Emma entered Adele Fairley’s sitting room so hurriedly she was almost running. Her feet, in their new black button boots that shone like glittering mirrors, barely seemed to touch the floor, and the starched white petticoat underneath her long blue woollen dress crackled and rustled in the silence. She gripped the heavy silver tray tightly in her work-roughened hands, holding it out in front of her, and high, to avoid contact with the furniture, and to prevent any accidents.

Her face, just visible above the outsized tray, was scrubbed to shining cleanliness and glowed with youthful health, as did her green eyes that were brilliant with intelligence beneath the thick lashes. Her russet hair, brushed and gleaming, was pulled back severely into a thick bun in the nape of her neck, and today the widow’s peak was more pronounced than ever, accentuated as it was by the maid’s cap that framed her face like a little halo. This was as glistening white and as stiffly starched as her large apron and the collar and cuffs on her dress, all recently purchased for her in Leeds by Olivia Wainright. The dress, too, was new, but this Emma had made herself from a length of cloth from the Fairley mill, which had also been given to her by Mrs Wainright. Emma’s delight in the dress was surpassed only by her pride in Olivia Wainright’s smiling aproval of her dexterity with the scissors and her skill with a needle and thread.

These new clothes, simple though they were, not only helped to dispel the starveling appearance that had given Emma the downtrodden air which had so appalled Blackie, but they also considerably enhanced her naturally arresting good looks. The combination of blue and white was crisp and immaculate, and the tailored style of the uniform, and the smart little cap, brought her finely articulated features into focus and made her seem older than she really was. But more important than the clothes was the subtle change in her demeanour, which had occurred over the last two months. Although she was still internally apprehensive about being in such close proximity to some members of the Fairley family, and indeed of working at Fairley Hall at all, that apprehension was more controlled than it had ever been in her two years of service there. Also, her initial timidness about being suddenly propelled into the upstairs quarters had lessened. Her diffidence was now disguised by a rigid self-containment that manifested itself in an exterior composure so austere and so dignified it bordered on hauteur, and which in anyone else of her age would have seemed ridiculous yet was somehow perfectly natural in Emma. She was beginning to acquire a measure of self-confidence, and tentative as this still was, it gave her a kind of naïve poise.

This change in Emma’s manner had been wrought by a number of circumstances, and the most obvious, although in reality of lesser consequence in the overall scheme of things, was the radical developments in the domestic scene at Fairley Hall, precipitated by Olivia Wainright’s arrival. Olivia Wainright was a woman of impeccable character, high principles, and down-to-earth common sense. Although she was innately fine and good, had a well-developed moral sense of right and wrong, and was constantly infuriated and moved to compassion by the blatant lack of humanity in this Edwardian era, she was by no means a bleeding heart. Neither was she easily persuaded, or manipulated, by importuning or sentimental appeals to her charity, generosity, and intrinsic decency. In fact, she could be exceedingly severe with those she considered to be malingerers or professional beggars, and was sternly disapproving of certain so-called worthy charitable organizations which she considered did more harm than good, and, as often as not, foolishly squandered the monetary donations they received. Yet she had a fierce abhorrence of injustice and mindless cruelty and brutality, most especially when directed at those with no means of retaliation. If her dealings with staff were exacting, strict, and firm, they were, nevertheless, tempered by a quiet sympathy and a considered benevolence, for she recognized the dignity of honest toil and respected it. She was a lady in the truest sense of that word, educated, honourable, refined, well-bred, dignified, and courteous to everyone.

Olivia’s very presence in the house, her keen interest in all aspects of its management, her daily involvement with the servants, and her redoubtable character had all had the most profound effect. The atmosphere at the Hall in general, and especially downstairs, had improved vastly. It was less fraught with antipathy and intrigue. Olivia had become, quite automatically, a natural buffer between Murgatroyd and the other servants, in particular Emma. From the first moment she had become aware of the girl’s existence, Olivia had taken a most particular and uncommon liking to her, and had shown her both kindness and consideration. Even though Emma still worked hard, she was treated with less abuse and in a more humane fashion. The butler continued to verbally castigate her on occasion, but he had not struck her once since the advent of Olivia, and Emma knew he would not dare. Cook’s threats to expose his mistreatment of her to her father might not intimidate him for long, but certainly Olivia Wainright did, of that Emma was positive.

Emma felt a degree of gratitude to Olivia Wainright, yet in spite of that she was curiously ambivalent in her feelings about the older woman. Suspicious, cautious, and wary though she was with everyone, she sometimes found herself admiring Olivia, much against her will. This emotion continually surprised Emma and also vexed her, for her fundamental distrust of the gentry, and the Fairleys in particular, had not abated in the least. So she endeavoured always to suppress the rush of reluctant warmth and friendliness that surfaced whenever she came into contact with Mrs Wainright. And yet, because of Olivia Wainright’s singular and most apparent interest in her, Emma was taking a new pride in her work, and much of the time she was less fearful and resentful than she had been in the past.

Apart from this, when Polly became sick Emma had been given Polly’s duties of attending to Adele Fairley. This close and more familiar contact with her mistress had, in itself, been an influence on Emma, and had also helped to change her life at the Hall to some extent, and for the better. As for Adele, Emma found her spoiled, self-indulgent, extremely demanding of her time and attention, but her unfailing and profound gentleness with the girl outweighed these other characteristics. Then again, Adele’s chronic vagueness, and her perverse disregard of the stringent domestic rules quite common in such a large house, gave Emma autonomy to care for Mrs Fairley as they both deemed fit, and without too much interference from anyone else in the establishment. This new independence, meagre as it actually was, engendered in Emma a sense of freedom, and even a degree of authority that she had not experienced at the Hall before, and it certainly removed her from Murgatroyd’s jurisdiction and foul temper for much of the time.

