A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
Emma lifted a large log with the tongs and dropped it on to the fire, which was now burning merrily and throwing off so much heat Emma’s face was warm and flushed. She stood up, smoothed her pinafore, adjusted her dainty cap, and straightened her cuffs, for she took exceptional pride in her appearance ever since Blackie had told her she looked ‘fetching’ and was the prettiest colleen in the whole county of Yorkshire. She glanced around the sitting room and scowled. The thunderstorm had ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but the sky was still overcast and it filled the room with gloomy shadows. It’s ever so dark in here, she said to herself, and turned up the lamps on the black lacquered chinoiserie tables flanking the fireplace. The room was immediately suffused with brighter light, warm and glowing, which counteracted the dismal atmosphere and the chilliness produced by the preponderance of blue furnishings.
Emma stepped back and regarded the mantelpiece, her head on one side, her eyes thoughtful as she appraised the objects aligned along the marble shelf. There were a pair of silver candlesticks, beautiful Georgian pieces holding white candles, an elaborate porcelain clock, supported in the paws of two lions rampant on either side, and which chimed like a tinkling bell on the half hour, and Dresden figurines of a lady and gentleman in old-fashioned dress. Emma, by herself, had rearranged all of these objects in a more harmonious way, as she had done with numerous other pieces elsewhere in the room. Sometimes she was sorely tempted to hide half of the bric-à-brac in various cupboards and drawers, since she considered it to be superfluous, but she did not dare go that far. Occasionally she wondered where she had found the courage to regroup most of it without permission, not that Mrs Fairley seemed to notice, or anyone else for that matter. She was still contemplating the mantelpiece, congratulating herself on the attractive effect she had created, when a slight rustling sound caught her attention. She turned swiftly to see Adele Fairley standing in the doorway of her adjoining bedroom.
‘Oh, Mrs Fairley! Good morning, ma’am,’ Emma said, and dropped a curtsy. Although the Squire had told her weeks ago not to curtsy to him, because it annoyed him, Emma felt obliged to do so in the presence of her mistress and Mrs Wainright.
Adele nodded and smiled weakly, and then she seemed to sway and stagger, as if she was ill, and she clutched at the doorjamb to steady herself, and closed her eyes.
Emma rushed across the room to her side. ‘Mrs Fairley, are yer all right? Do yer feel badly?’ Emma inquired solicitously, taking her arm.
Adele opened her eyes. ‘I felt faint for a moment. But it’s nothing. I didn’t sleep very well.’
Emma scrutinized her through narrowed eyes. Mrs Fairley looked paler than ever, and her hair, normally so beautifully groomed, was uncombed and she looked dishevelled, which was also unusual. Emma noticed that Adele’s eyes were red and swollen.
‘Come ter the fire and get yerself warm, ma’am, and have some of this nice hot tea,’ Emma said sympathetically, and led her firmly across the floor. Adele, swaying and leaning heavily on Emma, drifted into the room on a cloud of Jasmine scent that was momentarily overpowering, her silvered robe dragging limply behind her.
Emma settled her in the wing chair, glanced at her anxiously, and said briskly, ‘I made scrambled eggs for yer this morning, Mrs Fairley. I knows yer enjoys ‘em, and yer didn’t eat much of yer dinner last night, I noticed.’ As she spoke she removed the lid from the silver dish and pushed it forward, drawing her mistress’s attention to it.
Adele Fairley brought her distant gaze from the fire and looked at the eggs without interest, an absent expression on her face as pale as death. ‘Thank you, Polly,’ she said, and her voice was listless and without any emotion. She lifted her head slowly and stared at Emma, a puzzled expression flickering on to her face. She blinked in bewilderment and shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s you, Emma. Of course, I’d forgotten, Polly is sick. Is she any better? When is she coming back to work?’
