Emma smiled up at him, her face animated. Thankfully her problems were miraculously retreating now that she was with Blackie. She had felt safe with him from the very first day they had met on the moors and she knew instinctively he would always protect her.

Blackie followed her out of the Saloon Bar and into the main room, which was teeming with people. He could hardly help noticing the masculine heads swivelling to stare, the admiring glances thrown in her direction. He drew himself up to his full height and lifted his head higher. She’s a looker, all right, he thought. Why, there isn’t a man breathing that wouldn’t be proud and delighted to have her by his side. Sure and that’s the truth, Blackie decided.

Then Blackie O’Neill stopped dead in his tracks, staring fixedly at her straight back, her delicately tilted head. With a sudden flash of comprehension he perceived why her story had so bothered him earlier. This transformed Emma Harte, gliding ahead of him so gracefully, would never have become involved with one of the loutish boys from the village. Never. Such an idea was not only inconceivable but preposterous. Then who is the father of her child? he wondered, completely baffled. He realized it would be unwise to question her tonight. Pushing this new and disturbing thought out of his mind, Blackie arranged a pleasant smile on his face and caught up with Emma. He took her arm and shepherded her out into the street, chatting to her in his vivacious way, striving for a semblance of normality. But his eyes held a reflective light.

Blackie and Emma sat on the tram-car going to Armley. It was a bitter-cold Sunday afternoon early in January of 1906. Emma was huddled in the corner of her seat, her altogether beautiful profile turned to him in chilly silence.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Blackie thought in exasperation. She’s so stubborn at times she’s positively rigid. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and turned away, further dismayed by the obdurate look on her face. He knew better than to utter one word. She had been obstinate in her refusal to take this trip from the first day he had mentioned it two weeks ago. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion and his smooth Irish tongue to get her to agree, and then her acquiescence had been grudging. Sometimes he did not understand Emma at all, and he had long realized that she was an extremely complex young woman with the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. On the other hand, he had to acknowledge that she was amazingly intelligent, even brilliant, and gifted in so many ways. And in most instances she was flexible and open to suggestions, thank the Almighty Lord.

Blackie peered at her again. Surprisingly, that stern expression did nothing to mar her beauty. In fact, it seemed to give her a curiously imperious air that was arresting. Today her hair was drawn back and plaited, the plaits forming loops that hung low on her neck, anchored by a large black taffeta bow in the nape. She wore the green-and-black tartan tam-o’-shanter and the matching scarf he had given her for Christmas; the tam-o’-shanter was perched at a jaunty angle, the long scarf wound around her neck and thrown casually over the shoulders of her black wool coat. Her hands, as always clinging tightly to the black reticule, were encased in bottle-green mittens knitted for her by the devoted Rosie. The dark green tones of the scarf and hat suited her admirably and brought out the greenness of her incredible eyes and the alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion. There was no doubt about it. Emma, in these last months of her pregnancy, looked extraordinarily healthy and well cared for, and as immaculately groomed as always.

The tram rumbled out of the city centre, heading for Whin-gate Junction in Armley, a picturesque village perched on a hill, about half an hour’s ride away. Blackie sat lost in contemplation, patiently waiting for Emma’s mood to change, praying that it would do so before they reached their destination. He would be glad when the baby was born and she could visit Fairley. Although she accepted her pregnancy philosophically and with little visible show of anxiety, Blackie knew she worried excessively about her father and Frank. She had even pressed him into service with the mailing of those allimportant le tters to her dad, badgering him to seek out any of his friends, who might be going to London. She was determined to keep up the pretence that she was travelling with her non-existent Mrs John Smith, which readily explained her absence from Bradford. As luck would have it, he had been able to oblige her in November and December, when some of his mates from the pub were going south to find work on London’s East End docks. They had willingly agreed to post Emma’s letters to her father, without asking any embarrassing questions. Blackie had commented to Emma, though. ‘Ye dad will be wondering why ye don’t give him an address, so he’s can write to ye,’ he had pointed out. ‘No, he won’t,’ Emma had asserted sharply. ‘In the November letter I told him I was going to Paris with my lady, and in the December letter I told him I was accompanying her to Italy. As long as he hears from me, that’s all that matters.’ Blackie eyed her, utterly astonished at the machinations of her mind. ‘It seems ye’ve thought of everything,’ he said dryly. To this remark she had not deigned to respond and the conversation had been terminated.

Blackie stole another look at her, moved closer, and put his arm around her shoulders, easing himself up to her on the seat. ‘I hope ye’ll consider moving to Armley,’ he said carefully, steeling himself for her strong reaction, which, surprisingly, was not forthcoming. She remained perfectly still, her face staring ahead.

Encouraged, Blackie went on, ‘Ye’ll be happier living with Laura Spencer. Sure and ye will, mavourneen. Now that her widowed mother is dead she is looking for a paying guest, someone to share the expense of the house with her. A nice house it is, too. Small, of course, but cosy and well set up. Her late father was a foreman at the printing works, and her mother was a weaver. They had a bit of money and a decent going-on. It shows in the house, the furnishings and all, and Laura keeps it beautifully.’ He paused and searched her face, proceeding in a cheery tone, ‘Ye’ll be real comfortable there. And as I told ye afore, Laura can get ye a job at Thompson’s mill in Armley, where she works. I don’t know why ye are being so stubborn about it, Emma.’

She swung her head unexpectedly and looked at him intensely, her green eyes flashing. ‘Because I don’t like being uprooted! I’ve just learned the tailoring trade and now you want me to leave Kallinski’s and start working at the mill, learning to weave. It doesn’t make sense, Blackie. And besides, I like it at Mrs Daniel’s. She is very kindly these days and I do have the use of her kitchen.’

Blackie groaned. ‘But, Emma, ye’ll be having a whole house to share with Laura. Not only that, she lives just ten minutes away from Thompson’s mill. At present ye spend three quarters of an hour walking to Kallinski’s in the morning and the same amount of time to be getting home at night. It’s a lot of walking in this raw weather. Even the Kallinskis see the sense of what I be suggesting, and David told me the other day that they will be happy to take ye back, after the bairn is born. So what do you have to lose? Nothing, I am thinking.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Ye are a wilful, headstrong girl, Emma, and all I am wanting is what’s best for ye.’

Emma recognized the practicality of what he was suggesting, but for once in her life she was indecisive. ‘I just don’t know-’

Blackie now saw that wavering and he grabbed the opportunity, saying in a positive tone, ‘Look, all I be asking is that ye consider it carefully, and that ye weigh all the odds before ye make a hasty decision not to move in with Laura.’ He took hold of her sturdy hand and squeezed it. ‘And please be nice with Laura. She’s a good friend and I don’t want ye to be acting rude or stuck-up.’