Hold the Dream
Hold the Dream
Barbara Taylor Bradford
From the internationally bestselling author of A Woman of Substance comes the continuing story of indomitable heroine, Emma HarteEmma Harte was the heroine of Barbara Taylor Bradford’s multi-million copy bestseller, A Woman of Substance.Now she is eighty years old and ready to hand over the reins of the vast business empire she has created.To her favourite grandchild, Paula McGill Fairley, Emma bequeaths her mighty retailing empire with these heartfelt words: ‘I charge you to hold my dream.’A towering international success, this is the powerfully moving tale of one woman’s determination to ‘hold the dream’ which was entrusted to her, and in so doing find the happiness and passion which is her legacy.
BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
Hold the Dream
Copyright (#ulink_1e4c5e5f-147a-553d-8feb-f5c3ae41fc52)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This paperback edition 2004
First published in paperback by Grafton 1986
First published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1985
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1985
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780586058497
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007363698
Version: 2018-11-08
Dedication (#ulink_c7376d52-21dd-5adf-b348-48342bdab4b0)
For Bob – who makes everything possible
for me, with my love.
Epigraph (#ulink_0d0142fc-f59c-585a-af56-7ec68a31990d)
‘She possessed, in the highest degree,
all the qualities which were required in a
great Prince.’
GIOVANNI SCARAMELLI,
Venetian Ambassador
to the Court of Elizabeth Tudor,
Queen of England
‘I would have you know that this kingdom
of mine is not so scant of men but there be
a rogue or two among them.’
ELIZABETH TUDOR, Queen of England
Contents
Cover (#ubde91d91-5d28-5ab5-88fa-ef5bc227d72b)
Title Page (#ue2e4e0a6-c6d4-5bf9-b86b-5ad8b89d2130)
Copyright (#ulink_ad341617-5097-5cd2-8b5d-a76287066c90)
Dedication (#ulink_63b33d4a-b36f-5e31-8d12-a165c27f295f)
Epigraph (#ulink_5f3e0a4f-d62a-5b61-ae8d-754a566856c0)
Family Tree (#ulink_82e849ff-4bdb-5ee7-8ed7-24a7b221d379)
Book One: Matriarch (#ulink_3e628d36-68aa-500f-ac45-7d829bcb9f25)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_6db092c3-d461-5d50-9c94-4af40e908a76)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_0061436b-1fda-5387-a8db-7beda0c08fde)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_c6501a25-5638-57d3-b4bc-b39776dd92c9)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_c9fc463f-8328-5dc7-bd24-8800a4724175)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_a2f85c69-d9b8-5d13-b64c-bdb4be0bf27b)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_a08a207f-278a-5438-a327-8e3d29ddf1bf)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_58f4082d-65cc-5bb9-87e9-b74b3379da21)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_f6f5e046-8112-55f4-a9e4-c0215aecf3be)
Chapter 9 (#ulink_6412a30e-4403-5781-afc6-a5d558f0bc0c)
Chapter 10 (#ulink_202a3513-04b3-5438-8034-062d17796df5)
Chapter 11 (#ulink_c5ba6f07-a363-530d-be31-b7977da951f0)
Chapter 12 (#ulink_6da5b370-29c9-5f1e-a5d4-502b014f568b)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Book Two: Heiress (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Book Three: Tycoon (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Family Tree (#ulink_73316960-bf2b-5810-9cd2-b865cdb5e7d6) (Emma Harte)
Matriarch (#ulink_9b5595cf-a2ce-527e-9876-135f31089064)
‘I speak the truth, not so much as I
would, but as much as I dare; and
I dare a little more, as I grow older.’
MONTAIGNE
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_cf5068be-17e3-5244-8c46-4fb5352bff2f)
Emma Harte was almost eighty years old.
She did not look it, for she had always carried her years lightly. Certainly Emma felt like a much younger woman as she sat at her desk in the upstairs parlour of Pennistone Royal on this bright April morning of 1969.
Her posture was erect in the chair, and her alert green eyes, wise and shrewd under the wrinkled lids, missed nothing. The burnished red-gold hair had turned to shining silver long ago, but it was impeccably coiffed in the latest style, and the widow’s peak was as dramatic as ever above her oval face. If this was now lined and scored by the years, her excellent bone structure had retained its clarity and her skin held the translucency of her youth. And so, though her great beauty had been blurred by the passage of time, she was still arresting, and her appearance, as always, was stylish.
For the busy working day stretching ahead of her she had chosen to wear a woollen dress of tailored simplicity in the powder-blue shade she so often favoured, and which was so flattering to her. A frothy white lace collar added just the right touch of softness and femininity at her throat, and there were discreet diamond studs on her ears. Otherwise she wore no jewellery, except for a gold watch and her rings.
After her bout with bronchial pneumonia the previous year she was in blooming health, had no infirmities to speak of, and she was filled with the restless vigour and drive that had marked her younger days.
That’s my problem, not knowing where to direct all this damned energy, she mused, putting down her pen, leaning back in the chair. She smiled and thought: The devil usually finds work for idle hands, so I’d better come up with a new project soon before I get into mischief. Her smile widened. Most people thought she had more than enough to keep her fully occupied, since she continued to control her vast business enterprises which stretched halfway round the world. Indeed, they did need her constant supervision; yet, for the most part, they offered her little challenge these days. Emma had always thrived on challenge, and it was this she sorely missed. Playing watchdog was not particularly exciting to her way of thinking. It did not fire her imagination, bring a tingle to her blood, or get her adrenaline flowing in the same way that wheeling and dealing did. Pitting her wits against business adversaries, and striving for power and supremacy in the international marketplace, had become such second nature to her over the years they were now essential to her well-being.
Restlessly she rose, crossed the floor in swift light steps, and opened one of the soaring leaded windows. She took a deep breath, peered out. The sky was a faultless blue, without a single cloud, and radiant with spring sunshine. New buds, tenderly green, sprouted on the skeletal branches, and under the great oak at the edge of the lawn a mass of daffodils, randomly planted, tossed yellow-bright heads under the fluttering breeze.
‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vale and hill, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils,’ she recited aloud, then thought: Good heavens, I learned that Wordsworth poem at the village school in Fairley. So long ago, and to think that I’ve remembered it all these years.
Raising her hand, she closed the window, and the great McGill emerald on the third finger of her left hand flashed as the clear Northern light struck the stone. Its brilliance caught her attention. She had worn this ring for forty-four years, ever since that day, in May of 1925, when Paul McGill had placed it on her finger. He had thrown away her wedding ring, symbol of her disastrous marriage to Arthur Ainsley, then slipped on the massive square-cut emerald. ‘We might not have had the benefit of clergy,’ Paul had said that memorable day. ‘But as far as I’m concerned, you are my wife. From this day forward until death do us part.’
The previous morning their child had been born. Their adored Daisy, conceived in love and raised with love. Her favourite of all her children, just as Paula, Daisy’s daughter, was her favourite grandchild, heiress to her enormous retailing empire and half of the colossal McGill fortune which Emma had inherited after Paul’s death in 1939. And Paula had given birth to twins four weeks ago, had presented her with her first great-grandchildren, who tomorrow would be christened at the ancient church in Fairley village.
Emma pursed her lips, suddenly wondering if she had made a mistake in acquiescing to this wish of Paula’s husband, Jim Fairley. Jim was a traditionalist, and thus wanted his children to be christened at the font where all of the Fairleys had been baptized, and all of the Hartes for that matter, herself included.
Oh well, she thought, I can’t very well renege at this late date, and perhaps it is only fitting. She had wreaked her revenge on the Fairleys, the vendetta she had waged against them for most of her life was finally at an end, and the two families had been united through Paula’s marriage with James Arthur Fairley, the last of the old line. It was a new beginning.
But when Blackie O’Neill had heard of the choice of church he had raised a snowy brow and chuckled and made a remark about the cynic turning into a sentimentalist in her old age, an accusation he was frequently levelling at her of late. Maybe Blackie was right in this assumption. On the other hand, the past no longer troubled her as it once had. The past had been buried with the dead. Only the future concerned her now. And Paula and Jim and their children were that future.
Emma’s thoughts centred on Fairley village as she returned to her desk, put on her glasses and stared at the memorandum in front of her. It was from her grandson Alexander, who, with her son Kit, ran her mills, and it was bluntly to the point, in Alexander’s inimitable fashion. The Fairley mill was in serious trouble. It had been failing to break even for the longest time and was now deeply in the red. A crucial decision hovered over her head … to close the mill or keep it running at a considerable loss. Emma, ever the pragmatist, knew deep in her bones that the wisest move would be to close down the Fairley operation, yet she balked at this drastic measure, not wanting to bring hardship to the village of her birth. She had asked Alexander to find an alternative, a workable solution, hoped that he had done so. She would soon know. He was due to arrive for a meeting with her imminently.
One possibility which might enable them to resolve the situation at the Fairley mill had occurred to Emma, but she wanted to give Alexander his head, an opportunity to handle this problem himself. Testing him, she admitted, as I’m constantly testing all of my grandchildren. And why not? That was her prerogative, wasn’t it? Everything she owned had been hard won, built on a life rooted in single-mindedness of purpose and the most gruelling work and dogged determination and relentlessness and terrible sacrifice. Nothing had ever been handed to her on a plate. Her mighty empire was entirely of her own making, and, since it was hers and hers alone, she could dispose of it as she wished.
And so with calm deliberation and judiciousness and selectivity she had chosen her heirs one year ago, bypassing four of her five children in favour of her grandchildren in the new will she had drawn; yet she continued to scrutinize the third generation, forever evaluating their worth, seeking weaknesses in them whilst inwardly praying to find none.
They have lived up to my expectations, she reassured herself, then thought with a swift stab of dismay: No, that’s not strictly true. There is one of whom I am not really sure, one whom I don’t think I can trust.
Emma unlocked the top drawer of her desk, took out a sheet of paper, and studied the names of her grandchildren, which she had listed only last night when she had experienced her first feelings of uneasiness. Is there a joker in this pack, as I suspect? she asked herself worriedly, squinting at the names. And if there is, how on earth will I handle it?
Her eyes remained riveted to one name. She shook her head, with sadness, pondering.
Treachery had long ceased to surprise Emma, for her natural astuteness and psychological insight had been sharply honed during a long, frequently hard, and always extraordinary life. In fact, relatively few things surprised her any more, and, with her special brand of cynicism, she had come to expect the worst from people, including family. Yet she had been taken aback last year when she had discovered through Gaye Sloane, her secretary, that her four eldest children were wilfully plotting against her. Spurred on by their avariciousness and vaunting ambition, they had endeavoured to wrest her empire away from her in the most underhanded way, seriously underestimating her in the process. Her initial shock, and the pain of betrayal, had been swiftly replaced by an anger of icy ferocity, and she had made her moves with speed and consummate skill and resourcefulness, which was her way when facing any opponent. And she had pushed sentiment and emotions aside, had not allowed feelings to obscure intelligence, for it was her superior intelligence which had inevitably saved her in disastrous situations in the past.
If she had outwitted the inept plotters, had left them floundering stupidly in disarray, she had also finally come to the bitter, and chilling, realization that blood was not thicker than water. It had struck her, and most forcibly, that ties of the blood and of the flesh did not come into play when vast amounts of money and, more importantly, great power, were at stake. People thought nothing of killing to attain even the smallest portions of both. Despite her overriding disgust and disillusionment with her children, she had been very sure of their children, their devotion to her. Now one of them was causing her to re-evaluate her judgement and question her trust.
She turned the name over in her mind … Perhaps she was wrong; she hoped she was wrong. She had nothing to go on really – except gut instinct and her prescience. But, like her intelligence, both had served her well throughout her life.
Always when she faced this kind of dilemma, Emma’s instinctive attitude was to wait – and watch. Once again she decided to play for time. By doing thus she could conceal her real feelings, whilst gambling that things would sort themselves out to her advantage, thereby dispensing with the need for harsh action. But I will dole out the rope, she added inwardly. Experience had taught her that when lots of freely proffered rope fell into unwitting hands it invariably formed a noose.
Emma considered the manifold possibilities if this should happen, and a hard grimness settled over her face and her eyes darkened. She did not relish picking up the sword again, to defend herself and her interests, not to mention her other heirs.
History does have a way of repeating itself, she thought wearily, especially in my life. But I refuse to anticipate. That’s surely borrowing trouble. Purposefully, she put the list back in the drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.
Emma Harte had the enviable knack of shelving unsolvable problems in order to concentrate on priorities, and so she was enabled to subdue the nagging – and disturbing – suspicion that a grandchild of hers was untrustworthy, and therefore a potential adversary. Current business was the immediate imperative, and she gave her attention to her appointments for the rest of the day, each of which was with three of the six grandchildren who worked for her.
Alexander would come first.
Emma glanced at her watch. He was due to arrive in fifteen minutes, at ten-thirty. He would be on time, if not indeed early. Her lips twitched in amusement. Alexander had become something of a demon about punctuality, he had even chided her last week when she had kept him waiting, and he was forever at odds with his mother, who suffered from a chronic disregard for the clock. Her amused smile fled, was replaced by a cold and disapproving tightness around her mouth as she contemplated her second daughter.
Elizabeth was beginning to push her patience to the limits – gallivanting around the world in the most scandalous manner, marrying and divorcing haphazardly, and with such increasing frequency it was appalling. Her daughter’s inconsistency and instability had ceased to baffle her, for she had long understood that Elizabeth had inherited most of her father’s worst traits. Arthur Ainsley had been a weak, selfish and self-indulgent man; these flaws were paramount in his daughter, and following his pattern, the beautiful, wild and wilful Elizabeth flouted all the rules, and had remained untamed. And dreadfully unhappy, Emma acknowledged to herself. The woman has become a tragic spectacle, to be pitied, perhaps, rather than condemned.
She wondered where her daughter was at the moment, then instantly dropped the thought. It was of no consequence, she supposed, since they were barely on speaking terms after the matter of the will. Surprisingly, even Alexander had been treated to a degree of cold-shouldering by his adoring mother because he had been favoured in her place. But Elizabeth had not been able to cope with Alexander’s cool indifference to her feelings, and her hysterical tantrums and the rivers of tears had abruptly ceased when she realized she was wasting her time. She had capitulated in the face of his aloofness, disapproval, and thinly-veiled contempt. Her son’s good opinion of her, and his love, were vital, apparently, and she had made her peace with him, mended her ways. But not for long, Emma thought acidly. She soon fell back into her bad habits. And it’s certainly no thanks to that foolish and skittish woman that Alexander has turned out so well.
Emma experienced a little rush of warmth mingled with gratification as she contemplated her grandson. Alexander had become the man he was because of his strength of character and his integrity. He was solid, hardworking, dependable. If he did not have his cousin Paula’s brilliance, and lacked her vision in business, he was, nonetheless, sound of judgement. His conservative streak was balanced by a degree of flexibility, and he displayed a genuine willingness to weigh the pros and cons of any given situation, and, when necessary, make compromises. Alexander had the ability to keep everything in its proper perspective, and this was reassuring to Emma, who was a born realist herself.
This past year Alexander had proved himself deserving of her faith in him, and she had no regrets about making him the chief heir to Harte Enterprises by leaving him fifty-two per cent of her shares in this privately-held company. Whilst he continued to supervise the mills, she deemed it essential for him to have a true understanding of every aspect of the holding corporation, and she had been training him assiduously, preparing him for the day when he took over the reins from her.
Harte Enterprises controlled her woollen mills, clothing factories, real estate, the General Retail Trading Company, and the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company, and it was worth many millions of pounds. She had long recognized that Alexander might never increase its worth by much, because of his tendency to be cautious; but, for the same reason, neither would he ruin it through rash decisions and reckless speculation. He would keep it on the steady course she had so carefully charted, following the guidelines and principles she had set down years ago. This was the way she wanted it, had planned it, in point of fact.
Emma drew her appointment book towards her, and checked the time of her lunch with Emily, Alexander’s sister.
Emily was due to arrive at one o’clock.
When she had phoned earlier in the week Emily had sounded somewhat enigmatic when she had said she had a serious problem to discuss. There was no mystery, as far as Emma was concerned. She knew what Emily’s problem was, had known about it for a long time. She was only surprised her granddaughter had not asked to discuss it before now. She lifted her head and stared into space reflectively, turning the matter over in her mind, and then she frowned. Two weeks ago she had come to a decision about Emily, and she was convinced it was the right one. But would Emily agree? Yes, she answered herself. The girl will see the sense in it, I’m positive of that. Emma brought her eyes back to the open page of the diary.
Paula would stop by at the end of the afternoon.
She and Paula were to discuss the Cross project. Now, if that is skilfully handled by Paula, and she brings the negotiations to a favourable conclusion, then I’ll have the challenge I’m looking for, Emma thought. Her mouth settled into its familiar resolute lines as she turned her attention to the balance sheets of the Aire Communications Company, owned, by the Crosses. The figures were disastrous – and damning. But its financial problems aside, the company was weighted down with serious afflictions of such enormity they boggled the mind. According to Paula, these could be surmounted and solved, and she had evolved a plan so simple yet so masterful in its premise, Emma had been both intrigued and impressed.
‘Let’s buy the company, Grandy,’ Paula had said to her a few weeks ago. ‘I realize Aire looks like a catastrophe, and actually it is, but only because of its bad management, and its present structure. It’s a hodgepodge. Too diversified. And they have too many divisions. Those that make a good profit can never get properly ahead and really flourish because they’re burdened by the divisions which are in the red, and which they have to support.’ Paula had then walked her through the plan, step by step, and Emma had instantly understood how Aire Communications could be turned round and in no time at all. She had instructed her granddaughter to start negotiating immediately.
How she would love to get her hands on that little enterprise. And perhaps she would, and very soon too, if her reading of the situation was as accurate as she thought. Emma was convinced that no one was better equipped to deal with John Cross and his son, Sebastian, than Paula, who had developed into a tough and shrewd negotiator. She no longer equivocated when Emma hurled her into touchy business situations that required nimble thinking and business acumen, which she possessed in good measure. And of late her self-confidence had grown.
Emma glanced at her watch again, then curbed the impulse to telephone Paula at the store in Leeds, to give her a few last-minute tips about John Cross and how to deal with him effectively. Paula had proved she had come into her own, and Emma did not want her to think she was forever breathing down her neck.
The telephone rang. Emma reached for it. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Aunt Emma. Shane. How are you?’
‘Why Shane, how lovely to hear your voice. And I’m fine, thanks. You sound pretty good yourself. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, at the christening.’ As she spoke, she took off her glasses and laid them on the desk, relaxed in the chair.
‘I was hoping to see you before then, Aunt Emma. How would you like to go out on the town tonight, with two fun-loving bachelors?’
Emma laughed gaily. ‘And who’s the other fun-loving bachelor?’
‘Grandfather, of course, who else?’
‘Fun-loving! He’s getting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, if you ask me.’
‘I wouldn’t be saying that, mavourneen,’ Blackie boomed into the phone, having taken it away from his grandson. ‘I bet I could still give you a run for your money, if I got half the chance.’
‘I’m sure you could, darling.’ Emma smiled into the phone, her heart warming to him. ‘However, I’m afraid you won’t get that chance tonight. I can’t accept your invitation, Blackie dear. Some of the family are arriving later, and I ought to be here.’
‘No,’ Blackie interjected peremptorily. ‘You can see them tomorrow. Ah now, don’t be refusin’ me, darlin’,’ he cajoled. ‘Apart from wanting the pleasure of your lovely company, I need your advice on an important business matter.’
‘Oh!’ Emma was mildly taken aback by this statement. Blackie had retired and left the running of his companies to his son, Bryan, and to Shane. Not unnaturally, her curiosity was piqued, and she said, ‘What kind of business?’
‘I don’t want to be discussing it on the telephone, Emma,’ Blackie said in a softly chiding tone. ‘It’s not something that’s so cut and dried it can be settled in the matter of a few minutes. We have to be going back and forth, you know, dissecting it a bit, and I think we should be doing it over a nice drop of Irish and a fine meal.’
Emma laughed under her breath, wondering how important this so-called business matter really was, but found herself conceding, ‘I suppose I can let them fend for themselves. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t much looking forward to tonight. Even though Daisy and David will be here, the prospect of a family gathering isn’t particularly exciting. So I accept. And where are you and your dashing grandson planning to take me? Out on the town in Leeds isn’t too exciting.’
Laughingly, Blackie concurred and said, ‘But don’t worry, we’ll cook up something, and I promise you won’t be bored.’
‘What time then?’
‘Shane will pick you up around six. Is that all right, me darlin’ girl?’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Good. Good. Until later then. Oh, and Emma?’
‘Yes, Blackie?’
‘Have you given any more thought to me little proposition?’
‘Yes, and I have serious doubts about it working.’
‘Oh, so you’re still me Doubting Emma after all these years, I can see. Well, we’ll discuss that tonight, too, and maybe I can be convincing you yet.’
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured softly as he hung up.
Emma sat back, contemplating Blackie O’Neill. Doubting Emma. A faint smile flickered in her eyes. When had he first called her that? Was it 1904 or 1905? She was no longer sure, but it had been thereabouts, and Blackie had been her dearest, closest friend for all of those sixty-five years. For a whole lifetime. Always there when she needed him, loyal, devoted, supportive and loving. They had been through most of life’s exigencies together, had shared each other’s terrible losses and defeats, pain and anguish; had celebrated each other’s triumphs and joys. Of their contemporaries, there were only the two of them left, and they were closer than ever, inseparable really. She did not know what she would do if anything happened to him. She resolutely squashed this unacceptable thought before it took hold. Blackie was an old war horse, just as she herself was an old war horse, and even though he was eighty-three there was a great deal of surging life and vitality left in him. But no one lasts indefinitely, she thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiousness, whilst acknowledging the inevitable. At their grand ages mortality was a given, one which could not be argued with, and impending death was an old, if unwelcome, familiar.
There was a knock on the door.
Emma glanced at it, adopted her normal expression of cool inscrutability, and called, ‘Come in.’
The door swung open and Alexander entered. He was tall, lean and trim in build, with his mother’s dark good looks, her large, light-blue eyes; but his somewhat serious, saturnine face made him appear older than his twenty-five years, gave him a dignified air. He wore a well-cut dark grey worsted suit, a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, all of which reflected, and reinforced, his rather sober personality.
‘Good morning, Grandmother,’ he said, striding towards her. Reaching the desk, he added, ‘I must say, you’re looking pretty nifty today.’
‘Morning, Alexander, and thank you for the compliment. Mind you, flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me,’ she responded crisply. Nonetheless, her eyes danced and she regarded her grandson fondly.
Alexander kissed her on the cheek, seated himself opposite, and protested, ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, Grandy, honestly I’m not. You do look absolutely spiffing. That colour really suits you and the dress is very chic.’
Emma nodded impatiently, waved her hand in airy dismissal, and fixed her grandson with a keen and penetrating stare. ‘What have you come up with?’
‘The only solution to the Fairley problem,’ Alexander began, understanding she wanted to curtail the small talk and plunge into business. His grandmother loathed procrastination, unless it suited her own ends; then she could elevate procrastination to an art. But she scarcely tolerated it in others, so he rushed on. ‘We have to change our product. By that I mean we have to stop manufacturing the expensive woollens and worsted cloths that hardly anybody is buying, and start weaving blends. Man-made fibres, such as nylon and polyester, blended with wool. Those are our best bets.’
‘And you think this move will get us out of the red and into the black?’ Emma asked, her stare intensifying.