Emma was so completely unnerved by these remarks she stepped back involuntarily and stared with disbelief at Adele, her eyes widening, the silver lid in her hand poised in mid-air. In an effort to disguise her alarm, she plopped the lid back on the dish with a loud clatter and cleared her throat nervously. And then she said in a voice that quivered, ‘But, Mrs Fairley, don’t yer remember?’ She paused and gulped and continued tremulously, ‘Polly’s—Polly’s—’ She stopped again and then blurted out quickly, ‘Polly’s dead, Mrs Fairley. She died last week and they buried her on Thursday—’ Her voice, so low now it was almost a whisper, trailed off, as she stared at Adele with growing disquietude.
Adele Fairley passed her hand over her brow wearily and covered her eyes and then, after a second, she forced herself to look directly at Emma. ‘Yes, I do remember, Emma. Forgive me. These headaches, you know. They are quite dreadful and leave me utterly exhausted. Sometimes I am inclined to be forgetful, I am afraid. Oh dear! Yes, poor Polly. So young.’ Adele’s face, only briefly lucid, glazed over and she turned to the fire in a trance.
Emma, who had grown accustomed to Adele’s chronic absentmindedness, was, nevertheless, appalled at this particular lapse of memory, which was shocking to her, and unforgivable. How could Mrs Fairley forget someone’s death so quickly and apparently with such ease? Emma asked herself, horrified. Especially Polly, who had worked like a little Trojan for her for five years, and had been devoted. Until this moment Emma had, for the most part, been able to excuse Adele’s heedless indifference to the troubled lives of others, ascribing it to her pampered life and her unrealistic and even childish view of the world. But this incident she found hard to overlook. Emma did not attempt to conceal the contemptuous expression that slid on to her face and her mouth tightened into a stern and unyielding line. Why, she’s no different from the rest, she thought condemningly. They’re all the same, the rich.
Emma looked at Adele staring so unconcernedly into the fire and she was outraged and also disgusted, and it occurred to her that Adele was not only shallow and selfish but heartless. In Emma’s opinion, even Adele’s gentleness no longer seemed a redeeming characteristic. But after a long moment, Emma pushed the anger down, controlling it with steely determination until it was finally quelled into partial submission, for she knew it was a wasted emotion. Emma also knew that it was ridiculous to dwell on the natures of the gentry. Where would that get the likes of her in the long run? What would it achieve? Nothing! Neither could she afford to squander her valuable time trying to understand the rich, whose ways were so mysterious to her. She needed her time and energy to make things easier for her mam and dad and Frankie, who was only just recovering from the whooping cough.
Emma began to busy herself around the Queen Anne tea table, concealing her feelings behind a show of efficiency, her composure restored to its usual quiet containment, her face so inscrutable it was like pale stone. But as she poured the tea, buttered the toast, and served the eggs, Emma kept seeing Polly’s pathetically dwindled face and her dark eyes burning feverishly in their hollow sockets and her heart lurched with a terrible sadness, and the pity she had felt for Adele only a short while before was diluted.
‘Eat this afore it gets cold, Mrs Fairley,’ said Emma stonily.
Adele looked up at Emma with her silvery eyes and smiled her deliquescent smile, that melting smile that lighted up her face, and it was as if the conversation about Polly had never taken place at all. Tranquillity dwelt in her face and her eyes were clear and comprehending.
‘Thank you, Emma. I am a little hungry. And I must say, you do take good care of me.’ She sipped the tea and went on chattily, ‘How is your mother, Emma? Is she still improving in health?’
So sudden and incredible was the change in Adele that Emma stared at her in puzzlement. And then she said quickly, ‘Yes, ma’am, thank yer. She’s not half as badly as she was, being as the weather’s improved, and it’s easier on me dad now that he’s working down at yon mill.’
Adele inclined her head. ‘The eggs are good, Emma,’ she said, finishing a f
Emma understood that the brief moment of friendly discourse was over and she reached into her pocket and fished around for the menu for dinner, which Cook had given to her. Although Adele had long ago relinquished her control of the household affairs to Murgatroyd, and more recently to her sister, Cook persisted in sending up the menus daily for her approval. Mrs Turner had worked for Adele since she had come to Fairley as Adam’s bride and she was always deferential to Adele, and would brook no interference with this ritual of the menus, and made no bones about the fact that, to her way of thinking, Mrs Fairley was still the mistress of Fairley Hall, and nobody else. And so she treated her as such and with the utmost consideration and respect. It never occurred to the loyal Mrs Turner that Adele paid little attention to the menus, nor did it seem to disturb her that no comment, favourable or otherwise, was ever forthcoming.