If Emma looked up to Olivia Wainright, thought her the more superior woman, and, against her volition, secretly adored her, she could not help liking Adele Fairley in spite of what she was. Mainly she felt sorry for her. To Emma she could be forgiven her carelessness and her strange lapses, since Emma considered her to be childlike and, oddly enough, in need of protection in that strange household. Sometimes, to her astonishment, Emma found herself actually excusing Mrs Fairley’s patent obliviousness to the suffering of other less fortunate, for Emma knew instinctively this was not caused by conscious malice or cruelty, but simply emanated from sheer thoughtlessness and lack of exposure to the lives of the working class. Her attitude towards Mrs Fairley was much the same attitude she adopted at home. She took charge. She was even a little bossy at times. But Adele did not seem to notice this, and if she did, she apparently did not mind. Emma alone now took care of her and attended to all her daily needs and comforts. Adele had come to depend on her, and she found Emma indispensable in much the same way Murgatroyd was indispensable, because of the secret supplies of drink he provided.

Between them the two sisters had, in their different ways, shown Emma a degree of kindness and understanding. And whilst this did not entirely assuage the hurt she felt at the humiliations inflicted on her by other members of the family, it made her life at the Hall all that more bearable. But it was one other element, fundamental, cogent, and therefore of crucial importance, that had done the most to bring about the change in Emma’s personality. And this was the consolidation of several natural traits that were becoming the determinative factors in her life—her fierce ambition and her formidable will. Both had converged and hardened into a fanatical sense of purpose that was the driving force behind everything she did. Blackie’s initial stories about Leeds had originally fired her imagination, and on his subsequent visits to the Hall she had assiduously questioned him, and minutely so, about prospects of work there. Constrained, circumspect, and even negative as he was at times, he had unwittingly fostered her youthful dreams of glory, of money, of a better life, and, inevitably, of escape from the village.

And so Emma had come finally to the realization that her life at Fairley Hall was just a brief sojourn to be patiently endured, since it would end one day. She now believed, with a sure and thrusting knowledge, that she would leave when the time was right, and she felt certain this was in the not too distant future. Until then she was not merely marking time, but learning everything she could to prepare herself for the world outside, which did not frighten her in the least.

Emma also had a secret she had shared with no one, not even Blackie. It was a plan, really. But a plan so grand it left no room for doubt, and it filled her days with that most wonderful of all human feelings—hope. It was a hope that foreshadowed all else in her cheerless young life. It gave added meaning to her days and made every hour of punishing toil totally irrelevant. It was this blind belief, this absolute faith in herself and her future, that often put a lively spring into her step, brought an occasional smile to her normally solemn young face, and sustained her at all times.

On this particular morning, filled with all that hope, wearing her new pristine uniform, and with her cheerfully shining face, she looked as bright and as sparkling as a brand-new penny. As she moved purposefully across the rich carpet she was like a gust of fresh spring air in that cloistered and overstuffed room. Squeezing gingerly between a whatnot and a console overflowing with all that preposterous bric-à-brac, Emma shook her head in mock horror. All this blinking junk! she thought, and with mild exasperation, as she remembered how long it always took her to dust everything. Although she was not afraid of hard work, she hated dusting, and this room in particular.

‘Half of it could be thrown out inter the midden and nobody’d miss owt,’ she exclaimed aloud, and then clamped her mouth tightly shut self-consciously and peered ahead, fully expecting to see Mrs Fairley sitting in the wing chair she favoured near the fireplace, for traces of her perfume permeated the air. But the room was deserted and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed several times, and with not a little pleasure. She had grown used to the pungent floral scent pervading the suite of rooms and had actually come to like it. In fact, somewhat to her surprise, for she was not one given to frivolities, Emma had discovered that she was most partial to the smell of expensive perfumes, the touch of good linens and supple silks, and the sparkle of brilliant jewels. She smiled secretively to herself. When she was a grand lady, like Blackie said she would be one day, and when she had made the fortune she intended to make, she would buy herself some of that perfume. Jasmine, it was. She had read the label on the bottle on Mrs Fairley’s dressing table. It came all the way from London, from a shop called Floris, where Mrs Fairley bought all of her perfumes and soaps and potpourri for the bowls, and the little bags of lavender for the chests of drawers that held her delicate lawn and silk undergarments. Yes, she would have a bottle of that Jasmine scent and a bar of French Fern soap and even some little bags of lavender for her underclothes. And if she had enough money to spare they would be just as silky and as soft as Mrs Fairley’s fine garments.

But she did not have time to indulge herself in thoughts of such fanciful things right now, and she put them firmly out of her mind as she hurried to the fireplace with the tray. There was too much to be done this morning and she was already late. Cook had overloaded her with extra chores in the kitchen, which had delayed her considerably, and consequently she was irritated. Not so much about the extra chores, but the delay they had caused. Punctuality had taken on a new and special significance to Emma and had become of major importance to her in the past few months. She hated to be late with Mrs Fairley’s breakfast, or with anything else for that matter, for since being elevated to the position of parlourmaid she took her new responsibilities very seriously.

She placed the breakfast tray carefully on the small Queen Anne tea table next to the wing chair, in readiness for Mrs Fairley, who liked to have her breakfast in front of the fire. She looked over the tray to be sure it was perfect, rearranged some of the china more attractively, plumped up the cushions on the wing chair, and turned her attention to the dying fire. She knelt in front of the fireplace and began to rekindle it with paper spills, chips of wood, and small pieces of coal, handling them cautiously with the fire tongs in an effort to keep her hands clean. She clucked impatiently. Mrs Turner with her extra chores was a real nuisance sometimes! If she had been up to the sitting room on time she would not have been faced with the task of making the fire again. This annoyed her because it ate into her precious time, and Emma, so rigid and relentless with herself, hated any deviation from her normal routine. It put her out of sorts because it ruined her timetable for the entire day. This timetable, Emma’s own recent creation, was her Bible and she lived by it. She knew that without it she would be hopelessly lost.