‘Yes, I do, Grandy,’ he replied, sounding sure of himself. ‘One of our chief problems at Fairley has been trying to compete with the man-made fibre goods on the market today. Nobody wants pure wool any more, except the Savile Row boys, and they’re not a big enough market for the Fairley output. Look, either we produce the blends or shut up shop – which you don’t want to do. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Can we make the changeover easily?’
Alexander nodded emphatically. ‘We can. By manufacturing cheaper goods we can capture the more popular-priced markets here and abroad, and do volume sales. Of course, it is a question of sales and getting a real foothold in those new markets. But I’m sure we can pull it off.’ He reached into his inside breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve analysed every aspect of the plan, and I’m certain I’ve not overlooked one thing. Here it is.’
Emma took it from him, reached for her glasses, studied the closely-typed sheet. She recognized immediately that he had done his homework with his usual diligence. He had refined the idea she herself had toyed with, although she had no intention of revealing this, not wishing to undermine him, or diminish his efforts. She looked up, removed her spectacles and gave him the benefit of a warm, congratulatory smile.
‘Well done, Sandy!’ she exclaimed, reverting to the affectionate diminutive of his childhood. ‘You’ve put a lot of sound thinking into this, and I’m delighted, really delighted.’
‘That’s a relief,’ he said, a smile breaking through. Reserved of nature though he was, Alexander was always completely relaxed and outgoing with Emma, who was the one person he truly loved, and now he confessed, ‘I’ve really bashed my brains out on this one, Grandy, played around with all manner of convoluted ideas, I don’t mind telling you. Still, I kept coming back to my original plan for creating the new blends.’ He leaned closer to the desk, and gave her one of her own penetrating stares. ‘But, knowing you, I have a feeling you’d already thought of the solution before you threw the problem at me.’
Emma was tickled at his perceptiveness, but she stifled the laugh that bubbled in her throat. She looked into his candid blue eyes and slowly shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she lied. Then observing his disbelief, she added, ‘But I suppose I would have. Eventually.’
‘You’re damned right you would,’ he acknowledged. He shifted slightly in the chair and crossed his legs, wondering how to break the bit of bad news to her. He decided to jump in with both feet. ‘There is one other thing, though, Grandmother.’ He hesitated, worry suddenly clouding his face. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cut down on our running costs at the mill. Really tighten our belts out there at Fairley, if we want to operate more efficiently – and profitably. I hate to tell you this, but a number of men will have to be laid off.’ There was a slight pause before he finished gloomily, ‘Permanently laid off.’
Emma’s face tightened in aggravation. ‘Oh dear.’ She nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself. ‘Well, I sort of expected that, Alexander. If you have to do it, you have to do it. I presume you’ll be letting the older men go, those who are near retirement age?’ she asked, one brow lifting questioningly.
‘Yes. I think that’s the fairest thing.’
‘See to it that they get a special bonus, severance pay, whatever you want to call it. And naturally their pensions will become effective immediately. No penny pinching, and waiting it out until they actually reach retirement age. I won’t have any of that nonsense, Sandy.’
‘Yes, of course. I second-guessed you on that one. I’m preparing a list of names, and details of our financial obligations to the men. I’ll get it to you next week, if that’s all right with you.’ He sat back, waiting.
Emma made no response. She pushed herself up and walked slowly to the oriel window, where she stood looking down into the magnificent gardens of Pennistone Royal. Concern edged on to her wrinkled face as she ruminated on the mill at Fairley. Her life had been bound up with it in so many different ways. Her father had worked there, and her brother, Frank, when he was only a small boy and should have been at school. Frank had been a bobbin ligger, slaving from early morning until nightfall, hardly able to drag his weary little legs home at the end of the long day, sickly pale from exhaustion and lack of fresh air and sunshine.
Adam Fairley, Jim’s great-grandfather and the Squire of Fairley, had been the owner of the mill then. How she had hated him as a girl; for the best part of her life really. With the wisdom of great age, she knew Adam had not been the tyrant she had believed him to be. But he had been negligent, and that in itself was a crime in her eyes. His monumental negligence and his selfish preoccupation with his personal problems and his all-consuming love for Olivia Wainright had caused grievous trouble for others less fortunate. Yes, Adam Fairley had been guilty of abdicating his duties in the most careless and callous fashion, and without so much as a glance at those poor souls who toiled in his mills: The workers who made his cushioned life of ease and privilege possible, who were dependent on him, and were, in a very real sense, his responsibility. Half a century ago, she commented silently. I may understand something of the man now, but I’ll never forget what he did. Never.
She glanced down at her small but strong hands, soft and well cared for, the nails manicured to expensive perfection. But once those hands had been red and chapped and sore from scrubbing and polishing and washing and cooking for the Fairleys, when she had been bound in service to them as a child. Lifting one hand, she touched her face, and remembered with stunning clarity Murgatroyd’s sharp blows on her cheek. The detestable Murgatroyd, Adam Fairley’s butler, who had been permitted by the squire to rule that pernicious and secretive doomed house with a cruelty that bordered on savagery. Despite his harshness and his unremitting persecution of her, Murgatroyd had never frightened her. It was that monstrous house which had filled her with a nameless terror and from which she had wanted always to flee.
Then, one day, she had owned that great mausoleum of a place – Fairley’s Folly, the villagers had called it – and she had known at once that she would never live in it, would never play the role of the grand lady of the manor. And with a flash of sudden and intense vision she had understood exactly what she must do. She must obliterate it from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. And so she had torn it down, brick by brick by brick, until not a trace of it was left, and she could still recall to this very day the grim satisfaction she had experienced when she had finally razed it to the ground.
Now, across the span of four decades, she heard an echo of her own voice saying to Blackie: ‘And destroy this garden. Demolish it completely. I don’t want a rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’ Blackie had done exactly as she had instructed, uprooting that walled rose garden where Edwin Fairley had so inhumanly and shamefully repudiated her and their child, which she had been carrying. Miraculously, in the space of a few days, the garden, too, had disappeared as if it had never been there at all, and only then had she felt free of the Fairleys at last.
At this time in her life, Emma had acquired the mill. She had done her utmost to give the men proper living wages and overtime and all manner of fringe benefits, and she had kept the village going for years, often at great financial cost to herself. The workers were part of her in a way, for it was from their class that she herself came, and they held a favoured and unique place in her affections. The thought of letting a single one of them go distressed her, yet she had no choice, it seemed. Better, surely, to operate at half her work capacity and keep the mill rolling, than to close it down completely.
Half turning she said, ‘By the way, Alexander, have you discussed any of this with Kit?’
‘Uncle Kit,’ Alexander exclaimed, his startled tone reflecting the expression flicking on to his face. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘For one thing, he hasn’t been around. And for another, he doesn’t seem interested in any of the mills, Fairley least of all. He hasn’t appeared to give a damn since you dumped him out of your will.’
‘That’s a crude way of putting it, I must say!’ Emma snapped, and returned to her desk with a show of briskness. ‘I didn’t dump him, as you call it. I passed him over. For his daughter, remember. As I did your mother for you and Emily, and your Uncle Robin for Jonathan. And you know the reasons why, so I won’t bother elucidating on them again. Also, let’s not forget that my will doesn’t come into effect until I die. Which won’t be for a long time, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Or me either,’ Alexander cried swiftly, as always dismayed by her talk of dying.
Emma smiled at him, fully aware of his devotion to her, his genuine concern for her well being. She continued, in that business-like tone, ‘Well, so much for Kit. Mmmm. Of course, I realized he was being a bit derelict in his duties; on the other hand, I did think he made an occasional visit, if only for appearances’ sake.’
‘Oh yes, he does do that. But he’s so morose and uncommunicative he might as well not be there,’ Alexander explained, adding, as an afterthought, ‘I can’t begin to guess what he does with his time these days.’
‘Not much, if I know my eldest son. He never was blessed with much imagination,’ Emma shot back sardonically, the suggestion of a disdainful smirk playing on her mouth. She made a mental note to talk to Kit’s daughter, Sarah, about her father’s present mood. Morose indeed, Emma thought, with disgust. He brought his troubles on entirely by himself. No, not true. Robin gave him a helping hand, and Elizabeth and Edwina, his cohorts in the plot against me. Aware that Alexander was waiting expectantly, Emma finished, ‘Anyway, since Kit’s not around, he’s not going to hamper you – as he has so often in the past. Your way is clear. Put this plan into operation immediately. You have my blessing.’
‘Thanks, Grandy.’ He leaned forward, said with earnestness, ‘We are doing the right thing.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘And don’t worry about the men who are to be retired. They will be all right, really they will.’
She glanced at him quickly, her eyes narrowed under the hooded lids. She thought: I am so glad it’s not Alexander whom I suspect of treachery and duplicity. That I could not bear. It would kill me. She said, ‘It pleases me that you’ve always been so involved with the Fairley mill, and on such a personal basis, Sandy. You care, and that’s important to me. And I appreciate your understanding … I mean of my involvement with that particular mill.’ She smiled wryly and shook her head. ‘The past, you know, is always with us, always reaching out to claim part of us, and I learned a very long time ago that we cannot escape it.’
‘Yes,’ he said laconically, but the look in his eyes expressed so much more.
Emma said, ‘I’ve decided to go to the Fairley mill next week. I’ll be the one to explain the changes we’re going to make. Tell them about the retirements myself, in my own words. It’s only proper.’
‘Yes, it is, Grandy. And they’ll be thrilled to see you. They all worship you, but then you know that.’
‘Humph!’ she snorted. ‘Don’t be so foolish, Alexander. And don’t exaggerate. You know I can’t abide exaggeration.’
Alexander swallowed a smile, remained silent, watching her closely as she sorted through some of the papers on the desk, her head bent. She had spoken swiftly, crossly even, but there had been a curious gruffness in her voice, and he knew that she had been touched by his words. He was amused by her mild chastisement. It was a hoot. Her whole life had been an extraordinary exaggeration, for God’s sake. Why, she was larger than life.
‘Are you still here?’ Emma said, glancing up, frowning and feigning annoyance. ‘I thought you’d be halfway to the office by now, with all you’ve got to do today. Get along with you!’
Alexander laughed, jumped up and went around the desk. He hugged her to him, and kissed the crown of her silvery head. ‘There’s nobody like you in this entire world, Emma Harte,’ he said gently. ‘Nobody like you at all.’
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_dd07b5ac-effa-51f3-8fe0-0a4b9040748c)
‘Nobody in this world but Emma Harte would have come up with such a preposterous proposition,’ Sebastian Cross cried indignantly, glaring, his face turning choleric.
‘She didn’t come up with it, I did,’ Paula replied in her coldest voice, returning his angry look with a steady unblinking gaze.
‘Tommy rot! It’s your grandmother talking, not you!’
Paula felt herself stiffening in the chair, and she suppressed the swift denial that sprang to her lips. Self-control was essential in all business dealings, and particularly with this odious man. She would not permit him to put her down, nor bait her with his inference that her grandmother was manipulating this negotiation from afar.
‘Think what you will,’ she said, after a slight pause. ‘But regardless of whoever formulated the deal, that’s it, as I’ve outlined it. It’s a take it or leave it situation.’
‘Then we’ll leave it, thank you very much,’ Sebastian shot back, filled with rancorous hatred for her and her strange yet compelling beauty, her money and her power. His dark eyes blazed, as he added, ‘Who the hell needs you or your grandmother.’
‘Now, now, Sebastian, let’s not be too hasty,’ John Cross soothed. ‘And please, do calm down.’ He threw his son a cautionary look, then turned to Paula, his whole manner unexpectedly conciliatory. ‘You must make allowances for my son. Naturally he’s rather upset. After all, your proposal came as something of a shock to him. He is very committed to Aire Communications, as I have always been, and he has no desire to leave the company. Neither do I. In short, we both expect, indeed fully intend, to continue in our present positions. I as chairman of the board, and Sebastian as managing director. Harte Enterprises would have to agree to that.’
‘I don’t believe that is possible, Mr Cross,’ Paula said.
‘Forget it, Dad,’ Sebastian almost shouted. ‘We’ll go elsewhere for the money.’
‘You’ve nowhere else to go,’ Paula could not help retorting icily, reaching for her briefcase on the conference room table. She stood up, announced with finality, ‘Since we seem to have reached an impasse, there’s obviously nothing more to say. I think I’d better leave.’
John Cross sprang to his feet, took her arm. ‘Please,’ he said quietly. ‘Please sit down. Let’s talk a little more about this.’
Paula hesitated, staring at him. Throughout their relatively short meeting, whilst his son had blustered and snarled, John Cross had adopted a stance of inflexibility, displayed a quiet but firm resoluteness to make the deal on his terms, despite their original understanding. Now, for the first time, she detected a sign of wavering on his part. And whether he was aware of it or not, the preceding months of tension and anxiety had taken their toll. The troubles of his floundering company were much in evidence, clearly imprinted on his gaunt and weary face, and there was a quiet desperation behind the bloodshot eyes which held a hint of new panic. He knows I’m right about everything, she thought, carefully assessing him yet again, but he just won’t admit it. The fool. She instantly corrected herself. The man standing before her had built up Aire Communications from nothing, so she could hardly characterize him as a fool. Misguided, yes; and, regrettably, he suffered from the serious malady of paternal blindness. He had long invested his son with qualities Sebastian did not possess, nor was ever likely to possess, and therein lay his downfall.
‘All right,’ she said at last, seating herself tentatively on the edge of the chair. ‘I’ll stay for a few minutes to hear what you have to say. But very frankly, I meant it when I said we’d reached an impasse.’
‘That’s not strictly true, in my opinion,’ he responded, smiling faintly, and his relief at her continuing presence in his board room was barely concealed as he took a cigarette and lit it. ‘Your proposition is a bit preposterous, you know. We want new financing. We don’t want to be taken over and thrown out of our own company. No, no, that’s not what we had in mind when we came to you,’ he finished, shaking his head several times for added emphasis.
Paula gazed at him in amazement. She gave him a curious smile. ‘You’ve just pin-pointed the crux of the matter. You came to us, remember. We didn’t seek you out. And you certainly knew enough about Harte Enterprises, and how we operate, to understand that we never invest in companies that are in trouble. We take those over, reorganize them, and put them under new management. Our management. In other words, we get them running smoothly, efficiently, and on a profitable basis. We’re not interested in financing other people’s continuing disasters. It doesn’t pay.’
John Cross winced at this unmistakable thrust, but resisted the parry. Instead he said, ‘Quite so, quite so. I’ve been thinking … Maybe we can arrive at a workable compromise–’
‘Dad! Don’t!’ Sebastian exploded irately, moving violently in his chair.
His father held up one hand, and frowned at him. ‘Hear me out, Sebastian. Now, Paula, here’s what I think we might do, how we might make a deal after all. Harte Enterprises could buy fifty-two per cent of Aire Communications’ shares. That gives you the control you insist you must have. You put in your management, reorganize as you wish, but you must let us stay with – ’
‘Dad! What are you saying? Are you crazy?’ Sebastian bellowed, his flushed face darkening considerably. ‘Where would that leave us? I’ll tell you where. Out in the bloody cold, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Sebastian! Please,’ John Cross shouted back, finally losing his composure, his exasperation running high. ‘Let me finish for once in my life.’
‘Just a minute, Mr Cross,’ Paula cut in rapidly, her irritation echoing in her voice. ‘Before you go any further, I must point out, yet again, that we wouldn’t be interested. It must be a full buy out. One hundred per cent or nothing. And I told you this right from the – ’
‘That’s the old monster talking again, Dad,’ Sebastian interrupted derisively, his mouth contorted into an ugly line. ‘Emma Harte! Jesus Christ, the only heart she’s got is in her name. Don’t deal with them, Dad. They’re vultures, both of them, and this one learned well at the knee of the master, that’s patently bloody obvious. She wants to swallow us up, in the same way her grandmother has swallowed up companies over the years. I told you, we don’t need them.’
Paula chose to ignore this unruly and vindictive outburst, deeming it unworthy of a response. She focused all of her attention on John Cross. She was appalled at his deviousness and enraged, but controlling herself, she said as evenly as possible, ‘I started to say, that I quite clearly recall mentioning the full buy out to you, Mr Cross, long before today’s meeting. I find it hard to believe you’ve forgotten the protracted conversations we’ve had about that very matter.’ She gave him a hard stare, wondering if he thought she was stupid.
John Cross coloured under her sharp scrutiny. He remembered her initial statements only too well. But he had hoped to get Harte Enterprises interested in the company, whet Emma Harte’s appetite, then structure the deal to suit himself. He had been elated when he had realized it was Paula who would do the negotiating. He had believed he could manipulate her, and the situation, to his advantage. His plan, had somehow misfired. Maybe Sebastian was right. Yes, Emma Harte was undoubtedly working behind the scenes; all of this had her unmistakable stamp to it. An unreasonable anger surged through him, and he exclaimed heatedly, ‘Look here, you’re not being fair.’
‘Fair,’ Paula repeated. She smiled thinly, added in a clipped tone, ‘The issues of fair or unfair just won’t play in this instance.’ She held him with her startlingly blue eyes. ‘I’m surprised to hear you use that word. I told you, at the outset of today’s meeting, that Harte Enterprises is prepared to pay you two million pounds for Aire Communications. That’s more than fair. It’s downright generous. Your company is in an unholy mess. It could go belly up at any moment.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose that’s your affair, Mr Cross, not mine,’ She leaned forward, grasped the handle of her briefcase. ‘We seem to have nothing further to say to each other.’
The senior Cross said, ‘If, and I am saying if, we do decide to accept your offer, can my son and I remain with the company?’
She shook her head.
John Cross thought rapidly, came to an unpalatable but necessary decision. ‘I would be willing to step aside. After all, I am near retirement age.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, fixed his pale eyes on her. ‘However,’ he went on firmly, ‘you must reconsider your decision regarding Sebastian. No one knows this company like my son. Why, he would be invaluable to you. I must insist that he be appointed to the new board of directors and that he be given a contract for five years as special consultant. I would have to have your guarantee on that, and in writing, before we can proceed any further.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no place in Aire Communications for your son if we take the company over.’
The older man was silent.
Sebastian looked pointedly at his father, his expression at once both baleful and condemning. John Cross dropped his eyes, unable to meet that accusatory gaze, toyed with his gold pen, said nothing at all. Sebastian leaped up angrily, seething, and strode across the board room. He stood looking out of the window, his body rigid, and he cursed Paula Fairley under his breath.
Paula’s glance followed Sebastian. She felt the malignancy and alertness in him, but intuitively so, for she could not see his face. It was turned into the shadows cast by the window and the buildings outside. Involuntarily she shivered and brought her eyes back to his father. They regarded each other alertly, each wondering which one of them would make the next move. Neither did.
Paula saw a thin, grey-haired man in his early sixties, a self-made man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, and who, in the process, had acquired a distinguished air and a degree of superficial polish. He was also a frightened man. His company was sinking like a torpedoed battleship with a gaping hole in its bow, yet seemingly he was prepared to spurn the life belt she had thrown him because of his love for his son. The son who had so badly mismanaged Aire Communications that he had brought it to its present weakened and crippled state. She noticed a muscle twitching in the elder Cross’s face and glanced away.
John Cross, for his part, sat facing a young woman of great elegance in her grooming and her dress. She wore a magenta wool suit, magnificently cut and tailored, obviously a pricey piece of haute couture, with a man-tailored shirt of white silk. There was an absence of jewellery, except for a simple watch and a plain gold wedding band. He knew that Paula McGill Amory Fairley was only in her mid-twenties, yet she gave the impression of being so much older with her inbred caution, her cool authoritative manner. She reminded him of her famous grandmother, even though her colouring was so different. The glossy black hair, cut in a straight bob that grazed her jawline, the blue eyes flicked with violet, and the ivory complexion were unquestionably striking; but whereas Emma’s fabled russet-golden tints had always suggested softness and beguiling femininity, Paula’s beauty was somewhat austere, at least to suit his taste in women. Neither were her features quite as perfect as Emma’s had once been. Still, they did share the same aura of presence, and she had apparently inherited the old lady’s steely toughness as well as that uncommon widow’s peak, those sharp eyes that penetrated with a keen intelligence. His heart sank as he continued to study that palely beautiful but obdurate face.
He would never win with her. As this unpleasant realization sank in he did another volte-face, made yet another decision, and this one was final. He would seek financing from another source and insist that the deal include Sebastian. He must ensure his boy’s future with the company – one which had been built up expressly for him. That was the only thing he could do; the right and proper thing to do. Yes, he must protect his son above all else, otherwise what had his life been about?
John Cross was the one who broke the prolonged silence. ‘We are deadlocked, Paula. I have to pass.’ He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, then let them fall on to the conference table limply. ‘Thank you for your time. And please tell your grandmother that her terms are too harsh for my palate.’
Paula laughed softly as they both rose. ‘They’re my terms, Mr Cross, but I won’t labour the point.’ Being a courteous young woman she thrust out her hand. ‘I wish you lots of luck,’ she said with studied politeness.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice equally as civil as hers but not quite as steady. ‘Let me escort you to the lift.’
As they passed the window, Paula said, ‘Goodbye, Sebastian.’
He swivelled his dark head, nodded curtly, and she was so startled by the naked hatred etched on his cold and bitter face she hardly heard his muttered response. She had recognized a most dangerous enemy.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_4ab9caf2-2c20-50fd-b48f-7a1ae8a2b4de)
Paula was blazing mad.
Walking rapidly down the Headrow, one of the main thoroughfares in Leeds, she soon put distance between herself and the Aire Communications building. Her mind was racing. Although she had felt the sharp thrust of Sebastian Cross’s vindictive and combative personality, had readily acknowledged that he detested her and had become her arch enemy, her thoughts now centred on his father, and with good reason. Having more or less agreed to her terms right from the start, John Cross had ultimately reneged, and, moreover, in the most treacherous and despicable way.
It did not require much analysis on her part to understand why he had done so. It was apparent that he did not want to lose face in front of his domineering son, whose presence had unnerved him, made him defensive and, very possibly, more reckless than he had ever been in his entire life. Yet surely his honour and integrity were important to him too, took precedence over everything else? And what about retaining his son’s respect? She laughed hollowly at herself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. A young man of Sebastian’s perfidious nature had never made the acquaintance of those particular qualities. During the meeting, when she had understood that John Cross was not to be trusted, she had been momentarily astonished. He enjoyed a good reputation in Yorkshire’s business community, had always been considered honourable if not necessarily the wisest of men. That he would go back on his word was inconceivable to her.
Her pace accelerated, and so did her anger, as she recalled the energy and thought and time she had expended on Aire Communications. Her grandmother was going to be as infuriated as she was. Emma Harte would not tolerate being played for a fool; neither could she abide anyone who did not deal from a straight deck. Grandy would handle the situation in one of two ways. She would either shrug disdainfully and turn away in disgust, or she would treat Mr Cross to a tongue lashing the likes of which he had never heard before. Her grandmother had an intractable sense of honour, never went back on her handshake or her word, both of which were as good as a written contract, as the whole world knew.
The thought of Emma Harte putting the duplicitous John Cross firmly in his place brought a flicker of a smile to Paula’s violet-blue eyes. He deserved that if nothing else. But in reality he was facing much worse than Emma’s acid tongue and her virulent condemnation. He was looking disaster right in the eye. Bankruptcy. Total ruin. Obliteration. She knew he was convinced that he could easily find another conglomerate or company to refinance Aire. She also knew he was absolutely wrong in this foolish belief. She had her ear to the ground, and the word was out. Nobody wanted to touch Aire Communications. Not even those ruthless and rapacious asset strippers who bought companies, plundered them, and then tossed to one side the empty shells which were left.
