nd so it began: the most relentless pursuit of money ever embarked upon, the most grinding and merciless work schedule ever conceived and willingly undertaken by a seventeen-year-old girl.

By day, Emma worked at the mill; at night, after a hastily eaten light tea, she retreated to her bedroom at Laura’s and designed and cut and sewed clothes for a rapidly increasing clientele, local women informed by the devoted Laura of her flair with a needle, and her reasonable prices.

On Sundays, Emma baked fruit pies, bacon-and-egg pies, meat pies, and all manner of fancy pastries and cakes; she cooked mousses, jellies, custards, and trifles, using Olivia Wainright’s recipes, catering for parties and special occasions for the neighbours and, before long, the local gentry. When she was not engaged in her culinary endeavours for her growing number of customers, she bottled fresh fruits and vegetables; pickled onions, red cabbage, and walnuts; made chutneys and relishes and jams, which were painstakingly labelled and dated in her meticulous script, supplies being hoarded in Laura’s cellar to be sold later in her shop. Emma scrupulously lived on the weekly wage she earned at the mill as a weaver, and every penny she made from her dressmaking and catering was poured back into ‘the business’, as she called it, to purchase the necessary sewing materials and foodstuffs.

This worried Laura, but Emma pointed out, ‘You’ve got to spend money to make money,’ and she refused to listen to warnings about ‘getting in over your head’. However, it was not long before Emma began to show a small profit, much to her satisfaction, and Laura’s great relief.

Emma was dogged, ruthless with herself, scraping, saving, and working seven days a week and seven nights as well. She had no time to lose now. Her first goal—the first shop. And after that, more shops until she had a chain of shops just as Michael Marks had a chain of Penny Bazaars. But hers would be elegant stores which would cater to the carriage trade. That was where the real money was, where great quantities of money could be made by an astute retailer. To get that first shop Emma herself needed money. Money for the rent. Money for the fixtures and fittings and display stands. Money to purchase the stocks. Somehow she had to get that money and she determined that nothing and nobody would stop her. Emma had no doubts about her ultimate success. ‘Failure’ and ‘defeat’ were words now entirely erased from her vocabulary, for her belief in herself was absolute, and she knew, also, that she had one essential and most vital characteristic—an enormous capacity for work.

For a whole year, after she had learned of her father’s death, Emma took no time off whatsoever, except to visit Edwina one day every month. She regretted she did not have time to go to Ripon more often, as she had promised Freda, but she assuaged her terrible feelings of guilt and worry by reminding herself she was working for Edwina’s future.

Emma made only one trip to Fairley to see Frank during this time, and that was when Winston was home on leave again. They had decided, she and her elder brother, on that devastating April Sunday, that Frank should remain in Fairley with their Aunt Lily. It seemed to them both to be the best solution. He would continue to work in the mill offices until he was fifteen. At that time, they agreed, Frank could determine for himself whether or not he wished to pursue a writing career. If he did, Emma and Winston would somehow find a way for him to do this; perhaps working in Leeds, as a copy boy on one of the newspapers, learning the journalistic profession and attending night school; or perhaps they would have enough money between them to send him away to school.

‘Frank has been given a brain, Winston. A marvellous brain. And he has a talent for words. It’s a gift, really. It must not be wasted,’ Emma had proclaimed. ‘We must give him every chance, no matter what.’ Winston had nodded his concurrence. Emma had also made another decision that afternoon. She had informed Winston, and in no uncertain terms, that he must send Frank writing materials on a continuing basis. ‘Even if you have to forgo a few pints and cigarettes,’ she had ordered. She herself would undertake to supply Frank with a good dictionary and other books of her choice. He ought to be exposed to literature, such as the plays of Shakespeare, the novels of Dickens, Trollope, and Thackeray, philosophical works and histories. Victor Kallinski knew all about books and he would help her to select the most appropriate ones. Frank had been given his orders, too. He must study diligently, reading every night and in all of his free time, in order to further his education on his own. Aunt Lily was instructed to enforce this programme.

‘There will be no shirking, Frank, since Winston and I are making a special effort for you,’ Emma had warned in her sternest tone. Frank had been only too delighted to accept her offer, and he was not at all appalled by the rigid timetable she had worked out for him. He could not wait for the first books to arrive and he knew, too, that he would not change his mind about writing.

Emma had told Winston, Frank, and her Aunt Lily, only partial truths when she had given them her address in Armley. She had explained that she called herself Mrs Harte, and had invented a husband in the navy, simply as protection against unwanted and bothersome young men who might otherwise come courting. Winston had smiled at this ruse. He had actually congratulated her on her sense of self-preservation and told her she was being practical. Emma did not breathe a word about Edwina.

