ome hours later the thunderstorm died as instantly as it had erupted into life, the torrential rain easing into a light drizzle that finally ceased with an eerie abruptness. The gusting high-powered gale that had ventilated those quiet hills had dropped away and an awesome stillness suffused the air.

The remote and cloudless sky was a darkling bitter green, almost black in its depth of colour, yet glassy and clear and filled with a curious luminosity, as if lit from within. A full moon was out, hard in its metallic whiteness, a perfect orb pitched in the cold wide sky, illuminating the moors and the fellsides with the clarity and brilliance of a noonday sun. Its sharp radiance fell upon the terrible devastation, bringing it into stark focus. The fulminating storm had ravaged the landscape.

The immense fells, poised in precarious leaning angles above the moorland, were towering precipitous cliffs and from them the unceasing torrents of rain had rushed down in streaming cataracts, inflating the natural waterfalls so that they had become liquid avalanches, bloating the becks and streams until they were swollen and spilling over their banks, which were already bursting under the pressure. The cloudburst had swept over the moors like a gigantic tidal wave, its force and speed uprooting trees and shrubs and heath, dislodging rocks and boulders, hurling all before it on its relentless downward journey. The small glens and hollows between the hills that punctuated sections of the moorland were completely flooded. Animal life not swift enough to escape had been trapped in the onslaught. Stray sheep had been drowned in the flood, their stiffened bodies floating grotesquely in the murky waters of these newly made but unnatural ponds. Battered birds littered the ground, mangled bits of broken bones and bloodied feathers, their trilling songs stilled for ever.

And lightning had left its stamp everywhere. It had struck trees, slicing them apart sharply and cleanly, and charring their scant foliage to blackened ashes. A horse tethered in the long meadow near Top Fold had been knocked down by a bolt, dying instantaneously before its owner could reach it, mane singed, grey coat dappled red and black. Not even the village was unscarred. Slates had been ripped off roofs, windows broken, plaster torn from interior walls, flaking off like minute sprinkles of snow, and one cottage was almost completely wrecked. A stained-glass window in Fairley Church had been shattered into hundreds of rainbow-tinted slivers. It was the memorial window recently endowed by Adam Fairley in commemoration of Adele Fairley’s death.

Up at Ramsden Crags, water sluiced over the great elevation of rocks and the ground was so muddy it was like running oil, a veritable bog, mucid and slippery. The two lone trees that had stood there for years, solitary sentinels to the left of the Crags, had toppled over in toy-soldier fashion, also demolished by the incessant flashes of violent lightning. Edwin crept out of the cave first and gave his hand to Emma, who was closely following him. They ducked away from the water that tumbled unchecked from the Crags relatively close to the aperture, their feet sinking ankle deep into the mire that oozed under them. Edwin placed the picnic basket on a boulder and helped Emma up on to the drier rocks, swiftly climbing after her. They gasped, almost in unison, and exchanged alarmed glances, dismay washing over their faces as they viewed the destruction so appalling to behold.

‘We were lucky to find the cave when we did,’ said Edwin to the gaping Emma by his side. He looked about him, shaken by the riven and shattered landscape. ‘Do you realize we could have been killed out here! Either by lightning or by drowning in the flood!’ Emma nodded and shuddered at their narrow escape, not speaking.

‘Look at the waterfall up on Dimerton Fell,’ Edwin then exclaimed. ‘I’ve never seen it so full or raging before. It’s incredible.’

Emma followed the direction his finger pointed, and caught her breath. The usually gentle waterfall, clearly visible in the moonlight and icily shimmering, had been transformed into a phenomenal spumescent cascade that was magnificent yet uncanny in its magnitude. Emma had to admit it was beautiful and said so, but her worry about returning to Fairley Hall was increasing by the minute. ‘Edwin, don’t yer think we should try and make it back ter the Hall. Cook’s going ter play pop with yer, and me as well.’

‘Yes, I do believe we should make tracks immediately,’ Edwin agreed. ‘Thank goodness the moon is so bright. At least we can see where we’re walking. Shall we go?’