It suddenly occurred to Paula, as she cut down Albion Street, that, Unbelievable though it was, John Cross had no real conception of what was about to happen to him or his company. She thought then of those he would take down with him, and of the many employees at Aire who would be thrown out of work. We could have saved him, more importantly saved them, she muttered under her breath. The man is unconscionable. Ever since she could remember, her grandmother had instilled a sense of responsibility in her, and this was one of the mandatory rules in Emma’s special code of ethics.
‘Great wealth and power bring enormous responsibilities, and don’t you ever forget that,’ Grandy had told her time and time again. ‘We must always look after those who work for us, and with us, because they help to make all this possible. And they rely on us, just as we rely on them in other ways,’ she had constantly pointed out. Paula was well aware that there were those magnates and industrialists who were jealous of Emma Harte, and who, as adversaries, misguidedly saw her as a hard, ruthless, driven and power-hungry woman. Yet even they did not have the temerity to deny that she was eminently fair. That was something every Harte employee knew from firsthand experience, hence their extraordinary loyalty and devotion to her grandmother, and their love for her.
Paula stopped abruptly, and took several deep breaths. She must get rid of the anger boiling inside her. It was exhausting, took too much of her precious energy – energy which could be directed elsewhere and to much better purpose. And besides, rage blocked reasonable and intelligent thought. She started to walk again, but now her step was slower and more regulated, and by the time she reached Commercial Street she had managed to calm herself considerably. She dawdled a little bit, stopping to glance in shop windows, until finally she was drawing to a standstill in front of E. Harte, her grandmother’s huge department store at the end of the street. She smiled at the uniformed doorman, whom she had known since childhood. ‘Hello, Alfred,’ she said, smiling.
‘’Ello, Miss Paula,’ he responded with a benevolent grin, touching his cap. ‘It’s a right beautiful day. Yes, luvely, it is that, Miss Paula. Let’s ’ope t’weather ’olds til termorrer, for yer bairns’ baptisms.’
‘Yes, let’s hope so, Alfred.’
He grinned again and pushed open the door for her. She thanked him, hurried through the perfumery department and took the lift to her office on the fourth floor. Her secretary, Agnes, looked up as she walked in, and exclaimed, with a small frown, ‘Oh dear, Mrs Fairley, you’ve just missed Mr O’Neill. Shane O’Neill, that is, and only by a few minutes too. What a shame. He waited for quite a while, then had to rush off to an appointment.’
‘Oh.’ Paula stopped dead in her tracks, taken aback, but she recovered herself, and asked quickly, ‘Did he say why he dropped in? Or leave a message?’
‘I gathered he was passing the store and decided to say hello on the spur of the moment. No message though, other than to tell you he would be coming to the christening.’
‘I see. Anything else, Agnes?’
‘Mr Fairley phoned from London. You can’t call him back, he was on his way to a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. He’ll be arriving on schedule, at six, with your parents. The other messages are on your desk. Nothing vital.’ Agnes hesitated, then asked, ‘How did your meeting go at Aire?’
Paula made a sour face. ‘Not good, Agnes. In fact I’d venture to say that it went extremely badly.’
‘I am sorry, Mrs Fairley. I know the amount of work you put in on those dreadful balance sheets, and then the hours you devoted to the contracts.’ Agnes Fuller, prematurely grey at thirty-eight, plain of feature and with a severe expression that actually betrayed the kindest of hearts, had worked her way up through the ranks of the Leeds store. She had been flattered yet apprehensive when Paula had promoted her to private secretary. After all, Paula was the heiress apparent, and Emma Harte’s favourite; also, there were those in the store who thought she was cold, remote, unyielding and something of a snob who lacked Emma’s extraordinary common touch. But Agnes had soon discovered that Paula had none of the characteristics so unkindly attributed to her by detractors. She was reserved of nature – even a little shy – cautious and prudent, and a veritable work horse, and these traits had, very simply, been misconstrued. Over the past three years, Agnes had come to love the younger woman, was admiring of her, and considered her to be a brilliant executive who was a warm and caring person and a considerate employer.
As she peered at her young boss through her bifocals, Agnes noticed that Paula was paler than usual, and drawn. She gave her a look of sympathy mingled with regret. ‘It’s all very annoying,’ she clucked in commiseration, shaking her head. ‘And I hope you’re not going to let it bother you, particularly this weekend.’
‘No, I won’t, I promise you that,’ Paula reassured. ‘As my grandmother always says, you win a few, lose a few. We lost this one – ’ She did not finish, and a reflective expression settled on her face. ‘But, come to think of it, perhaps that’s just as well.’ There was a thoughtful pause, before she finished, ‘Excuse me, Agnes, I’ll see you shortly.’
Paula went into her office and sat down at the huge antique partners’ desk which dominated the room. After taking the Aire Communications papers out of her briefcase, she picked up a red pen and wrote dead in capitals across the front of the bulging folder. She rose, went to the filing cabinet and slipped it inside, then returned to her desk. The deal was dead as far as she was concerned. The negotiations had ended in a fiasco, and, in consequence, she had lost all interest in Aire Communications.
More than any other of the Harte offspring, Paula had inherited an unusual number of Emma’s characteristics, and those she had not been born with she had acquired by osmosis, from years of working at Emma’s side. Chief amongst these was the ability to admit any kind of mistake with openness and candour, and then put it behind her philosophically. Like Emma, she would invariably say: It didn’t work. Perhaps my judgement was flawed. But let’s go on from here. We mustn’t look back.
And this was exactly what she said to herself now. In her mind, Aire Communications was already a thing of the past. If she had gravely misjudged John Cross and wasted a great deal of time and effort on him, she had no intention of compounding these errors by dwelling on them unnecessarily. She wondered whether she ought to give her grandmother a ring, to explain what had happened, then decided against it. Grandy was seeing both Alexander and Emily this morning, and was bound to be busy. Later, she would drive out to Pennistone Royal, as arranged, and apprise her of the situation. Grandy is going to be disappointed, of course, she thought, sorting through the sheaf of messages. But that won’t last long, and I’ll soon find another project for her.
Picking up the telephone, Paula returned all of her business calls, signed the stack of letters Agnes had typed, and then sat back in the chair, glancing at her personal messages.
Her mother had called. Nothing important. Don’t bother to call back. Will see you tonight, Agnes had scribbled, then added one of her inimitable postscripts. Mrs Amory sounded marvellous, elated about tomorrow. We had a lovely chat. She’s got a new hairstyle, and is wearing a grey Christian Dior suit for the event.
Paula smiled at Agnes’s comments, then scanned the message from her cousin, Sarah Lowther. Apparently she was fighting a cold and might not be well enough to attend the christening. But she didn’t sound at all sick, Agnes had written cryptically. How strange, Paula thought, frowning and re-reading the slip of paper. Sarah obviously doesn’t want to come. I wonder why? Since she could not hazard a guess, she turned to the last message. Miranda O’Neill was at the Leeds office of O’Neill Hotels International. Please call her back before lunch, Agnes had instructed.
Paula immediately dialled Miranda’s private number. The line was busy, as it usually was when she was in the city. Like her grandfather, Miranda had what the poet Dylan Thomas had called ‘the beautiful gift of the gab’. She could easily be talking for the next hour. Automatically, Paula’s thoughts turned to Miranda’s brother, Shane, and instantly she saw his vivid laughing face in her mind’s eye. She was terribly disappointed she had missed him earlier. Such a visit had become a rarity. For years he had made it a habit to drop in on her both in Leeds and London, and when these unexpected visits had ceased abruptly she had been hurt and baffled.
Shane O’Neill, son of Bryan, grandson of Blackie, had been Paula’s closest friend since childhood. They had grown up with each other, had spent all of their school holidays together, and they had been inseparable for most of their lives, so much so that Emma had nicknamed Paula the Shadow. As her mind lingered on Shane, she realized she had not set eyes on him for many, many months. He was constantly travelling these days, dashing off to Spain and the Caribbean, where a number of the O’Neill hotels were located, and when he was in England, and if she chanced to run into him, he had a preoccupied air and a distant manner. She exhaled softly, slowly. How odd it was that their closeness should end with such finality, as it had two years ago. It still puzzled her. When she had eventually tackled Shane, had asked him what had happened between them, he had looked at her in the most peculiar way, and denied that anything had. He had blamed business and his time-consuming schedule for his absence from her life. Perhaps he had simply outgrown her. Childhood friendships often did change radically; very frequently they deteriorated to such an extent they could never be reinstated. Regrettably, she thought. And I do miss him. I wish I’d been here this morning.
The buzz of the telephone cut into her thoughts. She reached for it. Agnes said, ‘It’s Miss O’Neill, Mrs Fairley.’
‘Thanks, Agnes, put her through, please.’
A split second later Miranda’s lilting voice flowed over the wire. ‘Hello, Paula. I thought I’d better call you again, since my phone’s been busy for ages.’
‘That’s par for the course,’ Paula said with an affectionate laugh. ‘When did you get in from London?’
‘Last night. I drove up with Shane. And for the last time, I don’t mind telling you. He’s a maniac in a car. The tyres sizzled the roads. I thought we’d end up in a ditch. I’ll never know how I got here safe and sound. I was so shaken up, and white, when we arrived at the house, Mummy knew immediately what had happened. She’s forbidden me to drive with him again. She gave him quite a piece of her mind, and – ’
‘I’ll bet,’ Paula broke in, with another laugh. ‘Your mother thinks the sun shines out of Shane. He can’t do anything wrong in her eyes.’
‘Well, he’s in the doghouse at the moment, my dear. She really told him off, and so did Dad.’
‘Shane came to see me today, Miranda.’
‘Hey, that’s good news. Like you, I can’t understand why he’s so aloof with you these days, but then he’s a strange one, that big brother of mine. Too much of the Celt in him, perhaps. Anyway, what did he have to say?’
‘Nothing, Miranda, since I wasn’t here. I was out at a meeting.’
‘Too bad. Still, he’s coming to the christening. I know you had your doubts, but he told me he was definitely going to go. He even offered to drive me.’ Miranda groaned in mock horror at this idea. ‘I declined. I was going to go with Grandpops, but naturally he’s escorting Aunt Emma. So I’ll toddle over by myself. Listen, Paula, apart from wanting to say hello, I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch? I’ve got to come over to the store to pick up a package for my mother. I could meet you in the Birdcage in half an hour. What do you think?’
‘That’s a nice suggestion, Merry. I’ll see you there at noon.’
‘It’s a date,’ Miranda said. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ As she began clearing her desk of papers, Paula was suddenly glad Miranda had suggested lunch. Her friend was a delight to be with, and a very special girl, with her naturalness, her sweetness, her gaiety and effervescence. She had a joyous, carefree disposition, and laughter sprang readily to her lips, undoubtedly the reason why her nickname Mirry had soon turned into Merry when she was small.
Paula smiled to herself, wondering what Miranda was wearing today, what surprise was in store for her. The twenty-three-year-old girl had a penchant for creating the most outlandish outfits – costumes really – but they were put together with imagination and style, and she certainly carried them off with élan. They would have looked perfectly ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow they were exactly right on Miranda O’Neill. Apart from suiting her tall, somewhat boyish figure, they were an adjunct to her fey and whimsical personality. Or so it seemed to Paula, who considered Merry to be an original, the one genuine free spirit she knew. Her grandmother was equally fond of Miranda, and said that Blackie’s granddaughter was the best tonic in the world for all of them, because she chased their blues away. ‘There’s not a bad bone in that girl’s body,’ Emma had remarked to Paula recently. ‘And now that she’s grown up she reminds me a lot of her grandmother. There’s a good deal of Laura Spencer in Merry – Laura’s true goodness for one thing. Also, there’s a wise head on those young shoulders, and I’m pleased you two have become such good friends. Every woman needs a close and trusted friend of the same sex. I should know. I never really had one after Laura died.’
Remembering these words of Emma’s, Paula thought: But she always had Blackie, and she still has him; whereas I’ve lost Shane. Funny, though, that Miranda and I drew closer together once Shane had dropped out …
There was a knock and Agnes poked her head around the door. ‘These proofs just came up from the advertising department. Can you give them your okay?’
‘Yes, come in, Agnes.’
‘They’re the advertisements for the spring fashion sales,’ Agnes explained, handing them to her.
After studying the newspaper advertisements for a few seconds, Paula initialled the proofs, gave them back to her secretary and stood up. ‘I’m going out on to the floor for a while. Could you phone the Birdcage, Agnes, and tell them I’ll need my usual table, please. At noon.’
‘Right away,’ Agnes said as they went out together.
When Emma Harte had first opened the café on the second floor of the Leeds store, she had called it the Elizabethan Gazebo, and had decorated it in the style of an English country garden. Such things as handpainted wallpaper depicting pastoral scenes, panels of white trellis, artificial topiary animals, and antique birdcages combined to create a most enchanting little setting.
Over the years, as she refurbished the café, the name changed to match the theme, or vice versa. But always a garden or outdoor motif prevailed, often with an international flavour, as Emma had given rein to her imagination and fantasies with flair and not a little wit. After a trip to the Bosphorus, with Paul McGill, she had been inspired to create the effect of a courtyard in a Seraglio. Mosaic tiles, silver wallpaper painted with peacocks, potted palms and a splashing fountain were combined in the new design. She had called the café Turkish Delight, and had been delighted herself to witness its instantaneous popularity as a smart gathering place, not only for women shoppers but local businessmen who came in for lunch. Several years later, Emma decided a more homespun motif was in order. Highland Fling was the name she chose, and the setting took on the appearance of a Scottish castle yard, featuring rustic furniture and colourful tartans. Eventually this ambience gave way to one which suggested an Oriental teahouse and drew its inspiration from the elegant decorative elements of the Far East. The café was renamed the China Doll. Then came the Balalaika, redolent of nineteenth-century Russia; after that it was transformed into Riviera Terrace, and in 1960 Emma redid the café yet again. This time she used a sophisticated theme based on the skyline of New York City, lining the walls with giant-sized photographic murals of Manhattan. The decor suggested a big-city roof garden and she called it Skyscrapers. But by the late summer of 1968 Emma had grown tired of this decorative mood, and, as the café needed a complete overhaul at this time, she gave the project to Paula, asking her to create something different.
Paula knew everything there was to know about all of the stores in the Harte chain, and she remembered the photographs she had seen of the original Elizabethan Gazebo. She went into the archives, dug out the original plans and sketches, and was instantly struck by the uniqueness and beauty of the antique birdcages. Since she was aware they were stored in packing cases in the basement, she had them brought up and unwrapped. And so the current theme and the latest name were born.
Paula had the wooden and brass birdcages repainted or repolished and, after finding more to add to the collection, she featured them throughout the restaurant. They stood out beautifully against a background of lime-green wallpaper over-patterned with a sharp white trellis design; white wicker chairs and matching tables with glass tops reiterated the outdoor mood. Paula loved all growing things, was, in fact, a gifted gardener, and so her final, masterful touch was a lush assortment of small trees, flowering shrubs and plants. It was the many pots of hydrangeas and azaleas that gave the Birdcage its cachet, and this real garden within the heart of the store bloomed in all seasons under her personal supervision. Emma had recognized at once that it was an evocation of her own first design and as such a little tribute to her, and she was flattered.
A few minutes after twelve, on this Friday morning, Paula hurried into the Birdcage and as always she was struck by the refreshing sight of the flowers and foliage, one which appeared to cheer everyone up. Moving between the tables, where morning shoppers were settling down to lunch, Paula saw that Miranda O’Neill had already arrived. Her burnished copper hair, cascading in a glorious mass of waves and curls around her heart-shaped face, seemed to catch and hold all the light, was like a shining beacon at the far side of the room. Miranda glanced up from the menu she was perusing, saw Paula, and waved.
‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ Paula apologized when she reached the table. ‘I was delayed in the Designer Salon. We’ve been having the most awful trouble with the new lighting, and I wanted to check on it again. It’s still not right I’m afraid.’ She bent down and kissed her friend, slipped into the next chair.
Miranda grinned a little impishly, and said, ‘Oh dear, the trials and tribulations of running a store! I’ll swap jobs with you any day. Doing public relations for a chain of hotels can be the pits at times.’
‘If I remember correctly, you really badgered your father for that job.’
‘That’s true. But I wouldn’t have, if I’d known what I was letting myself in for,’ Miranda grumbled, making a long face. But she then had the good grace to laugh, and admitted, ‘I suppose I enjoy it really. It’s only occasionally that I feel the pressure. But right now I’m in Dad’s good books. He’s very happy with my latest campaign, and he even went so far as to say I’d been innovative the other day. That’s praise indeed from him. He’s not given to paying me compliments, as you know. He even said that if I behave myself he’s going to send me to Barbados in a few weeks, to look over the hotel we’ve just bought there. By the time we’ve remodelled it and redecorated, it’ll be super de luxe and as elegant as the Sandy Lane. We all believe it’s going to be an important addition to our chain.’
‘That’s marvellous, Merry. Really exciting for you. Now, shall we order? I don’t want to rush you, but I have to leave the store early today.’
‘No problem, I’m a bit pushed myself.’ Miranda glanced at the menu again, said, ‘I’ll have the plaice and chips, I think.’
‘Good idea. I’ll join you.’ Paula caught the attention of the waitress, ordered, and then turned to Miranda, looking her over quickly, at once captivated by her outfit. Today she was wearing a rather theatrically-styled jerkin with a wide, flaring collar and three-quarter sleeves, and it was laced up the front over a white silk shirt with longer sleeves. There was a twinkle in Paula’s eyes as she said, ‘You look like a female Robin Hood, in all that Sherwood Green suede, Merry. The only things that are missing are a quiver of arrows and a perky little felt hat with a sweeping feather.’
Miranda broke into laughter. ‘Don’t think I don’t have the hat! I do. But I didn’t dare wear it to lunch, in case you’d think I was bonkers. Everyone else does.’ She swivelled in the chair to reveal her legs, which were encased in tight green-suede pants and matching boots that came up above her knees. ‘When Shane saw me this morning he said I looked like the Principal Boy in a pantomime. I went the whole hog with this outfit, I’m afraid. Is it too theatrical?’
‘Not really. And you could have worn the hat. I for one happen to like you in your fanciful costumes.’
Miranda looked pleased. ‘Coming from the elegant you that’s a real compliment.’ Leaning closer, she hurried on, ‘Are you and Jim busy tonight? I was wondering if I could invite you out to dinner?’
‘I’d love you to join us tonight, if you won’t be bored. Grandy’s having a family dinner at Pennistone Royal.’
‘I’m not sure that that’s still on, Paula. Your grandmamma has a hot date with my grandfather.’ Miranda’s laugh held a hint of mischief, which was reflected in her eyes, as she said, ‘Can you imagine, and at their ages!’
Paula was thrown by this statement. ‘Oh, you must be mistaken. I’m certain Grandy intends to be there.’
‘I’m not wrong, honestly I’m not. I heard Shane talking to my father a little while ago. Grandfather is taking Aunt Emma out to dinner. But I was only teasing when I said they had a hot date, since Shane’s going with them.’
‘Then Grandy must have changed her plans,’ Paula said, dreading the thought of the dinner without her grandmother’s presence. ‘I expect my mother will play hostess in her place, since I can’t imagine Grandy actually cancelling it without talking to me first.’
‘No, I don’t think she would do that.’ Leaning forward again, her manner still teasing, Miranda said, ‘When my grandfather and your grandmother get together, they’re incorrigible. I told him the other day that it was about time he made an honest woman out of Aunt Emma and married her.’
‘If anyone’s incorrigible, it’s you, Merry! And what did Uncle Blackie say to that?’
‘He chuckled, and told me he’d only been waiting for my approval, and now that he had it he was going to pop the question. ’Course, I knew he was only kidding me in return. But to tell you the truth, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, do you?’
Paula merely smiled. She said, ‘Anyway, getting back to the family dinner, you’re very welcome. Come around seven-thirty for drinks. Dinner’s at eight-thirty.’
‘You are a darling, Paula. Thank you. You’ve just rescued me from a boring evening with Ma and Pa. All they do these days is talk about the baby.’
‘I’m not sure your evening with us will be much more stimulating. My mother has become something of a doting grandma. All she does is rave about the twins. I can’t seem to shut her up.’
‘But I adore Aunt Daisy. She’s such a lovely woman, and not a bit like the rest of you – ’ Miranda stopped, horrified at her words. Her pale, freckled face flamed to scarlet.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Paula demanded, a dark brow arching as she pretended to be insulted, but the amusement touching her mouth betrayed her.
‘I didn’t mean it the way it came out,’ Miranda exclaimed in embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t referring to you or Aunt Emma, or your cousins, but to your aunts and uncles actually. I am sorry, though. It was rather rude of me.’
‘Don’t apologize, I happen to agree with you.’ Paula fell silent thinking specifically of her Aunt Edwina, the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, who was due to arrive from Ireland later that day. It was because of Edwina that she and Jim had had their first truly serious quarrel. Some weeks ago, to her utter astonishment and disbelief, Jim had decided that Edwina must be invited to the christening. When Paula had objected, and strenuously so, and had reminded him that Edwina was no favourite of Grandy’s, he had brushed aside her protestations and told her she was being silly. And then he had reminded her that Emma wanted bygones to be bygones, sought peace within the family. ‘Well, you’d better not invite Edwina until I’ve mentioned it to Grandy,’ Paula cautioned, and he had acquiesced to this suggestion, at least. When she had told her grandmother about it, Emma had appeared off-hand, indifferent even, and had told her to accept the situation gracefully, to let him invite Edwina, and to put a good face on it if she accepted. But there had been a strange look in Grandy’s eyes, and Paula suspected that Emma had been disappointed in Jim. As she had herself, but she had overcome this feeling, loving him as much as she did; and she had excused Jim, too, because he had no family of his own to invite to his children’s christening, and Edwina was half Fairley. If only Edwina weren’t so hostile to Emma and to her.
Miranda, studying her friend, saw that she looked troubled, and ventured, ‘You’re awfully pensive all of a sudden, Paula. Is something wrong?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Paula forced a smile, and changing the subject, she asked, ‘How’s your mother?’
‘Her health’s much better, thanks. Also, I think she’s finally recovered from the shock of getting pregnant at forty-five and giving birth to a change-of-life baby. And little Laura is simply adorable. I love to watch Grandfather playing with her. He’s quite infatuated, and of course he’s thrilled they called her Laura, after my grandmother. They almost gave me that name, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t, Merry.’
‘Yes. Then they changed their minds, I suppose. But I wouldn’t have minded being named for my grandmother, and I certainly wish I’d known her. She must have been a remarkable woman. Everyone loved her so, especially Aunt Emma.’
‘Yes, and Grandy told me, only the other day, that she’s never stopped missing Laura since the day she died.’
‘We’re all muddled up, aren’t we, Paula?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Hartes and the O’Neills. And the Fairleys, for that matter. Our lives are inextricably linked … we can’t really escape each other, can we?’
‘No, I don’t suppose we can.’
Miranda reached over and squeezed Paula’s hand. ‘I’m glad we can’t. I think it’s rather nice to have you and Aunt Emma and Aunt Daisy for a second family.’ Her huge hazel eyes, sparkling with tiny prisms of gold, overflowed with warmth and affection.
Paula returned the pressure of her hand. ‘And it’s nice for me to have the O’Neills.’
The arrival of the waitress with the tray of food interrupted this exchange, and for the next fifteen minutes or so the two young women talked mostly about Paula’s babies, the christening the next day, and the reception Emma was giving after the church ceremony. But then Miranda, quite suddenly, adopted a serious tone, when she said, ‘There’s something very important I’d like to discuss with you.’