With Winston’s career in the navy progressing, Frank’s future temporarily settled, and Edwina safe in Ripon, Emma felt she was free to embark on her Plan with a capital P and devote herself solely to her own ambitions. She was unflagging and intensely involved in her work schedule, one that would have felled anyone else. She was oblivious to the passing of the days, her surroundings, and anything else that would intrude on the average girl’s thoughts.

Sometimes Emma was even oblivious to her friends. At first, Blackie had believed Emma would not be able to sustain the exhausting grind, and so he had quietly cautioned Laura not to interfere. But as the months dragged on and Emma persisted in her endless toil, they both became concerned. In particular, David Kallinski was worried to such an extent that one night he sought out Blackie at the Mucky Duck.

David had been tense, and without preamble had launched into the reason for his visit. ‘Emma won’t listen to me, Blackie. When I last spoke to her I suggested she should be a little kinder to herself, that she should only work during the week, like everyone else with any sense, and take the weekends off. I said something about doing everything in moderation, and do you know what she replied?’

Blackie had shaken his head, his own worry a reflection of David’s. ‘I’ve no idea, lad. She comes out with all sorts of strange remarks these days.’

‘She said to me, “In my opinion, moderation is a vastly overrated virtue, particularly when applied to work, David.” Can you believe it?’

‘Aye, I can. She’s stubborn, Emma is, David. And what ye be telling me doesn’t surprise me. I’ve tried talking to her meself lately, without success. She just won’t pay no mind to anybody,’ Blackie had grumbled.

‘Try talking to her again, Blackie. Please,’ David had implored. ‘Get her to take this Sunday off. I’ll come up to Armley, and we’ll go for a walk in the park, and listen to the band. Blackie, promise me you’ll at least try.’

‘By God, I’m going to do it, David! I shall be real forceful with her. I shall tell her now she is worrying us all. That ought to do the trick, I bet. I’m going to bring Emma to the park with Laura and me, even if I have to drag her there by the scruff of her neck!’

Now on the designated Sunday, a brilliantly sunny July afternoon, David Kallinski walked along Stanningley Road to the entrance of Armley Park. He was dressed in his best suit and a sparkling white shirt, set off by a deep wine-coloured cravat neatly knotted above his waistcoat, and fastened with an imitation-pearl pin. With his carefully pressed clothes, and his black boots shined to perfection, he had a well-groomed immaculate look about him. His thick black hair gleamed like jet and his handsome face, freshly barbered and smelling faintly of bay rum, was vibrant with pleasure at the thought of seeing Emma.

He entered the park through handsome iron gates, surmounted by the city’s coat of arms, and strolled down the principal approach, a wide carriageway leading to a large classically designed fountain. He stood at ease, his hands in his pockets, watching the soaring jets of water being discharged high into the air and cascading back down into the fountain, scintillating like hundreds of strings of tiny diamonds as they caught and held the sunlight. Fascinated by the intricately constructed fountain, he moved closer and read the inscription.

Erected by William Gott of Armley House In Commemoration of the Sixtieth Year of the Reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria 1837 to 1897

The Gott family were immensely wealthy millowners and had endowed many statues to the city of Leeds. When he could afford it, David decided, he would make philanthropic donations that would help people, rather than building statues and fountains, which, however beautiful, were essentially useless.

He turned away and traversed the exquisitely landscaped gardens, laid out in Italian style and flanked by pathways avenued by young limes and elms and poplars, all offering shade on this scorching day. The gardens blazed with glorious colour. Stylized flower beds were awash with the abundant reds and pinks of the gay geranium, the deep purples and sharp yellows of the velvet-petalled pansy, the whites and pinks and mauves of the tall and graceful foxglove. Variegated greens, lushly inviting, sloped away into the distance and were highlighted with patches of pink and white thrifts, and the cheerful little nasturtium leapt like fire alongside the cool blues of the iris. Skirting the gardens were all manner of shrubs and trees, for Armley Park contained more specimens than any other park in Leeds; various hollies moved darkly polished branches towards the softer weigela with its applelike blossoms, while copper beeches, their leaves trembling with a burnished radiance in the warm breeze, towered majestically above mock orange blossom trees, festooned and dripping with the palest of blush pinks. Rockeried paths and open spaces of grass, as smooth as emerald satin, were enclosed by additional shrubs and trees, and richly planted borders of the vivid zinnia ranged down the flagged and gravelled walks.

