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  Even Caleb Crowther’s brooding mood, and her own feeling of bitterness towards him, couldn’t quell Emma’s enthusiasm as they clip-clopped towards the wharf. Oh, it brought back so many pleasant memories! Over Salford, along Railway Road, and into Eanam itself they went. Then, marked by tall cylindrical chimneys reaching high into the sky, the mill came into sight. It was a huge building of some several storeys high, with each level lined with dozens upon dozens of long narrow windows. Soon, they were passing through the oppressive big iron gates of Wharf Mill.

  As they came into view of the open warehouse doors, Emma could see a group of cloth-capped men gathered just inside, exchanging conversation – which was evidently causing a great deal of fist-waving, finger-wagging and head-shaking. It all seemed very intense. Suddenly, one of the men caught sight of Caleb Crowther approaching, whereupon there was a flurry of activity and the group dispersed immediately – all except for one hump-backed little fellow, who came towards them at an urgent pace.

  ‘What the devil’s going on here?’ Caleb Crowther demanded as he brought the horse and vehicle to a halt. He clambered down as the hump-backed fellow caught hold of the horse’s halter. ‘Why aren’t those men at their work, eh? . . . What the hell do they think I pay them wages for, eh? . . . eh?’ His neck stretched forward and his voice grew shriller.

  The nervous explanation was offered that it was an accident the men had converged on that particular spot at that particular minute – being ‘all good souls, an’ grand workers doin’ a regular job.’ But that, ‘findin’ theirselves face to face, had stood a while to voice their fears o’ the terrible unrest as seems ter be grippin’ America – afeared fer their jobs an’ their families, if owt should come a tumble wi’ the shippin’ in of our cotton from there.’

  ‘Be that as it may . . . I don’t give a damn for their reasons!’ exploded Caleb Crowther: ‘If I suspect it happening again, on my time, you can rest assured they’ll all be out of work – and it won’t be because of what’s happening in America! Do I make myself clear, yardhand?’

  As the little hump-backed fellow nodded most fervently, Caleb Crowther made a mental note to bring the matter to Gregory Denton’s attention. But at the same time, he grudgingly admitted to himself that if there were any truth in what the papers would have them believe – that there really was the rumble of unease in America, between the North and the cotton-growing areas in the South – then, by God, there would indeed be cause for concern!

  ‘See to it that Miss Grady is brought along to the office,’ he now instructed the little man, ‘then busy yourself, man . . . busy yourself . I don’t hold with a man being a minute idle!’ Then, leaving Emma in the care of this fellow, he strode away in the direction of the stairs which led up to the office where, at that very moment, Gregory Denton was nervously pacing the floor in anticipation of Caleb Crowther’s arrival. The whole place seemed so much darker when his shadow fell upon the step.

  ‘Hello, yardhand.’ Emma fondly addressed the hump-backed fellow who would answer to no other name; indeed, most folk had forgotten what his real name was. Now, as he extended a helping hand, Emma leaned upon it, to swing herself to the ground. ‘Are you keeping well?’ She had a special affection for this poor deformed creature both because of his deep loyalty to her papa and because, in spite of his cumbersome affliction, he never grumbled or complained, but was always ready with a cheerful grin. He wasn’t capable of putting in a heavy day’s work but was invaluable in keeping the place free of clutter, booking loads in and out and generally making himself available wherever and whenever he was needed.

  ‘Oh, I’m well, Miss Grady . . . very well . . . yes, indeed,’ he replied in a jolly manner, but his face suddenly became crestfallen as he commented, ‘I was so sorry about your papa . . . we all were. Thadius Grady were a good man, that ’e were!’ When Emma gave an encouraging smile, but made no comment, he went on in an excited voice, ‘I’m telled as ye’ll be keepin’ the books here? Oh, that’s grand . . . keep your mind occupied, so it will, eh? Oh, we’re glad ter have yer with us, Miss Grady . . . yes, indeed, very glad.’

  As Emma started towards the office with the little fellow chatting alongside her, she did not see the tall, handsome young man, stripped to the waist, carrying bundles of raw cotton from his barge to the warehouse.