She picked up the bellows and worked them in front of the meagre fire. Under the force of the small but strong gusts of air, the smouldering chips of wood spurted and spluttered, finally ignited and began to burn rapidly. In the sudden conflagration her face was illuminated. A small frown now creased her brow and her cheerful expression was obliterated, as she remembered with clarity and bitterness what her life had been like without that timetable.

On that day, early in February, when Polly had been struck down and forced to take to her bed, Emma had resignedly accepted the fact that she had to do Polly’s work as well as her own. She knew she had no alternative. Strong of constitution and basically optimistic of nature, she had scurried about the Hall like a demon and with immense energy, telling herself that Polly would be up and about the next day and well enough to do her own work again. But this had not happened. Emma was suddenly burdened with the whole load of domestic chores seemingly for an indefinite period. She soon became overwhelmed by her innumerable duties and acutely nervous about completing them efficiently.

Those first few days she had been bone tired at the end of every day, for she started working at six o’clock in the morning and barely stopped for breath, let alone a rest, until she finished at seven in the evening. By then she was almost always too weary to eat her supper and, in fact, it had usually taken a supreme effort of will and the last ounce of her strength to crawl up the attic stairs to her room. White and shaking and speechless with exhaustion, she had hardly had the energy to undress, and she invariably dropped on to the uncomfortable little bed in a dim and mindless stupor. She would fall into a heavy and stupefied sleep at once, and yet she never felt refreshed when she awakened the next day. Her back and shoulders still ached, her eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, her arms and legs were like leaden weights, and her hands were sore and raw.

As she had shiveringly dressed in the cold attic room and washed in the icy water from the washbowl, she had seethed with a fulminating anger she found hard to quell. Yet she did not dare to complain for fear of reprisals from Murgatroyd or, even worse, dismissal. Daily, she dragged her weary body through that mausoleum of a house, up and down the many stairs, along the winding corridors, across the great hall and larger rooms, dusting, polishing, sweeping, black-leading grates, stoking fires, making beds, cleaning silver, ironing linens, and taking care of Adele Fairley’s needs as well. And as she did, she often wondered how long she could continue without collapsing. This thought terrified her even more and made her grit her teeth and marshal her diminishing energies, for the money she earned was so desperately needed at home. She could not afford to collapse, for the sake of her family, and so she pushed herself almost beyond endurance, propelled by sheer force of will power and sustained by the icy terror of losing her job.

One morning, after about a week of this backbreaking toil, Emma was cleaning the carpet in the drawing room, rushing up and down and across the immense expanse of florid flowers and arabesques entwined in oriental convolutions, the carpet sweeper a dangerous weapon in her hands as she handled it with force and a certain abandon. As she had raced to and fro, a staggering thought entered her mind and it so amazed Emma it brought her to a standstill in the middle of a clump of purple rosettes. She leaned on the carpet sweeper, totally absorbed in her thoughts, and slowly a look of absolute comprehension crossed her face. Emma had just realized that the cleaning and care of Fairley Hall was difficult to manage because it not only was badly planned but was downright muddled. At that moment, it also struck her that this was due to Murgatroyd’s poor organization and his haphazard distribution of the work. Lots of minor jobs were repeated daily, and unnecessarily so, and too much time was wasted on them because of Murgatroyd’s pernickety fussing about trivialities. Then again, major jobs such as cleaning the silver, ironing the mountains of washing, and dusting the panelling in the library were all jammed together to be completed in one day. It was not possible for one person to accomplish all of this work properly, and also attend to the general chores which had to be done the same day. But there was a solution and it had come to Emma in a flash, as she had stood poised with the carpet sweeper in the centre of the drawing room floor. It was a solution so simple she was surprised no one else had ever thought of it. The solution was planning. She suddenly knew that if the work was planned properly and systematically, in a sensible way, and distributed more intelligently, it would be easier to manage. Of this she was absolutely confident, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she had become.

In an effort to make some sense out of this muddled daily routine, Emma began to time herself at each job, and then scribbled down the amount of time each one took on a scrap of paper culled from the wastepaper basket in the library. She next made a list of all the daily chores, plus the major tasks for the entire week. For several nights thereafter, as exhausted as she was, Emma had forced herself to stay awake as she wrestled with the problem. She had studied her piece of paper assiduously, pondered over each chore and the time involved, and then she had set about creating her own special work plan. She first distributed the heavier work more evenly, staggering the jobs that were complicated or time-consuming over the whole week, so that they were easier to handle along with the daily routine. She also allocated a given amount of time to each specific chore, ruthlessly cutting corners with the less important ones for expediency’s sake. Satisfied at last that she had made a semblance of sense out of what had previously been a hopeless muddle, she had copied her makeshift plan on a less grubby piece of paper and had hurried excitedly to show it to Cook, well pleased with herself and also vastly relieved. If the new routine was followed precisely the work could be accomplished in a more orderly and practical fashion, to the benefit of everyone.

To Emma’s amazement Cook had not only been thunderstruck but had thrown a temperamental fit that was unprecedented, and had gone on to warn her, in the most dire terms, of Murgatroyd’s most certain and deadly wrath at such unthinkable and unwarranted cheekiness, her plump red face clouded with worry and also alarm. Only then did Emma recognize the magnitude of what she was proposing and she had trembled at the thought of Murgatroyd’s bellicose temper, his strident invectives and stinging blows.