Along these pathways moved starchly uniformed nannies pushing perambulators; courting couples; prettily gowned ladies accompanied by stiffly tailored husbands. David mingled amongst them, thinking how idyllic the scene was on this splendid day. He was glad to be alive with his future ahead of him and so many things to see and do, so much to achieve. Success beckoned and he was as positive as Emma that his own business enterprises would prosper.

And why not? This was the year of 1907, when King Edward’s reign was at its zenith and his popularity with his people unchallenged; a year when society flirted and danced and hunted and sailed and laughed away the days under King Bertie’s outgoing and benevolent rule; a year when the aristocracy made pleasure the god and gave no thought to the grim realities of life, or of war, for the Africa debacle was forgotten and peace in Europe was assured. In short, 1907 was a year when the ruling classes lived their carefree lives to the full, not considering the stony-faced world beyond the shores of their glorious and invincible England. And every Englishman, David Kallinski included, was lulled into a sense of false security by their debonair example. The years ahead were full of promise. Change was ripe in the air. Things could only get better. The future, for all, was bright with hope.

Consequently, David’s step was lively as he headed for the bandstand. This pagoda-like structure, a dubious tribute to England’s far-flung empire, added a touch of the exotic and the oriental to this typical English park, appeared oddly incongruous in that peaceful and gentle setting. Particularly so this afternoon, since it housed the visiting military band of the Grenadier Guards, bedazzling in their magnificent uniforms and shining from head to toe with the proverbial ‘spit and polish’ of the British army, and curiously out of place in that somewhat outlandish and whimsical replica of a mandarin’s teahouse.

He scanned the seats in front of the bandstand and, seeing no sight of his friends, settled himself in one of the small wroughtiron chairs. The band finished warming up and, after a few flourishes, they commenced their programme with the national anthem. As the concert continued thoughts of Emma drifted into David’s head and took complete hold of him. She was rarely out of his mind these days, and he realized his interest in her was not solely as a business associate, but as a woman. The tender but also passionate feelings he now harboured for her had crept up on him so stealthily he had been taken by surprise. And how did she feel about him? he wondered. Anything at all, other than affection and friendship? Was she too preoccupied with her work to give him a solitary thought? And she was married, a circumstance he had to face. The prospects were bleak for any man who had the bad luck to fall in love with a married woman. But love her he did. Where is that damned husband of hers? David asked himself. The missing husband had not appeared on the scene at all, not even when the baby was born. Sailors came home on leave, didn’t they? It was a mystery, but David had not, as yet, ventured to ask Emma about her husband, or whether she still loved him. David suspected that she did not. Emma never mentioned him, nor did she appear to miss him. David sighed. He had to admit that his hands were tied. He could not, in all conscience, proclaim himself to her, in view of her marital status.

David, lost in his reverie, was startled by Blackie’s voice at his shoulder. ‘There ye are, me boyo!’ David looked up quickly and was disappointed to see that only Laura Spencer accompanied Blackie. David stood and took Blackie’s outstretched hand. He bent down and kissed Laura affectionately on the cheek, and flashed her a gay smile that belied his real feelings. However, he was unable to keep the dejection out of his voice when he asked, ‘What happened to Emma? Where is she?’

‘Ah, David, ‘tis sorry I am to be telling ye that Emma declined the invitation. I tried, sure and I did, to persuade her to join us. But she was obstinate as always. She’s finishing a blasted frock for a lady at the Towers, and she wouldn’t budge an inch,’ explained Blackie with a little grimace. ‘Still an’ all, she did say she’d be right delighted to see ye for supper at Laura’s later.’ Blackie continued in a cheery tone, ‘Now, me lad, don’t look so downcast! We’ll go back to the house in a few hours. She’ll be finished by then.’ He swung his head to Laura. ‘And what about ye, love? What would ye like to be doing?’

‘Let’s go for a walk, if David doesn’t mind,’ Laura murmured softly.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ David said.

The three of them wandered away from the bandstand and the rousing strains of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. David glanced at Laura. She looked radiant. She was wearing a simple dress made of an inexpensive muslin of the palest yellow, patterned with daisies and sprigs of green, and the gauzy fabric floated around her like a cloud of hazy sunny colour, emphasizing her willowy figure and her grace of movement. A large-brimmed straw hat, trimmed with yellow and pink tea roses, shaded her face and there was something ethereal about her today. Under the brim of the hat her face looked incandescent, framed by her golden hair and illuminated by her liquid eyes.

‘You are looking lovely, Laura,’ David said gallantly. ‘And I like your dress. It’s very becoming to you, love.’

