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.
then I’ll start on breakfast. Not that I thinks anybody’ll want owt.’
‘Dr Mac might want a bite,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘I’m off up ter see him now. And ter draw the curtains. We must show the proper respect for the dead.’
Cook, who was changing her pinafore, said quickly, ‘Did yer send Tom ter the village ter get Mrs Stead? Ter lay the missis out? She’s the best by here for that job.’
‘Aye, I did that.’
At the mention of her mother’s name a flicker of comprehension entered Annie’s deadened eyes. ‘Yer’ve sent for me mam,’ she said slowly, rousing herself from the stupor that had enveloped her for the last few hours.
‘I did, Annie,’ Murgatroyd asserted. ‘She should be here any minute, and yer’d best look a bit more lively, afore she does arrive. She’s got enough on her hands with the laying out. She don’t needs ter be worrying about thee, lass.’
The cook shuffled over to Annie and put her arms around her, looking down into the girl’s pale face. ‘Do yer feel a bit better, luv?’ she asked solicitously.
‘Aye, I thinks so,’ Annie mumbled. ‘It gave me a right fright,’ she gasped, ‘finding the missis like that.’ Her shaky voice cracked with emotion, and finally the tears suppressed by shock flowed unchecked.
‘Have a good cry, luv. Get it out of yer system, afore yer mam gets here. Yer don’t want ter be upsetting her, now do yer, luv?’ Annie buried her head against Cook’s comforting body, sobbing softly. Mrs Turner patted her shoulder and stroked her hair, murmuring kindly to her, and with motherly concern.
Satisfied that a degree of order had been restored, Murgatroyd turned on his heels and swiftly mounted the stairs. First he would consult with Dr Mac, to see if he had any further instructions, and then he must go around the house, drawing all the curtains, shutting out the light until after the funeral, as was the custom in the North after a death in the family.
Emma made the tea and they sat drinking it in silence, all of them subdued and sorrowing. It was Annie who finally spoke first. She looked at Emma across the table and said, ‘I wish yer’d been here this weekend, Emma. Then yer’d have found the missis instead of me.’ Annie’s eyes widened. ‘I’ll never forget that look on the missis’s face. Like she’d seen summat horrible afore she fell.’
Emma stared at Annie through narrowed eyes. ‘What on earth do yer mean?’
Annie gulped. ‘It was like she’d seen – seen one of them there abominations me mam says walks over t’moors at night,’ Annie said, dropping her voice.
‘Now, Annie, shut thee gob, lass. By gum, I won’t have no fanciful talk about the spirits of the dead in this ’ere house,’ Mrs Turner snapped. ‘All them silly village superstitions. Stuff and nonsense, if yer asks me.’
Emma scowled. ‘I wonder what Mrs Fairley was doing? Coming downstairs in the middle of the night. Murgatroyd said she’d been dead for hours. She must’ve been wandering around at two or three o’clock in the morning.’
Annie volunteered quietly, ‘I knows what she was doing.’
Both Mrs Turner and Emma stared at her in surprise, and with expectancy. ‘And how do yer knows, Annie Stead?’ asked Cook imperiously. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, yer were fast asleep in yer room in the attic. Or yer should’ve been.’
‘Aye, I was. But it was me that found her. And there was broken glass all around her body. From one of the best wine goblets, it was. She was still clutching part of t’stem, and there was dried blood on her hand, like rust, where she’d cut herself.’ Annie shivered at the remembrance, and whispered, ‘I bet she was coming down ter the library ter get herself a nip, ’cos I’ve sme—’
‘Murgatroyd didn’t mention no broken goblet ter me,’ interjected Cook peremptorily, glaring at Annie.
‘No, he wouldn’t. But I saw him sweeping it up, ever so quick like,’ Annie replied. ‘He thought I hadn’t seen it ’cos I was scared stiff.’
Cook continued to glare at Annie speechlessly, but Emma sucked in her breath, recognizing instantly the veracity of everything Annie had said. It was the most obvious explanation. ‘Yer not ter repeat that ter anybody, Annie. Yer hear what I say? Not even ter the Squire,’ Emma cautioned gravely. ‘What’s done is done, and the less said, the better.’
‘Emma’s right, luv,’ said Cook, recovering herself. ‘We don’t wants no nasty gossip in the village. Let the poor missis rest in peace.’
Annie nodded. ‘I promise not ter tell owt.’
Emma sighed and was thoughtful. Then she looked pointedly at Cook and said, ‘It’s right funny, when yer think about it. First Polly died, then me mam, and now Mrs Fairley. All in just a few months of each other.’
Cook returned Emma’s concentrated stare. ‘It’s said, in these parts, that everything goes in threes.’
The funeral of Adele Fairley took place later that week. The Fairley mill was closed for the day, and all of the workers were in attendance, along with the servants from the Hall. The small cemetery adjoining Fairley Church overflowed with the villagers, the local gentry, and friends of the family from all over the country.
Two days after the funeral, Olivia Wainright left for London, accompanied by Edwin. Exactly one week later Adam Fairley departed himself, journeying south to join his youngest son at his sister-in-law’s Mayfair town house.
Ernest Wilson was left in charge of the mill, much to Gerald Fairley’s secret delight. For the callous, brainless, and irresponsible Gerald, quite unmoved by his mother’s death, thought only of the infinite opportunities which now presented themselves. He fully intended to assert himself at the mill, and stringently so, in his father’s absence, which he fervently hoped would be prolonged.
On a warm Sunday afternoon, in June of the following year, Edwin Fairley set out from Fairley Hall for the moors. He carried a picnic basket in one hand, laden with all sorts of delicious tidbits from Cook’s groaning pantry, and in the other a sack containing some gardening implements and a few necessary items.
He and Emma had some hard work to do at Ramsden Crags, a task they had been planning for several weeks. Because of the inclement and frequently rainy weather, they had had to postpone this venture several times. On Friday, when Emma went home for her weekend off, Edwin had walked with her as far as the Crags. They had made an assignation to meet there at three o’clock today, the weather permitting.
And the weather does permit, Edwin thought. He glanced up. The pale sun was continually flitting in and out from behind the patchwork of grey and white clouds that littered the powder-blue sky, but there was no hint of rain. Even the light wind barely rustled the trees and the translucent air was so mild it was almost balmy.
Edwin purposely avoided the stables. A few minutes earlier, when he had gone down to the kitchen to collect the picnic basket, he had observed Annie Stead and Tom Hardy chatting and laughing together in the yard. They were courting, so Emma had informed him, and it was more than likely they would have paid no attention to him whatsoever, as immersed in each other as they appeared to be. On the other hand, he did not want to put them to the test, for he had no particular desire to arouse even their mildest curiosity. Not that it was unusual for him to picnic on the moors, but the sack might create a flicker of interest. He walked swiftly through the walled rose garden and out under the clump of old oaks. In a short time he was across the Baptist Field and mounting the slope rising on to the flat plateau of moorland and the narrow track that ran all the way to the Ghyll, and Ramsden Crags beyond.
Edwin breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the pure air, which was so much more bracing on this higher ground. His health was now fully restored and he felt vital again. At the beginning