  But, although Emma had not seen Marlow Tanner, he had seen her and he was overcome by what he saw. Emma looked beautiful in her best cornflower-blue dress with its pretty white fluted collar and scalloped hem, from beneath which peeped the toes of her dainty ankle-boots. Her rich chestnut hair hung loose down her back, framing her magnificent face perfectly. Yes, he had seen Emma – and was now smitten even more by her. But he had seen Caleb Crowther also, and in his heart he felt a deep conflict of emotions. He would never hesitate to go through Hell’s fire for this lovely lass; but for the man, he felt only bitterness and disgust.

  As he paused to watch Emma disappear into the interior of the mill, Marlow Tanner presented a splendid and formidable sight, with his lithe, muscular form upright and taut and his two strong fists clenched tight at his sides. His heart was torn in two.

  ‘’Ave yer gone on bloody strike or what?’ The voice of Sal Tanner rang out across the yard to call her brother’s attention. Her heart was deeply troubled for Marlow, whom she loved with the fierce protective instincts of a mother. Since the death of both their parents some fifteen years before – in a manner which had never been fully revealed – she had been to Marlow mother, father, sister and friend. In all truth, Sal revered only one thing above him, and that was her precious jug of ale. For, while Marlow had her to rely on, she could only fill the empty void in her life by losing herself in the comforting dregs of that cherished jug.

  As Marlow made his way back, Sal Tanner murmured to him, ‘Don’t ever look above yer station, darlin’, else ye’ll surely fotch a heap o’ pain down on yerself!’

  Her mind was drawn back over the years to the time when she was just a child, and Marlow was barely two years old. Their name was not Tanner then, but Royston; circumstances had forced them to change it. There had been the most dreadful scandal – the truth of which she had never learned, because, as was always the case when a boat-family was threatened, the others would close ranks to the outside world and closely guard their own. All she had learned over the years was that her dah had been seeing some fancy-born lady. There had been talk of it all up and down the river. So, when he began making plans to leave his wife and two youngsters, one of the bargees made it his business to warn the wife.

  Sal Tanner remembered that very night like it was only yesterday. The awful way her mammy had looked when she left to follow her husband along the towpath. The fear within her when neither her mammy nor dah returned. Then, the following morning, both she and Marlow were snatched by the river-folk and hidden away for many a long month. It was then that their names were changed from Royston to Tanner. It was years later before Sal discovered why it was that her mammy and dah had never come back. It was rumoured that Eve Royston had found her husband Bill with his fancy lady, and, with the help of loyal friends, had murdered them both. Soon after she was hanged. Sal never did learn more than that, and, she was so disheartened and ashamed that she had no desire to learn any more. Her only thought then, as now, was to protect Marlow from the truth. Now, here he was, burning with the very same fever that got his dah murdered and his mammy hanged.

  Her troubled violet eyes watched Marlow’s downcast expression, and, for a moment, she made no move. Sal Tanner was a familiar sight hereabouts, with her long calico skirt flowing about her dark heavy clogs, her brown crocheted shawl flung haphazardly over her shoulders, and that unmistakable chequered cloth cap tilted at a jaunty angle on her wispy fair hair. She could generally be heard roaring with laughter long before one might catch sight of her, and straightaway one could picture her with two sturdy hands spread-eagled, one over each hip, head thrown back and mouth wide open, revealing more gaps than tee
th.

  Today, however, Sal Tanner was in an unusually quiet mood. She was afraid – afraid for both Marlow and for herself. She knew Marlow was in love – had known that since the day he’d been carried through the door, flayed and bleeding. Her instincts had told her then that her young, reckless brother had become a man. Her deeper instincts now told her that it was a blessing the Lord had seen fit to give Marlow a strong broad back and an iron will together with the stoutest heart, for, God help them both, she could sense a dark and troublesome time ahead. It was most frightening how history had a nasty habit of repeating itself.

  ‘Bloody fancy folk,’ Sal Tanner snorted, at the same time grabbing a small flask of gin from within the folds of her skirt. ‘Ye’d best keep yer soddin’ distance from me an’ mine!’ she grumbled, taking a long gulp from the flask and glowering after Emma’s disappearing form. However, Sal had to grudgingly admit to herself that this particular young girl was maybe not so fancy as some she’d come across. In fact, the smile she gave that little hump-backed bugger was a genuine, warm one, and there was nothing posh nor dandy about the lass’s voice. ‘If anything, she seemed a deal outta place aside o’ that sour-faced whiskered feller as fotched ’er ’ere,’ Sal told the empty air, grunting and then helping herself to another mouthful of the fiery liquid. ‘But I’ll keep me bloody eyes peeled all the same, ’acause me bones tell me there’s trouble brewing . . . Gawd ’elp us all!’

