchen staircase and put down the cleaning utensils she was carrying. She eased the basket on her arm and leaned against the wall. Her face was drawn and her head ached from the stunning blow, and she was seething with resentment. Murgatroyd never lost an opportunity to mistreat her. It seemed to her that he enjoyed cuffing her, and even though he continually snarled at Polly, he was not as brutal with her. His reprehensible display of temper a few minutes ago had been nothing unusual and she knew he would have walloped her again if Cook had not interceded. He’ll hit me once too often, she thought grimly, and then I’ll show him.
She adjusted the heavy basket on her arm, picked up the other items, and walked slowly down the corridor, her senses alert, listening acutely for any untoward noises in the house. But there were no sounds, for the family were still asleep. The corridor was filled with murky light and smelled faintly of wax and dry dust and a peculiar mustiness that bespoke windows long shuttered and cloistered, airless rooms. She wished she was back in the kitchen, which was the only cheerful spot in Fairley Hall.
In spite of its grandness and rich furnishings, the house filled Emma with a nameless terror from which she wanted always to flee. There was something fearful and oppressive about the chill dark rooms with their lofty ceilings and heavy furniture, the immense halls, and the winding corridors that drifted endlessly through the house. It was a place of hushed silences, seclusion, and hidden mysteries, a secretive house redolent of unhappiness and decay. And yet for all that quiescence there was a sheathed turbulence everywhere, contained but ominous and stealthily waiting to break loose.
Emma was shivering as she glided across the rich Turkey carpet in the vast front entrance hall and pushed open the double doors of the morning room. She stood on the threshold and nervously glanced around. Meagre fingers of gauzy sunlight fought their way into the room through the tall windows, heavily curtained in white silk and draped with thick blue velvet hangings. Dark portraits gazed down from the dim blue flocked-velvet walls and Emma imagined, absurdly, that their ancient eyes followed her as she crept towards the fireplace, squeezing past the many pieces of ponderous Victorian furniture made of mahogany so dark they looked black in the gloomy light. The only sound was the plaintive ticking of the clock on the carved black marble mantelshelf.
Emma deposited the cleaning equipment on the floor and knelt down in front of the fireplace. She dusted off the traces of ash and filled it with the paper spills and chips of wood Murgatroyd had placed in a pile on the hearth, along with the matches. She lit the paper and when the chips took hold she opened the brass scuttle and lifted out small pieces of coal. These she gingerly placed on the burning wood. The coal did not catch light immediately, so she lifted her apron and fanned the fire until it began to blaze.
The monotonous ticking of the clock reminded Emma she had little time to waste. She cleaned the room with efficiency and speed, in spite of the cumbersome and cluttered arrangements of furniture. When she had accomplished this, she took a fine white Irish linen tablecloth from the sideboard drawer and placed it over the great circular table. She arranged four place settings of silver and ran back to the sideboard for the dishes. As she was taking out four blue-and-white Crown Derby plates she tensed and held herself very still. Her neck prickled and gooseflesh sprang up on her arms, for she knew she was no longer alone. She sensed rather than heard another presence in the room. She turned slowly on her haunches. Squire Fairley was standing in the doorway watching her intently.
She stood up quickly and dropped a small curtsy. ‘Good morning, Squire,’ she mumbled timorously, clutching the plates firmly to her breast, so that they would not rattle in her trembling hands. Her legs shook, although more from surprise than fear.
‘Morning. Where’s Polly?’
‘She’s badly, Squire.’
‘I see,’ he said laconically.
His eyes bored into her as he regarded her with the utmost concentration. He frowned and a puzzled expression settled on his