‘Where does that go, Edwin?’
‘I’m not really sure. It was too small for me to crawl into when I investigated earlier. But there are currents of air coming in from the moors. Now, come on, Emma. Let’s hurry. Then we can sit on the sacks and attempt to dry ourselves. I’m freezing, and I’m sure you are.’
‘Yes, I am.’
It did not take them long to get the fire started. The paper and the twigs caught hold at once, and when they were burning Edwin placed a couple of small logs on top of them. He began to busy himself with the empty sacks. There were about a dozen of them and these he arranged on the floor, rolling others into bolster-like shapes which he propped against the wall. ‘It will be quite comfortable, Emma,’ he said, turning and smiling at her reassuringly.
Emma was standing by the fire, shivering and shaking with cold. Her face still glistened with water and her wet hair streamed down her back. She was trying to wring out her dress, which was thoroughly soaked.
Edwin hurried to the fire, shivering himself. He began to cough. Emma looked across the flames at him and frowned. ‘Oh, Edwin, I hopes yer don’t catch another cold, just when yer better.’
‘So do I,’ he gasped, coughing behind his hand. After a moment the rasping subsided, and he said, ‘I think you had better take off your dress, Emma. We can then spread it out to dry.’
She stared at him askance. ‘Take me frock off!’ she echoed disbelievingly. ‘Oh, Edwin, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re wearing petticoats and – and – things underneath, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ she muttered between her teeth, which were now chattering.
‘So, please do as I say,’ he insisted in a brisk tone. ‘I am going to take my shirt off. It’s absolutely sopping, and if we sit around in our wet clothes we will both catch pneumonia.’
‘I suppose yer right,’ she replied grudgingly. Emma turned her back to him and began to unbutton her dress, feeling shy and awkward.
‘Give me the dress,’ Edwin ordered in the same firm voice, after she had stepped out of it. She handed it to him behind her back, without looking around. It was then that she decided she was being silly. After all, she was wearing a petticoat and a camisole top which completely covered her body, except for her arms.
She peeped over her shoulder and then slowly wheeled. Edwin was hanging her frock on a ledge, next to his shirt and undervest, anchoring them down with some small stones he had obviously found on the floor of the cave. Adopting a nonchalant air, Emma returned to the fire. She warmed her hands and face in front of the flames, and then tried to dry her long hair, squeezing the rain out of it and rubbing it between her hands. Edwin, who seemed quite oblivious to her state of partial undress, and also unperturbed, picked up the picnic basket and carried it over to the sacks. He knelt down and lifted out the stone jug of elderberry wine, and unpacked all of the food, which Cook had carefully wrapped in serviettes. Suddenly he let out a long low whistle of surprise.
Emma glanced at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Good old Mrs Turner,’ he exclaimed with a wide grin as he continued to rummage about in the bottom of the basket. ‘By Jove, she thinks of everything. She not only put in a serviette and tablecloth for my picnic, but a carriage blanket as well. What luck. The blanket, at least, will help to keep us warm.’ He looked up, showing them to her triumphantly, and then his face fell. Water was dripping from her petticoat, making a puddle under her feet. ‘Good Lord, Emma. You’re really quite thoroughly soaked and still shivering. Don’t you feel warmer?’
‘A bit. But me legs are cold from me petticoat. It’s as wet as me dress was.’ She stepped nearer to the fire. Her boots squelched. She began to wring out the hem of the petticoat, striving to control her shivering.
Edwin stood up and looked down at his trousers, frowning. ‘I am afraid my trousers are in the same condition.’ He grimaced and joined her at the fire and they hovered together in front of the flames, hoping to dry their clothes. But this was to no avail, since the fire was really quite meagre and was therefore throwing off insufficient heat, and the atmosphere in the immense cavern was cold.
‘This is futile!’ Edwin declared after a short while. His legs were turning into blocks of ice and the coldness was now beginning to permeate his whole system. He began to cough, almost convulsively.
Emma looked at him with alarm, thinking how prone he was to taking chills. ‘Are yer all right?’
‘I’m freezing. I hope I don’t come down with bronchitis again.’ He shivered. ‘It’s these wet clothes.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one thing to do, Emma. I think I must take off my trousers, and you must take off your petticoat and—’
‘Take off all our clothes!’ she gasped, shrinking back against the wall of the cave, a look of horror on her face. ‘Edwin! We can’t! It wouldn’t be proper like,’ she finished, and with fierceness.
A faint half smile glanced across his lips. He shrugged. ‘Well, you may do as you wish, Miss Harte. But I have decided to undress, and hang my trousers and underclothes on the ledge to dry out. I am not going to catch my death because of any false modesty on my part.’
Emma positively glared at him. ‘I thinks that would be very rude of yer, Edwin,’ she said tartly. ‘By gum, I do. It wouldn’t be – be – gentlemanly.’
Chagrin crossed his face. ‘Emma, I don’t mean to offend you.’ He thought hard, wondering what to do, fully understanding her feelings. His eye caught the tartan carriage rug and a solution instantly occurred to him. ‘I have an idea. I shall wrap the carriage blanket around myself – like a kilt. It will cover me completely,’ he reassured her. ‘But I do think I must remove these wet things. We could be in here for hours.’
Emma bit her lip. What he said was sensible, but it did not diminish her embarrassment at the thought of him undressing in front of her. On the other hand, she did not want to be responsible for him getting sick. It also struck her that she herself did not necessarily have to take her clothes off. She could still try to dry herself in front of the fire. After a moment, she said slowly, ‘Well, afore yer do take yer trousers off, crawl back ter the opening and see what the weather’s like,’ she insisted, and sharply. ‘Maybe the storm’s passed over and we can leave.’
‘That is a possibility,’ Edwin agreed, and hurried off to follow her instructions. Arriving at the end of the tunnel, Edwin was utterly dismayed when he poked his head out through the aperture. The rain was still falling in a deluge. A gale had blown up and was acting as a powerful lash against the rain. This was being driven in sheets on to the Crags. Bolts of lightning ripped through the blackened sky and thunder rolled down the hilly slopes like unceasing cannon fire. They were undoubtedly in for a long siege. He pulled his head back in quickly. It was then Edwin realized, and to his fury, that to return along the tunnel he would have to either crawl outside and re-enter, or shuffle backwards. He decided the former was the most feasible way and he edged himself out of the opening. He turned quickly on his knees and pushed back through the aperture, but not without getting drenched. When he finally crawled back into the cave he was shaking with cold and dripping rain.
Emma looked at him aghast. ‘Now why did yer go outside?’ she demanded. ‘That was a daft thing ter do!’
He sighed, and explained. He picked up the serviette and dried his face and hair. Then he took the blanket and strode to the far side of the cave. He turned. ‘My apologies, Emma. But now my trousers are wetter than ever. I have no alternative but to take them off now.’
During Edwin’s absence, Emma put another small log on to the fire and sat huddled in front of it, continuing to squeeze water from her petticoat, her face set in obdurate lines. And she was resolute in her determination not to undress,