  Brimming with an equal measure of gin and foreboding, Sal Tanner sought out one of the loaders from the warehouse, a brash, brawny fellow by the name of William. ‘What d’yer know o’ that there lass?’ she demanded to know. ‘That pretty little thing as come ’ere with the whiskered bugger!’ When William explained how the lass was none other than Miss Grady, the daughter of the late Thadius Grady, whose own dah came up from poor and common stock, to make himself known and respected amongst the workers, Sal Tanner threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘There!’ she cried with delight ‘I knew it! . . . I bloody well knew it! That lass . . . the one yer call Emma . . . she don’t come fro’ no more fancy folk than I do!’

  ‘That’s as mebbe,’ William told her, ‘but, thanks to her dah, she’ll come into a tidy little fortune one o’ these fine days.’ Here, he pursed his lips and clicked in serious manner, ‘That is if she ain’t cheated out of it by that conniving uncle of ’ers.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sal Tanner was intrigued. ‘Got ’erself an enemy or two, ’as she?’ There was no shifting Sal Tanner until she knew all there was to know about the lass who’d struck deep into Marlow’s heart. As Emma’s story unfolded, the barge-woman found herself sympathizing with this Emma. ‘Poor little sod!’ she exclaimed, taking another swig from the flask. ‘Livin’ in a big ’ouse an’ belonging to fancy folk . . . well, it don’t keep the troubles off yer back, do it, eh? Not if ye’ve med an enemy or two, it don’t!’ And, suspecting what a terrible misfit Emma was in Caleb Crowther’s house, William had to agree.

  ‘Aw, but you an’ me ain’t plagued wi’ no such troubles, are we, Sal darlin’,’ he laughed, giving her a puff of his pipe and a knowing wink. He and Sal had an understanding . . .

  ‘Why, yer randy bugger!’ roared Sal Tanner, slapping him heartily on his shoulder and feigning a look of surprise. ‘There ain’t no ’olding yer, once yer teks a fancy!’ Quickly now, she looked about and seeing there was nobody watching, she grabbed his arm. ‘Come on then,’ she laughed, tugging him round the back of the stacked bales, ‘but it’ll cost yer a wad o’ that there baccy!’ And, with both of them laughing, he carelessly knocked out his pipe and flung his arm about her.

  ‘By! Yer a rum ’un, Sal Tanner,’ he said, ‘but I ain’t complaining.’

  ‘Bless me, if I’ve never seen that ledger so correct and neat! What an astonishing young lady you are, Miss Grady . . . if I may say so,’ remarked Gregory Denton, collecting up the sheaf of invoices and scrutinizing the leather-bound ledger which lay open on Emma’s desk. He had always suspected the daughter of Thadius Grady was a bright, intelligent lass – in spite of the stories that flew around town of her foolhardy escapades. Mind you, who could blame her? She was young and healthy with a particular thirst for life which, by its very nature, must drive her to seek a taste of adventure, away from the scrutiny of that dreadful Crowther lot. What a great pity the lass’s papa had been taken. It was a sure fact that he was sorely missed here at the mill. That being the case, how much harder it must be for young Miss Grady, now securely in the clutches of her uncle, who was renowned for his lack of compassion!

  Gregory Denton’s admiration for Emma was twofold. For all the heartache she must be suffering, the lass bore it well; indeed, when he compared Emma to other members of her sex, including his own ever-complaining, elderly mater, Emma was a female apart. Furthermore, she was exceptionally lovely, and had stirred in him long-forgotten cravings which he had accepted would never be satisfied. Like a fool, he had thrown away his few early opportunities. Now, he had only one great passion left, and that was his work. This mill was his pride, his joy . . . and his only reason for living! It was also his means of escape from a woman who believed that to be given a son was to be given absolute control over his very soul. Oh, what regrets he had! And how much deeper they seemed now that he was privileged to have such a delight as Emma Grady gracing his office. More than once in these past few hours he had averted his eyes from her because of the havoc she wreaked within him. Yet, to secretly gaze upon her was a deep, satisfying pleasure which he found impossible to deny himself. And, after all, he told himself, was it not so that a cat might look upon a queen?