He made to leave and Emma tugged at his arm. ‘But what about the opening ter the cave?’ She inclined her head towards the aperture. ‘The rock that covered it up before looks ter me as if it’s sunk right inter the mud.’

‘You’re right, it has.’ Edwin swung around, his eyes searching. He spotted the ruptured trees. ‘I’ll use some of those branches to cover the hole, and come back another day to put the rock in place.’ He left the rocks, plodding through the slime doggedly, and dragged one of the trees over to the cavern’s entrance. He stuck it deeply and securely into the muddy earth. The gnarled branches camouflaged the opening effectively.

Uncertain of what other disasters awaited them, they nonetheless set off bravely, their feet sinking into the glutinous mud, boots squelching, as they hurried away from the Top of the World, heading directly for Ramsden Ghyll. Emma slipped once as they scrambled over a ridge, slithering on the sodden ground. Edwin caught her immediately, and put his arm around her protectively, helping her to maintain her balance until they reached the narrow track. They had to manoeuvre their way with deliberation, stepping over disrupted rocks and splintered branches that had been flung haphazardly on to the path during one of the landslides. Upon reaching the Ghyll they stood hovering at the edge, staring in stupefaction. The bright moonlight illuminated part of the deep gully, enough for them to see that it was brimming with bubbling water seemingly about to seep over the top at any moment. Dead birds, rabbits, and a sheep wobbled misshapenly among the debris on its ghastly black surface, gruesome reminders of the fury so recently unleashed. Emma shuddered and pressed her face against Edwin’s broad shoulder.

Edwin, holding her comfortingly, turned away. ‘I should have realized the Ghyll would fill up. We’ll have to turn back and go down over the ridge to the beck, cross it, and make for the lower road to the Hall.’

‘But won’t the beck be flooded as well?’ Emma suggested, biting her lip.

‘Most probably. But at least it’s a bit narrower and not a ravine like the Ghyll. It shouldn’t be too deep. We can swim across.’

‘I can’t swim,’ Emma wailed.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you, Emma. I told you before, you will always be safe with me. I’ll never let any harm come to you. Ever.’ He hugged her to him affectionately, hoping to allay her nervousness, took her by the hand, led her back along the track and down an incline, reassuring her gently all the way. Unfortunately, Emma’s prediction was correct. The little beck, where they had washed earlier that afternoon, had become a fully fledged and gushing stream, water spewing over the rocky hillside with remarkable swiftness, an eddying whirlpool foaming whitely against the banks. Edwin threw the picnic basket on the ground, gritted his teeth, and lowered himself cautiously down the bank and into the swirling depths. The water rose up to his chest. ‘Leave the sack, Emma,’ he shouted, ‘and get on to my back. Put your arms around my neck, and hang on for dear life. I’ll swim us both across.’

Emma hesitated. This girl, who was not, in reality, afraid of anything, had a strange and incomprehensible fear of water. Even as a small child, when her mother had washed her hair, she had always screamed, ‘Don’t get the water on me face, Mam,’ the panic rising in her inexplicably.

‘Emma, come along!’ Edwin called. ‘This water’s freezing.’

Quelling her apprehension, Emma followed his instructions and tremblingly climbed on to his back. Edwin struck out across the beck, but he had misjudged the force of the water and several times he thought they would be dragged downstream, as if there were a rapid current sucking at his legs like a vortex. Yet he knew this could not be so. They went under once, but he valiantly struggled to the surface, spluttering, and pushed forward, swimming with all of his strength. It was an exhausting battle for Edwin, and a terrorizing experience for Emma, who clung to him tenaciously. Finally they reached the opposite bank. Edwin panted and gasped and spat out water, catching hold of a small shrub miraculously intact on the side of the bank. He paused to regain his breath, grasping the roots of the shrub, and then he hauled them both up out of the swirling beck, stumbling and sliding in the process. They fell on to the ground and lay there for several minutes, chests heaving, coughing and rasping and wiping the water from their faces.

At last Emma said, ‘Thank yer, Edwin. I thought we’d drown once. I did, really. But yer a good swimmer.’

