A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford

Baptist Field and that’s right next ter the Hall.’

EIGHT

      Emma and Blackie were now standing on top of the ridge she had indicated. Behind them, sweeping into the cloudless sky, were the high fells where the last of the snow shimmered here and there like uneven swatches of white satin rippling in the watery sunlight. Below them was a small valley, typical of the West Riding, cradled in the arms of the encircling moors that extended to the rim of the horizon.

      And in this dun-coloured valley, all dim greys, dusty charcoals, and earthy browns, stood Fairley Hall. Only the tops of the spires and the chimneys were visible to the eye from where they were standing, for the house itself was obscured by a copse of trees. Unlike the stunted trees that intermittently broke the barrenness of the moors, these trees were tall and stately oaks, their widely splayed branches intertwining to form an intricate pattern. Plumes of smoke from the chimneys twisted upward behind the trees, filling the child blue sky with wispy grey question marks. Suddenly, a flock of rooks fluttered out of the copse, winding up and out in a long wavy line like a coil of thick black rope flung carelessly into the air. Otherwise there was no sign of life in this neat little valley which slumbered undisturbed at this early hour, serene and peaceful in the infinite silence.

      Surprisingly, the ridge on which Emma and Blackie stood did not drop down precipitously as Blackie had anticipated, but fell away into a short gentle slope that rolled towards the edge of a small field. Drystone walls, built long ago by the crofters, surrounded this field and others in the distance, cutting out a patchwork design on the floor of the valley, a design that to Blackie seemed extraordinarily orderly and tidy, juxtaposed as it was against the wild and sprawling moors. It looked as though a giant hand had neatly carved up the land most precisely and then enclosed each portion with the old and rugged walls.

      Emma ran ahead, calling to Blackie as she did, ‘Come on then, I’ll race yer ter the gate!’ She flew off down the slope at such a speed he was momentarily taken aback, both by her incredible swiftness and her unexpected burst of energy. She was wiry, this one. Gripping the sack tightly in one hand, Blackie leaped after her, at first at a goodly pace. With his great physical strength and long legs he could have outstripped her easily, but when he had almost caught up with her he fell back, slackening his speed, so that she could win her race.

      Emma stood triumphantly by the gate. ‘Yer’ll have ter look more sharpish and get a move on if yer wants ter beat me,’ she proclaimed with a small swagger. ‘I’m a good runner, yer knows,’ she added, panting.

      Blackie grinned at this tiny display of vanity and then adopted an admiring attitude. ‘Indeed, so I can see, mavourneen! Ye are as fast as a greyhound at the dog tracks, I am thinking. I’d put me money on ye any day, sure and I would.’

      Emma bestowed a gratified smile on him and a gleam of satisfaction flickered across her face briefly. Then she turned quickly, unlatched the gate, pushed it slightly, and jumped on to the first rung, clinging to it fiercely as the gate swung forward into the field, carrying her with it. Glancing back at Blackie over her shoulder, she called, ‘I always have a swing on this gate here, even though I’m not supposed ter.’ When the gate groaned to a quivering standstill she stepped off briskly and pulled it back, apparently intending to repeat the operation, her face slightly flushed, her eyes merry.

      Blackie threw down his sack. ‘Here let me give ye a push, Emma.’

      Nodding excitedly, she climbed on to the first rung again and clutched the gate tightly with her small chapped hands, as Blackie sent it flying into the field much faster than before. Her worn coat billowed out behind her and laughter washed over her face. Blackie watched her, enjoying her delight in this simple pleasure. Why, she’s only a bairn at that, he thought, a rush of warmth filling his throat. How could I have imagined otherwise? Sure and it’s stupid that I am.

      Emma dropped off the gate and beckoned to him. ‘Come on! Let’s be going. I’m ever so late and I’ll be copping it from Mrs Turner.’

      Blackie picked up his sack and joined her. He put his arm around her in a brotherly fashion and fell into step with her as they proceeded to the bottom of the field. ‘I have to be confessing to ye that I’m mighty curious about the folk at Fairley Hall. What are they like, mavourneen?’

      There was a tiny silence.

      ‘Yer’ll see in a minute.’ Emma smiled oddly. ‘We’re almost there now.’ Freeing herself from him, she ran ahead without another word.

      Blackie looked after her, frowning, puzzled by that curious smile. She was such a small figure on the path in front of him, skipping along almost with a carefree air. He had to admit she baffled him. One minute she was a child, her face soft and laughing; the next she seemed like an old woman, her face cast in bronze. Yet they were all queer, these Yorkshire folk, with their flat harsh accents, their self-reliant characters, their dour and opinionated natures, their rabid suspicion of strangers, their shrewdness and lightning perception of character. And their veneration of money. Still, he had discovered they could be generous-spirited and hospitable, and they had a sense of humour, even if it was somewhat blunt and pithy at times. Indeed, they were funny folk, and perhaps the very peculiarities he had discerned in Emma were simply vestiges of these Yorkshire traits. Yes, that must be it, he thought, and he quickened his steps to catch up with her.

      Emma was waiting for him at the copse of trees which skirted the end of the field. ‘There’s the Hall, Blackie,’ she said in a voice totally devoid of emotion.

      Blackie stopped dead in his tracks and let out a long low whistle in stunned astonishment. Fairley Hall was in their direct line of vision and it bore no resemblance to the images he had conjured up in his head after his recent talk with Squire Fairley in Leeds.

      ‘Mary, Mother of Jesus!’ he cried, his eyes opening wide in disbelief. ‘It’s not possible, mavourneen. Nobody could have built a house like that!’ He closed his eyes convulsively and when he opened them again he discovered he was not only disappointed in what he saw, but utterly appalled as well.

      ‘The Hall’s the grandest house for miles around. Nowt as big as it by here,’ Emma pointed out in the same toneless voice. ‘Me dad calls it Fairley’s Folly.’ He did not notice the faint bitter smile on her lips.

      ‘I can see why,’ Blackie murmured, thinking that it was the most grotesque house he had ever seen. As he stared at it, his jaw slack and his mouth drooping open, he recognized with dismay that it had no redeeming features at all. For Blackie O’Neill had an unusually accurate eye for perspective and line and, in fact, his one dream in life had been to study architecture. This had not been possible, but encouraged by his parish priest, Father O’Donovan, when a boy, he had taught himself as much as he could from a few books, and because of his desire to learn and his very natural talent, he had become exceedingly knowledgeable about designs and construction.

      Now he scanned the house with keen and critical eyes. The closer they drew to it, the more Blackie perceived what a monstrosity it was. It appeared to crouch like an implacable monster amidst carefully planned yet oddly incongruous gardens, its blackened stone walls grim and unwelcoming. Gothic-like spires leapt up from the four corners of the central building, which was square and dominating and was crowned with a bizarre cupola. It struck him that this central building was the oldest part, probably dating back to the late 1790s, and if it had been left alone it would have had a semblance of dignity, perhaps even a touch of grandeur. But other wings had obviously been added over the years, seemingly with little thought, and they sprouted off on both sides without regard to form or design. He could now see that they were bastardized interpretations of Regency and Victorian styles, and all of them mingled together to create a chaotic effect.

      In essence, Fairley Hall was a hodgepodge of diverse periods that competed with each other to create a façade that was without proportion, symmetry, or beauty. The house was large, solid, and rich, a veritable mansion, in fact, but its architectural inconsistencies made it hideous. Blackie sighed. He loved simplicity and he thought wistfully of the lovely old Georgian houses