  Emma had sensed his eyes on her, but had paid no attention. Mr Denton was a pleasant enough fellow, and she had no wish to embarrass him in any way. Now, she looked up as he replaced the invoices on top of the ledger. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased with my work, Mr Denton,’ she smiled. But, in all truth, she believed she had earned his praise, for she had checked and re-checked every detail on those invoices, before meticulously entering them on to the page. Now, she was ready to make a start on the warehouse dockets – starting with the one directly in front of her with the name ‘Tanner’ on top. ‘If you’ll just set me an example,’ she asked.

  Gregory Denton was so caught up in Emma’s enthusiasm that he made a suggestion quite out of character. ‘The ledgers can wait a while, Miss Grady,’ he told her, ‘and, if you’ve a mind, I’d like to take you on a tour of the mill . . . so you can see for yourself what procedure is followed.’

  Emma had already toyed with the idea of asking this very favour, once her clerical duties were done. ‘Oh, I’d like that, Mr Denton,’ she said, quickly climbing from the stool in case he should change his mind.

  Just over an hour later, with only ten minutes to spare before midday, at which time Thomas was due to collect her, Emma followed Mr Denton down the stairs and into the warehouse. ‘Thank you for taking me round,’ she told him, greatly impressed by what she had seen. On visits with her papa, the farthest she’d been allowed to go was the office enclosure. But today she’d seen virtually the whole process the raw cotton had to go through. She had seen the loose bales thrown into a machine that tore any knots or lumps from the cotton; then she was taken to the cardroom where it was combed; after this she saw how the twisted rovings were spun on machines which were some twelve feet wide and two hundred feet long. The cotton was then washed, bleached, dried, beaten, folded and pressed, before being considered suitably finished and ready for use. In the loom-weaving shed, Emma had wondered how the mill-hands could stand the relentless noise, day after day, without going totally deaf.

  They were now on the lowest level, where the bales of raw cotton, after being unloaded from the barges, were stored ceiling-high before samples were taken to ascertain the different grades and quality.

  ‘Do you think you’ll enjoy your work here, Miss Grady?’ Gregory Denton ventured, feeling pleased with himself.

  When Emma assured him that she’d had an exciting m
orning and was looking forward to learning all there was to know about the business, his face beamed with joy. ‘Oh, that’s grand!’ he declared, feverishly nodding his head and rubbing his two hands together in a nervous fashion. ‘That’s right grand!’

  By the look on his face as he leaned towards her, Emma could see he had a great deal more to say. But, at that moment there came a loud and frantic cry from the mouth of the warehouse, where the bales were brought in from the barges. This was immediately followed by a series of alarming noises and the unmistakable smell of fire. Emma was taken aback by the swift change in Gregory Denton as, grasping her-arm, he propelled her at running pace towards the side exit. ‘Take yourself out of here! Quick as you can!’ he ordered, sending her the last few steps with a thrust of his arm. He then hurried towards the black smoke which was already billowing up to the ceiling and blocking out the light of day. By now there were men coming from all quarters and rushing to the scene. Emma’s ears rang with the noise and her nostrils were overwhelmed by the smell of burning as the blanket of thick black smoke continued to grow. When the cry went up that someone was hurt, it took her only a moment to decide to try and help. Quickly now, she changed direction and hurried after Gregory Denton, her long skirt lifted high, and her throat burning from the dry smoke.

  ‘You’d best stay clear, miss,’ came the suggestion from one of the men who had been hurrying past, and grabbing her arm, he would have escorted her out of there.

  ‘No! . . . If someone’s hurt, I can help!’ Emma cried, shrugging him off and hastening her steps.

  Emma was determined to be of use, and what she saw when she reached the scene only strengthened her resolve. The fire had got a hold amongst the newly off-loaded bales, and was in danger of rapidly spreading right into the heart of the warehouse. Darting about and doing the work of ten men, Gregory Denton had swiftly organized an army of workers who, on his orders, were tearing down the great bale-stacks nearest the fire and throwing them outside, where other men quickly doused them with water bucketed from the canal. Over by the far gantry, near the area which the men were clearing in order to stop the fire spreading, a lone man was making frantic efforts to reach two people trapped beneath. He had bravely spurned all offers of help, insisting that the other men get the bales outside ‘or we’ll all end up burning.’