Edwin’s chest was congested and tight, and he was unable to speak, but he gave her a lopsided smile and shook his head wearily.

‘Do yer feel all right?’ Emma regarded him with some misgiving. In the moonlight he looked extraordinarily pale and depleted, and he shivered more violently than she herself did.

‘Yes.’ He groaned, sitting up. ‘Let’s get going. It’s cold, Emma.’ He grinned ruefully as he looked at her dripping hair and face and clothes. ‘We’re like a couple of drowned rats again.’

“But we’re safe and we’ll soon be at the Hall,’ she responded, adopting a cheerful tone.

The lower road had turned to mire and was also strewn here and there with rocks and branches. In spite of its slimy surface, and the various obstructions, they managed to walk at a brisk pace, and once Edwin’s breathing was more normally restored they began to run, holding hands tightly, only slowing their pace when they had to skirt boulders and dismembered trees, arriving at the main entrance to Fairley Hall much sooner than they had anticipated. One of the great iron gates, bearing the Fairley family crest in polished bronze, had been half ripped off its hinges, and dangled precariously from the high brick wall surrounding the grounds. Walking up the gravel path, they saw that even here the storm had wreaked its havoc. Flower beds had been flattened, bushes shredded, hedges crushed, and some of the box and yew topiary specimens, clipped into fantastic shapes, had been smashed beyond recognition.

To Edwin’s immense distress one of the great oaks had been struck by lightning, split asunder, a monument to time finally felled by God’s wrath and nature’s unpredictability. It was here that Edwin paused and took Emma in his arms. He pushed back her dripping hair and gazed down into her face, its loveliness unmarred by the water and mud streaking it, palely gleaming in the moonlight shafting through the bower of green oak leaves drifting above them. He bent down and kissed her fully on the mouth and with passion, but it was a passion tempered now by tenderness. They clung together, swaying gently. After a moment of silent communion, Edwin said, ‘I love you, Emma. You love me, too, don’t you?’

Her green eyes, iridescent with light and glittering catlike in the darkness, swept over his face, and a swift pain shot through her, piercing and poignant and she was filled with a strange emotion she had not experienced before. It was a sweet emotion, yet one tinged with sadness and a vague and curious yearning she did not understand. ‘Yes, I do,’ she answered softly.

He touched her face lightly, returning that penetrating look concentrated so ardently upon him. ‘Then you will meet me up at the cave at the Top of the World, later in the week when the weather has improved, won’t you?’

She was silent. Up until this moment Edwin had not contemplated the possibility that she might refuse, but now the idea struck him so forcibly he was filled with panic. ‘Please, please say you will,’ he entreated, conscious of the protracted silence, her hesitation. He pressed his body closer to hers and cajoled, ‘We can have a picnic again.’

Still she remained silent. ‘Oh, Emma, please, please don’t spurn me.’ His whisper was hoarse and a new desperation had crept into his voice. Edwin held her away from him and examined her face, so pale and inscrutable. There was a look in her eyes that baffled him, one he was quite incapable of inter-preting. ‘You’re not upset about—about—what happened? What we did, are you?’ he asked gently, wondering with rising alarm if this was indeed the reason for her unexpected and sudden unresponsiveness to him. Then in the faint moonlight sifting through the trees he saw the deep flush rising to her neck to flood her face with dark colour, and his heart sank. She was angry with him.

Emma turned away. But Edwin’s harsh breathing stabbed at her and she quickly brought her face back to his, peering deeply into his bluish-grey eyes, and what she saw there made her heart lift on a crest that was joyous and it overwhelmed her. His eyes were full of love and longing but, hovering behind these mingled feelings so clearly apparent, she saw a flicker of fear. Emma knew then with the utmost certainty that Edwin Fairley did truly love her, just as he had said he did. And she loved him. He was part of her now. She marvelled that this one person in the whole world could suddenly mean so much to her, could have become, within a few hours, so necessary, taking precedence above all else. It was a possibility she had neither anticipated nor bargained for. She could no longer bear to witness the pain in his eyes. ‘Yes, Edwin, I will meet yer up at the cave, and I’m not angry about what we did.’ She smiled and it was that same smile that always suffused her face with radiance.

