‘Now, Emma, here are the first of the shops,’ Blackie announced, his voice booming out in the stillness. ‘They go all the way down Town Street to Branch Road. Look, mavourneen, did I not tell ye the truth?’

Emma followed the direction of his gaze, her eyes wide with excitement, her sadness pushed to one side. ‘Yes, you did,’ she conceded. They passed the fishmonger’s, the haberdasher’s, the chemist’s, and the grand ladies’ dress establishment, and Emma recognized that this was indeed a fine shopping area. She was enormously intrigued and an idea was germinating. It will be easier to get a shop here. Rents will be cheaper than in Leeds, she reasoned logically. Maybe I can open my first shop in Armley, after the baby comes. And it would be a start. She was so enthusiastic about this idea that by the time they reached the street where Laura Spencer lived she already had the shop and was envisioning its diverse merchandise. Blackie might call her Doubting Emma, but she certainly had no doubts about one thing-her ultimate success. Her first shop would be in Armley and she would assiduously court the carriage trade. That was where the money was. Blackie had said so himself.

They walked along the street of terraced houses, all of them neat and respectable with their green painted doors, shining windows, trim gardens, and black iron gates. Just before they reached Laura Spencer’s house a thought struck Emma. She stopped and grabbed Blackie’s arm. ‘What have you told Laura about me?’ she asked.

Blackie gazed down at her, a faintly surprised look on his face. ‘Why, exactly what ye told me to tell her,’ he responded quietly. ‘The same story ye told everybody, right down to the last detail, Mrs Harte, sailor’s wife, expectant mother, dear friend of Blackie O’Neill.’ Emma smiled with relief and nodded, and they went up the garden path together. She wondered what Laura was like, but in a sense that hardly mattered to her. The important thing was that she made a good impression on Laura.

Emma now realized that Blackie had confided very little about his friend and she did not know what to expect as they stood on the front step. She certainly wasn’t prepared for the girl who opened the door and greeted them so charmingly, and with undisguised delight. Laura Spencer had the shining and tranquil face of a Madonna, and there was an expression of such trust in her eyes, and her smile was so loving, and so sweet, it was at once apparent to Emma that she was confronting someone who was unquestionably different from anyone else she had ever met.

Laura ushered them into the house, exclaiming on the rawness of the weather, sympathizing about the long cold journey they had just endured, her genuine concern for their well-being obvious. She took their coats, scarves, and Emma’s tam-o’-shanter and hung them on the hat-stand near the door, and then drew them into the parlour, moving with infinite grace as she led them to chairs grouped around a roaring fire.

Now Laura took hold of Emma’s hands as she said, ‘I’m so happy to meet you, Emma. Blackie has told me such lovely things about you. Goodness, your hands are cold! Sit here and get the chill out of your bones, dear.’

Emma said, ‘I’m glad to meet you, too, Laura.’ Without appearing to rudely scrutinize the room Emma swiftly took in the subdued blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, the heavy blue velvet curtains at the windows, the few pieces of mahogany furniture, scant but gleaming with beeswax, and the attractiveness of the other furnishings. The room was small but neat, and not at all cluttered like Mrs Daniel’s hideous front parlour. An air of solidness and comfort prevailed.

Laura said to them both apologetically, ‘I am sorry I wasn’t all prepared for you, but I had to visit a sick friend and I was delayed longer than I anticipated. I just got in a little while before you arrived. Anyway, the tea will be ready shortly, and the kettle’s boiling.’

Blackie said, ‘That’s all right, Laura. Don’t fuss yeself. We’re in no hurry, so take ye time, love.’ This was uttered so softly and so temperately Emma’s eyes flew to Blackie with quickening interest. She discerned a marked difference in his demeanour, which was restrained, and there was a look of mingled gentleness and respect on his face. This did not surprise Emma. She had already perceived that Laura’s refined manner was bound to bring out the best in other people.

‘Please excuse me for a moment or two,’ Laura continued in her soft voice, placing the remainder of the china on the table. ‘I have a few last-minute things to do in the kitchen.’

Blackie and Emma murmured their assent and Blackie said, ‘Do ye mind if I smoke me pipe, Laura?’ She was halfway across the floor and she turned and shook her head, her eyes filling with laughter. ‘No, of course not Please make yourself at home, and you too, Emma.’

From her vantage point near the fireplace, Emma could see Laura in the small kitchen that adjoined the parlour. She was wearing a pale blue woollen dress with a full skirt, long sleeves, and a large white Quaker collar, and although the dress was a little worn and darned in places, its simplicity and pristine colours added to the impression of immaculateness and virtue she conveyed. She’s beautiful, Emma thought, intrigued by the tall, slender girl who appeared to be surrounded by an aura of spirituality.

Laura Spencer’s features were so classically drawn, so fragile, and the bones were so fine, her face seemed attenuated at times. There were those, who were undiscerning, who considered her plain and faded and they would not have agreed with Emma at all. But Emma saw the Dresden china-like delicacy of the features that contributed so much to her exquisiteness, saw the golden lights in her honey-coloured hair that gave it a shimmering iridescence, saw the tenderness and wisdom that filled the enormous hazel eyes with a radiant luminosity. And she recognized Laura’s loveliness for what it truly was-an outward reflection of purity.

Emma was not wrong in these assessments. There was indeed something special about Laura Spencer. Very simply, she refused to countenance evil. Laura was a Roman Catholic and unwavering in her faith; her religion, which she never discussed or inflicted on her friends, was the mainspring of her life. To Laura, God was neither nebulous nor remote. His presence was constant, eternal and everlasting.

Sitting there in that cosy parlour, listening to Laura’s light voice echoing out from the kitchen, Emma was not yet entirely aware of all of this. But somehow, in some curious fashion, Laura’s inner grace had mysteriously communicated itself to her, and she was experiencing a sense of peace so profound she was startled. Emma continued to gaze at Laura and she thought: I want her to be my friend. I want her to like me. I want to share this house with her.

‘Ye are very quiet, mavourneen,’ Blackie said. ‘That’s a bit unusual for ye, I am thinking. Ye are generally such a chatterbox.’

Emma jumped. He had startled her. ‘I was just thinking,’ she responded. Blackie smiled and puffed on his pipe. Emma was just as captivated by Laura as he had anticipated, and he was delighted.

‘Could you bring the kettle into the kitchen, please, Blackie,’ Laura called, ‘so I can mash the tea.’

‘Sure and I can, mavourneen,’ he exclaimed. He lifted the steaming copper kettle off the hob and strode across the room, a towering bulk in that small space.

‘Can I do anything?’ Emma inquired eagerly, also rising.

Laura looked around the kitchen door. ‘No, thank you, Emma. It’s all ready now.’ Within seconds she came into the parlour carrying a large tray containing plates of food and Blackie followed with the teapot.

As she sat down, Emma thought how nicely Laura had arranged the table. ‘You are very artistic, Laura. The table looks lovely,’ Emma volunteered. She smiled at Laura, who seemed pleased at this shyly offered compliment.