Paula, at once noticing the change in her friend’s demeanour, asked swiftly, ‘Do you have problems?’
‘Not at all. But I do have an idea I’d like to throw at you, to get your reaction.’
‘What kind of idea, Merry?’ she asked curiously.
‘You and I doing business together.’
‘Oh.’ This was the last thing Paula expected, and after her initial exclamation she was startled into momentary silence.
Miranda grinned, and not giving her a chance to comment further or brush the idea to one side, she rushed on: ‘I had a flash of inspiration last week, when I was going over the blueprints for the new hotel we’re building in Marbella. The architect has planned a galleria of shops, and it struck me immediately that we must include a boutique. Naturally, I thought of Harte’s, then I realized one boutique wouldn’t interest you. So I took the idea a step further … Harte boutiques in all of our hotels. There’s the new one we’re doing over in Barbados, we’re about to remodel the Torremolinos hotel, and eventually the entire chain will get a revamp. We could have a boutique in each one, and Harte’s could run them.’ Miranda sat back and searched Paula’s face for a clue to her feelings, but it was unreadable. She asked eagerly, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Paula said. ‘Have you discussed this with Uncle Bryan?’
‘Yes, and Dad liked the idea. He was very gung ho actually, and told me to talk to you.’ Miranda gazed at her friend expectantly and crossed her fingers. ‘Would you be willing to go into the venture with us?’
‘I think we might be. I’d have to talk to my grandmother, of course.’ This was uttered with Paula’s usual caution, but she could not conceal the interest quickening on her face. With a small rush of excitement, she thought: It could be the perfect project for Grandy. The one I’ve been looking for, and it would certainly take the sting out of the Cross fiasco. Straightening up, Paula said in a more positive voice, ‘Give me some additional details, Merry,’ and she listened attentively as the other girl talked. Within minutes she began to recognize the endless possibilities and advantages inherent in Miranda O’Neill’s idea.
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_d6b5980d-3603-5695-99fc-6c62de729629)
Emma sat up with an abrupt jolt.
I don’t believe it. I almost dozed off, she thought with exasperation. Only old ladies do that in the middle of the day. She began to laugh. Well, she was an old lady, even though she was loath to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.
Shifting her position on the sofa, she stretched, then straightened her skirt, and immediately became aware of the heat from the blazing fire. The room was stifling, even for her – she who had always suffered from the cold and rarely ever felt warm enough. No wonder she had become so drowsy.
With a burst of energy she propelled herself up and off the sofa, and hurried to the windows. She opened one of them and took several deep breaths, fanning herself with her hand. The crisp air felt good, and the breeze brushing against her face soon refreshed her, and she stood there for a moment or two until she was cooler, before turning away and retracing her steps.
Her pace was slower, and she looked around as she skirted the two large plump sofas in the centre of the floor. She nodded with pleasure, thinking how lovely the room appeared at this moment, washed as it was in the golden sunlight now streaming in through the many windows. But then it always did look beautiful to her, and she would rather be here than anywhere else on this earth.
Is it age, I wonder, that makes us cleave to the best-known spaces in our lives, and the well-loved and familiar things? Is it the memories of the years gone by, and of those we cared so much about, which bind us to those places and make them so special in our deepest hearts? She believed that this was true – at least for her. She felt safe, and comforted, when she was in surroundings where so many episodes of her long and colourful life had been played out.
Such a place was Pennistone Royal, this ancient, historic and rambling house on the outskirts of Ripon, which she had purchased in 1932. In particular she favoured this room – the upstairs parlour – where she had spent so many endless happy hours over the years. She had often wondered how it had come to be called the upstairs parlour, for there was nothing parlour-like about it at all. This struck her once again as her glance took in the impressive architectural details and the splendid furnishings.
By the very nature of its dimensions the room had a singular grandeur, with its high, Jacobean ceiling decorated with elaborate plasterwork, its tall leaded windows flanking the unique oriel window, and the carved fireplace of bleached oak. Yet for all its imposing detail, and despite its size, Emma had introduced a mellow charm and great comfort, plus a subtle understated elegance that had taken time, much patience, superb taste and a vast amount of money to create.
Being confident of her original choices, Emma had never felt it necessary to change anything, so the room had remained the same for over thirty years. She knew, for instance, that no other paintings could ever surpass the fine portraits of a young nobleman and his wife by Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the priceless Turner landscape. The three oils were in perfect harmony with her graceful Georgian antiques, collected so lovingly and with infinite care. And such things as the Savonnerie carpet, faded now to a delicate beauty, and her Rose Medallion china in the Chippendale cabinet, were matchless touches that added to the room’s graciousness and style. Even the walls were always repainted in their original primrose, for to her discerning eye this pale and delicate colour made the most restful backdrop for the art and the rich patinas of the dark woods, and it introduced the cheerful sunny aspect she preferred.
This morning, the springlike mood of the setting, created by the airy colour scheme and the brightly-patterned chintz on the sofas, was reinforced by porcelain bowls brimming with jonquils, tulips and hyacinth, which spilled their lively yellows, reds, pinks and mauves on to some of the darkly-gleaming surfaces, and their fragrant scents were aromatic on the still and gentle air.
Emma moved forward, then paused again in front of the fireplace. She never tired of looking at the Turner which hung above the mantelpiece, dominating the soaring chimney wall with its misty greens and blues. The landscape was bucolic, evocative, and a superb example of Turner’s poetic and visionary interpretations of the pastoral scene.
It’s definitely the light, she decided for the hundredth time, as always fascinated by the luminous sky in the painting. In Emma’s opinion, no one had ever been able to capture light on canvas in quite the same manner as Turner. The clear cool light in this masterpiece was forever associated in her mind with the Northern skies under which she had grown up, and had lived for most of her life, and which she would love always. She believed them to be unique because of their clarity, and a radiance that seemed unearthly at times.
Her eye now caught the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost one. She had better pull herself together, and very smartly, since Emily was due momentarily, and everyone had to be on their toes when the volatile, whirlwind Emily was around. Most especially old ladies, she added inwardly, chuckling softly again.
Hurrying briskly into the adjoining bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table. After dabbing her nose with powder, she renewed her pink lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. There, that does it. Passable, she added under her breath, peering into the glass. No, more than passable. I really do look pretty nifty today, as Alexander said.
She swung her head and stared at Paul’s photograph standing on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.
I wonder what you would think of me, if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?
Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him, and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of dust off the glass. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York. On 3 February 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Risë Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterwards, Paul had taken them to Delmonico’s for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson’s talk of impending war, and Paul’s equally bleak assessment of the world situation. Paul’s mood had been gay later, at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.
She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had passed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.
Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life … particularly a long life like mine.
Without thinking, she spoke aloud: ‘If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been.’ Her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.
‘Grandma … are you alone?’ Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.
Startled, Emma jumped, and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. ‘Oh hello, Emily dear. I didn’t hear you come through the parlour. And of course I’m alone.’
Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, ‘I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran.’
‘I was. I was talking to him.’ She inclined her head at the photograph, and added dryly, ‘And if you think I’m getting senile, you can forget it. I’ve talked to that photograph for thirty years.’
‘Gosh, Grandy, you’re the last person I’d ever think of as being senile!’ Emily was quick to reassure, meaning every word. ‘Mummy maybe, but never you.’
Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. ‘Where is your mother, Emily. Do you know?’
‘Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that’s where she’s gone.’
‘Haiti.’ Emma sat up in the chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. ‘Isn’t that the place they practise voodoo. I hope she isn’t having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does.’
Emily also laughed, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn’t think of anything like that. I doubt she’s ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I’m sure she’s far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman.’
‘Oh. So, she’s done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations.’
‘Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy.’ Emily’s green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.
Emma said, ‘Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious title. What’s this one’s name?’
‘Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He’s always in the gossip columns. And you’re right on target, regarding his character. But he doesn’t have a title, dubious or otherwise.’
‘That’s a relief. I’m sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unpronounceable names, grandiose ideas and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn’t he?’
‘I’d categorize him as IWT, Gran.’
‘What on earth does that mean, dear?’ Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.
‘International White Trash.’
Emma guffawed. ‘That’s a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily.’
‘It’s a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfil in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won’t be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London.’ Emily made a disagreeable face. ‘Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair’s fashionable drawing rooms for years, and I’m surprised Mummy got involved with him. He’s so transparent. He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran.’
Emma frowned. ‘Have you met him then?’
‘Yes, and before Mummy too.’ She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pass at her first. That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, ‘He’s quite ghastly.’
Emma sighed, and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive – frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash, too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said, with some asperity, ‘Your mother is impossible. Impossible. Where are her brains, for God’s sake? Don’t bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian.’
Emily stared at her in disbelief. ‘Grandy!’ she shrieked. ‘What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact, you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him.’
‘I changed my mind,’ Emma replied loftily. ‘As it turned out he wasn’t a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go into the parlour and have a drink before lunch.’ She tucked her arm through Emily’s companionably, and steered her across the floor. She asked again, ‘So, where is Gianni what’s-his-name?’
‘He’s around. He’s moved out of Mummy’s flat, of course. But he’s still in London. He’s got himself a job with some Italian importing company, antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He’s rather attached to them I think.’
‘I see.’ Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself on to one of the sofas. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honours, please, dear.’
‘Yes, Grandy. I think I’ll have one myself.’ Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal glasses. Emma’s eyes followed her. In the red wool suit and frilly lilac blouse Emily reminded her of an iridescent humming-bird, so small, so swift, so brilliantly plumed, and so full of life. She’s a good girl, Emma thought. Thank God she hasn’t turned out like her mother.
Mixing the drinks deftly, Emily said, over her shoulder, ‘Talking of my baby half-sisters, Gran, are you going to let them stay at Harrogate College?’
‘For the moment. But I fully intend to pack them off to finishing school in Switzerland this September. In the meantime, they seem to be happy at the college. Of course, I realize that’s because of my proximity. I suppose I spoil them, letting them come home so much.’ Emma paused, remembering the fuss and bother and upset the previous year, when her two youngest grandchildren had tearfully begged to come and live with her. Emma had finally succumbed under their constant pressuring, although her acquiescence had been conditional. For their part, they had had to agree to attend the nearby boarding school Emma had selected. The girls had been thrilled, their mother delighted to be rid of them, Emma relieved that she had averted a nasty family contretemps from developing further.
Leaning back against the cushions, she let out a tiny sigh. ‘Anyway, spoil them or not, I do feel those two need mothering, and a chance to lead a normal family life. They’ve had little enough of either with your mother.’
‘That’s true,’ Emily agreed, carrying the drinks over to the seating arrangement in front of the fire. ‘I feel a bit sorry for them myself. I suppose Alexander and I got the best of Mummy, I mean her better years. The girls have had a rough time of it … all those husbands. It seems to me that ever since she left their father, our mother has been on a downward slide. Oh well, what can you do? …’ Emily’s young breathy voice petered out sadly. She shrugged in resignation, and her whole demeanour reflected her disenchantment. ‘There’s not much you or I can do about your daughter, my mother, Grandy. She’s not likely to change.’
Emily now looked across at her grandmother, her blonde brows meeting in a frown. She said in a fretful tone, ‘The trouble with poor Mummy is that she suffers from the most terrible insecurity about herself, her looks, her figure, her personality … well, just about everything.’
‘Oh, do you think so,’ Emma exclaimed in astonishment at this remark. Her face changed and there was a glint of malice in her flinty green eyes as she remarked, with immense coldness, ‘I can’t imagine why.’ She lifted her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers, Gran darling.’
Emma settled into a corner of the vast sofa, and, squinting in the sunlight, she focused on the attractive twenty-two-year-old Emily. The girl had a special place in her affections, for apart from being open and uncomplicated, she had a very lovable personality, one that was sunny, cheerful, and perennially optimistic, and she was a dynamic girl, filled with enthusiasm for life and her work. If Emily’s pink-and-cream blonde prettiness had the porcelain fragility of a Dresden shepherdess, it was, nevertheless, deceptive, belying an extraordinary drive that had the velocity and power of an express train running at full speed. Emma knew there were those in the family, specifically her sons, who thought Emily was scatterbrained and flippant. This secretly amused Emma, since she was fully aware that Emily purposely chose to give this fraudulent impression. In no way did it reflect her basic seriousness and diligence. Emma had long ago decided that her sons really disliked their niece because she was far too blunt and opinionated – and truthful – for their comfort. Emma had been witness to more than one scene when the intrepid Emily had made Kit and Robin squirm.
Emma looked into the clear green eyes, a reflection of her own as they had once been, saw the expectancy flickering in them, then noted the confident smile etched on Emily’s mouth. Emily had obviously convinced herself she was going to get her own way. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath, Emma said, with a faint laugh, ‘For someone with a serious problem, you certainly don’t look very troubled, dear. You’re positively glowing this morning.’
Emily nodded, and admitted, ‘I don’t think my problem’s all that serious, Grandy. I mean, it doesn’t seem to be today.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. You sounded as if you had the burdens of the world on your shoulders, when you spoke to me on Tuesday morning.’
‘Did I really,’ Emily laughed. ‘I suppose things seem so much brighter when I’m with you. Perhaps that’s because I know you can always solve any problem, and I just know you’ll – ’ She broke off when Emma held up a silencing hand.
Emma said: ‘I’ve known for some time that you want to go back to Paris, to work in the store there. That is what you want to discuss, isn’t it? That is your problem?’
‘Yes, Gran,’ Emily said, her eyes shining with eagerness.
Emma put down her drink on the butler’s tray table, and leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. She said carefully, ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you go to Paris. I’m very sorry to disappoint you, Emily, but you will have to stay here.’
The happy smile vanished, and Emily’s face dropped. ‘But why, Grandy?’ she asked in a crushed voice. ‘I thought you were pleased with the way I handled things in Paris all last summer and through the autumn.’
‘I was. Very pleased, in fact, and proud of you. Your performance has nothing to do with my decision. No, that’s not strictly true. One of the reasons I’ve formulated new plans for you is because of the way you performed over there.’ Emma’s eyes did not leave her granddaughter’s face as she explained carefully, ‘Plans for your future. Which, in my considered opinion, is with Harte Enterprises.’
‘Harte Enterprises!’ Emily cried, her voice rising incredulously.
She froze on the sofa, staring at her grandmother dumbfounded. ‘Where would I fit in there? Alexander, Sarah and Jonathan are working in that company, and I’d just be a spare wheel! A dogsbody, with nothing to do. Anyway, I’ve always worked for you. In the stores. I love retailing, and you know that, Gran. I’d just hate, positively hate and detest, being pushed into that organization,’ Emily protested with uncommon fierceness, flushing bright pink. Breathlessly, she rushed on, ‘I really mean it. You’ve always said it’s important to enjoy one’s work. Well, I certainly wouldn’t enjoy working at Harte Enterprises. Oh please let me go to Paris. I really love that store, and I want to continue to help you get it properly on its feet. Please change your mind. Please, oh please, Gran darling. I’ll just be miserable if you don’t,’ she wailed, and her face was as woebegone as her voice as she clenched her hands together in her lap.
Emma made an irritated clucking noise, and shook her head reprovingly. ‘Now, now, Emily, don’t be so dramatic,’ she exclaimed with unusual sharpness. ‘And do stop trying to cajole me. I know all about your wheedling. Sometimes it works, other times, like right now, I am quite impervious to it. And incidentally, the Paris store is on its feet, thanks, in no small measure, to you. So you’re not needed there any more. Very frankly, I need you here.’
This remark, although uttered mildly, caused Emily to sit up swiftly, and she frowned, further taken aback. ‘You need me, Grandy. What for? What do you mean?’ Emily’s eyes widened and filled with worry. She wondered if her grandmother had a serious problem within Harte Enterprises. Hardly. Her health? That seemed unlikely too. But obviously something was amiss.
‘What’s wrong, Grandma?’ she asked, giving words to her spiralling anxiety, all ideas about Paris swept completely out of her head.
‘There is nothing wrong, dear,’ Emma said with a bright smile, detecting the girl’s concern. ‘Before I explain my reasons for wanting you here, I would like to clarify my remark about your future. Naturally I realize you like working at the stores, but you can’t get much further at Harte’s. Paula and your Uncle David have the real power there these days, and Paula will inherit all of my shares one day. Paula respects your ability, and she would love to keep you by her side, but Emily, you’d always be a salaried employee, with no financial interest whatsoever. I do – ’
‘I know that,’ Emily interjected. ‘But – ’
‘Don’t interrupt me,’ Emma snapped, cutting her off. ‘As you learned last spring, I have left you sixteen per cent of Harte Enterprises, and that’s a huge interest, since the company is so very rich. And solid. As solid as the Bank of England, in my opinion. Your wealth, your future security, will come from your shares in Harte Enterprises, and I have felt for the longest time that you must have a hand in running it. After all, it will belong, in part, to you one day.’
Emma could not fail to miss the worried expression now settling on Emily’s face and she reached across the table and squeezed her arm affectionately. ‘Don’t look so distressed. I’m not implying that I lack confidence in your brother. You must know that I don’t. Alexander will guide, and guard, Harte Enterprises with all of his strength and ability, and with great devotion, I’ve no fear. Nevertheless, I want you to be active there, along with Sandy and your cousins. I really believe that you must direct that considerable energy of yours, and your many talents into the company in which you have such a major stake, and from which you will reap so many benefits.’
Emily was quiet, mulling over her grandmother’s words, and after a longish pause, she said slowly, ‘Yes, I see what you mean, and I know you have my interests at heart, but there’s nothing about the company that appeals to me. Anyway, Sarah has always enjoyed running the clothing end, and she’d resent it if you shoved me in there with her. As for Jonathan, he’d really get on that high horse of his, if you foist me on him. He considers the real estate division to be his little kingdom, and his alone. He’d be in revolt if I started poking around there. So what would I do at HE? The only thing I understand is retailing.’ Her voice faltered, for she was on the verge of tears, and she looked away swiftly, staring out of the window, her expression exceedingly glum.
The prospect of leaving the Harte chain of stores, and Paula, whom she worshipped, was depressing and distressing to Emily. And she would have to leave. That had already been decided, she had the good sense to recognize. Her opinion wasn’t being sought. She was being told what to do, told what was expected of her, and her grandmother’s authority was unassailable. Besides, that cold and stubborn look was now engraved on her grandmother’s face, and it was a look they were all familiar with, one which left nothing to the imagination. It said, in no uncertain language, that Emma Harte would have her own way no matter what. Emily felt the prick of tears behind her eyes, as she contemplated her miserable future. Mortified, she blinked them back and swallowed, endeavouring to hold on to her diminishing composure. Tears, emotion, and any other sign of weakness in business were anathema to her grandmother.
Emma, observing the girl closely, saw how troubled and upset she was growing, and realized immediately that she must allay Emily’s worries. Adopting her most sympathetic manner, Emma said, ‘Don’t take this so hard, dear. It’s not half as bad as you imagine. And I certainly had no intention of putting you in either of the divisions run by your cousins. That wouldn’t be fair to any of you. Nor am I considering making you Sandy’s assistant – if that idea has entered your agile little brain. No, no, nothing like that. When I said I needed you here, I did mean here. In Yorkshire. I would like you to work at General Retail Trading, and learn everything there is to know about that division of Harte Enterprises. You see, Emily, I want you to run it for me eventually.’
For a moment Emily thought she had misheard. She was so surprised she was speechless. She gaped at her grandmother, and then finally managed to ask, ‘Are you serious?’
‘Really, Emily, that’s a stupid question. Do you honestly think I would joke about my business?’
‘No, Grandy.’ Emily bit her lip, trying to digest her grandmother’s words. The General Retail Trading Company, known within the family as Genret, was one of Harte Enterprises’ most important assets, and an enormous money-maker. As the implications behind her grandmother’s announcement began to sink in, she was assaulted by a mixture of emotions: she was flattered, overwhelmed, worried and scared all at once. But these feelings were almost instantaneously overshadowed by genuine bafflement.
Sitting forward with a jerk, she asked in a puzzled voice, ‘But why do you suddenly need me? You have Leonard Harvey. He’s been running Genret for years, and brilliantly. Or so you’ve always said.’
‘And I meant what I said.’ Emma picked up her drink, took a sip, sat nursing it in her hands. ‘However, Len reminded me several weeks ago that he will be retiring in three years. I’d hoped he would stay on, but he insists on going when it’s time. He wants a chance to enjoy life, do a few of the things he’s always wanted to do, like take a trip around the world, for one thing.’ Emma laughed softly. ‘I can certainly understand his point of view. That man’s worked for me for over thirty-five years, and I don’t remember him ever taking a day off, except for his annual summer holidays in August. Naturally, I’d no option but to agree, albeit reluctantly.’
Emma put down her drink, rose, and went to stand with her back to the fireplace. She stared down at Emily, and continued matter-of-factly: ‘Len brought up his retirement because he thought it was high time I started to think about his successor. It occurred to me at once that here was the perfect opening for you. I’ve been racking my brains for months, wondering how to get you situated within Harte Enterprises, in a division you would enjoy. I believe I’ve found it, Emily, and I’m also convinced Genret could well use your special talents.’
Emily said nothing. She, who had an opinion about everything which she usually had no qualms expressing, was now oddly at a loss for words.
Emma stood waiting, giving Emily a chance to catch her breath and marshal her thoughts. She understood perfectly the girl’s unprecedented reticence. She had just dropped a bombshell on her. But as the silence grew, Emma, always in a hurry to settle matters and move on, announced peremptorily, ‘I need you to start working at Genret immediately. Len wants to begin his training programme at once. Three years may seem like a long time to you, but it isn’t really. Genret is a large company, and you will have a great deal to absorb and understand. So, what do you say?’
Still Emily was mute, and Emma threw her a sharper look. Then she scowled at her. ‘Come along, dear, you must have some comment to make. I can’t believe that the cat’s got your tongue permanently.’
Pulling herself together, Emily gave her grandmother an uncertain smile. ‘Are you sure? Really sure about me going into Genret?’
‘I wouldn’t have suggested it, if I’d had any doubts,’ Emma retorted crossly.
‘But what about the group at Genret?’ Emily asked quickly. ‘I mean, will they sit still for it? For me?’
‘I am Genret, Emily. Or had you forgotten that?’
‘No, no, of course I hadn’t, Grandmother. What I meant was, will Len and the top management team accept me? I know you can appoint anybody you want, since it’s your company, but surely Len must have a protégé, somebody he would like to follow in his footsteps, who knows the inner workings of Genret.’
‘He doesn’t. Furthermore, he thinks you’re the ideal choice. And he’s not just pandering to me. Len’s too shrewd and outspoken to fall into that trap. And, whilst he realizes I would like a member of the family inside Genret once he goes, he would tell me point blank if there was no suitable candidate. He would insist we look outside the family. It just so happens that he thinks you’re ideally suited to head up a wholesale supply company. For several reasons, all of them excellent. Your experience with the stores, your considerable knowledge of retailing, not to mention merchandise, plus your natural business abilities. That you also happen to be my granddaughter is simply fortuitous. It didn’t influence him one iota, I can assure you of that. Besides, you’re a quick study, Emily, and you’ve learned a lot in the last five years.’
‘I’m glad to have Len’s vote of confidence, as well as yours, Grandy.’ Emily started to relax, and as her depression also began to lift, she discovered she was excited about the sudden turn of events. She asked, ‘And Alexander? Have you discussed it with him?’
‘Naturally. He thinks you’ll be marvellous.’
‘What does Paula say?’
‘She’s delighted too. She’s going to miss you at the stores, but she recognizes the good sense behind my plans for you.’
‘Then it’s settled!’ Emily beamed, and allowed her natural enthusiasm to surface. ‘Genret is a big responsibility, but now that I’ve recovered from my initial surprise, I’m looking forward to it, I really am. I’ll try very hard, and I’ll do my best not to let you down.’