But Mrs Turner had not reckoned with that streak of stubbornness in Emma, that implacable will. Almost at once, both of these characteristics overcame the girl’s initial misgivings and she firmly resolved, in her doggedly wilful way, to be neither thwarted nor forestalled in her efforts to bring a little ease and orderliness to her work. As she listened impatiently to Mrs Turner’s continued and overly ominous rantings, it occurred to Emma, now coldly calculating, that she could not permit herself to be deterred by Cook, whom she had just decided was a fool. She determined there and then that the only way to accomplish her purpose was to circumvent Murgatroyd altogether.

‘I’m going upstairs ter show this plan of mine ter Mrs Wainright,’ Emma had announced in a hard, firm voice, her face sternly set. ‘We’ll see what she has ter say about it all. She’s already been planning them there menus since she’s been here, and I bet she’s going ter start running this house afore long. And about time somebody did!’ she had finished defiantly, and, as was later proven, quite prophetically. Without another word to Cook she had turned and marched up the kitchen stairs, before her nerve failed her, leaving Cook aghast at her temerity. For a split second, the usually verbose Mrs Turner was rendered speechless, flabbergasted at this unexpected display of vociferous rebellion on the part of Emma.

She finally found her voice. ‘Going up ter see Mrs W. won’t be doing yer no good, lass,’ she had cried vehemently as Emma continued to climb the stairs without looking back. ‘Yer stepping out of yer station in life, my girl, and that’ll get yer nowt but the sack!’ she continued as the door had banged loudly behind a silent and determined Emma.

Emma had barely spoken more than two words to Olivia Wainright in the short week she had been visiting at Fairley, and she had felt shy and awkward as she had tapped on the library door. At Olivia’s bidding she had entered the room and had stood nervously in the doorway, hesitating, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, paralysed by unanticipated fright. Olivia Wainright was sitting behind Adam’s desk, attending to the sadly neglected household accounts he had asked her to look into, and which previously had been handled by Murgatroyd. In her tailored dark serge skirt and white lace blouse, with its high neck and leg-of-mutton sleeves, she looked the epitome of aristocratic elegance. A large and exquisite cameo brooch relieved the severity of the high neckline and a long strand of rosy pearls gleamed lustrously against the guipure lace bodice, and there were matching pearl studs at her ears. Her dark hair was swept up into an elaborate pompadour and it gave her face a fragile appearance, like a lovely flower on a long and slender stem.

Emma, timorous and quaking, was rooted to the spot. She gazed at Olivia, mesmerized by her beauty, grace, and sophisticated stylishness, and as she had continued to stare in awe she became painfully conscious of her own old patched blue dress and the stained and greying striped pinny that had seen better days. She ran her hands down her rumpled skirt and across the creased pinafore in an effort to smooth out the wrinkles, but it was a vain effort. She had looked down at her old boots with their worn cracked uppers and then flushed with embarrassment, and she felt shame for the first time in her life. It was a shame that made her heart clench in a way she had not experienced before, and it filled her with the most intense feelings of inferiority and worthlessness, feelings she was not to forget as long as she lived. Emma knew that poverty was not a crime, even if the world treated it as such, yet she felt like a criminal as she hovered, shamefaced, anxious, and tongue-tied, on the edge of the luxurious carpet, acutely aware of the picture she made. Why should this rich and elegant lady take what she had to say seriously? she wondered.

But Emma, for all her intelligence and precocious perception, had no way of knowing that Olivia Wainright was an exceptional woman, understanding of heart and generous of spirit, who put great store in justice, fair play, and compassion, and was only too willing to help the deserving better themselves if they so desired. Nor did Emma realize that Olivia was not regarding her critically or with derision or the self-serving pity of the patronizing do-gooder, but with enormous curiosity and a most genuine interest. Preoccupied as she had been with her sister’s poor health and Adam’s depressed state since her arrival, she had not as yet had time to delve into the domestic situation at the Hall. And whilst she had noticed the little maid flitting about the house, this was the first opportunity she had had to observe her so closely. From the moment Emma had entered the library Olivia had been struck by her refined good looks, which were not at all diminished or obscured by the disreputable uniform and the grimy cap that so dismayed Olivia, whose own servants were dressed attractively and decently, albeit in plain utilitarian attire. Returning Emma’s steady gaze, she noticed that the girl’s face and hair were scrupulously clean and she had an aura of neatness and grooming about her, in spite of that dreadful clothing, and this Olivia found commendable.

Emma meanwhile had taken a diffident step forward. Her boots creaked horribly in the quiet room, much to her mortification, and she stopped, abashed and self-conscious, a look of discomfiture on her face.

Olivia had paid no attention to the squeaking, if she heard it at all, and had smiled kindly and said in a gentle voice, ‘What is it? Do you have a problem you wish to discuss with me?’ Olivia Wainright had been blessed since girlhood with an extraordinary ability to make everyone, and especially servants, feel comfortable in her presence. This inherent quality quite obviously transmitted itself to Emma, who now approached the desk more confidently, praying her boots wouldn’t squeak again. They did. Emma winced and cleared her throat loudly, hoping to counteract the sound. She stood in front of Olivia, swallowed hard, remembered to curtsy, and said with a kind of shaking firmness, ‘Yes, I do have a problem, so ter speak, ma’am.’

‘First, tell me your name, child,’ said Olivia, smiling again.

‘It’s Emma, ma’am,’ said Emma nervously.

‘Well then, Emma, what is this problem you have? The only way we will solve it is to talk about it. Isn’t that so?’ asked Olivia.

Emma had nodded, and in a voice that was almost a whisper, she had explained the domestic routine, its basic difficulties, and her own problems of coping with them because of the poor organization. Olivia had listened patiently, a warm smile on her calm and lovely face, a thoughtful expression in her lucent blue eyes. But as Emma continued her doleful recital, Olivia had become quietly enraged, and her blood had boiled at the inequity of the situation and the execrable management of her brother-in-law’s home, an establishment of some standing and enormous wealth, where matters should not have been allowed to deteriorate so disgracefully, as they most apparently had, and nearly beyond redemption from the sound of it.