‘Thank you, David,’ she said. ‘Emma made it for me. She also trimmed this old hat and turned it into a brand new one. She’s so talented, isn’t she?’

David nodded and Blackie grunted. ‘Aye, but her talent won’t be doing her much good in the graveyard, I am thinking.’

‘Blackie! What a terrible thing to say!’ Laura cried. She gave David a lightning glance. He was silent, but she noticed then that he was biting his lip and looked worried. Laura wisely made no further remarks, but she threw a rather cold glare at Blackie, who had the grace to look chagrined.

They walked around the park slowly. Blackie and Laura talked amiably together about things in general; the usually gregarious David was silent and brooding. Eventually they found themselves at the top of a steep ridge where steps led down to the river Aire. Laura complained of the heat, and so they sat down on a bench under the shade of a weeping willow. David gazed morosely across the river, his eyes resting reflectively on the ruins of the grand Cistercian Abby of Kirkstall on the opposite shore. Then they flitted across the tranquil scenery that stretched towards the horizon, taking in Horsforth Woods beyond the ruins, which were capped further by Rawdon village and Wharfedale’s Reach. He sighed and took out his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Blackie, who accepted it and murmured his thanks. Finally, David could not hold back any longer. He faced Blackie and said, ‘I don’t understand it, Blackie. What is it that drives Emma so hard?’

‘Hatred, pure and simple,’ Blackie replied automatically, and he could have bitten off his tongue. Furious with himself, he turned away.

Laura gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She said, ‘Oh, Blackie, surely not!’

David was equally disturbed by this statement. ‘Hatred!’ he said sharply. ‘Not Emma. She is loving and sweet. And hatred for who?’

Blackie did not answer for a moment. He cursed himself instead. He was a big-mouthed fool. A stupid boyo. He was that, indeed. In Blackie’s opinion Emma’s hatred was for the Fairleys. But he was not about to divulge this to David or Laura.

‘Come on, Blackie. Give me an answer,’ David pressed. ‘Don’t sit there looking so mysterious.’

Blackie roused himself. ‘I don’t really know, David. I shouldn’t have spoken so rashly, lad. But ye know what the Irish are like, always blabbering on. Anyroads, I didn’t mean anybody specific.’ Blackie paused, his face a picture of assumed innocence. ‘I think perhaps it is hatred for the circumstances of her life,’ he suggested, trying to cover his error. ‘And hatred for poverty. That’s what drives Emma. Her terrible need for money.’

David looked a bit sceptical and he frowned. ‘I know Emma wants money. But then, so do you, Blackie. So do I. On the other hand, we don’t devote our lives to its accumulation to the exclusion of all else.’

Blackie leaned forward, his black eyes intense. ‘Aye, lad, but we be wanting money for different reasons than Emma. It occurs to me ye be desirous of it to buy yeself a better life. Sure and why not? ‘Tis the fine house ye be wanting, David, and the smart carriage and the elegant clothes. A few of the beautiful things, I am thinking, just like me. And a bit of security for the future, eh?’

David nodded, for Blackie did indeed speak the truth. ‘But you said Emma wants money for a different reason. What does she want it for?’

Blackie smiled a small, odd smile. ‘As a weapon.’

‘A weapon! Against whom?’ Laura demanded.

Blackie took her hand gently. ‘Don’t be upsetting yeself, Laura. Ye be misunderstanding me, love.’ He regretted having embarked on this discussion and he was loath to continue, but they had him cornered. Two pairs of questioning eyes pinned him down. He had to explain his statements as best he could. Blackie cleared his throat. ‘I mean that Emma herself believes that money is a weapon—’

‘Against who!’ David cried, interrupting him abruptly. ‘You still haven’t answered Laura.’

‘Not against anyone in particular, David.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe against the world. Yes, I am thinking she will use her money, when she has it, against the world. Or rather, them in it that might try to do her wrong. Ye see, Emma wants money to protect herself and Edwina. She aims to build a fortress around herself and that child, so that nothing can hurt them. Ever. That’s all I meant, lad.’

David was not only disbelieving but shocked. ‘You are painting a very strange picture, Blackie. That’s not the Emma I know.’

‘Aye, lad, but I know her better than ye and for much longer. And I think I understand what drives her,’ Blackie murmured, remembering that exigent look in Emma’s eyes the first day they had met on the moors. ‘I know for a fact she won’t rest until she gets that shop. And then it’ll be another shop, and another, and another, Emma aims to be a very rich woman one day. You know something, David? She’ll succeed. Sure and she will.’

