The hill was steep, but Emma climbed it easily. There was a decided bounce to her step and she felt wonderfully alive. Optimistic as she was by nature, Emma was now inordinately confident of the future.
The baby was comfortably settled with her cousin Freda in Ripon. As Emma had predicted to Blackie, Freda had been more than willing to take Edwina in, and for as long as Emma wished. If she had been surprised at Emma’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep, or shocked at her story, the loving and compassionate Freda had not betrayed this at all. She had taken everything in her stride. Her welcome had been genuine and she had fussed over Emma and commented ecstatically on Edwina’s prettiness and her docile temper. She had promised to care for the child as if she were her own, and had faithfully pledged to keep Emma’s circumstances a secret from Jack Harte, with whom she was not on very good terms, and whom, she explained, she had not heard from since Elizabeth’s death in 1904. When Emma had left Ripon to return to Armley she was in a calmer frame of mind and, although she was saddened to leave the child, her confidence in Freda, who was so like her mother, had helped to assuage her wistfulness considerably. She knew Edwina was in capable hands, and that she would be looked after and cherished with complete devotion.
Now, as she passed the White Horse halfway up the hill, Emma quickened her steps, not wishing to encounter any of the men or boys from the village, those perennial stragglers who indulged in a last pint and never left the pub before two o’clock. They might appear at any moment on their way home for a late Sunday lunch. She was only a few steps past the pub when she heard the door open and the sound of raucous voices echoing in the chilly air, as a handful of men staggered out into the streets, vociferously merry with the vast amounts of beer they had consumed. Emma hurried faster.
‘Emma!’
Her heart dropped and she had the urge to run, reluctant to become embroiled in a conversation or to expose herself to curious questions from the locals. She increased her pace, without looking back. Drunken louts, she thought disdainfully.
‘Emma! For God’s sake wait. It’s me. Winston!’
She stopped abruptly and swung around, her face lighting up. Her elder brother, resplendent in his naval uniform, was chasing up the street after her, waving his white sailor hat in his hand, his mates forgotten. They were staring after Winston, mouths agape, ogling Emma poised on the hill. Winston panted up to her. He threw his arms around her and hugged her to him, showering her face and her hair with kisses. A warm flush of happiness swept through her and she clung to him tightly, her love for him as fierce and as real as ever. With a sharp stab she realized how much she had missed him.
After a few seconds clutched in this tight embrace, they pulled away and automatically stared at each other, their eyes searching, questioning. Emma caught her breath as she looked up at Winston. His face had always been beautiful, but in an almost girlish way. Now it was extraordinarily and staggeringly handsome. Since she had last seen him he had matured. The high cheekbones, the wide brow, the straight nose, the generous mouth, and the well-shaped chin were all as finely drawn as ever, and yet they appeared much less delicate. There was strength in his face that bespoke his enormous masculinity. And those cornflower-blue eyes, widely set below the arched black brows and fringed with thick and curling black lashes, were brighter than she remembered, positively blinding in the cold northern light. His black hair was blowing in the breeze and his perfect white teeth flashed in his fresh-complexioned face as he smiled at her. He had grown and filled out. He was practically as tall as their father, and wide-shouldered and muscular. He’s too handsome for his own good, Emma thought. Women must adore him but men must surely hate him, she decided, and then wondered how many girls had already fallen at his feet, how many broken hearts lay scattered in his ports of call. He would be irresistible to the opposite sex, she saw that only too clearly. She marvelled to herself that this incredible specimen of manhood was her brother; the skinny, hot-tempered boy who had teased her unmercifully, pulled her hair, quarrelled with her and fought her, but who had always been her staunch ally when necessary, and whom she had never ceased to secretly worship.
Winston, gazing back at Emma, was thinking: She’s changed enormously. There’s something very different about her. She’s more self-assured, even worldly. By God, she’s a stunning girl. He corrected himself. No, Emma is a woman now, and ripe for the plucking. A feeling of jealous possessiveness raced through him, was so powerful, so searing he was shaken at the intensity of his feelings. The brightest man breathing is not good enough for my sister. And he recognized then that he truly adored her. In point of fact, that was to be the major problem all of his life. No other woman would ever measure up to his sister in his eyes.
‘You look wonderful,’ Emma said at last, breaking the silence, her eyes overflowing with the tenderest of lights.
‘So do you, little sister,’ Winston said. ‘Quite grown-up, too.’ He smiled at her lovingly and with pride, and then the smile congealed. His joy was dampened when he remembered how poor little Frank had grieved for Emma, was still grieving for her, and a furious glint entered those startling eyes. He grabbed her arm roughly. ‘Hey, our Emma, where the hell have you been all these months? We’ve been worried to death! How could you run off like that?’
There was a hidden smile on Emma’s face. ‘Oh, the pot’s calling the kettle black, is it?’
Winston glared. ‘I’m a man. That’s different. You’d no business sneaking off that way. You were needed at home.’
‘Don’t shout, Winston,’ said Emma. ‘Dad knows where I’ve been. I’ve written to him regularly, and sent him money.’
Winston was scrutinizing her closely and scowling darkly. ‘Yes, but you never put an address on those letters – where we could write back. That was wrong of you, Emma.’
‘Dad knows I’ve been travelling with my lady, Mrs John Smith of Bradford. Please, Winston, don’t look so angry, and let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’
‘Sorry,’ Winston muttered, and released his powerful grip. He took hold of her hand. ‘Come on, don’t let’s stand here, making a spectacle of ourselves. I can see half a dozen lace curtains twitching.’ He almost dragged her up to Top Fold.
‘I expect you have a ship now, don’t you, Winston?’ asked Emma warmly, hoping to dispel her brother’s belligerent mood.
‘Yes,’ said the laconic Winston.
Undismayed by his curtness, Emma persisted, ‘Where are you stationed, Winston?’
‘Scapa Flow.’
‘Well, you must give me your address, so that I can write to you every week. Would you like me to?’
‘If you want.’
‘Yes, I do. And I’ll give you my address. You’ll write back to me, won’t you, Winston?’
‘Yes.’