Fateful first meeting between two of fiction’s best-loved characters
They have entranced generations of readers. Now, in our final exclusive serial extract from Barbara Taylor Bradford’s stunning A Woman of Substance prequel, the author shares the chance encounter that would introduce her heroine Emma Harte to Blackie O’Neill...
ITWAS an icy cold February day in 1903, and Blackie wished he did not have to cross the York moors to get to Fairley Hall. He had no alternative. Squire Fairley was expecting him, and the latter had made a contract with his Uncle Patrick many months ago. He had been taught that his word was his bond, and he had promised his uncle he would tackle the job.
Because he was building the guesthouse for Sir Robert, Blackie had been able to push the Fairley job to one side for several months while they made a start on that project, and his uncle had agreed. But now the time had come to keep the commitment to the Squire.
His uncle insisted on that. Over the past few years, the Squire had sent some good jobs their way for people he knew in Leeds. Uncle Pat would go to Harrogate to oversee Blackie’s builders. He knew his uncle would be on top of things. No worries there. Bolton Manor was in safe hands.
Blackie glanced up at the long stretch of moors above him, dark, sombre and always windswept. A harshly beautiful, desolate, grim place all year round.
Not quite true, Blackie thought. In August, the heather bloomed and turned those rolling hills into a sea of purple. But for such a short time, he added to himself.
Yesterday, he had travelled to Shipley and spent the night in a small bed and breakfast. The owner, Mrs Craven, had told him to take the lower stretch of moorland, following the wide gravel path. This path would take him to the highest part of Fairley village where there were no houses, only several paths branching off.
“Just stay on the wide path,” Mrs Craven had warned him. “It gets very misty around those particular moors.Yer don’t want to get lost.” He had noted everything she had told him; others had alerted him about the fog.
It seemed to Blackie that it got chillier as he walked along at a steady pace, and at one moment, he put down the sack he was carrying, pulled off his cap and took off his scarf. After tying the scarf around his head, he replaced the cap and turned up the collar of his coat, feeling warmer almost at once.
Within 20 minutes, he found himself in clouds of mist and had to peer ahead to make out where he was.
He really couldn’t see anything, but his boots crunching on gravel reassured him he was on the wide path.
It was not long after that he realised the crunching sound had stopped. “Damn,” he thought, “I’m off the path. How did that happen? I’m lost!”
THIS thought took hold as he walked on. He wasn’t sure what to do. A moment or two later, his dilemma was solved. Peering ahead he saw another person further along the path. Man or woman? He wasn’t sure. He plunged ahead, calling out, “Wait! Please wait! Wait for me.”
Suddenly, the mist lifted slightly and, as he rushed forward, he realised it was a young woman in a long, worn-out coat, wrapped in shawls and with a scarf around her head.
She had hidden behind an outcropping of rocks, and looked terrified. “Get away!” she yelled. “Ye looks like a monster.”
“I’m not a monster,” he shot back. “Don’t be afeard, little colleen. I’m just a man who’s lost, looking to get to Fairley Hall.”
“Fairley Hall!” she exclaimed, edging out from behind the rocks. “Why do yer want ter go there?”
She peered at the man, intrigued now. Realising he had caught her interest, and that she sounded less afraid, he moved towards her. “Let me tell ye.” “Get back!” she shouted. “Don’t move!”
“I be going to Fairley Hall to do some chimney repairs,” Blackie explained, gently now. “Where did ye meet the Squire?” she asked cautiously, every inch of her alert. Blackie had drawn closer, and he noticed she had the greenest eyes he had ever seen. And now they looked wary, and her face was stern. Yorkshire folk were suspicious, he knew.
He said, “I met the Squire in Leeds. He’d heard I used to be a navvy, working on the canals. This told him I was strong and a good worker.And he knew my uncle.” The girl
moved out from behind the outcropping of rocks, and said in a more controlled tone, “I heard a navvy was coming ter the Hall. I’m going there, so yer can walk with me. What’s yer name then? Or don’t yer have one?” She sounded scathing, and just a bit haughty.
Blackie laughed a deep belly laugh. “Sure an’ I do, I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints. Shane O’Neill’s the name, but the whole world calls me Blackie.”
The girl looked up at him, trying to see him better in the vaporous mists. She decided he must be Irish because of his name and the singsong voice he had, a sort of lilt in his speech.
