Free A Crimson Dawn by Janet MacLeod Trotter Page B

at him, startled. Before she could answer, he planted a kiss on her lips.
    â€˜Ta-ra, Emmie,’ he grinned.
    She turned in confusion and fled inside. Jonas was home and demanding to know where she had been in such foul weather. Her attempts to keep secret their important visitor were to no avail. By the following day, the whole village was talking about Emmie saving Oliphant’s daughter from a lynch mob and harbouring her at the MacRaes’.
    Jonas had to endure a week of jibes as the tale grew in length and exaggeration. Emmie was a suffragette. Jonas had no control over his militant women. They’d be chaining themselves to railings next. Emmie supposed it was Tom who had spread the news, or maybe Miss Sophie had been recognised by others in the village.
    Tom filled her with a mixture of annoyance and something else she couldn’t quite name. She often found herself thinking about his fresh-faced good looks, the way he looked at her with his hazel eyes as if he found her pretty, his quick smile, the feel of his lips on hers. She was unsettled by it, flattered even. Tom might look younger than his twenty years, but he was a man now and his teasing no longer felt like childish horseplay.
    On her sixteenth birthday, Tom came round with a bunch of daffodils and a bottle of lavender water. He endured Sam’s ribald teasing with good humour but bolted when Helen suggested he stay for tea.
    â€˜I’ll see you at chapel, Emmie?’ he asked in hope, grinning when she nodded in assent.
    â€˜Breaking hearts already,’ Jonas chuckled as they tucked into the birthday tea. ‘Pity it’s a Curran.’
    â€˜He was brave to come,’ Helen defended Tom, ‘seeing as his da won’t allow either bairn over our doorstep.’
    â€˜You might poison them, Mam,’ Sam said, clutching his throat and gasping.
    â€˜You wouldn’t poison Tom, would you?’ Peter asked in alarm.
    â€˜No, pet, Sam’s being daft,’ Helen reassured. ‘Still, I think it’s a shame. We’d never stop any of you ganin’ round there, just because we don’t see eye to eye with the Currans. You can be friends with who you like.’
    â€˜Aye,’ Sam said, winking at Emmie, ‘even the gentry.’
    Jonas gave him a thunderous look.
    Emmie said quickly, ‘No arguments on me birthday!’
    ***
    The Easter holidays came and Emmie left Miss Downs for the last time. The next day, she rode all the way into Gateshead on Jonas’s rickety bicycle to visit the Settlement. She had written to the Runcies about seeking work and they had invited her down for an interview.
    The elderly couple welcomed her into the cramped untidy room they used as an office behind the dining hall. Every inch of floor, table, chairs and filing cabinet was covered in mounds of paper. There was nowhere to sit, so Emmie perched on a chair arm while they talked to her about their work. She warmed to them and their courteous manner at once. Philip Runcie was small, wiry and full of vigour, with an engaging smile. Mabel Runcie resembled the late Queen Victoria, though with a calm, otherworldly air.
    â€˜We produce a weekly news-sheet, the Gateshead News,’ Philip Runcie explained, scratching his nose with inky fingers. ‘You could help by finding new advertisers. And we print pamphlets for church groups and societies, such as the Women’s Suffrage Society. But you know that from Miss Oliphant.’
    Emmie nodded.
    Mabel Runcie gave a regal wave of her hand. ‘And you could start by finding a home for all this paper,’ she sighed. ‘We’re not the tidiest of people - and with my arthritic knees and hands I’m finding it harder to manage.’
    The Runcies looked at Emmie expectantly.
    â€˜Now?’ she queried. ‘You mean I’ve got the job? Don’t you want to ask me any questions?’
    They looked at her in surprise. ‘No, dear, we know all about