‘I know you will, dear.’ Emma returned her smile, delighted to finally witness Emily’s eagerness and her excitement. Not that she had had any doubts about her offer being accepted. Emily was far too clever to thwart her, or to pass up the opportunity to head a division. Besides, Emily loved a challenge. This last thought prompted Emma to add, ‘I’m quite certain you’ll enjoy this new venture as much as you did your sojourn in Paris last year. It’s going to be equally as challenging, and ultimately very rewarding.’
‘Yes, I know it will be.’ With a sudden flush of embarrassment, Emily recalled her outburst of earlier. Looking extremely shame-faced, she apologized, ‘I’m sorry I behaved in such a childish way, when you said I couldn’t go back to Paris, Grandy. It was ridiculous of me to act like that.’
‘I understand. You were disappointed. In any case, you’ll be going to Paris quite a lot for Genret, and travelling all over the world on your buying trips. That’s certainly something to look forward to, Emily.’
‘Oh it is, Grandy. And thank you for your faith in me, and for this wonderful opportunity.’ Emily jumped up and hugged Emma tightly. With a happy little laugh, she said, ‘Oh Grandy, you’re such an inspiration! You make everything seem possible – and attainable. And exciting as well. Do you know what? I feel like rushing down to the Genret offices in Leeds right now, and getting stuck into the work with Len immediately.’
‘Len and Genret have managed to exist without you until now, Emily, so I think they’ll survive for another few days,’ Emma replied, her mouth twitching with hidden laughter. ‘In the meantime, I have a much better idea. I think you should come downstairs with me, and have lunch instead. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_9354a0af-d561-5735-9d1b-6347532a2bf5)
Emma sat at the table in her splendidly-appointed Adam dining room, sipping a cup of coffee after lunch, smiling and nodding occasionally, enjoying Emily’s natural joie de vivre and bubbling enthusiasm for everything. Earlier, when they had been eating, Emily had bombarded her with questions about Genret. Each one had been probing and not without a certain shrewdness, and this had pleased Emma.
Now, the twenty-two-year-old was entertaining her with titbits of gossip about the family, and, as usual, Emma found her pithy comments hilarious. Robin and Kit were most often the butts of her barbed wit, and she had already managed to get in a few sharp digs about her uncles.
But here her sarcasm stopped, for she never made astringent or unkind remarks about anyone else. Although Emily tended to be something of a chatterbox, she was not malicious, nor was she a talebearer intent on stirring up trouble. In point of fact, she was anything but this, and Emma was well aware that her granddaughter’s predilection for chattering was harmless enough, especially since she knew herself to be the girl’s only confidante. To Emma’s considerable relief, Emily was not only discreet but extremely close-mouthed with everyone else in the family, and even Paula and Alexander, with whom she was on very intimate terms, were no exceptions to this rule.
Unexpectedly, Emily veered away from her discourse on the family, and launched into glowing descriptions of the outfits she had chosen for the fifteen-year-old twins to wear the next day. Recently Emily had elected to play a motherly big-sister role with Amanda and Francesca, and Emma had assigned to her the task of selecting their clothes and looking after similar details.
But it was not very long before Emma found her attention straying, her mind forever preoccupied with business, and specifically Paula’s meeting with the Crosses. She could not help speculating on the outcome, wondering how Paula had fared. If the negotiations had gone well she was facing a fair amount of work. Not that this troubled Emma unduly. She had always thrived on honest-to-goodness toil, and still did, and Paula had laid out foolproof plans for the takeover.
Emma and Paula wanted Aire Communications for its three most important assets: its magazine division, its local radio stations, its huge, modern building on the Headrow. Following Paula’s advice, she fully intended to make Aire Communications a subsidiary of the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company. Once she had relocated the entire staff of Aire in the offices of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, her newspaper headquartered in Leeds, she would sell the Aire Communications building. This would enable her to cut down on Aire’s staggering overheads, and at the same time she would cleverly recoup part of the purchase price, possibly a good half of her two-million-pound investment. Yes, that building’s worth at least a million, Emma reflected, whatever Jonathan says to the contrary. She would have to have a little talk with her grandson tomorrow, a very serious talk. He was dragging his feet with his second evaluation of Aire’s prime bit of real estate. She had asked him for it days ago and he had not yet responded. Once again she wondered why, and her mouth tightened.
‘Grandy, you’re not listening to me!’ Emily shook her arm impatiently.
‘Oh sorry, dear. You were saying you’d chosen navy-blue dresses and coats for the twins. I’m sure they’re very smart, you have such good – ’
‘Goodness, Gran, that was five minutes ago,’ Emily interjected. ‘I was already on to another subject. Aunt Edwina to be precise.’
‘Now why on earth is she suddenly so interesting to you?’
‘She’s not really. I think she’s an old sourpuss and a crashing bore,’ Emily said in her typical blunt fashion. ‘However, I’m positive we’re going to be in for a rocky ride with her this weekend. I bet she’s going to give us all an earful.’
‘What about?’ Emma asked, sounding slightly baffled.
‘The divorce,’ Emily said succinctly.
This reply brought Emma upright in her chair, and she stared hard at Emily. ‘So, you’ve heard about that, have you?’ Surprise immediately gave way to humour, and Emma chuckled and shook her head. ‘Is there anything you don’t know about this family of ours?’
‘Not much,’ said Emily, grinning at her. ‘But I don’t pry, Gran. You know that. Everyone just tells me things automatically. It must be my sympathetic nature.’ Her grin widened. ‘And then I tell you. Never secrets, though. I don’t break a confidence. Ever.’
‘I should hope not, dear. Remember what I’ve always said … a still tongue and a wise head. Anyway, who mentioned Anthony’s divorce?’
‘Jim. He came to see me last weekend. He wanted my opinion about something, my advice really. He brought up the divorce in passing. It was Aunt Edwina who told him. Apparently she’s terribly upset … scandal touching the sacred name of the Dunvales and all that silly nonsense. As if anybody cares about divorce these days. But she’ll harp on about it for the next few days, you mark my words.’
‘I doubt it, since Anthony will be here himself. In fact, he’s already here.’
‘In this house?’ It was Emily’s turn to be astonished.
‘No. He’s staying with your Uncle Randolph up at Middleham. Actually, he’s going to be there for the next week.’ A wicked gleam entered Emma’s eyes, and she could not resist teasing, ‘Obviously there are some things you don’t know, Emily. Our young earl is staying with the Hartes because he’s courting Sally. Very seriously courting her.’ Emma was unable to hold back a laugh as she observed the expression on Emily’s face.
Emily was so dumbfounded by this piece of news her jaw had dropped. But it took less than a second for her to recover, and she retorted, ‘And I bet Aunt Edwina doesn’t know either! Otherwise she would have scuttled that relationship ages ago. And she’ll still try.’
‘She can do nothing,’ Emma snapped, her face hardening. ‘Anthony is not only of age, he’s thirty-three. He doesn’t have to answer to his mother, or anyone else for that matter, and I told him so last night. He has my blessing. Frankly, I’m glad he’s going to marry Sally. She’s a fine girl and quite lovely, and it’s a perfect match in my opinion.’
‘I second that, about Sally being a lovely person. But then I’m prejudiced. So are you – even more so, because she looks so much like your mother. And Edwina’s going to be prejudiced too, in the other direction.’ Emily stopped, thinking of her aunt’s reaction, which would be violent, and she cried excitedly, ‘Oh my God! I can’t wait to see Aunt Edwina’s face when she finds out he’s involved with Sally Harte. She’s going to be absolutely furious, Grandma. She has such grand ideas about everything. And after all, Sally’s only a generation removed from the working class.’
‘And what do you think Edwina is?’
‘A countess,’ Emily giggled gleefully, ‘and a Fairley to boot! She’s never been the same since she discovered her father was Sir Edwin Fairley, and a KC, no less. She’s an even bigger snob now than she was before. It’s a pity you ever told her the truth about you and old Edwin, Gran.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’
Emma averted her face, looked out of the window, focused her thoughts on her eldest grandchild, son of her own first-born child. Anthony Standish was the only offspring of Edwina’s marriage with the Earl of Dunvale, and as such he was her whole life. Because Emma had been estranged from Edwina for years, she had not really come to know Anthony until he was eighteen. That was in 1951, when her brother Winston had effected a reconciliation between her and her daughter. More like an armed truce, Emma said inwardly, but at least the boy and I took to each other immediately, and thankfully we have continued to be close. She was extremely fond of Anthony, who, despite his reserved nature and gentle manner, had an inner strength and a toughness of mind that Emma had recognized instantly and privately applauded. Upon his father’s death, he had inherited the latter’s title and lands in Ireland. For the most part, Anthony lived at Clonloughlin, his estate in County Cork, but whenever he had the occasion to be in England he never failed to visit her. It was on one of these trips to Yorkshire, six months ago, that he had become re-acquainted with Sally, Winston’s granddaughter, who was his cousin. According to Anthony they had fallen in love at once. ‘It was a coup de foudre, Grandmother,’ he had confided shyly last night. ‘And as soon as my divorce from Min is final I intend to marry Sally.’ Emma, delighted at this news, had indicated her pleasure, and assured him of her full support.
Shifting in the chair, Emma glanced at Emily, and said, ‘I wouldn’t worry your head about Anthony. He can take care of himself. I told him not to hide his relationship with Sally any more, from his mother, that is, and to behave naturally at the christening. We might as well get this out in the open once and for all.’
‘Edwina will make trouble, Grandma. Big, big trouble,’ Emily warned, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.
‘If she knows what’s good for her she won’t,’ Emma replied, her voice murderously soft. ‘Now, on to other things. You said Jim wanted your advice. What about?’
‘The gift he’s bought for Paula. It’s a strand of pearls, and he wasn’t sure she’d like them. But they’re beautiful, and I told him she’d be thrilled.’
‘That’s nice.’ Emma glanced at her watch, feeling restless. ‘I’ll have another quick cup of coffee, and then I’d better go up and do a little paperwork until Paula arrives.’
‘I’ll get the coffee for you,’ Emily volunteered, taking Emma’s cup to the sideboard. Returning with it, she said, ‘I had dinner with T.B. when I was in London on Tuesday. He sends his love.’
Emma’s face softened considerably. She had always cared for Tony Barkstone, Elizabeth’s first husband and father of Emily and Alexander. They had remained good friends over the years, and she asked, with a warm smile, ‘How is he?’
‘In good form. He’s as sweet as always, and he seems happy. No, content might be a better word. Or perhaps accepting is even better. Yes, that’s it. He’s accepting.’ Emily sighed heavily.
And a little too dramatically, in Emma’s opinion. But then Emily was a romantic girl and Emma knew that she had long harboured the desire for her parents to be reunited. A most unlikely event, as far as Emma was concerned. Looking at Emily thoughtfully, Emma’s brow lifted quizzically, and she murmured, ‘Accepting is a peculiar word to use about your father’s life, isn’t it, dear?’
‘Not really. I think T.B. is accepting – of his new family. But I don’t believe my father has been really happy since he split with Mummy. To tell you the truth, Gran, I think he’s still in love with her.’ She confided this in an intense tone, giving Emma a long and knowing look.
‘Oh phooey!’
‘Well, she was his grand passion, that I know for a fact – because he once told me so. I believe he’s carrying a torch for her.’
‘That’s a bit farfetched, Emily, they’ve been divorced for donkey’s years.’
‘Even so, he could have remained shackled to her emotionally.’ Emily tilted her blonde head to one side and wrinkled her nose. ‘Unrequited love, and all that. Why are you looking so sceptical, Grandma? Don’t you believe that’s possible?’
‘Possible. Not very practical. And I’m quite certain your father has more common sense than to yearn after Elizabeth. He had her pegged years ago.’
‘I hope you’re right. I’m sure that being in love with someone who doesn’t care in return is most unsatisfactory, not to mention painful. Very impractical in the long run, as you just said.’ A faraway expression flickered in Emily’s wide green eyes, and she said, almost inaudibly, ‘If only Sarah would recognize that.’
As quiet as her voice had been Emma had heard her. She put down her coffee cup with a loud clatter and gaped at Emily, frowning. ‘Our Sarah. Is she in love with someone who doesn’t love her?’
‘Oh gosh, Gran, I shouldn’t have mentioned Sarah. It’s really none of my business,’ Emily muttered, her face flushing and filling with chagrin. ‘Please don’t say anything to her, will you? She’d be ever so upset.’
‘Of course I won’t say anything. I never do, do I? Who’s she carrying a torch for? That’s what you implied, you know.’
Emily hesitated. She was suddenly tempted to fib. But she had never lied to her grandmother in her whole life. Still, perhaps in this instance she ought to resort to a white lie.
Emma pressed, ‘Who is it?’
There was a moment of silence. Emily swallowed, and knowing herself to be trapped, she mumbled, ‘Shane.’
‘I’ll be damned.’ Emma leaned back and focused her keen old eyes on her granddaughter, ‘Well, well, well,’ she said, and a slow smile spread across her face.
Emily shot up in her chair, her eyes flaring open, and she cried, ‘Oh Grandy, don’t look like that! Please don’t look like that!’
‘And how am I looking?’
‘Gratified. And ever so conspiratorial. I know you and Uncle Blackie have long had hopes that one of us, or one of the Harte girls, would marry Shane O’Neill, and unite our families. But he’s not interested in any of us, except for – ’ Emily bit off the rest of her sentence abruptly, instantly wishing she could also bite off her tongue. This time she really had said far too much. She jumped up and went to the Hepplewhite sideboard, where she hovered over the silver bowl of fruit. ‘I think I’ll have a banana,’ she said, attempting nonchalance. ‘Would you like one too, Gran dear?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t, thank you very much.’ Emma swung her head and studied her granddaughter’s back. ‘Except for whom, Emily?’
‘No one, Gran.’ Emily wondered how to extricate herself, and adroitly, without arousing her grandmother’s suspicions further. She sauntered back to her chair, flopped down, and attacked the banana with her dessert knife and fork, her head studiously bent.
Emma watched her, knowing that Emily was avoiding her eyes. And avoiding answering.
‘I know you were about to tell me who Shane is interested in, Emily. If anyone knows, it’s you.’ She laughed lightly, endeavouring to be casual. ‘You’ve always been my conduit for information about everyone in the family. And out of it for that matter. So come along, finish your sentence.’
Emily, who was still cutting the skin off the banana with painstaking care, finally lifted her head. Her face was a picture of innocence as she said, ‘I wasn’t about to reveal a thing, really I wasn’t. I’m not in Shane’s confidence – I don’t know anything about his love life. What I was going to say, before, is that he isn’t interested in any of us, except for a one-night stand.’
‘Really, Emily!’
‘Sorry.’ Emily dropped her eyes, then coyly looked up at Emma through her long lashes. ‘Have I shocked you, Grandma?’
‘At my age I’m shock resistant, my girl,’ Emma replied tartly. ‘But I am rather surprised by your remark about Shane. It wasn’t very nice. Extremely unkind, in fact.’ A new thought struck Emma, and she gave her granddaughter a fierce stare. ‘Has he ever suggested anything of the sort – ’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Emily burst out peremptorily before Emma could finish. And then she was swift to qualify her previous statement about Shane. ‘It’s just a feeling I have about him,’ she mumbled, hating herself for maligning Shane, who was the nicest person imaginable. ‘I didn’t mean any harm, Grandy, honestly I didn’t. Besides, who can blame him for being a bit of a lady-killer, when women fall at his feet like ninepins. That’s hardly his fault.’
‘True,’ Emma acknowledged. ‘But getting back to Sarah, I hope this crush she has on him is going to pass soon. I can’t bear to think that she’s miserable. How does she really feel, dear?’
‘I don’t know, Gran,’ Emily replied in all truthfulness. ‘She’s only discussed Shane with me once, ages ago, and I think she’s regretted mentioning him ever since. But I know she’s smitten with him, just through my own observation. She always blushes furiously whenever his name comes up, and she gets all self-conscious and sort of dopey when he’s around.’ Emily levelled her gaze at Emma, and it was direct and candid, as she added, ‘No, she’ll never say anything to anyone about her feelings. Sarah’s basically much too secretive to confide.’
This last comment further surprised Emma, but she decided not to pursue it for the moment. Conscious of the girl’s stricken expression, she hastened to say, ‘You don’t have to be apprehensive about me, darling. Have no fear, I won’t mention Shane to Sarah … I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing her. And she’ll come to her senses, if she hasn’t already.’ Emma’s eyes rested on the bowl of spring hyacinths in the centre of the table, and she ruminated briefly on all that had been said. When she raised her head she smiled kindly at Emily. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m questioning your powers of observation, or your judgement, but you do have a tendency to be overly imaginative at times. You could be wrong about Sarah. Perhaps she has forgotten Shane by now, in view of his lack of interest in her. She does have her feet on the ground, you know.’
‘Yes, Gran,’ Emily said, although she did not agree with her grandmother’s assessment of her cousin. Sarah might look as if her feet were firmly planted on the ground but her head was most definitely in the clouds. Emily bit her lip, and she wished more fervently than before that she had never mentioned Sarah in the first place. Embarking on this kind of conversation with her canny grandmother had been a horrible mistake. The trouble was, she was constantly doing it. Emma had always been the most dominant and important person in her young life, and confiding everything in her was a childhood habit which was difficult, if not impossible, to break. But Emily was thankful for one thing – she had caught herself in the nick of time, had managed not to reveal the truth about Shane to Grandy, who doted on him as if he were one of her own.
The realization that she had protected him made Emily feel better, for she liked and admired Blackie’s grandson. She smiled to herself as she toyed with the banana in front of her, filled with sudden self-congratulation. For once she had been rather clever, side-stepping Grandy’s probing so skilfully. And thankfully Shane O’Neill’s secret was still safe. It would always be safe with her. Poor Shane, she thought with a twinge of sadness, what a terrible burden he has to carry. Stifling a sigh, Emily finally said, ‘I don’t think I want any more of this,’ and she pushed her dessert plate away, making a face.
Emma, anxious to bring the lunch to an end, nodded quickly, and said, ‘I’d better get back to my desk. What are your plans for this afternoon? You’ve finished at the Harrogate store, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Grandy. I completed the stock inventories you wanted, and selected the clothing for the sales,’ Emily explained, relieved that Emma had apparently now dismissed Shane and Sarah Lowther from her mind. ‘I’m going to potter around in my room. Hilda asked one of the maids to unpack my suitcases when I arrived, but I prefer to arrange my things myself.’
‘Suitcases in the plural, Emily? How many did you bring?’
‘Ten, Gran.’
‘For the weekend?’
Emily cleared her throat and gave her grandmother one of her most engaging and persuasive smiles. ‘Not exactly. I thought I’d stay with you for a while, if that’s all right with you. It is, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ Emma answered slowly, wondering what this unexpected move on Emily’s part was all about. ‘But what about your flat in Headingley?’ she thought to ask with a small frown.
‘I want to get rid of it. I have for some time, actually. I decided to sell it, or rather that you should ask Jonathan to do so. Anyway, last night I packed a lot of my clothes and other things, because I’d convinced myself you’d be sending me to Paris next week. Now that I’m not going, I might as well stay here at Pennistone Royal. I’ll be company for you, Gran. You won’t be so lonely.’
I’m not lonely, Emma thought, but said, I’m probably being dense, but you seemed awfully taken with that flat when I bought it for you last November. Don’t you like it any more, Emily?’
‘It’s a very nice flat, really it is, but – . Well, to be honest, Gran darling, I have felt rather isolated there by myself. I’d much rather be here. With you.’ Emily flashed her beguiling smile again. ‘For one thing, it’s a lot more fun. And exciting.’
‘Personally, I find it pretty dull here. Pretty dull indeed,’ Emma muttered and stood up, headed for the dining room door. Over her shoulder she said, ‘But you’re quite welcome, Emily,’ and she hoped she had not sounded too grudging. First the twins, and now Emily, she sighed under her breath. Suddenly they’re all moving in on me. And just when I thought I was going to get some peace and quiet for once in my life.
As she walked briskly across the vast Stone Hall and mounted the staircase, with Emily trailing in her wake, Emma had another thought: maybe she would take Blackie up on his little proposition after all.
Paula talked and Emma listened.
They sat together in the upstairs parlour, facing each other across the Georgian silver tea service which Hilda had brought up a few minutes after Paula had arrived.
Emma had poured tea for them both, but she had hardly touched her own cup. She sat so still on the sofa she might have turned to stone, and the familiar mask of inscrutability had dropped down over her face as she concentrated on Paula’s words, absorbing each one.
Paula spoke well, recounting the meeting at Aire Communications with precision and careful attention to the smallest detail, and her narration was so graphically descriptive Emma felt as though she had been present herself. Several times she experienced a spurt of anger or annoyance, but not an eyelash flickered, not a muscle moved in her blank, impenetrable face, and not once did she interrupt the flow of words.
Long before Paula came to the retelling of the final scene in the board room, Emma’s mind, so agile and astute, leaped ahead. She knew without having to be told that John Cross had reneged on the deal. For a moment she was as startled as Paula had been earlier in the day, but when this initial reaction passed with some swiftness she realized she was not so surprised after all. And she came to the conclusion that she knew John Cross better than she had believed. Years ago she had spotted him for what he was, an egotist, puffed up with his own self-importance, a foolish man with immeasurable weaknesses. At this time in his life he was between a rock and a hard place, dealing from fear and desperation and propelled by increasing panic, and it was patently clear that he would be capable of just about anything. Even a dishonourable action, for apparently he was a man without scruples. And then there was that disreputable son of his, goading him on. A pretty pair indeed, she thought disdainfully.
Paula came to the end of her story at last, and finished with a tiny regretful sigh, ‘And there you have it, Grandy. I’m sorry it ended in a debacle. I did my best. More than my best.’
‘You certainly did,’ Emma said, looking her fully in the face, proud of her, thinking how she had progressed. A year ago Paula would have blamed herself for the breakdown in the talks. ‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, and just chalk this one up to experience and learn from it.’
‘Yes, Grandy, I will.’ Paula regarded her closely. ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked, continuing to study that impassive face in an effort to gauge her grandmother’s feelings about the Cross situation.
‘Why, nothing. Nothing at all.’
Although she was not altogether surprised by this statement, Paula nevertheless felt bound to say, and a bit heatedly, ‘I thought that might be your attitude, but I can’t help wishing you’d give John Cross a piece of your mind, tell him what you think of him. Look at all the effort we put into this deal. He’s not only wasted our valuable time, but played us for a couple of fools.’
‘Played himself for a fool,’ Emma corrected, her voice low and without a trace of emotion. ‘Very frankly, I wouldn’t waste my breath, or the tuppence, on a phone call to him. There’s not much to be gained from flogging a dead horse. Besides, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m put out. There’s another thing … indifference is a mightily powerful weapon, and so I prefer to ignore Mr Cross. I don’t know what his game is, but I won’t be a party to it.’ The look Emma gave Paula was full of shrewdness and her eyes narrowed. ‘It strikes me that he might be using our offer to jack up the price with another company. He won’t succeed, he won’t have any takers.’ A cynical smile glanced across her face, and she laughed quietly to herself. ‘He’ll come crawling back to you, of course. On his hands and knees. And very soon. Then what will you do, Paula? That’s more to the point.’ Settling back against the cushions she let her eyes rest with intentness on her granddaughter.
Paula opened her mouth to speak, then closed it swiftly. For a split second she hesitated over her answer. She asked herself how Grandy would act in these particular circumstances and then dismissed the question. She knew exactly what her course of action was going to be.