“And what might ye be called?” he asked, breaking the silence.
The girl did not answer. She believed the less that people knew about you, the safer you were.And if they knew nothing at all, they could not harm you.And so she did not answer him. “Come on, little colleen. What’s your name?”
“Emma. Emma Harte’s me name,” she finally said. “So let’s be a-marching, Emma. Devilish cold ’tis out here.” “Come on,” she muttered, and hurried ahead of him, leading the way out of Ramsden Ghyll, and up on to a flat piece of land, a plateau of moors that led directly to the Hall.
Within a short while, the mist had cleared, and Emma stole a glance at Blackie, her curiosity getting the better of her.
To her surprise, although he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, he only looked about 18. She wasn’t sure. But she was sure of one thing, his kindness. It had echoed in his voice when he had spoken to her in the Ghyll, and now it was reflected in his face. Instinctively, she knew he was a good man.
Blackie smiled back at her, taken by her pretty face and those emerald eyes. “So, where is the Hall, colleen?” he asked.
“Yer can’t see it from here. But it’s not far. Just over the crest.”
She laughed. “I’ll show yer,” she exclaimed, somewhat taken with her new friend.
“DO YE live nearby?” Blackie asked, as they headed towards the crest of moors in front of them.
“At the edge of the moors back yonder. In a cul-de-sac called Top Fold, the highest part of Fairley village. I’d just been walking five minutes when I heard yer blundering behind me.”
“I’m sorry I frightened ye, little colleen,” Blackie apologised. “I was lost, though. Well, so I thought.Ye were a welcoming sight, I can tell ye that.”
“Never been on the moors before then?” “No, I haven’t.”
“So where do yer live?” Emma asked, riddled with curiosity about Blackie. “Leeds. Do ye knows it?”
“No, I’ve never been. What’s it like then?” “Ah, ’tis a wonderful place, Emma. A great industrial city with wonderful buildings, a fine Town Hall – very imposing it is, to be sure.And there are shops, Emma, the best of them in arcades…”
“What’s that? An arcade? I’ve never heard of it,” Emma said, looking at him intently.
“Ah, a place to feast the eyes, sure an’ it is. An arcade is like a wide passageway between two big buildings, but it has a roof over it, and shops line each side, selling beautiful things.
“Jewels, handbags, silken scarves, woollen jumpers, all kinds of things for ladies.And for men too.And there are also restaurants in Leeds, for delicious meals, and theatres. I can go on and on talking about Leeds, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I can.And they say the streets are made of gold. Imagine that.”
EMMA stopped abruptly and stared at him, a startled expression on her face. “Are they real gold?” Blackie chuckled. “No, mavourneen, they’re not. It’s just a saying folks have. What they mean is that there are jobs aplenty in this great city, and work for everyone.And ’tis the truth. I came to Leeds to live with me Uncle Patrick, and I learned to be a carpenter and a builder. Uncle Pat and me, well, we’ve got a lot of work. We’re a success. I’m building a guesthouse right now for Lord Robert Lassiter of Bolton Manor.”
Emma, looking very impressed, and also extremely interested, asked, “Could a girl
‘The city was no place for a scrawny young girl... but he recognised the gleam in her eyes, the ambition that burned’
like me make her fortune in Leeds then?” Blackie hesitated.The city was no place for a scrawny young girl. He was about to answer negatively when he recognised the passionate gleam in her eyes, the ambition that burned fiercely.
“Sure an’ ye could, mavourneen. But not now, Emma, not yet. ’Tis a fine city, but dangerous too, for a girl like you.”
“Hey, what’s that word mean that yer call me... mavourneen?”
“Ah, ’tis just a word of affection, Emma, like luv, or dear. It’s a nice name. I like ye, ye seem like a nice girl, and I think ye are probably clever, too.Yes, ye would easily get a job in the city. I can guarantee that ye could sell things in stores, for instance, or find work in one of the manufactories making the fine dresses.”
“If I came ter yer great metropolis, as yer call it, would yer show me the ropes?”
“Sure, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I swear I would.”
Emma smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling, and it seemed to Blackie that there was a new spring in her step as they walked towards the crest.
● Extracted from A Man of Honour by Barbara Taylor Bradford (Harper-Collins, £16.99), published on Thursday. For Free UK P&P on orders over £20, call Express Bookshop on 020 3176 3832 or visit expressbookshop.com