‘But at what cost?’ asked David. ‘Look at her now. She’s as thin as a rail and worn out. She has black rings under her eyes far too often these days.’ His eyes rested on Laura. ‘You must admit I’m right.’

Laura confessed, ‘Yes, you are correct to some extent, David, but, in all fairness to Emma, she does eat properly and takes care of herself.’

‘Except that she never sleeps.’

‘Oh, she does, David!’ Laura countered in defence of her friend. ‘At least five hours. She doesn’t seem to need as much rest as other people. But, of course, to be truthful, I am worried about her, too.’ Laura touched Blackie’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should speak to her again. I mean, about taking it more easily.’

‘How little ye be knowing her, Laura, if ye think anything I say would do any good. She won’t listen,’ said Blackie regretfully.

‘You mean we just have to stand by and watch her kill herself with work!’ cried David heatedly.

Blackie could not resist chortling. ‘Don’t let Emma hear ye say that,’ he said through his laughter. ‘She doesn’t believe hard work killed anybody. Sloth, maybe. And ye know yeself what she said about moderation, David.’ Blackie shook his head, his eyes still merry. ‘Aye, she’s unique, Emma is.’

David gazed at him for a moment and then he turned away and sat puffing on his cigarette, attempting to evaluate Blackie’s words.

‘You know, I thought Emma’s idea about having a shop was foolish at first, Blackie,’ Laura ventured, ‘but now I am beginning to think it might be the best thing. It would get her out of the mill. She hates that place.’

David said, ‘I had hoped she would come into partnership with me. By this time next year I will have saved up enough to start my own factory. I intend to make a line of women’s clothes, as well as take on outside contracting, like my father does. Emma has already designed a line for me.’ His face lit up. ‘Have you seen it, Laura?’

‘Yes, Emma showed me her sketches. Her ideas are marvellous. I think. Why, that coat with the detachable cape, and the reversible jacket are brilliant and her maternity clothes—well—they are revolutionary, wouldn’t you say? I don’t know of anyone making those wraparound skirts, blouses, and dresses that expand to fit the figure as it gets larger. Do you, David?’

‘No. She’s far ahead of her time as far as styling is concerned.’

‘I can’t argue with ye about that,’ interjected Blackie. ‘Listen, both of ye, don’t let’s be looking on the black side. Emma will be all right in the long run. She’s a real survivor. But if it makes ye both feel better, why don’t we all talk to her tonight. Careful like, so we don’t upset her. Perhaps we can get her to slow down for a bit. The three of us together might be able to make some headway.’ Blackie was not convinced Emma would pay any attention to them, but he wanted to alleviate their worry, Laura’s in particular.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ agreed David. He now looked at Blackie guardedly before commencing in a cautious voice, ‘Look here, Blackie, I know this is none of my business, but where the hell is that husband of Emma’s? It seems a bit queer to me that he hasn’t been home on leave. Emma came to work for Dad in August of 1905. That’s almost two years ago and her husband has been noticeably absent all that time.’

Blackie had been anticipating this question, dreading it, in fact, for months. He had warned Emma time and again to prepare a plausible story. Last week she had told him she was soon going to announce that her sailor husband had deserted her. Taking a deep breath, Blackie now decided to save her the trouble. ‘Ah, David, I’m glad ye asked me, sure and I am.’ He turned swiftly to Laura and took her hand in his. ‘And ye might as well be knowing, too, me love. Emma has been a trifle embarrassed, not knowing how to be telling ye both her news. Ye see, that bleeding husband—’ He stopped short and squeezed Laura’s hand apologetically. ‘Sorry, love, I know ye don’t like me to be swearing. Anyroads, that rascally husband of hers has done a bunk, ye might say. He deserted Emma some time ago.’ Blackie, praying he was being convincing, went on, ‘Seems he wants a big naval career, sure and he does. He told Emma he didn’t want to be tied down by a wife. I don’t expect we’ll see hide nor hair of him in these parts. No, he won’t ever be back. That’s my guess.’

‘Oh, Blackie, how terrible for poor Emma and the baby,’ Laura cried, and he felt her hand tremble in his.

Blackie put his arm around her. ‘Now, mavourneen, there’s no reason for ye to be getting all worked up. Emma isn’t that bothered, not at all, at all. ’Tis glad, she is, I am thinking. Sure and did she not say to me, “Good riddance”, after she be telling me all the details,’ he lied smoothly.

David was utterly still, but his heart was beating rapidly and a tingling excitement surged through his veins. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he remarked in an even voice that did not betray the jubilance he was feeling. ‘Still, if Emma is not unhappy, then perhaps it is for the best.’ He wondered, as he spoke, how much a divorce cost.

Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, ye are right.’

David sprang up. His despondency had vanished. ‘Shall we make our way back and then listen to the music for a while, before going on to the house?’

‘Sure and why not,’ agreed Blackie. He helped Laura up off the bench and they walked slowly in the direction of the bandstand. And Blackie thought: I must warn Emma I’ve neatly disposed of that sailor husband of hers.

Whilst these discussions had been taking place in Armley Park, Emma was not at home sewing, as her friends believed. She was on her way to see Joe Lowther, who lived in another part of Armley.

The minute Laura and Blackie had departed, Emma had quickly changed into her black silk dress, donned her Leghorn straw bonnet, and taken sixty pounds out of the black tin box, that contained her savings. She had rushed out of the house, close on the heels of her friends, a look of resolve on her face.

Quite by accident, when she had been shopping for groceries yesterday, she had seen it. The shop. Her shop. It was one of three that adjoined each other in a small block that fronted on to Town Street, and it was vacant. Emma had stopped abruptly, gazing at it hypnotized. It appeared exactly right for her in every way. The timing was perfect; she now had the money required for the rent and the stocks. The large empty window had been whitewashed, but there was a small clear space in the centre, where a notice had been neatly stuck on the inside. TO LET, it had read, and underneath was printed the name of the landlord, Mr Joe Lowther, and his address. Emma had memorized the details and hurried home late on Saturday afternoon, determined to be the first applicant the following day. She did not care that this was Sunday, a day when business was not normally conducted, since she was prepared to do business any day of the week.

Now as she walked briskly through the labyrinth of streets, almost breathless with mounting excitement, she half regretted selecting the black dress. It was really too warm for this scorching day. But in spite of the heat and the warmth of the dress, Emma did not slow her pace, and within fifteen minutes she was approaching the street where Joe Lowther lived. She found the house and marched up the stone steps resolutely. She knocked soundly three times and waited. A few moments elapsed before the door was opened by a tall, sturdily built young man. He was fair, with large grey eyes and light brown hair, and his pleasant face was open and honest. He was in his shirt sleeves and his hair was rumpled.

He stared down at Emma, obviously surprised to see a visitor. ‘Yes, miss, what can I do for you?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I’d like to see your father, please,’ Emma said politely, and proffered a tentative smile.

‘My father? I think you must have the wrong house, miss. My father’s been dead these past six years.’

‘Oh dear, perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I was looking for the home of a Mr Joe Lowther.’

‘Then you’ve found it, miss. I’m Joe Lowther.’

Emma was surprised. ‘Oh! Well, please excuse me, but I thought you seemed a bit young to be the landlord of the shop on Town Street. The shop that’s to let,’ Emma said with her usual forthrightness. She saw at once that the young man was bristling and she rushed on, ‘Are you that Mr Lowther?’

‘That’s me, all right,’ said the young man. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you interested in the shop, then? For your mother?’

‘No,’ Emma said, faintly amused. He was apparently stinging from her reference to his youthful appearance, and so she smiled that radiant smile and her unwavering green gaze, warm and self-assured, did not leave his face. ‘Actually, I want to rent the shop for myself.’

Joe Lowther said, ‘Oh, you do, do you! Aren’t you a bit young? What experience of retailing do you have, miss?’

Emma considered this to be none of his business, but refrained from telling him so, being canny enough not to brush him the wrong way again. Instead she said, ‘I have some experience, and I’ve also done a lot of dressmaking and catering here in Armley. I have a nice business going, and now I want a shop so I can conduct it from there.’ Her voice vibrated with enormous confidence as she added, ‘And I’m certainly not too young, Mr Lowther.’

Joe shook his head. ‘No. No. It wouldn’t work. I can’t say I’d be willing to rent the shop to you, miss,’ he said with a certain brusqueness.

Emma ignored his blunt retort. ‘But I am willing to take the the shop off your hands now, Mr Lowther. At once. Today.’ Emma climbed up two steps until she was on a level with Joe Lowther. She stared at him, exercising all of her considerable charm, smiling beguilingly. ‘Can’t we go inside and discuss this, Mr Lowther?’ she asked in a voice as smooth as silk.

‘I can’t see the sense in that, since I won’t change my mind,’ he declared stubbornly. Her proximity was distracting him and as he looked into her face, only a few inches away from his, Joe felt himself growing hot around the collar.

Emma opened her purse, resorting to the one stratagem in which she had absolute belief. ‘I can pay in advance, Mr Lowther.’