Edwin’s facial muscles, tight and intense with apprehension, relaxed, and he too smiled, taking her into his arms with a rush of relief and happiness. ‘Oh, Emma, Emma, my sweet Emma. You’re everything to me.’

Poised under the old oaks, locked in an embrace that was further sealing their destinies, they were oblivious to their dripping clothes, their shivering limbs, the cold night air. They were conscious only of each other and their fierce and flaring emotions, not realizing, in their euphoria, that emotions could wreak devastation as horrendous as the ripped and shattered landscape surrounding them. Eventually they drew apart, searching each other’s face for confirmation of their love. Edwin nodded, his eyes awash with tender lights, and Emma smiled, and then silently they went up to the house, hand in hand. Edwin was jaunty and seemingly untroubled, but Emma, pragmatist that she was, had suddenly begun to consider the welcome they would receive. She was patently aware that it would be far from cordial and certainly one of furious reprimands.

When they turned into the cobbled stable yard they saw that the kitchen door was wide open, spilling light. Standing in this corridor of light was a distraught Mrs Turner. She was perfectly still, watching, waiting, her arms akimbo, her plump face a stony mask, yet she gave the impression, in her very quietness, of wringing hands and doom and dire consequences. Emma slipped her hand out of Edwin’s and hung back, allowing him to walk ahead of her.

Mrs Turner was utterly relieved and overjoyed to see Edwin, but her anxiety had been so pronounced, and she had been so overwrought for hours, this relief quickly manifested itself in a flash of intense anger. It was only because Edwin was the young master of the house, and therefore entitled to proper respect, that Cook controlled that anger, but her voice was shrill as she stared down at him.

‘Master Edwin! Where have yer been? Yer gave me a right turn when yer didn’t come home. Why, it’s almost ten o’clock. I thought yer were lost on the moors, or dead, with this raging storm. Aye, I did that!’ She shook her head energetically and her eyes sparked. ‘By gum, Master Edwin, it’s a good job the Squire’s away, and Master Gerald is in Bradford for the weekend, or yer’d be copping it, yer would indeed. Scared me half ter death, yer did. Why, I’ve had Tom out twice with the lantern, searching for yer up yonder!’

The cook heaved a great sigh that rippled her vast bosom. ‘Well, young man, don’t dawdle about there, come inter the kitchen at once!’ She turned and hurried inside, followed by Edwin, who was mounting the stone steps. She had not noticed Emma, who was reluctantly loitering in the shadows. Edwin stopped at the kitchen door and beckoned. ‘Come on, it’s all right, Emma. I’ll handle Mrs Turner,’ he whispered.

‘I’ve got water boiling in the set pot in the washhouse,’ Cook announced from the centre of the kitchen, her eyes roving swiftly over Edwin’s filthy clothes that dripped water, and his mud-splattered face. ‘Well, aren’t yer a right sight, Master Edwin!’ she snorted. ‘Yer look as if yer’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, yer do that.’

It was then that Mrs Turner saw Emma slipping through the door and down the kitchen stairs. She was incredulous and her jaw sagged. ‘Aay, lass, what are yer doing here? I thought yer were safe at home with yer dad. I never dreamt yer were out in this weather.’

Emma did not answer. Mrs Turner looked from Emma to Edwin, staring at them open-mouthed. Her voice was brusque when she found it. ‘Yer haven’t told me yet what yer doing trailing in at this hour, with Master Edwin, looking like a drowned rat. Come on, lass, speak up!’ She glared at Emma, and tapped her foot impatiently, hands on her hips.

Before Emma could reply, Edwin stepped forward and said with a show of self-confidence, and just enough superiority to remind Cook who he was, ‘I came across Emma on the moors, during the storm, Mrs Turner. She told me she was due back this afternoon, to help you with the jam making, or some such other domestic task. We tried to make it back together, but I decided the thunderstorm was too dangerous. We sheltered up at Ramsden Crags as best we could, waiting for the tempest to abate.’ He paused and fixed his cool eyes on the roiling cook. ‘It was rather difficult geting back, even when the rain ceased. The Ghyll is flooded and the beck by the lower road is dangerously high. But, here we are, safe if a little bedraggled.’ He smiled engagingly, displaying that irresistible charm of his father’s, which was so inherent in him.