When Emma had finished speaking, Olivia studied her intently, somewhat surprised by the girl’s sweet and melodious voice and her concise explanation. This had been perfectly lucid, despite her limited vocabulary and her idiomatic speech pattern, which fortunately was not so broad in dialect as Olivia had expected it to be. Olivia had instinctively perceived that the girl was neither exaggerating nor embellishing, and she knew she had listened to a veracious witness to the prevailing circumstances at the Hall, and she was shocked.

‘Do you mean to tell me, Emma, that at this moment you are the only maid employed in this house?’ Olivia had asked.

‘Er, no, not exactly, ma’am,’ Emma had replied quickly. ‘There’s a girl that sometimes helps Cook. And Polly. But she’s still badly as I said afore. She’s really the parlourmaid.’

‘And since Polly’s sickness you alone have been doing Polly’s work as well as your own? Cleaning this entire house and looking after Mrs Fairley as well? Am I correct, Emma?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Emma said, shuffling her feet nervously.

‘I see,’ Olivia had responded quietly, and she was further outraged. Olivia Wainright was accustomed to order and tranquillity in her own homes, and being an able and proficient administrator of her London house, her country estate, and her business affairs, she was, not unnaturally, astounded at the preposterousness of conditions at Fairley. ‘Inexcusable and utterly ridiculous,’ murmured Olivia, almost to herself, straightening up in the chair.

Misunderstanding these words and detecting the edge of annoyance in Olivia Wainright’s voice, Emma became alarmed. ‘I’m not trying ter get out of owt I’m supposed ter do, ma’am,’ said Emma, fearful that she might be dismissed for her boldness and presumption, which conceivably could be taken for shirking. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work, I’m not that! It’s just that Murgatroyd’s got it—got it planned bad, ma’am.’

‘So it would appear, from what you tell me, Emma,’ Olivia had responded, the thoughtful expression lingering in her eyes. Emma looked at her carefully, and encouraged by the woman’s outwardly tranquil appearance, she had finally pulled out the crumpled bit of paper and smoothed it out.

‘I made this here plan, ma’am. Well, anyways, I think it’ll be easier for me to do me chores this way. I worked it out proper like.’ Emma stepped closer to the desk and handed Olivia the paper. As she did, Olivia noticed the girl’s terribly chapped and sore hands and was appalled. She looked into the solemn face hovering before her and saw the dark smudges under her enormous eyes, became aware of the tired droop of the painfully thin shoulders, and she was so unexpectedly moved her heart ached with the most genuine sorrow. Olivia was seized with a sudden sense of shame for Adam, even though she was perfectly sure that he was not cognizant of the facts. She sighed and looked down at the grubby bit of paper. Olivia studied it carefully and was both newly amazed and impressed. The girl was obviously above average intelligence and most certainly had an efficient and practical turn of mind. The household routine had been worked out precisely and in an organized manner, and Olivia decided she herself could not have improved upon it.

‘Well, Emma, I see exactly what you mean. Seemingly you devoted a lot of thought to this timetable and I must compliment you. Indeed I must.’

‘Yer mean yer think it’s more—more better my way?’ asked Emma, relieved and not a little elated.

‘More efficient, I believe you mean, Emma,’ Olivia had responded, suppressing a smile. ‘I think we should put your timetable into operation immediately, Emma. I certainly approve of it and I am confident Murgatroyd will recognize the sense of it as well,’ she had said, pronouncing the butler’s name with coldness. Observing the worried expression that flickered in Emma’s eyes, she had added reassuringly, ‘I will speak to him about it myself. I shall also instruct him to engage another girl from the village to assist you with the heavier work. It is still rather a lot for you to cope with single-handedly, Emma, in spite of your most practical timetable.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank yer, ma’am,’ said Emma, bobbing a curtsy and smiling for the first time in days.

‘Well then, run along, Emma. And please tell Murgatroyd I wish to see him. At once,’ said Olivia.

‘Yes, ma’am. Please, ma’am, can I have my plan back? Me timetable, I mean. So as I knows what I’m doing.’

Olivia concealed another smile. ‘Of course. Here it is. By the way, Emma, is that the only uniform you have?’ asked Olivia.

Emma flushed and bit her lip and looked down at the crumpled dress and pinafore with dismay and great embarrassment. ‘Yes, ma’am. For winter, that is. I’ve got a cotton one for summer,’ Emma had mumbled selfconsciously.

‘We must rectify that at once. If you tell me your size I shall attend to it myself, when I go to Leeds later this week,’ Olivia announced, and had added, ‘I shall buy you several uniforms, for winter and summer, Emma. One of each is simply not enough.’

‘Ooh! Thank yer, ma’am, ever so much!’ cried Emma. A thought struck her and she had said respectfully, ‘Begging yer pardon, Mrs Wainright, ma’am, but I could make ‘em meself, if I had the cloth. Me mam taught me how ter sew, ever so good like.’

‘Did she indeed? That’s excellent. I shall ask the Squire for some lengths of cloth from the mill and I shall purchase the cotton for the summer uniforms in Leeds. You may go now, Emma, and incidentally, I am glad you came to see me with your problems. You must always do that, for as long as I am staying here at Fairley.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank yer, ma’am. And I will come ter see yer if owt else bothers me,’ Emma had promised. She bobbed a curtsy and hurried out of the library, clutching her timetable as if it were the crown jewels. She did not see the look of compassion mingled with admiration on Olivia Wainright’s face; nor was she aware that she had set in motion a chain of events that were to change everybody’s life at Fairley Hall.

