Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

Her green eyes, iridescent with light and glittering catlike in the darkness, swept over his face, and a swift pain shot through her, piercing and poignant and she was filled with a strange emotion she had not experienced before. It was a sweet emotion, yet one tinged with sadness and a vague and curious yearning she did not understand. ‘Yes, I do,’ she answered softly.

He touched her face lightly, returning that penetrating look concentrated so ardently upon him. ‘Then you will meet me up at the cave at the Top of the World, later in the week when the weather has improved, won’t you?’

She was silent. Up until this moment Edwin had not contemplated the possibility that she might refuse, but now the idea struck him so forcibly he was filled with panic. ‘Please, please say you will,’ he entreated, conscious of the protracted silence, her hesitation. He pressed his body closer to hers and cajoled, ‘We can have a picnic again.’

Still she remained silent. ‘Oh, Emma, please, please don’t spurn me.’ His whisper was hoarse and a new desperation had crept into his voice. Edwin held her away from him and examined her face, so pale and inscrutable. There was a look in her eyes that baffled him, one he was quite incapable of inter-preting. ‘You’re not upset about-about-what happened? What we did, are you?’ he asked gently, wondering with rising alarm if this was indeed the reason for her unexpected and sudden unresponsiveness to him. Then in the faint moonlight sifting through the trees he saw the deep flush rising to her neck to flood her face with dark colour, and his heart sank. She was angry with him.

Emma turned away. But Edwin’s harsh breathing stabbed at her and she quickly brought her face back to his, peering deeply into his bluish-grey eyes, and what she saw there made her heart lift on a crest that was joyous and it overwhelmed her. His eyes were full of love and longing but, hovering behind these mingled feelings so clearly apparent, she saw a flicker of fear. Emma knew then with the utmost certainty that Edwin Fairley did truly love her, just as he had said he did. And she loved him. He was part of her now. She marvelled that this one person in the whole world could suddenly mean so much to her, could have become, within a few hours, so necessary, taking precedence above all else. It was a possibility she had neither anticipated nor bargained for. She could no longer bear to witness the pain in his eyes. ‘Yes, Edwin, I will meet yer up at the cave, and I’m not angry about what we did.’ She smiled and it was that same smile that always suffused her face with radiance.

Edwin’s facial muscles, tight and intense with apprehension, relaxed, and he too smiled, taking her into his arms with a rush of relief and happiness. ‘Oh, Emma, Emma, my sweet Emma. You’re everything to me.’

Poised under the old oaks, locked in an embrace that was further sealing their destinies, they were oblivious to their dripping clothes, their shivering limbs, the cold night air. They were conscious only of each other and their fierce and flaring emotions, not realizing, in their euphoria, that emotions could wreak devastation as horrendous as the ripped and shattered landscape surrounding them. Eventually they drew apart, searching each other’s face for confirmation of their love. Edwin nodded, his eyes awash with tender lights, and Emma smiled, and then silently they went up to the house, hand in hand. Edwin was jaunty and seemingly untroubled, but Emma, pragmatist that she was, had suddenly begun to consider the welcome they would receive. She was patently aware that it would be far from cordial and certainly one of furious reprimands.

When they turned into the cobbled stable yard they saw that the kitchen door was wide open, spilling light. Standing in this corridor of light was a distraught Mrs Turner. She was perfectly still, watching, waiting, her arms akimbo, her plump face a stony mask, yet she gave the impression, in her very quietness, of wringing hands and doom and dire consequences. Emma slipped her hand out of Edwin’s and hung back, allowing him to walk ahead of her.

Mrs Turner was utterly relieved and overjoyed to see Edwin, but her anxiety had been so pronounced, and she had been so overwrought for hours, this relief quickly manifested itself in a flash of intense anger. It was only because Edwin was the young master of the house, and therefore entitled to proper respect, that Cook controlled that anger, but her voice was shrill as she stared down at him.

‘Master Edwin! Where have yer been? Yer gave me a right turn when yer didn’t come home. Why, it’s almost ten o’clock. I thought yer were lost on the moors, or dead, with this raging storm. Aye, I did that!’ She shook her head energetically and her eyes sparked. ‘By gum, Master Edwin, it’s a good job the Squire’s away, and Master Gerald is in Bradford for the weekend, or yer’d be copping it, yer would indeed. Scared me half ter death, yer did. Why, I’ve had Tom out twice with the lantern, searching for yer up yonder!’

The cook heaved a great sigh that rippled her vast bosom. ‘Well, young man, don’t dawdle about there, come inter the kitchen at once!’ She turned and hurried inside, followed by Edwin, who was mounting the stone steps. She had not noticed Emma, who was reluctantly loitering in the shadows. Edwin stopped at the kitchen door and beckoned. ‘Come on, it’s all right, Emma. I’ll handle Mrs Turner,’ he whispered.

‘I’ve got water boiling in the set pot in the washhouse,’ Cook announced from the centre of the kitchen, her eyes roving swiftly over Edwin’s filthy clothes that dripped water, and his mud-splattered face. ‘Well, aren’t yer a right sight, Master Edwin!’ she snorted. ‘Yer look as if yer’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, yer do that.’

It was then that Mrs Turner saw Emma slipping through the door and down the kitchen stairs. She was incredulous and her jaw sagged. ‘Aay, lass, what are yer doing here? I thought yer were safe at home with yer dad. I never dreamt yer were out in this weather.’

Emma did not answer. Mrs Turner looked from Emma to Edwin, staring at them open-mouthed. Her voice was brusque when she found it. ‘Yer haven’t told me yet what yer doing trailing in at this hour, with Master Edwin, looking like a drowned rat. Come on, lass, speak up!’ She glared at Emma, and tapped her foot impatiently, hands on her hips.

Before Emma could reply, Edwin stepped forward and said with a show of self-confidence, and just enough superiority to remind Cook who he was, ‘I came across Emma on the moors, during the storm, Mrs Turner. She told me she was due back this afternoon, to help you with the jam making, or some such other domestic task. We tried to make it back together, but I decided the thunderstorm was too dangerous. We sheltered up at Ramsden Crags as best we could, waiting for the tempest to abate.’ He paused and fixed his cool eyes on the roiling cook. ‘It was rather difficult geting back, even when the rain ceased. The Ghyll is flooded and the beck by the lower road is dangerously high. But, here we are, safe if a little bedraggled.’ He smiled engagingly, displaying that irresistible charm of his father’s, which was so inherent in him.

‘Bedraggled! I thinks that’s the blinking understatement of the year, Master Edwin, I do that!’ Mrs Turner cried scathingly. ‘Yer looks like a couple of mudlarks, nay, guttersnipes!’ Her head rolled again and her eyes flew open. ‘Thank heaven Murgatroyd’s in Shipley. He wouldn’t take kindly ter the fuss yer disappearance has caused around here, Master Edwin. Mark my words, he wouldn’t.’

‘I didn’t disappear, Mrs Turner,’ Edwin responded quietly but with firmness. ‘I got stranded on those wretched moors, through no fault of my own.’