Laura Spencer’s features were so classically drawn, so fragile, and the bones were so fine, her face seemed attenuated at times. There were those, who were undiscerning, who considered her plain and faded and they would not have agreed with Emma at all. But Emma saw the Dresden china-like delicacy of the features that contributed so much to her exquisiteness, saw the golden lights in her honey-coloured hair that gave it a shimmering iridescence, saw the tenderness and wisdom that filled the enormous hazel eyes with a radiant luminosity. And she recognized Laura’s loveliness for what it truly was – an outward reflection of purity.
Emma was not wrong in these assessments. There was indeed something special about Laura Spencer. Very simply, she refused to countenance evil. Laura was a Roman Catholic and unwavering in her faith; her religion, which she never discussed or inflicted on her friends, was the mainspring of her life. To Laura, God was neither nebulous nor remote. His presence was constant, eternal and everlasting.
Sitting there in that cosy parlour, listening to Laura’s light voice echoing out from the kitchen, Emma was not yet entirely aware of all of this. But somehow, in some curious fashion, Laura’s inner grace had mysteriously communicated itself to her, and she was experiencing a sense of peace so profound she was startled. Emma continued to gaze at Laura and she thought: I want her to be my friend. I want her to like me. I want to share this house with her.
‘Ye are very quiet, mavourneen,’ Blackie said. ‘That’s a bit unusual for ye, I am thinking. Ye are generally such a chatterbox.’
Emma jumped. He had startled her. ‘I was just thinking,’ she responded. Blackie smiled and puffed on his pipe. Emma was just as captivated by Laura as he had anticipated, and he was delighted.
‘Could you bring the kettle into the kitchen, please, Blackie,’ Laura called, ‘so I can mash the tea.’
‘Sure and I can, mavourneen,’ he exclaimed. He lifted the steaming copper kettle off the hob and strode across the room, a towering bulk in that small space.
‘Can I do anything?’ Emma inquired eagerly, also rising.
Laura looked around the kitchen door. ‘No, thank you, Emma. It’s all ready now.’ Within seconds she came into the parlour carrying a large tray containing plates of food and Blackie followed with the teapot.
As she sat down, Emma thought how nicely Laura had arranged the table. ‘You are very artistic, Laura. The table looks lovely,’ Emma volunteered. She smiled at Laura, who seemed pleased at this shyly offered compliment.
‘Aye, ’tis a feast fit for kings, sure and it is,’ Blackie said, also regarding the table. ‘But ye shouldn’t have made such a spread or gone to all this trouble, Laura. Ye have enough to do with all ye church work and charities.’
‘It was no bother, Blackie. You know I like cooking. And I enjoy having visitors. Now, come along. Help yourselves. You must both be hungry after that chilly trip from Leeds. I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite, Blackie.’
‘Aye, I have that,’ he responded, and helped himself to a sandwich. Something of Blackie’s natural exuberance flowed to the surface during the tea and he kept the girls giggling at his stories, as was his artful way when he wanted to be entertaining. The actor in him could never be suppressed for long, and he became so volatile neither Emma nor Laura could get a word in edgewise. Laura, however, did respond swiftly to some of his more outrageous pronouncements, and Emma realized this gentle girl was blessed with a sense of humour in spite of her basic seriousness, and that mild manner belied a stringent wit.
For her part, Laura Spencer was impressed with Emma. She had been initially startled by her striking beauty, but while she had prepared the tea, Laura had observed her discreetly, and she had quickly become aware of the younger girl’s pleasant yet dignified manner. She had also detected the intelligence in those matchless green eyes and the refinement in the oval face. Blackie had told her that Emma lived in a small uncomfortable attic and spent hours walking to and from work. He was worried about her health. And no wonder, Laura thought. She needs a little mothering at a time like this: seven months pregnant and utterly alone. She was filled with a rush of sisterly warmth for Emma.
As the tea progressed, Blackie pondered about the two girls who flanked him at the tea table. He loved them both, albeit in wholly different ways, and he was gratified that they had taken a liking to each other. He had known they would, even though they were exact opposites physically, and in temperament. He stole a look at Laura, who was wiping her vulnerable mouth with her serviette. There she was, all porcelain fragility, retiring, spiritual Laura, who was utterly selfless in so many ways. He glanced at Emma out of the corner of his eye. Next to Laura’s gentle loveliness, Emma’s beauty seemed fierce and wild; there was something frightening about her, and he had long suspected she might turn out to be ruthless and expedient, if that was ever necessary. And yet, in spite of their intrinsic difference, they shared several common traits – integrity, courage, and compassion. Perhaps those things will bind them in friendship, he thought. Also, even though Laura, at twenty-one, was only a few years older than Emma, Blackie believed she would look after her in an affectionate and motherly way. Likewise, he sensed that Emma’s spirited and vivacious presence in the house would help to assuage the loneliness Laura had felt since her mother’s death four months ago. He hoped so.
Emma was talking enthusiastically to Laura about the tailoring trade and Kallinski’s workshop, and her vibrant voice caught his attention. Blackie turned to look at Emma. In the roseate glow of the parlour her animated face blazed with life. Her looks would blind any man, he said to himself. Then he wondered, as he had so often lately, who it was she had blinded seven or eight months ago. He still had not dared to ask her who the father of her child really was. He crushed down on that disturbing thought and turned his attention to the matter at hand – how to broach the subject of Emma moving in with Laura, and going to work at Thompson’s mill.
Almost as if she had read his mind, he heard Laura say, ‘You sound as if you really love the tailoring trade, Emma. And you’ve certainly mastered it quickly, from what I hear. I’m sure you would have no trouble learning to weave—’ Laura paused, as always not wanting to appear presumptuous or forward.
‘Is weaving very difficult?’ Emma asked cautiously.
‘No, not really. Not when you’ve got the hang of it and understand the process. I don’t think you would find it hard, Emma. Honestly I don’t.’
Emma glanced swiftly at Blackie and then turned back to Laura and said, ‘Can you get me a job at Thompson’s? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am positive!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘I spoke to the foreman the other day, and you can start any time you want. They are looking for new girls to train. You’d go on the looms right away, as a learner, of course.’
Emma pondered this for a split second and made up her mind. She plunged right in. ‘Would you be willing to let me share the house with you, Laura? I won’t be any trouble and I’ll pay my way.’ Her gaze did not stray from Laura.
Laura’s angelic face broke into a delighted smile and her fine hazel eyes lit up. ‘Of course, Emma. I would love to have you. Anyway, I can’t really afford to keep this house on alone, but I am reluctant to give it up. I’ve lived here most of my life. Apart from that, you would be wonderful company for me. I’ve been looking for someone congenial and pleasant like you.’ She leaned forward and squeezed Emma’s arm affectionately, and in a reassuring way. ‘And also, I think you would be better off here with me, what with the baby due in two months. I can look after you, Emma. And I know Blackie agrees—’
‘I do that!’ interjected Blackie, pleased with the turn of events.
‘Do let me show you the rest of the house, and the room you