A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford

liveliness and gaiety. His face was full of vivacity, and it had great mobility and not a little wit. An easy, careless charm was second nature to him, and he was buoyant of spirit, as if he accepted life for what it was, and was constantly entertained by it. There was a lighthearted self-confidence inherent in him, and to Emma, observing him, he seemed untouched by the weariness and the fear and the hopelessness that haunted the men of the village, bowing them down and ageing them prematurely.

      For the first time in her young life Emma had met someone with an unquenchable spirit and a soul that was joyous and without rancour, a man who loved his life and lived it to the fullest, and she had a vague glimmering of all this, and it intrigued and mystified and impressed her.

      As she hurried along next to this handsome young giant her eyes turned to him often, and she found she was filled with an intense and voracious inquisitiveness about him. He was a cheerful companion, who in the oddest and most inexplicable way made her feel safe as he tramped by her side, saying little, smiling his vivid smile, sometimes whistling merrily, his bright eyes scanning the crest of the moors expectantly, anticipating the sight of the spires of Fairley Hall. And something of his light and genial good humour seemed to mysteriously transfer itself to Emma, and her face, so unremittingly stern and intent for one so young, was softened by a hint of hidden gaiety.

      She was taken by surprise when Blackie opened his mouth and began to sing, his rich baritone filling the silent air with the most melodious sweet sounds that startled her, so beautiful were they.

      ‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

      In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

      His father’s sword he has girded on,

      And his wild harp slung behind him …’

      As she listened to Blackie singing, Emma was filled with a swift and piercing pain, and tears rushed to her eyes, for she was touched in a way she had never been before. There was something hauntingly sad yet bittersweet about the words and the poignant melody, and her throat ached with the tears, so sudden, so unexpected, which she tried to choke back, afraid of appearing childish, and even a little foolish, to this man as he finished the ballad of the Minstrel Boy.

      Blackie looked at her, and observing the glistening tears that trembled on her lashes, asked softly, ‘Did ye not like me song then, little one?’

      Emma swallowed deeply and cleared her throat several times. Finally she was able to speak. ‘Oh yes, I did, Blackie. I really did. It’s just that it’s so sad.’ She brushed her hand across her eyes, wiping away the tears quickly, and noting the look of concern clouding his face, she added hurriedly, ‘But yer have a luvely voice, yer do that.’ She smiled, hoping her tears had not offended him.

      Blackie had been surprised by the girl’s sensitive and emotional reaction to his singing, and he returned her smile and said with great gentleness, ‘Aye, ’tis a sad song to be sure, but a beautiful one, Emma. Still and all, ’tis only an old ballad. Ye must not be upset. And since ye are kind enough to say ye like me voice, such as it is, I’ll be singing ye a song that will surely make ye laugh, I am thinking.’

      And he did. His rich and splendid voice formed the most merry sounds now, the lively words of an Irish jig tripping lightly from his facile tongue. He had purposely selected an amusing bit of nonsense, filled with tongue-twisting clan names, and soon Emma was laughing delightedly, the momentary sadness of the ballad forgotten in her newly found merriment.

      When he had finished she cried gaily, ‘That was funny. Yer’ll have ter sing it for Mrs Turner, the cook at the Hall. She’ll like it, I bet she will, and I bet it’ll make her laugh.’

      ‘Sure and will I not be happy to, Emma,’ Blackie replied kindly, and then he said curiously, ‘And why are ye off to Fairley Hall so early in the day, might I be asking?’

      ‘I’m in service there,’ Emma answered solemnly, returning his friendly gaze with unflickering, steady eyes.

      ‘Indeed ye are, are ye! And what can a little snippet like ye do to earn ye keep?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m the kitchen maid.’ Seeing her half-averted eyes, the downcast drooping of her mouth, and the grim expression that swept across her face, Blackie decided she did not savour her work at the Hall. She volunteered no more information, and retreated behind the mask-like expression which had settled on her small countenance. Sensing her discomfort, he did not question her further and they walked on in silence, something of the gaiety they had so recently shared washed away in the wake of her mood, which had so abruptly changed.

      She was a funny little thing to Blackie, this colleen of the moors whom he had come upon so unexpectedly, a shabby starveling creature, all skin and bone. This Emma Harte looked to him as if she needed a good meal, several good meals, for many months to come. Indeed she did. She was a poverty-stricken child who should be at home and in bed, and not wandering these moors, so godforsaken and lifeless, at the crack of dawn in the midst of a bitter winter.

      In spite of her shabbiness, her clothes were tidy and neatly patched, and he could see that her face was scrubbed and shining clean. Not that too much of that face was visible, swathed as it was in the thick black woollen scarf. But her eyes, whenever she turned them on him, were of incredible beauty. They were large and luminous and vividly green, just about the greenest eyes he had ever seen.

      Emma cut into Blackie’s thoughts when she asked, ‘Yer said afore yer were a black Irishman. What’s that, then?’ Blackie turned to Emma and saw that the stark strained look had disappeared from her face.

      His eyes held a mischievous glint as he said, ‘Well, mavourneen, not a blackamoor from Africa, as ye suspected, but a man with my colouring, the black hair and the black eyes ’tis said we inherited from the Spanish.’

      She had been about to ask him what ‘mavourneen’ meant, but this last statement so astounded her the question was swept out of her mind. ‘Spanish! There aren’t no Spanish in Ireland. I knows better’n that!’ Emma scoffed with a degree of fierceness, her eyes flashing. ‘I’ve been ter school, yer knows,’ she informed Blackie as an afterthought, and proudly, wondering if he thought she was a fool.

      Blackie was amused by her reaction, but he kept a straight face. ‘Then, being as how ye are such an ejicated young colleen, ye must be a knowing that King Philip of Spain sent a great Armada to invade England in the time of Queen Elizabeth. ’Tis said that some of the galleons foundered and sank off the coast of Ireland and that the survivors, Spaniards all, settled in the Emerald Isle. ’Tis them, they say, the black Irish are descended from, and maybe that’s the God’s truth, I am thinking.’

      ‘I know about Spain and that Armada, but I didn’t know owt about the Spaniards living in Ireland,’ said Emma, looking up at him carefully.

      There was such scepticism in her eyes that Blackie slapped his leg and roared with laughter. ‘Faith and it’s doubting me that she is! But ’tis the truth I be telling ye, Emma. On the heads of the Blessed Saints I do swear it’s the truth I am speaking, mavourneen.’

      Emma now said challengingly, ‘Hey, what does that mean, that word “mavourneen”? Yer keep calling me that, Blackie. I never did hear such a word afore. It’s not rude, is it?’

      Blackie shook his head, his vital curls rippling and dancing as he did, the perpetual laughter flickering in his eyes and across his wide mouth. ‘It’s the Irish word for dear or darlin’, Emma. Like the word “luv” the Yorkshire folk are always using. It ain’t no rude word, little colleen. Affectionate is the best way of describing it, I am thinking. Besides, who would be rude to a spry young ejicated lady like ye?’ he finished, adopting his most serious voice, his most gallant manner.

      ‘Oh, aye,’ Emma said, a flick of that hard Yorkshire scepticism noticeable in her voice.

      There was a small silence and then, half turning and touching his arm impulsively, she asked, ‘Do yer live in Leeds then, Blackie?’ Her face was suddenly animated and interested and he sensed a new excitement in her.

      ‘I do. I do. Sure and it’s a