Joe reluctantly brought his gaze up to meet Emma’s and he discovered he was mesmerized by those brilliant eyes observing him with such cool concentration. Whatever will the neighbours think if I invite her in? he asked himself. But since he was not generally discourteous, Joe was now ashamed of his rudeness and he found himself saying in a kinder voice, ‘Well, you’re right about one thing, we had better go inside.’ This was really prompted by his concern for the gossips in the street and, so she would not think he had changed his mind about the shop, Joe felt obliged to add, ‘It’s not very fitting to discuss business on the doorstep at the best of times, and especially on Sunday. I don’t usually do business on Sundays, miss.’

‘Well, there’s always a first time for everything, Mr Lowther,’ said Emma, eyeing him with amusement from under her thick lashes. She was aware that Joe was ill at ease and she intended to use this to her advantage.

Why, she’s as bold as brass, Joe thought, seething with combined annoyance and exasperation. Nevertheless, he opened the door wider and ushered her into the house. He showed her into the parlour. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute. Please sit down,’ said Joe. He closed the door behind him and retreated.

Emma stood in the middle of the room, blinking in the dim light. She grimaced as her eyes adjusted to the dolorous gloom. The room reminded her of Mrs Daniel’s front parlour, all Victorian folderols and a preponderance of overstuffed furniture. But the furniture is good, she thought. There’s just too much of it. She seated herself on an uncomfortable horsehair chair to wait.

Emma had discovered three important things since she had been in Leeds: Money talked in the most persuasive voice. Put cold hard cash down on a table and few people could resist picking it up; payment in advance was another irresistible temptation and the more advance you paid, the stronger you were; and finally, opportunity had to be seized firmly the instant it presented itself, because it did not come knocking on the same door twice in one week. Emma considered all of these things, but mostly she wondered if Joe Lowther could be swayed by money. For some reason she was not positive of this. She frowned, ruminating on Joe, endeavouring to assess him. He was certainly bashful. She also knew she had unnerved him on the doorstep and, in her shrewd opinion, this gave her the upper hand. Still, that did not mean he would agree to rent her the shop. Apparently he believed her youth to be a disadvantage, and yet he did not appear to be much older than she was. He was perhaps twenty or twenty-one. Nonetheless, it was imperative that she convince him she was capable and experienced at retailing, and that she would therefore be a responsible tenant. Perhaps three months’ rent would be a suitable inducement. It would not only reassure him of her serious intentions, but would also illustrate her business acumen over the past year. It then struck Emma that she must be her most charming self. Joe Lowther would succumb to sweetness. Sweetness and money. An unbeatable combination. Emma smoothed her dress, feeling calm as the door opened.

Joe had put on his tie and jacket and his hair was now combed back neatly. Emma could see the water glistening on it. She dropped her head quickly so he would not detect the smile on her face. Joe Lowther had become quite transparent to her. There would be a bit of a tussle between them, but the shop would be hers when she left this house.

Joe sat down opposite Emma and, adopting his brusquest tone, he commenced, ‘Now, about the shop, miss. I’ve been thinking it over, and I have definitely decided I can’t rent it to you.’

‘Why ever not?’ Emma asked in her most dulcet voice.

‘Because two people have failed in it this year, and they’d had a lot more experience than you. I don’t want to sound harsh, miss, but you must understand I can’t take a chance on renting to somebody who’s a novice. I’m seeking a tenant that really knows retailing, who’ll make a go of the shop, so I don’t have to be worrying about it being vacant half the time. I’ve better things to do than play nursemaid.’

Emma gave Joe a smile that would have melted half the ice in the Arctic Circle and made her eyes wide but serious. ‘Oh, I do realize that, Mr Lowther,’ she answered. ‘And, in some ways, I understand your reluctance because of my youth. However, it’s not really of great consequence when you consider that I have been running a business from my home. I have been dealing with people, selling to them. My business has been highly profitable. I’ve made a lot of money with my dress-making and homemade foodstuffs. I have good steady customers, mostly the carriage trade, and they would certainly give me their patronage if I had a shop.’ Emma paused and flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Why, they have assured me of that,’ she fibbed adroitly. ‘So you see, I’m not really as inexperienced as you believe, and I do have expectations.’

‘Carriage trade, you say,’ remarked Joe, not unimpressed. ‘And how long have you been running this little business from your home?’

‘About a year,’ said Emma, leaning forward, eagerness washing over her face. ‘And it’s not so little either.’