In a resolute tone, Paula said, ‘I shall tell him to go to hell. Politely. I know I could hammer him down, get Aire Communications at a much lower figure, because when he does come back to us, and I agree that he will, he’ll be choking. He’ll accept any terms I offer. However, I don’t want to do business with that man. I don’t trust him.’
‘Good girl!’ Emma was pleased with this reply and showed it, then went on, ‘My sentiments exactly. I’ve told you many times that it’s not particularly important to like those with whom we do business. But there should always be an element of trust between both parties in any transaction, otherwise it’s begging for problems. I concur with what you think about Cross and that son of his. Their behaviour was appalling, unconscionable. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot barge pole myself.’
Despite these condemning words and the stern expression lingering on Emma’s face, her overall reaction had been so understated, so mild, Paula was still a trifle puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be much more annoyed than you are, Grandy, unless you’re not showing it. And you don’t seem very disappointed either,’ she said.
‘My initial anger soon changed to disgust. As for being disappointed, well, of course I am in some ways. But even that is being replaced by an enormous sense of relief. As much as I wanted Aire Communications, now, quite suddenly, I’m glad things turned out the way they did.’
‘I am too.’ There was the slightest hesitation on Paula’s part before she remarked quietly, ‘Sebastian Cross has become my enemy, Grandmother.’
‘So what!’ Emma exclaimed in a dismissive tone. ‘If he’s your first, he’s surely not going to be your last.’ As she spoke Emma became aware of the concern reflected in the lovely, deep-violet eyes fastened on hers, and she sucked in her breath quickly. Making an enemy troubles Paula, she thought, and she reached out and squeezed the girl’s arm, adopted a gentler tone. ‘As unpleasant as it may be, you’re bound to make enemies, as I myself did. Very frequently it happens through no fault of ours, that’s the sad part.’ Emma let out a tiny sigh. ‘So many people are jealous and envious by nature, and you will always be vulnerable to that kind, and a target, because you have so much. Wealth and power through me, not to mention your looks, your brains and your immense capacity for work. All very enviable attributes. You must learn to ignore the backbiting, darling, rise above it. As I have always done. And forget Sebastian Cross. He’s the least of your worries.’
‘Yes, you’re right on all counts, as usual, Grandmother,’ Paula said and pushed away the dismaying memory of those hard eyes which had filled with loathing for her that morning. She felt a shiver trickle through her. Sebastian Cross would do her harm if he could. This unexpected thought immediately seemed silly, farfetched and overly imaginative, and Paula laughed silently at herself, and dismissed such an idea.
Rising, she crossed to the fireplace and stood warming her back for a moment or two. Her eyes swept around the lovely old room. It looked so peaceful, so gentle in the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the many windows, with every beautiful object in its given place, the fire crackling merrily in the huge grate, the old carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece as it had for as long as she could remember. She had loved the upstairs parlour all of her life, had found comfort and tranquillity here. It was a room abundant with graciousness and harmony, where nothing ever changed, and it was this timelessness which made it seem so far removed from the outside world and all its ugliness. It’s a very civilized room, she said to herself, created by a very civilized and extraordinary woman. She looked across at Emma, relaxed on the sofa and so pretty in the pale blue dress, and her eyes became tender. Paula thought: she is an old woman now, in her eightieth year, yet she never seems old to me. She could easily be my age with her vigour and strength and zest and enthusiasm. And she is my best friend.
For the first time since she had arrived, Paula smiled. ‘So much for my wheeling and dealing … skirmishing might be a better way to describe it, Grandy.’
‘And so much for my new project. Now that that’s flown out of the window, I’ll have to find another one, or take up knitting.’
Paula could not help grinning. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she retorted, merriment swamping her face. Stepping back to the sofa, she sat down, lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, then remarked casually, ‘I had lunch with Miranda O’Neill today, and – ’
‘Oh dear, that reminds me, I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner this evening. I’m going out with Blackie and Shane.’
‘Yes, so Merry told me.’
‘My God, can’t I take a breath around here without everyone knowing!’ Emma paused, scanned Paula’s face. ‘Well, you don’t seem too upset, so I presume you don’t mind that I’m trotting off and leaving you to cope with Edwina. Don’t worry, she’ll behave.’
‘I’m not concerned. I was at first, but I decided she’s Jim’s problem. He invited her, so he can entertain her. In any case, Mummy’s always pretty good with Edwina. She knows how to appropriately squelch her, in the nicest possible way too.’ Paula put down her cup and saucer, leaned closer. ‘Listen, Grandy dear, Merry has had an idea, one that might appeal to you. It could be just the project you’re looking for.’
‘Oh, has she. Well then, tell me about it.’
Paula did so, but as she came to the end of her little recital she made a small moue with her mouth, and finished lamely, ‘I can tell you’re not enthusiastic. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’
Emma laughed at her crestfallen expression. ‘Yes, I do. However I’m not interested in taking it on as a personal project. Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pursue the idea and develop it further with Merry. It could be good for the stores. Come back to me when you have it refined. Perhaps we will open the boutiques.’
‘I’ll set up a meeting with her for next week – ’ Paula stopped, peered at Emma. ‘Out of curiosity, why don’t you think it’s a project for you?’
‘There’s no challenge to it. I like tougher nuts to crack.’
‘Oh Lord! And where on earth am I going to find such a thing for you?’
‘I might find my own project, you know.’ Emma’s green eyes twinkled, and she shook her head. ‘You’re constantly trying to mother me these days. I do wish you’d stop.’
Paula joined in Emma’s laughter and admitted, ‘Yes, I am doing that lately, aren’t I. Sorry, Gran.’ She glanced at the clock, swung her eyes back to Emma, said: ‘I think I’d be much better off going home and mothering my babies. If I hurry I’ll get back in time to help the nurse bathe them.’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that, darling. These early years are the most precious, the best really. Don’t sacrifice them.’
Paula stood up and slipped into the magenta jacket, found her handbag, came to kiss Emma. ‘Have a lovely time tonight, and give Uncle Blackie and Shane my love.’
‘I will. And if I don’t see you later, I’ll talk to you in the morning.’
Paula was halfway across the room when Emma called, ‘Oh, Paula, what time do you expect Jim and your parents?’
‘Around six. Jim said he’d be landing at Leeds-Bradford Airport at five.’
‘So he’s flying them up in that dreadful little plane of his, is he?’ Emma pursed her lips in annoyance and gave Paula the benefit of a reproving stare. ‘I thought I’d told the two of you I don’t like you flitting around in that pile of junk.’
‘You did indeed, but Jim has a mind of his own, as you well know. And flying is one of his main hobbies. But perhaps you’d better mention it to him again.’
‘I certainly will,’ Emma said, and waved her out of the room.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_584b568d-0bc8-5880-9454-76446eebc6da)
They all said that he was a true Celt.
And Shane Desmond Ingham O’Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride.
When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments.
But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.
It was as a very small boy that Shane O’Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.
Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew – through books. If he was ‘a curious throwback to the Celts’, as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled. He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendour and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him, and as alive, as the present.
In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby. Like his Celtic forebears he venerated words and their power, for filled with a recklessness and gaiety though he was, he was also a man of intellectual vigour. And perhaps it was this extraordinary mingling of contrasts – his mass of contradictions – that made him so unusual. If his angers and enmities were deep rooted, so his loves and loyalties were immovable and everlasting. And that theatricality, constantly attributed to the Celt in him, existed easily alongside his introspection and his rare, almost tender, understanding of nature and its beauty.
At twenty-seven there was a dazzle to Shane O’Neill, an intense glamour that sprang not so much from his remarkable looks as from his character and personality. He could devastate any woman in a room; equally, he could captivate his male friends with an incisive discussion on politics, a ribald joke, a humorous story filled with wit and self-mockery. He could entertain with a song in his splendid baritone, whether he was rendering a rollicking sea shanty or a sentimental ballad, and poetry flew with swiftness from his tongue. Yet he could be hard-headed, objective, outspoken and honest almost to the point of cruelty, and he was ambitious and driven, by his own admission. Greatness, and greatness for its own sake in particular, appealed strongly to him. And he appealed to everyone who crossed his path. Not that Shane was without enemies, but even they never denied the existence of his potent charm. Some of these traits had been passed on from his paternal Irish grandfather, that other larger-than-life Celt, whose physique and physical presence he had inherited. Yet there was also much of his mother’s ancestry in him.
Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O’Neill stood with his horse, aptly called War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still proud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless halls and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone amongst the daffodils, snowdrops and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.
With his vivid imagination, it was never hard for Shane to visualize how it had once been centuries ago when Warwick and Gareth Ingham, an ancestor on his mother’s side, had lived within that stout fortress, spinning their convoluted schemes. Instantly, in his mind’s eye, he saw the panoply unfolding as it had in a bygone age … glittering occasions of state, princely banquets, other scenes of royal magnificence and of pomp and ceremony, and for a few seconds he was transported into the historical past.
Then he blinked, expunging these images, and lifted his head, tore his eyes away from the ruined battlements, and gazed out at the spectacular vista spread before him. He always felt the same thrill when he stood on this spot. To Shane there was an austerity and an aloofness to the vast and empty moors, and a most singular majesty dwelt within this landscape. The rolling moors swept up and away like a great unfurled banner of green and gold and umber and ochre, flaring out to meet the rim of the endless sky, that incredible blaze of blue shimmering with silvered sunlight at this hour. It was a beauty of such magnitude and stunning clarity Shane found it almost unendurable to look at, and his response, as always, was intensely emotional. Here was the one spot on this earth where he felt he truly belonged, and when he was away from it he was filled with a sense of deprivation, yearned to return. Once again he was about to exile himself, but like all of his other exiles, this, too, was self-imposed.
Shane O’Neill sighed heavily as he felt the old sadness, the melancholy, trickling through him. He leaned his head against the stallion’s neck and squeezed his eyes shut, and he willed the pain of longing for her to pass. How could he live here, under the same sky, knowing she was so close yet so far beyond his reach. So he must go … go far away and leave this place he loved, leave the woman he loved beyond reason because she could never be his. It was the only way he could survive as a man.
Abruptly he turned, and swung himself into the saddle, determined to pull himself out of the black mood which had so unexpectedly engulfed him. He spurred War Lord forward, taking the wild moorland at a flat out gallop.
Halfway along the road he passed a couple of stable lads out exercising two magnificent thoroughbreds and he returned their cheery greetings with a friendly nod, then branched off at the Swine Cross, making for Allington Hall, Randolph Harte’s house. In Middleham, a town famous for a dozen or more of the greatest racing stables in England, Allington Hall was considered to be one of the finest, and Randolph a trainer of some renown. Randolph was Blackie O’Neill’s trainer, and permitted Shane to stable War Lord, Feudal Baron, and his filly, Celtic Maiden, at Allington alongside his grandfather’s string of race horses.
By the time he reached the huge iron gates of Allington Hall, Shane had managed to partially subdue his nagging heartache and lift himself out of his depression. He took several deep breaths, and brought a neutral expression to his face as he turned at the end of the gravel driveway and headed in the direction of the stables at the back of the house. To Shane’s surprise, the yard was deserted, but as he clattered across the cobblestones a stable lad appeared, and a moment later Randolph Harte walked out of the stalls and waved to him.
Tall, heavy-set, and bluff in manner, Randolph had a voice to match his build, and he boomed, ‘Hello, Shane. I was hoping to see you. I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare me a minute.’
Dismounting, Shane called back, ‘It will have to be a minute, Randolph. I have an important dinner date tonight and I’m running late.’ He handed the reins of War Lord to the lad, who led the horse off to the Rubbing House to be rubbed down. Shane strode over to Randolph, grasped his outstretched hand, and said, ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No, no,’ Randolph said quickly, steering him across the yard to the back entrance of the house. ‘But let’s go inside for a few minutes.’ He looked up at Shane, who at six feet four was several inches taller, and grinned. ‘Surely you can make it five minutes, old chap? The lady, whoever she is, will no doubt be perfectly happy to wait for you.’
Shane also grinned. ‘The lady in question is Aunt Emma, and we both know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘Only too true,’ Randolph said, opening the door and ushering Shane inside. ‘Now, have you time for a cup of tea, or would you prefer a drink?’
‘Scotch, thanks, Randolph.’ Shane walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, glancing around the room, feeling suddenly relaxed and at ease for the first time that afternoon. He had known and loved this study all of his life, and it was his favourite room at the Hall. Its ambience was wholly masculine, this mood reflected in the huge Georgian desk in front of the window, the Chippendale cabinet, the dark wine-coloured leather Chesterfield and armchairs, the circular rent table littered with such magazines as Country Life and Horse and Hounds, along with racing sheets from the daily papers. A stranger entering this room would have no trouble guessing the chief interest and occupation of the owner. It was redolent of the Turf and the Sport of Kings. The dark green walls were hung with eighteenth-century sporting prints by Stubbs; framed photographs of the winning race horses Randolph had trained graced a dark mahogany chest; and cups and trophies abounded. There was the gleam of brass around the fireplace, in the horse brasses hanging there, and in the Victorian fender. On the mantelpiece, Randolph’s pipe rack and tobacco jar nestled between small bronzes of two thoroughbreds and a pair of silver candlesticks. The study had a comfortable lived-in look, was even a bit shabby in spots, but to Shane the scuffed carpet and the cracked leather on the chairs only added to the mellow feeling of warmth and friendliness.
Randolph brought their drinks, the two men clinked glasses and Shane turned to sit in one of the leather armchairs.
‘Whoah! Not there. The spring’s going,’ Randolph exclaimed.
‘It’s been going for years,’ Shane laughed, but seated himself in the other chair.
‘Well, it’s finally gone. I keep meaning to have the damn thing sent to the upholsterers, but I always forget.’
Shane put his glass on the edge of the brass fender and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one, said, ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Emerald Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?’
A surprised look flashed across Shane’s face and he sat up straighter. ‘He’d be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she’s a fine mare, but the Aintree course … Jaysus! as Blackie would say.’
Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. ‘Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She’s done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points, and most impressively.’ Randolph paused to light his pipe, then remarked, with a twinkle, ‘I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But, seriously, she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I’ve ever trained.’
‘Oh my God, this is wonderful news!’ Shane cried, excitement running through him. ‘It’s always been Grandfather’s dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?’
‘Steve Lamer. He’s a tough sod, just what we need to take Emerald Bow around Aintree. If anyone can negotiate her over Beecher’s Brook twice it’s Steve. He’s a brilliant horseman.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned it to Grandfather?’
‘I wanted to get your reaction first. You’re the closest to him.’
‘You know he always takes your advice. You’re his trusted trainer, and the best in the business, as far as we’re concerned.’
‘Thanks, Shane. Appreciate the confidence. But to be honest, old chap, I’ve never seen Blackie fuss over any of his horses the way he does that mare. He’d like to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, if you ask me. He was out here last week, and he was treating her as if she was his great lady love.’
A grin tugged at Shane’s mouth. ‘Don’t forget, she was a gift from his favourite lady. And talking of Emma, did I hear a hint of annoyance when you mentioned her earlier?’
‘Not really. I was a bit irritated with her last night, but …’ Randolph broke off, and smiled genially. ‘Well, I never harbour a grudge where she’s concerned, and she is the matriarch of our clan, and she’s so good to us all. It’s just that she can be so bloody bossy. She makes me feel this high.’ He held his hand six inches off the ground, and grinned. ‘Anyway, getting back to Emerald Bow, I’d intended to mention it to Blackie tomorrow. What do you think about my timing? Should I wait until next week perhaps?’
‘No, tell him tomorrow, Randolph. It’ll make his day, and Aunt Emma will be delighted.’ Shane finished his drink and stood Up. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I for one am thrilled about this decision of yours. Now, I’m afraid I really have to leave. I want to stop by the stables for a second, to say goodbye to my horses.’ Shane smiled a trifle ruefully. ‘I’m going away again, Randolph. I’m leaving Monday morning.’
‘But you just got back!’ Randolph exclaimed. ‘Where are you off to this time?’
‘Jamaica, then Barbados, where we’ve recently bought a new hotel,’ Shane explained as they left the study together. ‘I’ve a great deal of work there, and I’ll be gone for quite a few months.’ He fell silent as they crossed the stable yard, and Randolph made no further comment either.
Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.
Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane’s demeanour at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O’Neill since he had been a child, and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane’s closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodelled it and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Georgina, had been alive she had often had to comfort more than one broken-hearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn’t have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scallywags, but he did love them both very dearly.
Shane finally took leave of his horses and walked slowly back to Randolph standing at the entrance to the stalls. As always, and especially when he had not seen him for a while, Randolph was struck by Shane’s unique good looks. He’s a handsome son-of-a-gun, Randolph commented silently. Blackie must have looked exactly like Shane fifty years ago.
Putting his arm around the older man’s shoulder, Shane said, ‘Thanks for everything, Randolph.’
‘Oh lad, it’s a pleasure. And don’t worry about the horses. They’ll be well cared for, but then you should know that by now. Oh and Shane, please ask Winston to call me later.’
‘I will.’
Randolph’s eyes followed Shane O’Neill as he strode off to his car, and there was a thoughtful look on his face. There goes one unhappy young man, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bafflement. He has everything anybody could ever want. Health, looks, position, great wealth. He tries to conceal it, but I’m convinced he’s miserable inside. And I’m damned if I know the reason why.
Beck House, so called because a pretty little stream ran through the grounds, stood at the bottom of a small hill, at the edge of the village of West Tanfield, about halfway between Allington Hall and Pennistone Royal.
Situated in a dell, shaded at the rear by a number of huge old oaks and sycamores, the manor dated back to the late Elizabethan period. It was a charming house, low and rambling, made of local stone supposedly from Fountains Abbey, and it had a half-timbered front façade, tall chimneys and many leaded windows.
Winston and Shane had originally bought the old manor with the intention of selling it once they had rebuilt the ruined parts, remodelled the old-fashioned kitchen and bathrooms, added garages, and cleared away the wilderness which covered the neglected grounds. However, they had devoted so much time and energy and loving care on the house, had become so attached to the manor during the renovations, they had finally decided to keep it for themselves. They were the same age, had been at Oxford together, and had been close since their salad days. They enjoyed sharing the house, which they used mainly at weekends, since they both maintained flats in the Leeds area to be near their respective offices.
Winston Harte was the only grandson of Emma’s brother Winston, and her great-nephew, and he had worked for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company since he had come down from Oxford. He did not have a specific job, nor a title. Emma called him her ‘minister without portfolio’, which, translated, meant troubleshooter to most people. He was, in a sense, her ambassador-at-large within the company, and her eyes and ears and very frequently her voice as well. His word on most things was the final word and he answered only to Emma. Behind his back the other executives called him ‘God’, and Winston knew this and generally smiled to himself knowingly. He was well aware who ‘God’ was at Consolidated. It was his Aunt Emma. She was the law, and he respected and honoured her; she had his complete devotion.
Young Winston, as he was still sometimes called in the family, had always been close to his namesake, and his grandfather had instilled in him a great sense of loyalty and duty to Emma, to whom the Hartes owed everything they had. His grandfather had worshipped her until the day he had died at the beginning of the sixties, and it was from him that Winston had learned so much about his aunt’s early life, the hard times she had had, the struggles she had experienced as she had climbed the ladder to success. He knew only too well that her brilliant career had been hard won, built on tremendous sacrifices. Because he had been reared on so many fantastic, and often moving, stories about the now-legendary Emma, Winston believed that in certain ways he understood her far better than her own children. And there was nothing he would not do for her.
Winston’s grandfather had left him all of his shares in the newspaper company, whilst his Uncle Frank, Emma’s younger brother, had left his interest to his widow, Natalie. But it was Emma, with her fifty-two per cent, who controlled the company as she always had. These days, however, she ran it with Winston’s help. She consulted with him on every facet of management and policy, frequently deferred to his wishes if they were sound, constantly took his advice. They had a tranquil working relationship and a most special and loving friendship which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.
The newspaper company was very actively on Winston’s mind as he drove slowly into the grounds of Beck House. Even so, as preoccupied as he was, he noticed that the little beck was swollen from the heavy rains which had fallen earlier that week. He made a mental note to mention this to Shane. The banks would probably need reinforcing again, otherwise the lawns would be flooded in no time at all, as they had been the previous spring. O’Neill Construction will definitely have to come out here next week, Winston decided, as he pulled the Jaguar up to the front door, parked, took his briefcase and alighted. He went around to the boot of the car to get his suitcase.
Winston was slender, light in build, and about five foot nine, and it was easy to see at a glance that he was a Harte. In point of fact, Winston bore a strong look of Emma. He had her fine, chiselled features and her colouring, which was reflected in his russet-gold hair and vivid green eyes. He was the only member of the family, other than Paula, who had Emma’s dramatic widow’s peak, and which, his grandfather had once told him, they had all inherited from Big Jack Harte’s mother, Esther Harte.
Winston glanced up, squinting at the sky as he approached the short flight of steps leading into the house. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the East Coast and they presaged rain. There was a hint of thunder in the air since the wind had dropped, and a sudden bolt of lightning streaked the tops of the leafy spring trees with a flash of searing white. As he inserted the key large drops of rain splashed on to his hand. Damn, he muttered, thinking of the beck. If there’s a storm, we’re going to be in serious trouble.
Dimly, from behind the huge carved door, he heard the telephone ringing, but by the time he had let himself inside the house it had stopped. Winston stared at it, fully expecting it to ring again, but when it didn’t he shrugged, deposited his suitcase at the foot of the staircase and walked rapidly through the hall. He went into his study at the back of the manor, sat down at his desk, and read the note from Shane telling him to call his father. He threw the note into the wastepaper basket and glanced vaguely at his mail, mostly bills from the village shops and a number of invitations for cocktail parties and dinners from his country neighbours. Putting these on one side, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk and closed his eyes, bringing all of his concentration to bear on the matter at hand.
Winston had a problem, and it gave him cause for serious reflection at this moment. Yesterday, during a meeting with Jim Fairley at the London office, he had detected a real and genuine discontent in the other man. Oddly enough, Winston discovered he was not terribly surprised. Months ago he had begun to realize that Jim loathed administration, and in the last few hours, driving back from London, he had come to the conclusion that Jim wanted to be relieved of his position as managing director. Intuitively, Winston felt that Jim was floundering and was truly out of his depth. Jim was very much a working newspaperman, who loved the hurly burly of the news room, the excitement of being at the centre of world events, the challenge of putting out two daily papers. After Emma had promoted him a year ago, upon his engagement to Paula, Jim had continued to act as managing editor of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the Yorkshire Evening Standard. Essentially, by holding down the old job along with the new one, Jim was wearing two hats. Only that of the newspaperman fitted him, in Winston’s opinion.
Maybe he ought to resign, Winston thought. It’s better that Jim does one job brilliantly, rather than screw up on two. He snapped his eyes open, swung his legs to the floor purposefully and pulled the chair up to the desk. He sat staring into space, thinking about Jim. He admired Fairley’s extraordinary ability as a journalist, and he liked the man personally, even though he knew Jim was weak in many respects. He wanted to please everybody and that was hardly possible. And one thing was certain: Winston had never been able to comprehend Paula’s fascination with Fairley. They were as different as chalk and cheese. She was far too strong for a man like Jim, but then, that relationship was none of his business really, and anyway perhaps he was prejudiced, considering the circumstances. She was a blind fool. He scowled, chastising himself for thinking badly of her, for he did care for Paula and they were good friends.
Winston now reached for the phone to ring Emma and confide his problem in her, then changed his mind at once. There was no point worrying her at the beginning of her very busy weekend of social activities which had been planned for weeks. Far better to wait until Monday morning and consult with her then.