There was no ugly uproar or altercation in the kitchen about Emma’s unprecedented display of independence. Murgatroyd tactically ignored it, since it suited his own purpose admirably. In fact, he paid little attention to Emma’s activities, and Emma knew this was because he was too preoccupied maintaining his own position in the household to care about her. Now that he was under the eagle eye of Mrs Wainright he had to watch his step and, undoubtedly, whatever she had said to him had been effective. Observing Murgatroyd out of the corner of her eye, as he scurried to and fro, bowed and scraped, and pulled his weight in the household for once, Emma would often smile to herself and there was both irony and a flicker of smugness in the smile that flitted across her young face. Emma had begun to comprehend that Murgatroyd had met his match in Olivia Wainright. Gentle of manner though she was, Emma knew that the courteous demeanour disguised a strong will and an exacting but fair nature.

However, as the weeks passed, the timetable and Emma’s rigid adherence to it had begun to amuse Cook, who had long forgotten her own objections to it. She had never witnessed anything like it in all her years of service. It sent her into gales of loud, though kindly, laughter. She would slap her pendulous thighs and shake her head and say between gusting peals of mirth, ‘Aye, lass, yer a rum ‘un, yer are that. Whoever heard of a blinking timetable, ‘cept at the railway station. And yer tek yerself so serious, yer do that, Emma lass. Yer run about this ‘ere house like the Devil himself is after yer, slaving yer fingers ter the bone. And where’s it all going ter get yer, when all’s said and done? I’ll tell yer summat, and yer should mark me words, lass. The more yer do in life, the less yer gets thought of. I knows, aye, that I do.’

At these raucous but genial outbursts, Emma would look at Cook with large eyes, but said nothing. She did not have time to explain her reasons. Time now meant money to Emma, and she would not waste her precious time chattering. And anyway, Emma was sure Cook would not understand. How could she know that the timetable was, in a sense, a kind of protection for her? It enabled her to work in a more efficient and orderly manner. She could ease the work load on various days and conserve her strength. Not only that, because of it, Emma was able to steal a little time for herself and this stolen time was of vital importance to her. Several afternoons a week, and early most evenings, she retreated to her attic room and worked on the dresses and other clothes she altered or repaired for Mrs Wainright and Mrs Fairley. She was paid separately for this work, at Olivia Wainright’s insistence, and her little tobacco box of shillings and sixpences was slowly growing. Nothing was going to deter her from making this money, her own secret money, even if she had to occasionally skimp on some of her chores to make time for the sewing. It was with a grim determination that she sewed diligently into the middle of the night, by the light of three candles, her eyes scratchy, her fingertips sore, her shoulders aching as she hunched over the elaborate gowns and blouses and skirts and dresses and fine undergarments, plying her exquisite stitches. For the money she earned from this sewing was being acquired, most methodically and religiously, to finance Emma’s Plan, which she always thought of with a capital P.

Cook knew about the sewing, but not about the late hours Emma kept, and had she known she would have been annoyed, for she was fond of the girl and had her welfare at heart. So Emma did not enlighten her about this either, preferring to keep her own counsel.

Although Mrs Turner was a woman with a degree of native shrewdness, she was not blessed with great intelligence or perception, and she did not understand Emma’s character in the least. Nor did she have the foresight to recognize that the girl was displaying the first youthful glimmering of an amazing organizing ability that was to prove formidable; or that her punctuality, diligence, and unrelenting efficiency were the first outward signs of an immense self-discipline and the driving ambition that would grow to monstrous proportions, and which would prove to be the very roots of her success later.

At this moment in her life, Emma certainly did not understand this either, and the future was far from her mind as she remembered the events of the past few months whilst attending to the fire. She sighed softly. Those days had been bad days, but they had passed now. She visibly brightened. Things had improved. Her timetable worked successfully and her life was a lot easier. Mrs Wainright had kept her word and had hired another girl, Annie Stead, from the village, whom Emma was patiently, and sometimes vociferously, training as the betweenmaid. The domestic routine was running as smoothly as clockwork, so much so it was like a miracle and one that Emma prayed would last. But apart from this and most importantly, Mrs Wainright had increased Emma’s wages by two shillings a week, a welcome addition to the family income.

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 forkful.

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? Even though it is almost half term, I think he should return immediately. I would like him to have the next couple of weeks catching up with his studies. He has quite a lot of ground to cover, you know. After all, he has been at home since Christmas. Far too long, in my opinion.’

‘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.’

Adam looked at Adele pointedly. ‘At least he sees the sense of it. And I must say, he has been most diligent under the circumstances, trying to continue his studies on his own. But that’s hardly good enough for me, Adele.’ Adam cleared his throat and softened his tone. ‘You must consider Edwin, my dear. He misses school and his friends, which is only natural. And so’—Adam hesitated and then went on softly—‘and so, I came to inform you that I intend to drive him to Worksop myself. Tomorrow.’

Adele smothered a small gasp. So soon, she thought, and tears sprang into her eyes. She turned her head so Adam would not see. Her hand shook as she brushed away the tears surreptitiously. Adam was doing this to thwart her. It was not for Edwin’s sake at all. He was jealous that Edwin preferred to stay at home with her. She had a sudden physical compulsion to jump up and fly at him with her hands, to strike him, to tell him he was cruelly taking away the only person who loved her and whom she loved.

But she looked back at Adam and at once saw the implacability etched across his sternly handsome face and she knew then, with a sinking feeling, that she would not achieve anything by fighting him. He was inexorable. ‘Very well, Adam, whatever you say,’ said Adele, her voice still quavering and filled with incipient tears. Gathering a little more strength, she continued, ‘But I wish you to know that I am only agreeing to this—this—ridiculous decision of yours because you say Edwin himself has expressed a desire to return to school. Although I am not so sure he’s such a reliable judge of his fitness to return so quickly. Personally, I think it’s preposterous when half term is imminent. He’ll hardly get there before it’s time for him to come home. All that travelling back and forth is debilitating, especially to a little boy who has been so sick. I think you are very hard on Edwin, Adam. I really do.’

