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.
to Edwin, who was observing her every movement studiously and with admiration. ‘So what happened to the dog, then, Master Edwin? Did Master Gerald come back and report about it, as Mrs Fairley told him ter do?’
‘Yes, Emma. Gerald was here a little while ago. The dog was still alive. But the injuries were so bad there was little hope for it. They shot it and dug a grave out on the moors.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Well, now it’s out of its suffering. That’s the most important thing. I cannot abide cruelty, Emma,’ he finished on a confiding note.
‘Aye, I knows that, Master Edwin,’ said Emma. ‘What a shame the poor little dog got caught,’ she murmured sympathetically. ‘Them traps are right dangerous, yer knows.’
Before Edwin had a chance to comment further, Adele came into the bedroom, wrapped in a thick woollen bathrobe. ‘There you are, Emma.’ She glanced at Edwin. ‘Would you excuse me now, my dearest boy. I have to dress, you know.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Edwin, as respectful as always. He ran over and kissed her. ‘Have a lovely evening, darling,’ he added, smiling at her.
‘Thank you, Edwin. I am sure I will,’ said Adele, not sure at all that she would. But she determined not to give one thought to the forthcoming evening, or she would become hysterical and quite incapable of leaving her room at all. After Adele had dressed herself in her underclothes, Emma laced her into her corset. ‘Tighter, Emma,’ cried Adele, with a small gasp, gripping the bedpost to steady herself.
‘Nay, Mrs Fairley, ma’am, if I makes the laces any tighter yer won’t be able ter eat owt,’ Emma pointed out. ‘Come ter think of it, yer won’t be able ter breathe either!’
‘Of course I will! Don’t be foolish, Emma,’ said Adele crisply. ‘I like a tiny waist.’
‘Well, tiny waist or no, yer don’t want ter be fainting away at the dinner, now do yer, Mrs Fairley?’
Adele paled slightly as she recognized the truth of this. It would be a catastrophe if she passed out during the evening. Adam would never believe it was actually from lack of breath, and for no other reason. ‘Well, perhaps you are right,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘Don’t make the laces any tighter then, but don’t loosen them either, Emma. They are perfect just as they are. And please tie them in a strong double bow, so they won’t work open.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Emma, finishing the task quickly. ‘Now we’d best start on yer hair, Mrs Fairley. Yer knows it takes me ages.’
Adele sat down at the glittering mirrored dressing table, studying her face admiringly and with loving self-absorption, whilst Emma brushed out the long shimmering hair and started the tortuous procedure of shaping it into a magnificent coiffure. This was an elegant pompadour, currently the height of fashion, which Adele had noticed in an illustrated magazine showing the latest London and Paris haute couture. The previous week, when Emma had copied it for Adele, she had taken a degree of licence and had elaborated upon it, adding her own special touches and adapting the original style so that it was more flattering to Adele’s fragile looks. To Adele’s astonishment the finished results had been not only quite outstanding and distinctly original but extraordinarily professional as well.
Now Emma swept the masses of hair up and away from Adele’s face, working the great lengths into the basic pompadour that was the foundation of the style. She rolled and folded the hair all around Adele’s head, so that it framed her exquisite features dramatically, anchoring it securely with hairpins. Emma worked patiently and skilfully in silent concentration, and at one moment she actually stood back to admire her handiwork, nodding her head with satisfaction, her eyes glowing. She had almost finished when she realized she had exhausted her supply of hairpins.
Emma clucked to herself with annoyance. Adele stared at her through the mirror, frowning. ‘What is it? No problems, I hope, Emma! My hair must be beautifully dressed tonight.’
‘Oh, it will be, ma’am,’ Emma reassured her. ‘It is already. But I need a few more hairpins, for the top curls. I’ll just pop along ter see Mrs Wainright, and ask ter borrow some. Excuse me, ma’am.’ Emma put the silver, monogrammed hairbrush on the dressing table, bobbed a curtsy, and flitted out.
The corridor was gloomy and wreathed in amorphous shadows, and the pieces of ornate Victorian furniture that punctuated its long expanse were like nebulous phantoms in the cold murky light emanating from the gas fixtures on the walls. Emma had to traverse the entire length of the shadowy corridor to reach Olivia Wainright’s room and, since it was deserted, she ran all the way, although this was prompted not so much by nervousness or fear as by her pressing need to save time, as usual. She was panting when she tapped on the door.
‘Come in,’ Olivia called out in a light melodious voice. Emma opened the door and stood politely on the threshold, as always surveying the room with grudging approval. It was the only one that appealed to her at Fairley Hall, apart from the cheerful kitchen.
Olivia Wainright was sitting at the carved oak dressing table with her back to the door. She swivelled around quickly. ‘Yes, Emma, do you need me for something?’ she asked with her usual courtesy.
Emma had taken a step forward, smiling in return, but she suddenly stiffened and stopped short. Olivia’s face was unnaturally pale, denuded as it was of the French rouges and powders and the other cosmetics she normally favoured. This intense pallor gave her a wan and exhausted look, as did her very white lips. Her aquamarine eyes were glittering and appeared larger and bluer in the paleness of her delicate face, their almost supernatural colour emphasized even more by the sky-blue silk robe she wore. Her dark brown hair, usually beautifully groomed and upswept in a fashionable style, fell around her shoulders like a glossy velvet cowl in the refracted light from the dressing-table lamps.
Emma knew she was gaping at Olivia Wainright and that this was the height of rudeness. But she could not help herself, and she could not turn away, so stupefied was she. That pallor, the tumbling hair, those brilliant eyes, all merged to form a face that overflowed with gentleness and poignancy, a luminous, haunting face with which Emma was only too familiar.
Olivia, meanwhile, had immediately perceived Emma’s strong reaction. She was mystified and regarded the girl at first curiously, and then with mounting nervousness, the powder puff dangling in her hand.
‘Good gracious, Emma, whatever is it? Why, you look as if you have seen a ghost, child. Are you feeling ill?’ she cried in a voice unusually vehement for her.
Emma shook her head. Finally she spoke. ‘No, no, Mrs Wainright. Nowt’s wrong. Please don’t fret yerself, ma’am. Excuse me, if I looked a bit funny like—’ Emma paused, uncertain of how to correctly explain her behaviour, which she knew must have seemed queer and was also improper. She coughed behind her hand. ‘I felt a bit faint for a second,’ she lied, and continued more truthfully and in a stronger voice, ‘I ran ever so fast down the corridor. Yes, that was it.’
Olivia relaxed, but she continued to frown. ‘You are always running, Emma. One of these days you will have an accident. But never mind that now. Are you sure you are perfectly all right? You are very white indeed. Perhaps you should lie down until the guests arrive,’ Olivia suggested with obvious concern.
‘Thank yer, ever so much, ma’am. But I’m better. Honest. I was just puffed. And I can’t rest now, Mrs Wainright. I’ve got ter finish getting Mrs Fairley ready. That’s why I came. Ter borrow some hairpins, if yer can spare a few,’ Emma explained in a rush of words to camouflage her considerable embarrassment.
‘Of course. You may have these,’ Olivia said, gathering up a handful.
Emma took them from her and attempted a smile. ‘Thank yer, Mrs Wainright.’
Olivia’s perceptive eyes contemplated Emma thoughtfully. She was not at all certain she believed the girl’s explanation. However, since she could not imagine any other logical reason for her ashen face and her apparent distress, she had no alternative but to accept it.
‘You do look a little peaked to me, Emma,’ she said slowly. ‘After the guests