All of a sudden he felt like kicking himself. How stupid he had been. He should have challenged Jim yesterday, asked him point blank if he wanted to step down. And if he did, who would they appoint in his place? There was no one qualified to take on such heavy responsibilities, at least not inside the company. That was the crux of the problem, his chief concern. At the bottom of him, Winston had the most awful feeling that his aunt might lumber him with the job. He did not want it. He liked things exactly the way they were.
It so happened that Winston Harte, unlike other members of Emma’s family, was not particularly ambitious. He did not crave power. He was not crippled by avarice. In fact, he had more money than he knew what to do with. Grandfather Winston, with Emma’s guidance, advice and help, had acquired an immense fortune, had thus ensured that neither his widow, Charlotte, nor his offspring would ever want for anything.
Young Winston was dedicated, hard working, and he thrived in the world of newspapers, where he was in his element. But he also enjoyed living. Long ago he had made a decision and it was one he had never veered away from: He was not going to sacrifice personal happiness and a tranquil private life for a big business career. Treadmills were decidedly not for him. He would always work diligently at his job, for he was not a parasite, but he also wanted a wife, a family, and a gracious style of living. Like his father, Randolph, Winston was very much at ease in the role of country gentleman. The pastoral scene held a special appeal for him, gave him a sense of renewal. His weekends away from the city were precious, and recharged his batteries. He found horse riding, point-to-point meetings, village cricket, antiquing and pottering around in the grounds of Beck House therapeutic and immensely satisfying. In short, Winston Harte preferred a quiet, leisurely existence, and he was determined to have it. Battles in board rooms made him irritable, and he found them endlessly boring. That was why Paula continued to surprise him. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Winston that she was indeed cast in the same mould as her grandmother. Both women relished corporate skirmishing. It seemed to him that business, power, and winning hands-down over a business adversary were narcotics to them. When Emma had wanted him to be Paula’s back-up in the negotiations with Aire, he had swiftly demurred, suggested she send Paula in alone. His aunt had readily agreed, much to his considerable relief.
Oh what the hell, he thought, becoming impatient with himself. I’m not going to spend the entire weekend worrying about Jim Fairley’s intentions. I’ll thrash it out with him next week, once the plans for taking over Aire Communications have been put into operation. Pushing business matters to the back of his mind, he rang his father at Allington Hall and chatted with him for a good twenty minutes. He then dialled Allison Ridley, his current girlfriend. He felt a rush of warmth when he heard her voice, and she sounded equally pleased to hear his. He confirmed that he and Shane would be at her dinner party the following evening, made plans with her for Sunday, and finally dashed upstairs to change.
Ten minutes later, wearing comfortable corduroys, a heavy wool sweater, Wellington boots and an old raincoat, Winston meandered through the dining room and out on to the flagged terrace overlooking the fish pond. The sky had brightened after the brief shower. The trees and shrubs and lawns appeared to shimmer with dewy greenness in the lovely late afternoon light which brought a soft incandescent glow to the fading blue of the sky. The scent of rain and damp grass and wet earth and growing things pervaded the air, and it was a smell Winston loved. He stood on the terrace for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, relaxing and shedding the rest of his business worries, then ran lightly down the steps into the gardens. He hurried in the direction of the beck, wanting to satisfy himself that the condition of the banks had not deteriorated after the recent shower.
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_d7a53010-c27f-51e5-affd-bf48fb4f5444)
Edwina had arrived.
Emma was aware that her eldest daughter was sitting downstairs in the library, having a drink and recovering from her journey from Manchester Airport. In the last few minutes first Hilda, then Emily, had been up to see her, to pass on this news.
Well, there’s no time like the present, Emma murmured, as she finished dressing in readiness for her dinner date with Blackie and Shane. Putting off the inevitable is not only foolish, it frays the nerves. There’s a time bomb ticking inside Edwina, and I’d better defuse it before the weekend begins.
Nodding to herself, glad she had stopped wavering, Emma fastened a pearl choker around her throat, glanced at herself in the mirror, picked up her evening bag and sable jacket, and hurried out.
She descended the long winding staircase at a slower pace, thinking about the things she would say, how she would handle Edwina. Emma had an aversion to confrontation and conflict, preferred to move in roundabout ways, and often with stealth, to accomplish her ends. Accommodation and compromise had been, and still were, her strong suits, both in business and personal matters. But now, as she approached the library, she recognized there was only one thing she could do: tackle Edwina head on.
Her quick, light step faltered as she walked through the vast Stone Hall, and dismay flew to the surface as she thought of doing battle. But Anthony’s happiness was at stake, and therefore Edwina had to be dealt with before she made serious trouble for him, for everyone, in fact. Emma took a deep breath, then continued across the hall, her step now ringing with new determination, her manner resolute.
The library door was partially open, and Emma paused for a moment before going in, one hand resting on the door jamb as she observed Edwina sitting in the wing chair in front of the fire. Only one lamp had been turned on and the light in the rest of the room was gloomy. Suddenly a log spurted and flared up the chimney, the lambent flames illuminating the shadowed face, bringing it into sharper focus. Emma blinked, momentarily startled. From this distance her daughter was the spitting image of Adele Fairley … the same silvery blonde hair, the delicate yet clearly defined profile, the shoulders hunched in concentration. How often had she seen Adele sitting like that, beside the fire in her bedroom at Fairley Hall, staring into the distance, lost in her thoughts. But Adele had not lived to see her thirty-eighth year and Edwina was sixty-three and her beauty had never been as ethereal and as heart-stopping as Adele’s once was. So Emma knew this image was part illusion; still, the resemblance was there, had been there since Edwina’s birth, and she had always been more of a Fairley than a Harte in many respects.
Clearing her throat, Emma said, ‘Good evening, Edwina,’ and bustled forward with briskness, not wanting her to know she had been watching her from the doorway.
Her daughter started in surprise and swung her head, straightening up in the chair as she did. ‘Hello, Mother,’ she replied in a formal voice that rang with coldness.
Emma paid no attention to the tone, accustomed to it by now. It had not changed much over the years. She deposited her jacket and bag on a chair, then proceeded to the fireplace, turning on several lamps as she walked past them. ‘I see you have a drink,’ she began, seating herself in the other wing chair. ‘Does it need refreshing?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
‘How are you?’ Emma asked pleasantly.
‘I’m all right, I suppose.’ Edwina eyed her mother. ‘There’s no need to ask how you are. You’re positively blooming.’
Emma smiled faintly. Sitting back, she crossed her legs, and said, ‘I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner after all. I have to go out. A last minute – ’
‘Business as usual, I’ve no doubt,’ Edwina sniffed scornfully, giving her an unfriendly look.
Emma winced, but suppressed her annoyance. Edwina’s rudeness and sneering manner were generally inflammatory to Emma, but tonight she was determined to overlook her daughter’s unwarranted attitude towards her. You don’t catch flies with vinegar, she thought dryly; and so she would continue to be pleasant and diplomatic, no matter what. Studying Edwina’s face, she at once noticed the tiredness of the drooping mouth, the weary lines around her silver-grey eyes which swam with sadness. Edwina had lost weight, and she seemed nervous, anxious even, and certainly the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, usually filled with her own importance, was not quite so smug this evening. It was apparent she was besieged by troubles.
Emma felt a stab of pity for her, and this was such an unprecedented feeling, and so unexpected, she was a little amazed at herself. Poor Edwina. She is truly miserable, and frightened, but she does bring it on herself I’m afraid, Emma thought. If only I could make her see this, get her to change her ways. Then becoming aware that she was being looked over as carefully as she was scrutinizing, Emma said, ‘You’re staring at me, Edwina. Is there something wrong with my appearance?’
‘The frock, Mother,’ Edwina replied without a moment’s hesitation. ‘It’s a little young for you, isn’t it?’
Emma stiffened, and wondered if her charitable feelings had been misplaced. Edwina was intent on being obnoxious. Then she relaxed and laughed a gay, dismissive laugh, resolved not to let Edwina get her goat. When she spoke her voice was even. ‘I like red,’ she said. ‘It’s lively. What colour would you like me to wear? Black? I’m not dead yet you know, and whilst we’re on the subject of clothes, why do you insist on wearing those awful lumpy tweeds?’ Not waiting for a reply, she added, ‘You have a lovely figure, Edwina. You should show it off more.’
Edwina let this small compliment slide by her. And she asked herself why she had ever accepted Jim Fairley’s invitation, or agreed to stay here at Pennistone Royal. She must be insane, to expose herself to her mother in this way.
Emma compressed her lips, her eyes narrowing as they weighed Edwina speculatively. She said, with the utmost care, ‘I’d like to talk to you about Anthony.’
This statement jolted Edwina out of her introspection, and swinging to face Emma, she exclaimed, ‘Oh no, Mother! When Emily said you’d be coming down to see me, I suspected as much. However, I refuse to discuss my son with you. You’re manipulative and controlling.’
‘And you, Edwina, are beginning to sound like a broken record,’ Emma remarked. ‘I’m tired of hearing that accusation from you. I’m also fed up with your continual sniping. It’s impossible to have a decent conversation with you about anything. You’re defensive and hostile.’
Strong as these words were, Emma’s tone had been mild, and her face was devoid of emotion as she pushed herself up and out of the chair. She went to the William and Mary chest in the corner, poured herself a small glass of sherry, then resumed her position in front of the fire. She sat holding her drink, a reflective light in her eyes. After a long moment, she said, ‘I am an old woman. A very old woman really. Although I realize there will never be total peace in this family of mine, I would like a bit of tranquillity for the rest of my life, if that’s possible. And so I’m prepared to forget a lot of the things you’ve said and done, Edwina, because I’ve come to the conclusion it’s about time you and I buried the hatchet. I think we should try to be friends.’
Edwina gaped at her in astonishment, wondering if she was dreaming. She had hardly expected to hear these words from her mother. She finally managed, ‘Why me? Why not any of the others? Or are you planning to give the same little speech to them this weekend?’
‘I don’t believe they’ve been invited. And if they had, I would hope they’d have enough sense not to come. I don’t have much time for any of them.’
‘And you do for me?’ Edwina asked incredulously, mentally thrown off balance by her mother’s conciliatory gesture.
‘Let’s put it this way, I think you were the least guilty in that ridiculous plot against me last year. I know now that you were coerced to a certain extent. You never were very devious, avaricious or venal, Edwina. Also, I do regret our estrangement over the years. We should have made up long ago, I see that now.’ Emma genuinely meant this, but she was also motivated by another reason. Anthony. Emma was convinced that only by winning Edwina over to her side could she hope to influence her, get her to adopt a more reasonable attitude towards her son. So she said again, ‘I do think we should give it a try. What do we have to lose? And if we can’t be real friends, perhaps we can have an amicable relationship at the very least.’
‘I don’t think so, Mother.’
Emma exhaled wearily. ‘I am saddened for you, Edwina, I really am. You threw away one of the most important things in your life, but – ’
‘What was that?’
‘My love for you.’
‘Oh come off it, Mother,’ Edwina said with a sneer, looking down her nose at Emma. ‘You never loved me.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I don’t believe this conversation!’ Edwina exclaimed, shifting in her chair. She took a gulp of her scotch, then brought the glass down on the Georgian side table with a bang. ‘You’re incredible, Mother. You sit there making these extraordinary statements and expecting me to swallow them whole. That’s the joke of the century. I might be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.’ She leaned forward, staring hard at Emma, her eyes like chips of grey ice. ‘What about you? My God, it was you who threw me away when I was a baby.’
Emma brought herself up in the chair with enormous dignity and her face was formidable, her eyes steely as she said, ‘I did not. And don’t you ever dare say that to me again. Ever, do you hear? You know that I put you in your Aunt Freda’s care because I had to work like a drudge to support you. But we’ve gone through this enough times in the past, and you’ll think what you want, I suppose. In the meantime, I have no intention of being side tracked from what I have to say to you, just because you have the need to dredge up all your old grudges against me.’
Edwina opened her mouth, but Emma shook her head. ‘No, let me finish,’ she insisted, her green eyes holding Edwina’s sharply. ‘I don’t want you to make the same mistake twice in your life. I don’t want you to throw Anthony’s love away, as you did mine. And you’re in grave danger of doing so.’ She sat back, hoping her words would sink in, would have some effect.
‘I have never heard anything quite so ridiculous,’ Edwina snorted, assuming a haughty expression.
‘It’s the truth, nevertheless.’
‘What do you know about my relationship with my son!’
‘A great deal. But despite his love for you, which is considerable, you are hell bent on driving a wedge between the two of you. Why, only last night, he told me how concerned he is about your relationship, and he looked pretty damn worried to me.’
Edwina lifted her head swiftly. ‘So he is here. When I phoned him at his London club last night they said he’d already left. I couldn’t imagine where he was. I had no idea he was coming to the christening. Is he here?’
This was asked with anxiousness, and Emma saw the eager light flickering in her daughter’s eyes. She said, ‘No, he’s not.’
‘Where is he staying?’
Emma chose to ignore this question for the moment. She said, ‘Anthony can’t understand why you’re so opposed to his divorce. It seems you’re making his life miserable, badgering him night and day to reconcile with Min. He is baffled and distressed, Edwina.’
‘So is poor Min! She’s heartbroken, and she can’t comprehend him, or his behaviour. Neither can I. He’s upsetting our lives in the most disturbing way, creating havoc. I’m almost as distraught as she is.’
‘Well, that’s understandable. No one likes divorce, nor the pain it involves. However, you must think of Anthony before anyone else. From what he tells me, he’s been very unhappy for – ’
‘Not that unhappy, Mother,’ Edwina interrupted, her voice snippy and high-pitched with tension. ‘He and Min do have a lot in common, whatever he might have told you. Naturally, he’s disappointed she hasn’t had a child. On the other hand, they’ve only been married six years. She could still get pregnant. Min is perfect for him. And don’t look at me like that, Mother, so very superior and knowing. It just so happens that I know my son better than you do. Anthony might have strength of character, as you’re so fond of pointing out to me whenever you get the opportunity. Nonetheless, he does have certain weaknesses.’
Edwina stopped, uncertain about continuing, then decided her mother might as well know the truth. ‘Sex, for one thing,’ she announced flatly, staring Emma down with a show of defiance. ‘He’ll go for a pretty face every time. He got himself into the most awful scrapes with women before he married Min.’ Edwina shook her head, and bit her lip, muttering in a low voice, ‘I don’t know how much Min actually knows, but I’m aware that in the last couple of years Anthony has had several affairs, and as usual with the wrong sort of women.’
Emma was not unduly surprised by this bit of information, nor was she particularly interested, and she did not rise to the bait. Instead she gave Edwina a curious look, asked, ‘What exactly do you mean by the wrong sort of women?’
‘You know very well what I mean, Mother. Unsuitable females with no background or breeding. A man in Anthony’s position, a peer of the realm with enormous responsibilities, should have a wife who comes from the aristocracy, his own class, who understands his way of life.’
Stifling her amusement at Edwina’s hidebound snobbery, Emma said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, stop talking like a Victorian dowager. We’re living in the twenty-first century – well almost. Your views are outdated, my dear.’
‘I might have known you’d say something like that,’ Edwina replied in a snooty voice. ‘I must admit, you constantly surprise me, Mother. For a woman of your immense wealth and power you are awfully careless about certain things. Background is one of them.’
Emma chuckled and sipped her sherry and her eyes twinkled over the rim of the glass. ‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,’ she said, and chuckled again.
Edwina’s face coloured, and then wrinkling her nose in a gesture of distaste, she said, ‘I dread to think of who he’ll end up with, if this divorce ever goes through.’
‘Oh it’s going through all right,’ Emma said in her softest tone. ‘I think you would be wise to accept that. Immediately. It’s a fact of life you cannot change.’
‘We’ll see about that. Min has to agree before he can do anything.’
‘But, my dear Edwina, she has agreed.’
Edwina was shocked and she stared at her mother through horrified eyes, trying to grasp these words. For a split second she was disbelieving, and then with a sinking heart she acknowledged that her mother spoke the truth. Whatever else she was, Emma Harte was not a liar. Furthermore, her information was always reliable, deadly accurate. Edwina finally stammered, ‘But … but …’ Her voice let her down, and she was unable to continue. She reached for her glass with a shaking hand, and then put it back on the table without drinking from it. Slowly she said, ‘But Min didn’t say anything to me last night when we had dinner. How very strange. We’ve always been close. Why, she’s been like a daughter to me. I wonder why she didn’t confide in me, she always has in the past.’ Edwina’s face was a picture of dismay as she pondered Min’s extraordinary behaviour, and her very perplexing reticence.
For the first time, with a sudden flash of insight, Emma understood why her daughter was so frantic. She was obviously on intimate terms with Min, happy in the relationship. Yes, she was comfortable, secure and safe with her daughter-in-law. Anthony, in upsetting the matrimonial applecart, had put his mother’s world in jeopardy, or at least so Edwina believed. She was petrified of change, of a new woman in her son’s life, who may not accept her quite as readily as Min had, who might even alienate her son from her.
Leaning towards Edwina, Emma said with more gentleness than usual, ‘Perhaps Min was afraid to tell you, afraid of distressing you further. Look here, you mustn’t feel threatened by this divorce. It’s not going to change your life that much, and I’m sure Anthony won’t object if you remain friendly with Min.’ She attempted a light laugh. ‘And after all, Anthony is getting a divorce from Min, not from you, Edwina. He would never do anything to hurt you,’ she placated.
‘He already has. His behaviour is unforgivable.’ Edwina’s voice was harsh and unrelenting and her face flooded with bitterness.
Emma drew back, and the irritation she had been suppressing suddenly rose up in her. Her mouth curved down in a tight line, and her eyes turned cold. ‘You’re a selfish woman, Edwina,’ she admonished. ‘You’re not thinking of Anthony, you’re only concerned with yourself. You claim your son is the centre of your life, well, if he is, you have a damn poor way of showing it. He needs your love and support at a difficult time like this, not your animosity.’ Emma threw her a condemning stare. ‘I don’t understand you. There’s far too much resentment and hostility in you, for everyone, not only me. I can’t imagine why. You’ve had a good life, your marriage was happy, at least I presume it was. I know Jeremy adored you, and I always thought you loved him.’ Her glance remained fixed on Edwina. ‘I hope to God you did love him, for your own sake. Yet despite all the wonderful things life has given you, you are filled with an all-consuming anger. Please turn away from it, put this bitterness out of your heart once and for all.’
Edwina remained engulfed in silence, her expression as obdurate as ever, and Emma went on, ‘Trust your son, trust his judgement. I certainly do. You’re knocking your head against a brick wall, fighting this divorce. You can’t possibly win. In fact, you’ll end up the loser. You’ll drive Anthony away forever.’ She searched her daughter’s face, seeking a sign of softening on her part, but it was still closed and unyielding.
Sighing to herself, Emma thought: I give up. I’ll never get through to her. And then she felt compelled to make one last stab at convincing her to change her views. She cautioned gravely, ‘You’ll end up a lonely old woman. I can’t believe you would want that to happen. And if you think I have an axe to grind, remember I have nothing to gain. Very genuinely, Edwina, I simply want to prevent you from making the most terrible mistake.’
Although Edwina was unresponsive, sat huddled in the chair, avoiding her mother’s penetrating eyes, she had been listening attentively for the last few minutes, and digesting Emma’s words. They had struck home, Emma’s belief to the contrary. Now, in the inner recesses of Edwina’s mind, something stirred. It was a dim awareness that she had been wrong. Suddenly, discomfort with herself overwhelmed her, and she felt guilty about Anthony. She had been selfish, more selfish than she had realized until this moment. It was true that she loved Min like the daughter she had never had, and she dreaded the thought of losing her. But she dreaded losing her son more. And that had already begun to happen.
Edwina did not have much insight, nor was she a clever woman, but she was not without a certain intelligence, and this now told her that Anthony had turned to his grandmother in desperation, had confided in Emma instead of her. Resentment and jealousy, her worst traits, flared within her at the thought of this betrayal on her son’s part. And then, with a wisdom uncommon for her, she put aside these feelings. Anthony had not really been treacherous or disloyal. It was all her fault. She was driving him away from her, as her mother had pointed out. Emma was being sincere in trying to bridge the rift rapidly developing between herself and her son. Emma did want them to remain close, that seemed obvious, if she considered her words dispassionately and with fairness. This admission astonished Edwina, and against her volition she experienced a feeling of gratitude to her mother for making this effort on her behalf.
Edwina spoke slowly, in a muted voice. ‘It’s been a shock, the divorce, I mean. But you’re right, Mother. I must think of Anthony first. Yes, it’s his happiness that counts.’
For the first time in her life, Edwina found herself turning to Emma for help. Her anger and bitterness now somewhat diffused, she asked softly, ‘What do you think I should do, Mother? He must be very angry with me.’
Believing that her attempts to drill some common sense into Edwina had had no effect whatsoever, Emma was a bit taken aback by this unanticipated reversal. Rapidly regrouping her thoughts, she said, ‘No, he’s not angry. Hurt perhaps, worried even. He loves you very much, you know, and the last thing he wants is a permanent split between you.’ Emma half smiled. ‘You asked me what you should do. Why, Edwina, I think you should tell him exactly what you’ve just told me … that his happiness is the most important thing to you, and that he has your blessing, whatever he plans to do with his life.’
‘I will,’ Edwina cried. ‘I must.’ She gazed at Emma, for once without rancour, and added, ‘There’s something else.’ She swallowed, finished in a strangled voice, ‘Thank you, Mother. Thank you for trying to help.’
Emma nodded and glanced away. Her face was calm but she was filling with uneasiness. I have to tell her about Sally, she thought. If I avoid revealing his involvement with the girl, holy hell will break loose tomorrow. Everything I’ve accomplished in the last half-hour will be swept away by Edwina’s wrath when she sees them together. This way, she’ll have time to sleep on her rage, perhaps put it behind her. When she’s calm she’ll surely recognize she cannot live her son’s life for him.
Gathering her strength, Emma said, ‘I have something further to say to you, Edwina, and I want you to hear me out before you make any comment.’
Edwina frowned. ‘What is it?’ she asked nervously, clasping her hands together in her lap. Emma was silent, but her face was readable for a change. It telegraphed trouble to Edwina. Steeling herself for what she somehow knew would be a body blow, she nodded for her mother to proceed.
Emma said, ‘Anthony is in love with another woman. It’s Sally … Sally Harte. Now, Edwina, I – ’
‘Oh no!’ Edwina cried, aghast. Her face had paled and she gripped the arms of the chair to steady herself.
‘I asked you to hear me out. You just said your son’s happiness was the only thing that matters. I trust you really meant that. He intends to marry Sally when he is free to do so, and you are – ’
Again Edwina interrupted. ‘And you said you had no axe to grind!’
‘I don’t,’ Emma declared. ‘And if you think I’ve encouraged them, you’re mistaken. I was aware he’d taken her out several times, when he’s been in Yorkshire, I don’t deny that. But I hadn’t paid much attention. Anyway, it seems they are seriously involved. Also, Anthony came to announce his plans to me, not ask my permission to marry my great-niece. Furthermore, I gather he took the same Stance with Randolph, told him he was going to marry his daughter, and without so much as a by your leave. Randolph can be old-fashioned at times, and his nose was considerably out of joint when we spoke late last night. But I soon put him straight.’