Adam could not resist the impulse of retorting caustically, ‘Edwin’s no longer a little boy. Furthermore, I don’t want him growing up to be a sissy, Adele, and he will if he remains tied to his mother’s apron strings. You’ve always tended to spoil and pamper him, and it’s a miracle that he’s turned out so well. So far.’

Adele gasped and her pale face flushed with deep colour. ‘You are most unfair, Adam. Edwin’s never been tied to my apron strings, as you so vulgarly put it. How could he have been? You sent him away to school when he was only—’ Her voice was so filled with emotion she could not continue, but after a moment she went on tearfully, ‘Only twelve. And if I’ve spoiled him a little it’s simply because he is sensitive and has always been put upon by Gerald.’

Adam stared at her, taken aback, and then he smiled sardonically. ‘Well, well, my dear, you are more observant than I believed you to be. I am glad to know you realize Gerald hectors him incessantly and behaves most churlishly towards poor Edwin. That’s another reason I want him out of this house—to remove him from his brother’s taunting. He will be much happier at school, until he’s old enough to defend himself on Gerald’s level. Although personally I hope he’ll rise above it. Not a very admirable offspring, our eldest son,’ he finished softly, but with enormous scorn.

This comment went over Adele’s head. A weary look settled on her face. She sighed deeply, and passed her hand over her brow. A rising feeling of nausea was making her dizzy and she fervently wished Adam would go away and leave her in peace. This effort to maintain her sense of balance and appear coherent was sapping what little vitality she had left. She felt enervated. ‘The matter is settled then, Adam,’ said Adele quietly, fighting the pressing need to retreat into her inner world where nothing could touch her. ‘I have a splitting headache,’ she whined, ‘and I’m sure you have other urgent matters to attend to yourself.’

‘Yes, I have.’ He scrutinized her thoughtfully, and a strange sadness enveloped him. There was sympathy in his voice as he said, ‘I hope you feel better, my dear. I am sorry this conversation has been painful for you, but you know I am only thinking of Edwin.’

Considering the conversation to be concluded, Adam inclined his head courteously and turned on his heel. Something made him pause and he looked back at her frowning, suddenly conscious of the obscure expression in her eyes, the glassy sheen coating her face.

‘I can assume that you will be well enough to grace us with your company at dinner this evening, can’t I? You know we are expecting guests,’ said Adam.

She sat up startled. ‘Tonight!’

‘Yes, tonight. Don’t tell me you have forgotten the dinner party Olivia has planned for Bruce McGill, the Australian sheep rancher. She mentioned it to you earlier in the week,’ Adam said sharply, holding his irritation in check.

‘But that is on Saturday, Adam. Olivia told me it was Saturday. I know she did. I wouldn’t make a mistake like that,’ she cried peevishly.

Oh, wouldn’t you, Adam thought, and stared at her with coldness. ‘Today is Saturday, Adele.’

Flustered, she touched her forehead nervously. ‘Of course. How silly of me,’ she murmured hurriedly. ‘Yes, I am sure I will feel well enough to come down for dinner.’

‘Good.’ He half smiled. ‘Please excuse me, Adele. I have to see Wilson at the mill, and then I am going into Leeds. I look forward to seeing you this evening, my dear.’

‘Yes, Adam,’ Adele said, and fell back into the chair, feeling faint, and also great alarm at the prospect of facing people, and in particular a stranger.

Adam closed the door softly behind him. He was considerably surprised. It was a major achievement for him to have wrested Edwin from her clinging hands with so little opposition. In a way, even her momentary show of spirit had been a relief to him. Usually her entreaties to keep Edwin at her side were accompanied by floods of tears, vapourish swoonings, and the most irrational display of hysterics that he always found himself incapable of dealing with. The scenes in the past had been insupportable and had mortified him.

Emma, working in the bedroom, had not been able to avoid overhearing this conversation, even though she never consciously eavesdropped, as the other servants often did. She finished making the bed and pursed her lips and thought: Poor woman. He’s such a bully, and so mean ter her. Like he is ter everybody.

Although Emma’s hatred for Adam Fairley was unreasonable and without any foundation, it was quite real. So was her enormous dislike for Gerald, who never lost an opportunity to torment her. But she held no grudge against Edwin, who was always sweet with her, and she did respect Olivia Wainright. Now she wondered if she had been uncharitable about Mrs Fairley earlier, and she paused, clutching a silk pillow to her chest, and thought hard about this. Perhaps it’s him that makes her act queer, she said to herself. He gets her ever so flustered and upset. Maybe that’s why she’s always forgetting stuff and things, and walks around in a flipping daze. Emma replaced the silk pillow, smoothed it over, and pulled up the eau-de-Nil green coverlet made of heavy satin, her mind still lingering on Adele Fairley’s strange ways. A rush of sympathy for Adele flowed through her and quenched the feelings of anger mixed with animosity she had been harbouring, and for some reason, quite unknown to herself, Emma felt decidedly happier about this change of heart.

Emma was dusting the Venetian glass-and-mirrored dressing table in front of the oriel window, humming to herself, when Adele walked into the room. Her face was tense with concern and her cheekbones stood out starkly, sharp ridges under her eyes, which were clouded with misery. Her anxiety about the impending dinner party had forced her to push aside both the desperate desire to retreat into herself and her longing for the soothing whisky. In his present unrelenting mood, Adam struck terror in her heart, and it was imperative that she made an appearance that evening and behaved with decorum and dignity. Whatever it cost her in effort, she must be controlled and at ease and charming, and no one must have the slightest inkling of her emotional turmoil.

