picked up his sack and joined her. He put his arm around her in a brotherly fashion and fell into step with her as they proceeded to the bottom of the field. ‘I have to be confessing to ye that I’m mighty curious about the folk at Fairley Hall. What are they like, mavourneen?’
There was a tiny silence.
‘Yer’ll see in a minute.’ Emma smiled oddly. ‘We’re almost there now.’ Freeing herself from him, she ran ahead without another word.
Blackie looked after her, frowning, puzzled by that curious smile. She was such a small figure on the path in front of him, skipping along almost with a carefree air. He had to admit she baffled him. One minute she was a child, her face soft and laughing; the next she seemed like an old woman, her face cast in bronze. Yet they were all queer, these Yorkshire folk, with their flat harsh accents, their self-reliant characters, their dour and opinionated natures, their rabid suspicion of strangers, their shrewdness and lightning perception of character. And their veneration of money. Still, he had discovered they could be generous-spirited and hospitable, and they had a sense of humour, even if it was somewhat blunt and pithy at times. Indeed, they were funny folk, and perhaps the very peculiarities he had discerned in Emma were simply vestiges of these Yorkshire traits. Yes, that must be it, he thought, and he quickened his steps to catch up with her.
Emma was waiting for him at the copse of trees which skirted the end of the field. ‘There’s the Hall, Blackie,’ she said in a voice totally devoid of emotion.
Blackie stopped dead in his tracks and let out a long low whistle in stunned astonishment. Fairley Hall was in their direct line of vision and it bore no resemblance to the images he had conjured up in his head after his recent talk with Squire Fairley in Leeds.
‘Mary, Mother of Jesus!’ he cried, his eyes opening wide in disbelief. ‘It’s not possible, mavourneen. Nobody could have built a house like that!’ He closed his eyes convulsively and when he opened them again he discovered he was not only disappointed in what he saw, but utterly appalled as well.
‘The Hall’s the grandest house for miles around. Nowt as big as it by here,’ Emma pointed out in the same toneless voice. ‘Me dad calls it Fairley’s Folly.’ He did not notice the faint bitter smile on her lips.
‘I can see why,’ Blackie murmured, thinking that it was the most grotesque house he had ever seen. As he stared at it, his jaw slack and his mouth drooping open, he recognized with dismay that it had no redeeming features at all. For Blackie O’Neill had an unusually accurate eye for perspective and line and, in fact, his one dream in life had been to study architecture. This had not been possible, but encouraged by his parish priest, Father O’Donovan, when a boy, he had taught himself as much as he could from a few books, and because of his desire to learn and his very natural talent, he had become exceedingly knowledgeable about designs and construction.
Now he scanned the house with keen and critical eyes. The closer they drew to it, the more Blackie perceived what a monstrosity it was. It appeared to crouch like an implacable monster amidst carefully planned yet oddly incongruous gardens, its blackened stone walls grim and unwelcoming. Gothic-like spires leapt up from the four corners of the central building, which was square and dominating and was crowned with a bizarre cupola. It struck him that this central building was the oldest part, probably dating back to the late 1790s, and if it had been left alone it would have had a semblance of dignity, perhaps even a touch of grandeur. But other wings had obviously been added over the years, seemingly with little thought, and they sprouted off on both sides without regard to form or design. He could now see that they were bastardized interpretations of Regency and Victorian styles, and all of them mingled together to create a chaotic effect.
In essence, Fairley Hall was a hodgepodge of diverse periods that competed with each other to create a façade that was without proportion, symmetry, or beauty. The house was large, solid, and rich, a veritable mansion, in fact, but its architectural inconsistencies made it hideous. Blackie sighed. He loved simplicity and he thought wistfully of the lovely old Georgian houses in Ireland, with their fluid lines and classical proportions that gave them such perfect balance. He had not expected to find such a house on these rough Yorkshire moors, but not unaware of the standing and importance of the Fairley family, and their great wealth, he had anticipated a structure that had more taste and refinement than this.
They had almost reached the house when Emma cut into his thoughts as she said, ‘What do yer think ter it then?’ She looked up at him curiously, tugging at his arm.
‘Not much! ’Tis a Folly to be sure, just as ye dad says. It may be the grandest house in these parts, but it ain’t to the tastes of me.’
‘Won’t yer have a house like the Hall then, when yer gets ter be this toff, this millionaire yer said yer’d be one day?’ she probed, scrutinizing him shrewdly. ‘I thought all millionaires lived in grand houses like Fairley.’
‘True! True!’ he said quickly. ‘They do live in grand houses, but not always ones as ugly as Fairley Hall, Emma. I would never want such a house for meself. It offends me eyes, sure and it does, for it has no beauty or harmony or style.’ Blackie glanced ahead and grimaced at the thought of occupying such a grotesque mausoleum.
That bitter smile played around Emma’s mouth again and there was a tiny gleam of malicious satisfaction in her eyes. Although she lacked exposure to the world beyond the moors, and so had no basis for comparison, she had always instinctively known that the Hall was an eyesore without grace or beauty. Her dad and the villagers might sarcastically call it Fairley’s Folly, but, none the less, they were still impressed. She laughed to herself, a little spitefully. Blackie had just confirmed her own opinions of Fairley Hall and this pleased her.
Now she turned to Blackie, who had risen even more in her esteem, and said inquisitively, ‘What kind of a house will yer live in then, when yer gets ter be this rich millionaire?’
The gloomy expression on his face lifted and was instantly replaced with a throbbing vibrancy. His black eyes shone as he exclaimed, ‘It will be in the Georgian style, built of pure white stone, with a handsome portico and great soaring columns and wide front steps. There will be many tall shining windows, looking out on to fine green lawns and gardens. It will have lots of spacious rooms, with lofty ceilings, and they will all be full of light and airiness. The floors will be made of polished oak and the fireplaces will all be in the Robert Adam style. In the entrance hall, which will be huge, I am going to have a floor made of white marble and a great curving staircase will lead to the upper floors. In every room I will use pastel colours, the light blues and pale greens that are soft and restful to the eyes, and I intend to purchase excellent furniture for all of these rooms. Yes, indeed! I shall select the best styles of Sheraton and Hepplewhite and maybe a little Chippendale. Paintings, too, I shall have, and many other fine and beautiful things. Ah, mavourneen, it will be a house to take ye breath away, faith and it will. I promise ye that. I aim to build it meself to me own design, sure and I do!’
‘Build it yerself, ter yer own design,’ she repeated in a hushed tone, her face full of wonder. ‘Do yer know how ter design houses then, Blackie?’
‘Aye, to be sure I do,’ he responded proudly. ‘I go to the night school in Leeds to be learning draftsmanship, and that’s the next best thing to architecture. Ye’ll see, Emma, I’ll build that house one day and ye’ll come and visit me when ye are a grand lady.’
Emma looked at Blackie in awe. ‘Can anybody go ter this night school ter learn things?’ she asked, thinking of her brother Frank.
Blackie looked down at her expectant face, so filled with hope, and told her confidently, ‘Sure and they can. At the night school they teach ye everything ye might want to be learning.’
His