Joe regarded her intently. She was direct and sounded businesslike and certainly she was not lacking in assurance. In fact, he had never met a girl as self-possessed as she was. Her spirit and enthusiasm were refreshing, almost infectious, and his doubts about her youth and ability were rapidly diminishing. However, she disconcerted him, but then he had always been awkward around girls and one as beautiful as she was bound to make him feel insecure. Still, she only wanted to rent a shop from him and that was all. ‘Well, I don’t really know what to say,’ he began hesitatingly.

Conscious that he was wavering, Emma held up her hand. ‘Just a minute, Mr Lowther,’ she said authoritatively. ‘I said earlier I would pay you in advance.’ She opened her black reticule and brought out a thick roll of bank notes. ‘As you can see, Mr Lowther, I don’t make idle claims. I am a woman of some substance, albeit a young one, and indeed I can pay you well in advance. I know I can make a go of the shop, Mr Lowther. I expect it to be a success within six months.’

Joe stared at her incredulously. ‘Oh, come on! That’s a bit far-fetched. Do you think I fell off a banana boat? I’m not green, you know.’

Emma decided these comments were unworthy of a reply. Instead she stretched out her hand. ‘I have been so rude, Mr Lowther. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Emma Harte.’

He took her hand tentatively. He felt its dry coolness through the crocheted glove and her grip was firm, strong like a man’s. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Harte,’ he said.

‘It’s Mrs Harte,’ said Emma.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ said Joe, assailed by unexpected disappointment.

Emma grabbed the moment to drive her point home. ‘I don’t know what the rent is, Mr Lowther, but I would be prepared to pay you several months in advance.’ She must make the offer so tempting he would not be able to refuse. ‘Shall we say six months in advance? Surely that shows you my good faith and also my belief in myself.’

Joe was floundering, his resolve crumbling under the force of her compelling and winning personality. He recognized he was drawn to her. Dangerously attracted to her. The unworldly Joe was horrified. A married woman! Then it came to him in a rush. That was the real reason he did not want her as a tenant. He was afraid of falling under her spell.

Emma knew she was holding all the cards and she made her final move. She leaned forward and touched his arm gently. Joe jumped as if bitten by a snake. ‘Look here, Mr Lowther,’ Emma said firmly. ‘I have another idea. Apart from paying you the rent in advance, I’m also prepared to give you a letter of agreement stating that should my business fail I will not vacate the premises until you find another tenant. In other words, I will guarantee to give you sufficient warning before leaving. Shall we say three months’ notice?’ she suggested in a guileless voice.

Joe found it impossible to argue with this girl. Not only were her terms sound, they were all in his favour. He would look like an imbecile if he refused such an offer. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you are certainly confident of your success in the shop, Mrs Harte. Otherwise you wouldn’t suggest such an arrangement. But it’s fair enough, I suppose. Don’t you want to look over the shop first, before going into this venture?’

‘I know the shop, Mr Lowther,’ Emma said with an airy wave of her hand. ‘I went into it several times. Your previous tenant was badly organized, the stock was shoddy and far too expensive for its quality, and she was obviously not a very clever buyer. Not only that, she didn’t know her customers!’

‘Oh,’ said Joe, dumbfounded.

‘I presume it’s settled, Mr Lowther,’ said Emma briskly.

‘Er, yes, of course. I’ll rent the shop to you,’ he said. ‘For a guinea a week. That makes it four guineas a month. There are living quarters attached to the shop. A large kitchen-parlour, a bedroom, and a huge cellar for storage. You could live there, behind the shop, and very comfortably, if you had a mind to.’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I probably will live there. It makes sense. Now, four guineas a month is around forty-eight guineas a year, give or take a few shillings, isn’t it?’ She began to peel off the notes, doing some fast mental arithmetic. ‘Could I have a receipt, please?’ she asked politely, handing over the cash.

‘Naturally,’ said Joe. ‘And I will get you the key and the rent book. I’ll mark the book paid for six months. Should it be in your name or your husband’s?’

‘Mine, please. My husband is in the navy, Mr Lowther. In foreign parts.’

‘Is he really!’ said Joe.

Emma nodded and went on, ‘I’ll write you the letter of agreement about the three months’ notice. I’ll bring it around tomorrow evening. Is that convenient? You can show it to your solicitor, if you want.’

‘No. No. That’s not necessary. And tomorrow night is perfectly convenient,’ said Joe. He stood up. ‘I’ll go and get the key and the rent book. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

‘Aren’t you going to count the money?’ Emma asked, nodding at the pounds in his hand.

‘I trust you,’ Joe said. ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Harte.’

Emma heard him whistling as he went through into the kitchen. A wide smile of self-congratulation mingled with exultation flew on to her face. She could hardly contain herself.

She now had her first shop.