‘Bedraggled! I thinks that’s the blinking understatement of the year, Master Edwin, I do that!’ Mrs Turner cried scathingly. ‘Yer looks like a couple of mudlarks, nay, guttersnipes!’ Her head rolled again and her eyes flew open. ‘Thank heaven Murgatroyd’s in Shipley. He wouldn’t take kindly ter the fuss yer disappearance has caused around here, Master Edwin. Mark my words, he wouldn’t.’

‘I didn’t disappear, Mrs Turner,’ Edwin responded quietly but with firmness. ‘I got stranded on those wretched moors, through no fault of my own.’

‘Aye, what yer say is true enough,’ she muttered. She glared at them suddenly. ‘Look at yer both, dripping mucky water and mud all over me clean floor. Upstairs at once, Master Edwin, and inter the bathtub. I don’t want yer getting badly again. And take yer filthy boots off. I can’t be having yer tracking mud all over t’carpet upstairs,’ she admonished, but not unkindly.

Mrs Turner turned to Annie, who had remained silent but wide-eyed and agog with curiosity during this discourse. ‘Annie, run ter the washhouse and get two big pails of water, and hurry upstairs ter Master Edwin’s bathroom with ’em. And then bring two buckets in here for Emma.’

Cook now gave Emma her total attention. ‘Yer shouldn’t have stayed up on the moors, lass, with Master Edwin. Yer should’ve turned back. Fact is, yer could have both made it back ter the village in no time at all,’ she remonstrated, her irascibility in evidence. She shook her head and looked from one to the other penetratingly. ‘I thought yer’d have had more sense than that, lass, and Master Edwin as well. Anyroads, inter the servants’ bathroom, me lass. Yer need a hot tub afore yer catch yer death.’

Emma forced a smile on to her face. ‘Yes, Mrs Turner.’ She hurried to the servants’ bathroom behind the kitchen without looking at Edwin.

Edwin had removed his boots and went up the stairs. He swung around at the top and said sweetly, with a warm smile, ‘I do apologize, Mrs Turner, for causing you grief and worry. It was not intentional, you know.’

‘Aye, Master Edwin, I knows.’

‘Oh, by the way, I’m afraid I had to abandon the picnic basket. But I’ll retrieve it for you another day.’

‘Aye, I expects yer will, if there’s owt left of it,’ she mumbled. There was such chagrin on his face she softened, for Edwin was her favourite. ‘When yer’ve had yer bath, get straight inter yer bed, and I’ll bring yer up a nice plate of cold lamb and some bubble-and-squeak. I knows how much yer enjoys that,’ she said, indicating the pan of leftover vegetables frying gently on the stove. ‘I’ve kept the bubble-and-squeak warm for hours for yer, Master Edwin.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Turner.’ He smiled and was gone.

Cook gazed after his retreating figure and then sat down with a loud thump in the chair, her face creased with worry. She had seen the two of them, whispering and laughing together in corners of the house, when they were unaware of her keen but silent observation. She had also noticed them in the garden together, too many times for her liking of late. She pondered on Edwin’s story, for a moment doubting it. She frowned. Yet it had a ring of truth to it, and she had never caught Master Edwin out in lies, or deceitfulness, since the day he was born. He wasn’t like Gerald, who was cunning and devious.

Still…small suspicions crept into her mind, which was now awash with perplexed and troubled thoughts. It’s not right, servants and gentry mixing, she said inwardly. Stepping out of her class, that lass is. She pondered further on this. ‘That’s bad. It makes for real trouble. We have ter know our place,’ she said aloud to the empty room. Elsie Turner shuddered unexpectedly and goose pimples ran up her fat arms, as long-forgotten memories rushed back, so clear and vividly alive they brought her up in her chair with a start. Not again, she thought, and shivered. It can’t be happening again.