Then the cunning in Adele surfaced and she smiled to herself. She had a card up her sleeve and it was always a winning card. Her beauty. Adele knew that her incredible looks never failed to stun people. So much so that their attention was deflected from the idiosyncrasies of her personality, which otherwise might be quickly detected. She decided she must look absolutely breathtaking at the dinner. She would hide behind the façade of her beauty.

She hurried to the wardrobe, which Emma had just restored to order, and opened the huge double doors impatiently. Emma’s heart sank into her boots. She had an instant picture of Adele scattering the clothes all over the room again, and she looked up and said quickly, ‘I put all yer clothes away, proper like, Mrs Fairley. Is there summat yer looking for? Summat in particular like?’ Startled, Adele turned around abruptly. She had forgotten Emma was in the bedroom. ‘Oh! Emma. Yes. I am wondering what to wear for the dinner party tonight. Quite important people have been invited, you know.’ She rustled through the gowns and went on in a querulous tone, ‘You will be here to help me dress, won’t you, Emma? You know I can’t possibly manage without you.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Mrs Wainright asked me ter work over the weekend, ‘stead of having me time off as usual, ‘cos of the dinner,’ said Emma quietly.

Thank goodness!’ Adele cried with relief, and continued her search for an appropriate gown. The fact that Emma had been forced to forgo her weekend at home with her family failed to register or make the slightest impression on Adele. She was only concerned with herself. Finally her hands lighted on a gown and she pulled it out, holding it up to show Emma. Lately, Adele had found it difficult to make decisions without conferring with Emma, and she now elicited her advice about the dress she was holding.

‘Do you think this is beautiful enough?’ she asked, pressing the gown against her body. ‘I must look my best tonight—outstanding, in fact’

Emma moved away from the dressing table and stood in front of Adele. She cocked her head on one side and screwed up her eyes, looking at the dress carefully and critically. She knew the gown was expensive and that it had come from Worth. Mrs Fairley had told her that before. And it was beautiful, all rippling white satin and delicate lace. Yet Emma did not really like it. She thought it was too fussy and not at all flattering to Mrs Fairley.

After a few moments’ thoughtful consideration, Emma said, ‘Well, it is beautiful, ma’am. But I think it’s a bit—a bit pale for yer, if yer don’t mind me saying so. Yes, that’s it, Mrs Fairley. It makes yer look ever so washed out, so ter speak, next ter yer pale skin and with yer blonde hair.’

The pleasant expression on Adele’s face dissolved and she glared at Emma. ‘But what will I wear? This is a new gown, Emma. I have nothing else that is at all appropriate.’

Emma smiled faintly. There must be at least a hundred gowns Adele could choose from and all of them very beautiful.

‘What yer need is summat more—more—’ Emma paused, searching her mind for a word. She thought of the illustrated magazines she had read that showed photographs of the latest fashions, and the word she needed instantly flashed into her mind. ‘Yer need summat more elegant, that’ll make heads turn. Yes, that’s it, Mrs Fairley, and I knows just the right dress.’ She ran to the wardrobe and pulled out a gown made of black velvet. It was the ideal colour to show off Adele’s beautiful ivory complexion and the lustrous silvery-gold hair. Then Emma frowned as she looked at it again. It was trimmed with blood-red roses that swathed one shoulder and fell down the side of the gown in a long trail.

‘This is the one,’ she exclaimed with absolute sureness, and added, ‘If I tek them there roses off.’

Adele stared at her in horror and disbelief. ‘Remove the roses! You can’t possibly do that. You’ll ruin the dress. And anyway, without the roses it will look too drab.’

‘No, it won’t, Mrs Fairley, ma’am. Honest, it won’t. It’ll look more elegant. It will. I just knows it will. And yer can wear that luvely necklet, the sparkling one, and them there earbobs. And I’ll put yer hair up in that pompadour style I copied for yer, from the picture in the magazine yer showed me last week. Oh, yer’ll look ever so luvely in this dress, Mrs Fairley, yer will really.’

Adele seemed doubtful and sat down heavily on the green satin chaise, frowning and biting her lip. Emma flew to the dressing table, picked up a pair of nail scissors, and, undeterred by Adele’s cry of protest, she expertly cut the stitches holding the roses in place.

‘Look, now it’s really elegant, Mrs Fairley,’ exclaimed Emma excitedly, pulling off the roses unceremoniously. She held up the gown with a triumphant flourish.

Adele was furious. ‘You’ve ruined it!’ she gasped, her voice shrill. ‘And it is drab! Just as I said it would be.’ For once she was angry with Emma and her eyes blazed.

‘It won’t be drab when yer gets it on, and with yer beautiful jewels,’ Emma said firmly, ignoring the small burst of anger. ‘And if yer wants, I’ll sew them blinking roses back on later. But first we’ll try it this way, Mrs Fairley. Please,’ she pleaded.

Adele was silent, her face like a thundercloud, and she gave Emma a petulant look as she twisted her hands nervously together in her lap.

‘I can put them roses back on in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, when I helps yer ter get ready. So don’t worry about it, Mrs Fairley,’ said Emma reassuringly.

‘Well—all right,’ said Adele reluctantly, somewhat pacified, although still pouting.

Emma smiled confidently. ‘I’ll pop it back in the wardrobe for now. Don’t worry, Mrs Fairley, yer’ll look luvely tonight, yer will that. I promise. Now I’ll go and draw yer bath for yer, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Emma,’ said Adele dully, still worrying about the dinner. Emma returned the gown to the wardrobe and hurried into the bathroom.

Adele went to her dressing table and took out the red velvet case that contained her diamond necklace, bracelets, and matching earrings. She lifted out the necklace and held it up to her throat. Its shimmering brilliance caused her to draw in her breath in surprise. She had forgotten how magnificent it was and, now that she thought about it, the black velvet gown would set it off perfectly. Perhaps Emma had been right, after all, in her choice. Adele smiled with delight. She would look so ravishing tonight even Adam would be speechless.