Emma pulled the menu from her pocket and held it out to Adele. ‘Cook says will yer please look over this here menu for dinner, Mrs Fairley,’ she said.
Adele made a little moue and laughed lightly. ‘I can’t be bothered with that this morning, Emma. You know very well I trust Mrs Hardcastle to plan suitable menus and she always does. I am quite sure today is no exception.’
Emma shifted on her feet nervously, the paper fluttering in her hand. She gave Adele a curious look. What’s wrong with Mrs Fairley? she asked herself, her heart pounding unreasonably. She’s worse this morning than she’s ever been. Emma bit her lip, as a most disturbing thought struck her. Was Mrs Fairley touched? It had not occurred to her before that the rich could be daft in the head. She had always thought that such a terrible affliction was the prerogative of the poor, but perhaps she was wrong. And Mrs Fairley was acting so peculiar it was enough to make anybody wonder. First she had forgotton Polly was dead, and now she was talking about Mrs Hardcastle as if she didn’t know she had been relieved of her duties as housekeeper weeks ago.
Emma hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Mrs Fairley might be offended if she kept referring to her forgetfulness. So she said slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘Didn’t I tell yer afore, Mrs Fairley, that Mrs Hardcastle left? It must’ve slipped me mind. It was when yer were badly in bed. Mrs Wainright gave her the sack. She said Mrs Hardcastle had a bad habit of tekking a holiday when it wasn’t no holiday.’
Adele stared down at the breakfast tray. Of course! Olivia had sent Hardcastle packing in a flurry of disfavour. Olivia had stood here in this very room and told her she had let Hardcastle go. She had been infuriated at her sister’s presumption, but she had been unable to countermand her orders. She had been too ill, and anyway Adam had backed Olivia to the hilt and it would have been useless to oppose them. Now she must watch herself. Pay more attention to the things she said, even to Emma, otherwise the girl might become suspicious of her, just as Olivia and Adam were suspicious. Yes, she must be more careful. She lifted her head and smiled warmly, her face a picture of innocence.
There was a clever and deadly cunning in Adele. She had the uncanny ability to dissimulate, and to disguise her bizarre foibles when she so chose, slipping easily behind a façade that simulated rationality, and her behaviour at times could appear very normal, as it did now.
‘Perhaps you told me, Emma. I know Mrs Wainright mentioned it. But I was very sick and so worried about Master Edwin at the time, and it obviously did not register. Well, let us not worry about that now. And let me see the menu.’ She held out her hand and took the paper. She gave it only a cursory glance, as always, and handed it back to Emma.
‘Excellent! A repast for royalty, I would say,’ declared Adele smilingly. And for once, she added, ‘Give Cook my compliments and tell her she has outdone herself, Emma.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Emma, replacing the menu in her pocket, tactfully not bothering to point out that it was not Cook who had planned the menu but Olivia Wainright. ‘Here’s the Gazette, Mrs Fairley,’ Emma went on, passing the newspaper to her mistress. ‘I’ll go and do the bedroom now,’ she finished, bobbing a small curtsy.
‘Thank you, Emma. And when you have finished you can draw my bath, so that I can bathe and dress after breakfast.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Emma said, and hurried into the bedroom.
