Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

Within minutes Emma was under the shadow of Ramsden Crags. She put down the heavy basket of clothes she was carrying, and seated herself on a flat rock. These days she always lingered for a moment at the Top of the World, for here she felt her mother’s presence more assuredly than she did in the little cottage. To Emma, her mother still lived and breathed in this quiet sheltered spot, so well loved by them both. Emma saw her adored face in the pale shadows and vaporous moorland tints, heard her tinkling laughter echoing around the time-worn crags, communed with her in the gentle silence that was unbroken, except for the occasional bird call or the faint buzzing of a bee.

Emma rested her head against the rocks behind her and closed her eyes, conjuring up her mother’s face. She opened them almost immediately and it seemed to her that her mother stood before her, radiant and smiling, the beloved image wholly formed. ‘Oh, Mam, Mam, I do miss yer,’ she said aloud, and she was filled with a longing, a yearning that was almost unbearable and brought an ache to her throat. She held out her arms, straining towards that nebulous image, which quickly faded. Emma sat quite still for a little while longer, leaning against the cool rocks, her eyes closed, pushing down the sadness that was still so near to the surface, and then, when she was contained, she picked up the basket and set off resolutely in the direction of Ramsden Ghyll.

Hurrying now, she shifted the heavy basket on to her other arm and descended into the Ghyll, all green darkness, shadowy and cool, where only thimblefuls of sunlight trickled in through the overhanging rocky ledges and ancient trees, whose crooked boughs knotted together like an old man’s rheumatic gnarly fingers. A rabbit skittered across her path and disappeared behind a soaring boulder coated with mats of moss that were dark and velvety in the dim light. When she reached the middle of the dell, where all sunlight was totally obliterated, she began to sing, as she always did here, her light soprano echoing sweetly in the perfect stillness. ‘Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountainside. The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling. It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.’

She stopped singing and smiled to herself, thinking warmly of Blackie. That was his favourite song and he had taught her the words. He had not been to the Hall for over a month. He had finished all of his work there for the moment. But sometimes he stopped by to see her, when he was in the district, and she wondered when he would be coming back. She missed him. Within minutes Emma was up and out of the chilly dell and in the bright air again, under the wide and shining sky, heading for the ridge that dropped down to the Hall. She began to walk more swiftly, to make up time, for she was later than usual this morning, well over an hour late, and Cook would already be grousing about her tardiness, of that she was certain. She ran down the slope and opened the old rickety wooden gate at the edge of the Baptist Field, closing it carefully behind her, dropping the heavy iron latch into place.

Emma no longer swung on the gate. She thought she was too grown-up to indulge in such a childish game. After all, she was fifteen and four months, already in her sixteenth year. A young lady almost, and young ladies, who intended to be grand ladies one day, did not do such frivolous things.

Entering the cobbled stable yard, Emma was somewhat taken aback to see Dr Malcom’s horse and trap tethered at the mounting block. The yard was deserted and unnaturally quiet, and there was no sign of Tom Hardy, the stableboy, who normally was busily currying the Squire’s horses and polishing the brass on the harness at this hour. She frowned, wondering why Dr Mac was visiting the Hall at seven o’clock in the morning. Somebody must be badly, she surmised, and immediately thought of Edwin, who had taken a chill the week before. He was prone to chest colds, so Mrs Fairley had told her. Emma’s feet flew up the stone steps leading to the back door, but not so quickly that her keen eyes did not notice the steps had not yet been scoured. That there Annie’s getting neglectful of her duties, she thought with a flash of irritation.

The moment she entered the house Emma knew that something was dreadfully amiss. She quietly closed the door behind her and went down into the kitchen. The fire blazed as always, the copper kettle hissed on the hob, but the delicious smell of breakfast cooking was noticeably absent. Cook sat in her chair near the fireplace, rocking to and fro, stifling her sobs and wiping her streaming eyes with the end of her apron, which was already sodden with her copious tears. Annie appeared to be reasonably controlled, and Emma strode rapidly across the flagged floor to her, hoping to elicit some information. But she perceived at once that Annie was as distraught as Cook, and she sat so rigidly in the chair she might have turned to a pillar of salt. Like Lot’s wife, Emma thought.

Emma flung the basket down on the floor hastily. ‘What’s wrong?’ she cried, looking from one to the other. ‘Why is Dr Mac here? It’s Master Edwin, isn’t it? He’s sick!’ Neither Cook nor Annie appeared to hear her words. Certainly they paid no attention to her. And the dysphoria and apprehension in the air instantly communicated itself to Emma, so sharply that she quaked inside. The overwrought Mrs Turner now looked up, an anguished expression on her apple-dumpling face, her eyes red-rimmed. She gazed at Emma mutely, obviously unable to speak, and then she burst into further paroxysms of tears, rocking herself more violently than ever, moaning loudly between her sobs.

Emma was frantic. She reached out and touched Annie gently on the shoulder. The petrified girl jumped nervously, as if Emma’s fingers had scourged her. She returned Emma’s questioning look with a mindless stare. Annie blinked several times, very rapidly, and her mouth jerked, but she remained silent. And then she began to quiver. Emma took hold of her firmly with her small strong hands, attempting to calm her, filled with a mixture of impatience, and the beginnings of real panic.

Emma now realized she must go and find Murgatroyd immediately, but at that very moment the butler appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the family’s living quarters. Emma’s eyes flew urgently to his face. It was more dolorous than ever. He was wearing his black butler’s coat, which was also unprecedented at this hour, when he was generally in his shirtsleeves and green baize apron, engaged in his pantry chores. On reaching the bottom of the stairs he leaned against the newel post and passed his hand over his brow in a futile gesture. His arrogant manner had been replaced by a deflated air, and this also registered most forcibly with Emma.

The bewildered girl took a few steps closer to him. ‘Summat serious has happened. It’s Master Edwin, isn’t it?’ she whispered. It was a statement rather than a question.

Murgatroyd looked down at her mournfully. ‘No, it’s the missis,’ he said.

‘She’s badly then, is she? That’s why Dr Mac’s here-’

‘She’s dead,’ interrupted Murgatroyd roughly, in a low harsh voice.

Emma took an involuntary step backward. She felt as if she had been struck across her face with great force. It seemed to her that all of the blood was draining out of her, and her legs trembled. Her voice was unsteady as she cried, ‘Dead!’

‘Aye, dead as a doornail,’ Murgatroyd muttered tersely, his darkening face revealing his distress, which was most genuine.

For a split second Emma lost all power of speech. Her mouth opened and closed stupidly in her extreme nervousness and shock. Finally, she managed to say, ‘But she wasn’t badly when I left on Thursday afternoon.’