Emma stifled a cry of amazement when she entered the room and saw the clothes Adele had pulled out of the wardrobe strewn all over the floor in chaotic heaps. She clamped her hand over her mouth, horror-struck, and stood perfectly still, glaring at the dresses and gowns and robes and other beautiful garments lying in tangled disarray. Whatever’s got in ter her? she muttered under her breath, gaping at the clothes incredulously, and then added inwardly: She might not be touched, but she’s acting as daft as a brush, she is that! As she stepped carefully around the clothes, a feeling of anger mingled with acute frustration made a tight knot in Emma’s stomach. She realized furiously it would take her some time to bring order to the clothes and return them to the wardrobe and their former neatness. Her timetable would really be ruined now! Methodically she began picking them up, slipping each garment on to a coat hanger and placing it in the wardrobe, working with efficiency and her usual swiftness, in a concentrated effort to save as much of her precious time as possible.
Meanwhile, Adele continued to peck at her breakfast delicately and after a few mouthfuls she pushed the plate away, feeling revolted by the food. She shook her head violently from side to side, as if to clear it of cobwebs. As she did, she told herself she must try to be more alert and cease her perpetual daydreaming; otherwise she would never reinstate herself as mistress of the house. She would ring for Murgatroyd later, who at least recognized her authority, and order him to bring her the whisky.
There was a sharp knock on the door and it was flung open with a certain abruptness. Engrossed as she was in her musings about the butler, Adele half expected to see Murgatroyd standing there, and she opened her eyes, sat up smartly, and turned to the door, smiling her melting smile, ready to greet the butler. She was therefore astonished to meet the cool and contemplative gaze of her husband. The smile congealed and she froze in the chair. He rarely came to her room.
Adam noticed her fearful reaction and, although it dismayed him, he wisely disregarded it.
‘Good morning, Adele. I trust you slept well,’ he said.
Adele looked at him carefully, filled with antagonism and the most virulent resentment. In her present disturbed state of mind, feelings of fear and doubt were paramount within her, and she viewed everything he said and did with unwarranted mistrust. Consequently, she had become guarded with him.
Finally she spoke. ‘No, I did not sleep very well,’ she said coldly.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. Perhaps you can take a rest this afternoon,’ he suggested kindly.
‘Perhaps,’ said Adele, looking at him in stupefaction and with some consternation, wondering what had precipitated this unexpected visit.
Adam remained standing in the doorway, leaning against it with his usual inbred elegance. He had not crossed the threshold of this room in ten long years and he had no intention of doing so ever again. It had always appalled and embarrassed him, with its clutter and frigid blueness and delicacy and overriding femininity. Now it sickened him.
Of late, conversations with Adele were extraordinarily painful to Adam. He always started out with the kindest of intentions, but she invariably managed to brush him the wrong way, and he found himself growing irritated with her, and increasingly impatient. He was therefore anxious to conclude what he had come to say as peaceably and as swiftly as possible, and so he said quickly, ‘I want to talk to you about Edwin, Adele.’ He eyed her warily, for he fully recognized he was embarking on a sensitive subject.
She sat bolt upright in the chair and clutched the arms. ‘What about him?’ she cried, her eyes flaring with apprehension. Edwin was her favourite, and she adored him.
Conscious of her growing alarm, he said gently, ‘It’s time he went back to boarding school, wouldn’t you say? E
‘It’s perfectly ridiculous to send him back now, it’s hardly worth it! He can return after Easter!’ cried Adele with growing perturbation. She paused and took several deep breaths to steady herself. ‘Anyway, he’s still in delicate health, Adam,’ she added, adopting a more cajoling tone and giving him the benefit of her sweetest smile that no longer made any impression on him.
‘Nonsense!’ admonished Adam firmly. ‘His health is fine. He’s a robust boy and he has quite recovered from the pneumonia. You pamper Edwin, Adele. It’s not good for him. And however well-intentioned your motives are, you are smothering him. He should be with boys of his own age, in more disciplined and rigorous surroundings. You treat him like a baby.’
‘I do not!’ exclaimed Adele defensively, her voice rising to a shriek, and the smouldering resentment against her husband turned into instant hatred.
‘I have no intention of quarrelling with you about this matter, Adele,’ said Adam icily. ‘I have quite made up my mind and nothing will persuade me to change it, most particularly your abnormal desire to cling to the boy. I have also spoken to Edwin and he wishes to return to school as soon as possible.’