Moving to the edge of the chair, the fuming Edwina let her furious glance roam over Emma. She examined that old and wrinkled face minutely, looking for signs of duplicity and cunning. But they were absent, and the hooded green eyes were clear, guileless. Then without warning, a vivid picture of Sally Harte flew into Edwina’s twisting mind. They had run into each other nine months ago, at the exhibition of Sally’s paintings at the Royal Academy. She had sought Edwina out actually, and had been charming, very friendly. At the time Edwina had thought that Sally had grown up to become one of the most beautiful women she had ever laid eyes on. A Harte though, through and through, with her grandfather Winston’s arresting looks, his carefree blue eyes, his dark windblown hair.
Edwina snuffed out the disturbing image of Sally Harte and concentrated her attention on the old woman sitting opposite her, who in turn was observing her acutely and with sternness. Always ready and willing to brand her mother a manipulator, a schemer who contrived to control them and run all of their lives, Edwina decided that in this instance Emma Harte had indeed been an innocent bystander. As much as she wanted to blame her for this … this disaster, she could not. She had the most dreadful conviction that it was her son’s doing, and his alone. Anthony would be unable to resist that lovely, laughing, bewitching face, which she had been so struck by herself. It was his pattern, after all … falling for beautiful features and a shapely figure. Yes, once again, Anthony had managed to get himself involved with the wrong sort of woman, and all because of sex.
With a little shiver, Edwina drew herself up, and said in a clipped voice, ‘Well, Mother, I must admit you’ve convinced me that you’ve not been a party to this unfortunate relationship. I give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Emma said.
‘Nonetheless,’ Edwina continued purposefully, her face set, ‘I must voice my disapproval of this match, or I should say mismatch, to my son. Sally is not cut out to be his wife. She is most unsuitable. For one thing, she is dedicated to her career. Her painting will always come first with her. Consequently, she most certainly won’t fit into his life at Clonloughlin, a life that revolves around the estate, the local gentry and their country pursuits. He is making a terrible mistake, one he will live to regret for the rest of his life. So, therefore, I intend to put a stop to this affair at once.’
How could I have ever given birth to such a pig-headed fool? Emma asked herself. She stood up and said, with great firmness, her manner conclusive, ‘I must leave. Shane will be here any minute. But before I go I have two statements to make, and I want you to listen most carefully. The first concerns Sally. You cannot point a finger at her, since she is beyond reproach and her reputation is impeccable in every sense. As for her career, well, she can just as easily paint at Clonloughlin as she can here. I might also remind you, silly snob that you are, that she is not only accepted by those ridiculous nitwits in so-called high society, whom you have the desire to kowtow to constantly, but is assiduously courted by them. Thank God she has more sense than you, and hasn’t fallen for all that worthless, high-falutin clap trap.’
‘As usual, you’re being insulting, Mother,’ Edwina snapped.
Emma shook her silvered head disbelievingly, her lips pursing. Trust Edwina to interrupt a serious conversation because her sensibilities were offended. She said with a small, very cold smile, ‘Old people believe that age gives them the licence to say exactly what they think, without being concerned that they may be giving offence. I don’t mince my words these days, Edwina. I speak the truth. And I will continue to do so until the day I die. Anything else is a waste of time. But getting back to Sally, I would like to remind you that she is an artist of some repute, also, in case you’d forgotten, she is an heiress in her own right, since my brother Winston left his grandchildren a great fortune. Mind you, I’ll give you your due, I know money isn’t particularly interesting to you, or Anthony, for that matter. Still, that doesn’t change the facts, and you’re making yourself look ridiculous by saying she is unsuitable. Poppycock! Sally is ideal for him. And let’s not dismiss their feelings for each other. They are in love, Edwina, and that’s the most important consideration of all.’
‘Love? Sex, you mean,’ Edwina began, and then stopped, seeing the look of disapproval in Emma’s eyes. ‘Well, you are correct about one thing, Mother, money doesn’t matter to the Dunvale family,’ Edwina finished, looking as if she had just smelled something rotten.
Emma said with cool authority, ‘Anthony is his own man, and for that I will be eternally grateful. He will do as he wishes. And if this relationship is a mistake, then it will be his own mistake to make. Not yours, not mine. Anthony is a man of thirty-three, not a snot-nosed boy in short pants. It would behove you to stop treating him as such.’
Abruptly Emma swung away from Edwina and crossed to the desk in front of the window. She stood behind it, regarding her daughter intently. ‘And so, my dear Edwina, if you do speak to Anthony, I suggest you restrict your conversation to motherly words of love and concern for his well being. And I want you to restrain yourself when he mentions Sally, as no doubt he will. I don’t believe he will tolerate any criticism of her, or his future plans.’
A horn hooted outside the window, startling both women. Emma glanced over her shoulder, saw Shane getting out of his bright red Ferrari. Turning back to Edwina she lifted the address book off the desk and waved it at her. ‘You will find Randolph’s number in here. Anthony is staying at Allington Hall. Take my advice, call your son and make up with him.’ Emma paused, added with finality, ‘Before it is too late.’
Edwina sat rigidly in the chair and not one word passed her white and trembling mouth.
Emma gave her only a cursory glance as she passed the chair, picked up the jacket and evening bag, and left the library. Closing the door quietly behind her she reassured herself she had tried her very best to solve this troublesome family problem and make friends with Edwina at the same time. But she and Edwina did not matter. They would live with their armed truce as they had always done. Only Anthony and Sally were important in the scheme of things.
Emma threw back her shoulders and drew herself to her full height, striking out across the Stone Hall to the front door. And she hoped against hope that Edwina would come to her senses about her son and give him her blessing.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_1c374d5f-cd3e-5d4f-a44c-88d6ee3f90a6)
Blackie O’Neill had a plan.
Now, this plan vastly entertained him whenever he thought about it, which had been frequently in the last few days. He was mostly amused because he had never come up with a plan in his entire life.
It had always been Emma who had had a plan. When she had been a little snippet of a girl in patched clothes and worn-out button boots there had been her Plan with a capital P. That had been a plan so grand it had left no room for doubt, and when she had set it finally in motion it had carried her away from Fairley and out into the wide world to seek her fame and fortune. Later she had devised innumerable other plans – for her first shop, her second and her third; then she had created plans to acquire the Gregson Warehouse, the Fairley mills, and yet another for the creation of the Lady Hamilton line of fashions with David Kallinski. And of course there had been her Building Plan, which she tended to pronounce as if this, too, were capitalized. He had been very much a part of that most grandiose plan of all, drawing the architectural blueprints and building her enormous store in Knightsbridge. And this great edifice still stood and it was a proud testament to her most extraordinary achievements.
Yes, his Emma had lived with one kind of plan or another for as long as he had known her, and each one had been put into operation with determination and carried through with consummate skill in her inimitable way. And with every success she would give him a tiny smile of cold triumph and say, ‘You see, I told you it would work.’ He would throw back his head and roar, and congratulate her, and insist they celebrate, and her face would soften and he knew that she was giddy with excitement inside, even if she did not really want to show it.
But he had never made a plan before.
In fact, almost everything that had happened to Blackie O’Neill in his long life had been by sheer happenstance.
When he had first come over from Ireland as a young spalpeen, to work on the Leeds canals with his Uncle Pat, he had never imagined in his wildest fantasies that he would become a millionaire many times over. Oh, he had boasted that he was going to be a rich ‘toff’ to young Emma, when she had been a servant at Fairley Hall, but at that time it had seemed unlikely ever to come true. It had been something of an idle boast, and he had laughed at himself in secret. His boasting had proved not to be so idle after all.
Over the years, Emma had often teased him and said that he had the luck of the Irish, and this was true in many respects. He had had to work hard; on the other hand, he had also carried Lady Luck in his breast pocket, and great and good fortune had continually blessed him. There had been times of terrible sadness in his personal life, and sorrow too. For one thing, he had lost his lovely Laura far too young, but she had given him his son, and he considered Bryan to be his best bit of luck of all. As a child Bryan had been warm and loving, and they had stayed close, enjoyed a unique relationship to this day. Bryan had a shrewd, sharp brain, was inspired and fearless in business, a genius really, and together they had parlayed O’Neill Construction into one of the biggest and most important building companies in Europe. When Bryan’s wife, Geraldine, had inherited two hotels from her father, Leonard Ingham, it was Bryan who had had the foresight and brains to hang on to them. Those little hotels in Scarborough and Bridlington, catering to family holidaymakers, had become the nucleus for the great O’Neill chain, which was now an international concern, and a public company trading on the London Stock Exchange.
But had Blackie planned all this? No, never. It had simply come about by chance, through the most marvellous serendipity. Of course he had been smart enough to recognize his train when it had come rolling through his station, and he had jumped on it with alacrity, and he had used every opportunity that presented itself to his advantage. In so doing, he had, like Emma, created an empire, and founded a dynasty of his own.
These thoughts ran through Blackie’s head as he dressed for dinner, and he chuckled to himself from time to time as he contemplated his first Plan, also with a capital P. Not unnaturally, it involved Emma, with whom he spent a great deal of time these days. He had decided to take her on a trip around the world. When he had first suggested this a few weeks ago, she had looked at him askance, scoffed at the idea, and told him she was far too busy and preoccupied with her affairs to go gallivanting off on a holiday in foreign parts. His smooth Irish tongue and persuasive manner had seemingly had no effect. Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to get his own way. After a great deal of thought, and pacing the floor racking his brains, he had devised a plan – and the key to it was Australia. Blackie knew that Emma secretly itched to go to Sydney, to see her grandson Philip McGill Amory, who was being trained to take over the vast McGill holdings. He was also aware that Emma had balked at the thought of the long and exhausting trip to the other side of the world, and she was still vacillating about going.
So he would take her, and they would travel in style.
Naturally she would be unable to resist his invitation when he explained how comfortable, luxurious, leisurely and effortless their journey would be. First they would fly to New York and spend a week there, before going to San Francisco for another week. Once they were rested and refreshed they would hop over to Hong Kong and the Far East, and slowly head to their final destination in easy stages.
And he fully intended to make sure she had a little fun on their peregrinations. Blackie could no longer count the times he had asked himself if Emma had ever really had any honest-to-goodness fun in her life. Perhaps becoming one of the richest women in the world had been her way of enjoying herself. On the other hand, he was not sure how much pleasure she had derived from this consuming, back-breaking endeavour. In any event, he was planning all sorts of entertaining diversions, and young Philip was the tempting morsel he would dangle in front of her nose, and if he was not mistaken the trip would prove to be irresistible to her.
Blackie knotted his blue silk tie and stood away from the mirror, eyeing it critically.
It’s sober enough, I am thinking, he muttered, knowing Emma would make a sarcastic remark if he wore one of his gaudier numbers. Long, long ago Laura had curbed, at least to some extent, his exotic taste for colourful brocade waistcoats, elaborately-tailored suits and flashy jewellery; Emma had cured him completely. Well, almost. Occasionally Blackie could not resist the temptation to indulge himself in a few jazzy silk ties and handkerchiefs and ascots in florid patterns and brilliant colours, but he made certain never to wear them when he was seeing Emma. He reached for his dark blue jacket and put it on, smoothed the edge of his pristine white collar, and nodded at his reflection. I might be an old codger, but sure an’ I feel like a young spalpeen tonight, he thought with another chuckle.
Snowy-haired though he was, Blackie’s bright black eyes were still as merry and mischievous as they had been when he was a young man in his prime, and his bulk and size were undiminished by age. He was in remarkable health and looked more like a man in his seventies than one who was eighty-three. His mind was alert, agile and unimpaired, and senility was a foreign word to him, in much the same way as it was to Emma.
Pausing in the middle of the bedroom he dwelled momentarily on the evening ahead, the business matter he would discuss with Emma. He was glad Shane and he had decided to broach the subject to her. Once that was out of the way, and when they were alone, he would move gently into the conversation about the trip. It won’t be easy, he told himself, you know she’s the stubborn one. When he had first met Emma he had recognized at once that she had the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter, and it had only grown more inflexible over the years.
A scene flashed, transporting him back to the past. 1906. A bitter cold January day. Emma sitting next to him on the tramcar going to Armley, looking impossibly beautiful in a new black wool coat and the green-and-black scarf and tam-o’-shanter he had given her for Christmas. The green tones in the tartan bringing out the green depths in her eyes, the black showing off the flawlessness of her alabaster skin.
What a pallor her face had held that Sunday, nonetheless, it had not marred her loveliness, he ruminated, remembering every detail of that afternoon so clearly. She had been seventeen and carrying Edwina, and oh how rigid she had been in her obstinacy. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to manoeuvre her on to that tram. She had not wanted to go to Armley, nor to make the acquaintance of his dear friend, Laura Spencer. Still, when the two girls had met they had taken to each other instantly, and were the closest of loving friends until the day poor Laura died. Yes, Emma’s terrible burdens had eased, once she had moved into Laura’s snug little house, and he had experienced an enormous sense of relief, knowing Laura would mother her, watch over her. And he had won that day, as he fully intended to win with her now, sixty-three years later.
Opening the top drawer of the bureau at the other side of the room, he took out a small black leather jewel box, stared at it thoughtfully, and then slipped it in his pocket. Humming to himself he strode out and went downstairs.
Blackie O’Neill still lived in the grand mansion he had built for himself in Harrogate in 1919. A handsome wide staircase, so beautifully designed it appeared to float, curved down into a charming circular entrance hall of lovely dimensions, where walls painted a rich apricot acted as a counterpoint to the crisp black-and-white marble floor. The square marble slabs had been set down at an angle, so that they became diamond shapes, and they led the eye to the niches on either side of the front door. White marble statues, of the Greek goddesses Artemis and Hecate, graced these niches and were highlighted by hidden spots. An elegant Sheraton console, inlaid with exotic fruitwoods, stood against one wall underneath a gilt Georgian mirror, and was flanked on either side by Sheraton chairs upholstered in apricot velvet. Illuminating the hall was a huge antique crystal-and-bronze-dore chandelier which dropped down from the domed ceiling, and the setting had elegance without the slightest hint of ostentation.
Crossing the hall, Blackie went into the drawing room. Here a log fire burned cheerily in the Adam fireplace, and the silk-shaded lamps cast rafts of warming light on to the cool green walls, on the sofas and chairs covered in darker green silk. Splendid paintings, and Sheraton and Hep-plewhite antiques, added to the graciousness of the room, which exemplified Blackie’s sense of style and colour and perspective in furniture and design.
He fussed with the bottle of champagne in the silver wine cooler, turning it several times, shifting the ice around, then he took a cigar from the humidor and went over to his favourite chair to wait. He had no sooner trimmed the cigar, and lighted it, than he heard them in the hall. He put the cigar in the ashtray, and rose.
‘There you are, mavourneen,’ he cried, hurrying to meet Emma as she came into the room. There was a wide smile on his ruddy face as he exclaimed, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He hugged her tightly to his broad chest, held her away and looked down at her. He smiled again, admiration shining in his eyes. ‘And aren’t you my bonny colleen tonight.’
Emma smiled back at him, love and warmth overflowing in her. ‘Thank you, Blackie dear. And I must admit, you don’t look so bad yourself. That’s a beautiful suit.’ Her eyes twinkled merrily as she ran a hand down his arm expertly. ‘Mmmm. Very nice cloth. It feels like a bit of my best worsted.’
‘It is, it is,’ Blackie said, and winked at Shane who was standing behind Emma. ‘Would I be wearing anything else now. But come, me darlin’, and sit here, and let me get you a glass of champagne.’
Emma allowed him to guide her across the room to the sofa. She sat down, and a brow lifted. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
‘No, no, not really. Unless it’s reaching our grand old ages and being in such good health.’ He squeezed her shoulder affectionately, added, ‘Also, I know you prefer wine to the stronger stuff.’ He glanced at Shane. ‘Would you do the honours, me boy? And make mine a drop of me good Irish.’
‘Right you are, Grandfather.’
Blackie seated himself in the chair facing Emma, picked up his cigar and puffed on it reflectively for a moment, then said to her, ‘And I expect you’ve had a busy day as usual. I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll ever retire … as you’re constantly threatening to do.’
‘I don’t suppose I ever will,’ Emma laughed. ‘You know very well I plan to go with my boots on.’
Blackie shot her a chastising look. ‘Don’t talk to me about dying. I’ve no intention of doing that for a long time.’ He chuckled softly. ‘I’ve a lot more damage to do yet.’
Emma laughed with him, and so did Shane, who carried their drinks over to them. He fetched his own, and they clinked glasses and toasted each other. Shane took a swallow of his scotch, and said, ‘Would you both excuse me for a few minutes. I have to phone Winston.’
Emma said, ‘I hope you have better luck than I did. I was trying to get him for ages, earlier. First the line was busy, then there was no answer.’
Shane frowned. ‘Perhaps he’d slipped down to the village. Any message, Aunt Emma?’
‘Tell him that we didn’t – ’Changing her mind, she broke off and shook her head. ‘Never mind, Shane. It’s not important. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow, and I’m sure we’ll have a chance to chat at some point then.’
When they were alone, Blackie reached across and took Emma’s hand in his, and stared deeply into her face. ‘It’s grand to see you, me darlin’. I’ve missed you.’
Emma’s eyes danced. ‘Get along with you, you silly old thing. You just saw me the day before yesterday,’ she exclaimed, amusement surfacing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our dinner at Pennistone.’
‘Of course I haven’t. But it seems like a long time to me, caring about you the way I do.’ He patted her hand affectionately and sat back in his chair, giving her the fondest of looks. ‘And I meant it when I said you looked bonny, Emma. You’re a real bobby dazzler in that dress, it’s very flattering on you, me darlin’ girl.’
‘Some girl! But thank you, I’m glad you like it,’ she answered with a smile of real pleasure. ‘My friend Ginette Spanier, at Balmain’s, picked it out for me and had it shipped over from Paris last week. Mind you, Edwina was rather scathing earlier. She told me it was too young for me, the colour, you know.’
Blackie’s expression altered radically. ‘She was just being catty, Emma. Edwina’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of that old oak tree out yonder in my garden. She’ll never change.’ He noticed the look of pain flit across Emma’s face, and he frowned with concern for her, cursing her daughter under his breath, Edwina had always been troublesome. But then so had most of the others, and there were a couple of Emma’s children whom he could quite cheerfully strangle with his bare hands. He cried heatedly, ‘I hope she’s not been giving you a hard time!’
‘No, not really.’
She sounded unusually hesitant, and Blackie spotted this immediately, and shook his marvellous white, leonine head, and exhaled in exasperation. ‘I’ll never understand Jim. I don’t know what prompted him to invite her. It was stupid on his part, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, and Paula was upset too, but I decided not to intervene. I thought it would look petty. But …’ Emma shrugged, and, since she confided most things in Blackie these days, she told him about her conversation with Edwina, her attempts to reason with her daughter.
Blackie listened carefully, occasionally nodding, and when she had finished he said, in a low voice, ‘Well, I’m happy for Sally, if this is what she wants. She’s a lovely lass, and Anthony is a nice chap. Down-to-earth, and not a bit stuck up, which is more than I can say for that mother of his.’ He paused. Recollections swamped him. Slowly, he added, ‘She was most peculiar when she was growing up, and never very nice to you, Emma. Always slighting you, if I remember correctly, and believe me, I do. I haven’t forgotten how she used to show her preference for Joe Lowther, making it so bloody obvious too. She was a little bitch, and she hasn’t changed. Please promise me you’ll let this matter about Anthony rest. I don’t want you getting agitated because of Edwina. She’s not worth it.’
‘Yes, you’re right, and I. promise.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Let’s forget about Edwina. Where are you taking me to dinner? Shane was most mysterious when we were driving over here.’
‘Was he now, mavourneen.’ Blackie grinned from ear to ear. ‘To tell you the truth, Emma, I couldn’t think of a nice enough place, so I told Mrs Padgett to prepare dinner for us here. I know you like her home cooking, and she’s rustled up a lovely bit of spring lamb. I told her to make new potatoes, brussel sprouts and Yorkshire pudding, all your favourites. Now, me darlin’, how does that sound to you?’
‘Delicious, and I’m glad we’re not going out. It’s much cosier here, and I do feel a bit tired.’
His black eyes narrowed under his bushy brows as he examined her alertly. ‘Ah,’ he said softly, ‘so you’re finally admitting it. I do wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard. There’s no need for it any more, you know.’
Dismissing this comment with an easy smile, Emma leaned closer to him, and no longer able to suppress her curiosity, she asked eagerly, ‘What do you want my advice about? You sounded cagey on the phone this morning.’
‘I didn’t mean to, darlin’.’ He sipped his whiskey, puffed away for a moment, and continued, ‘But I’d prefer to wait until Shane comes back, if you don’t mind, since it concerns him.’
‘What concerns me?’ Shane asked from the doorway. He strolled into the room, his drink in his hand.
‘The business matter I want to discuss with Emma.’
‘I’ll say it concerns me!’ Shane exclaimed rather forcefully. ‘It was my idea in the first place.’ Seating himself on the sofa next to Emma, he settled against the cushions, crossed his legs and turned to her. ‘Winston’s sorry he missed your calls. He was out in the garden earlier, worrying about the beck flooding. It’s dangerously near to it apparently.’ His eyes swivelled to his grandfather. ‘I just rang Derek and asked him to get a couple of our men over to Beck House tomorrow, to check things out.’
‘Aye, that’s a good idea. But they’ll have to shore up those banks a lot better than they did last year,’ Blackie remarked pointedly. ‘Now, if you’d both listened to me, it would have been done right in the first place. Let me explain a couple of things.’ He commenced to do so, not giving Shane a chance to respond. And then for the next couple of minutes they discussed various methods of reinforcement. They sounded for all the world like a couple of builders about to embark on a major construction project, and Blackie was most vociferous in his opinions, which tickled Emma. He was still a bricklayer at heart.
But she soon lost interest in their somewhat technical conversation. She had become extremely conscious of Shane’s presence next to her. His bulk did more than fill the sofa, it commandeered it. For the first time in years she began to regard him through newly perceptive and objective eyes, not as an old family friend, but as a younger woman – a stranger – might. How marvellous looking he was tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored grey suit and a pale-blue voile shirt with a silver-grey silk tie. He had inherited his grandfather’s large frame, his broad sweeping back and powerful shoulders, along with Blackie’s wavy black hair and those sparkling eyes so like jet. His complexion was dark too, but his light mahogany tan came from winter sun, garnered on the ski slopes of Switzerland or a lazy Caribbean beach, and not from toiling long hours as a navvy out in the open as his grandfather had once done.
His appearance was much like Blackie’s had been at his age. The face is different, though, she thought, sneaking another surreptitious look at him, but he does have Blackie’s distinctive cleft in his chin, the same dimples when he smiles. And that long upper lip betrays his Celtic origins. I bet he’s broken many a heart already, she added silently with an inward smile of amusement. Then she experienced a tiny pang of sadness for Sarah. Easy to understand why the girl had a crush on him. He was a splendid young man who exuded virility and manliness, and there was a unique warmth and gentleness in him. That was the most devastating of combinations, and she knew only too well about men like Shane O’Neill. She had loved such a man herself, had had her heart broken by him once when she had been young and vulnerable and very much in love. But he had repaired her broken heart, had given her immeasurable happiness and fulfilment in the end. Yes, Paul McGill had had the same kind of potency and fatal charm such as Shane O’Neill possessed in some abundance.
Blackie said, ‘Daydreaming, Emma darlin’?’
She shifted her position on the sofa and smiled lightly. ‘No. I’m patiently waiting for you two to finish discussing that damn beck, so we can get down to brass tacks about the business you want my advice on.’
‘Why yes, of course, it’s wasting time we are,’ he admitted, his manner more genial than ever. In fact, conviviality seemed to spill out of Blackie tonight, and he beamed first at Emma, then at Shane. ‘Now, me boy,’ he said, ‘please top up Emma’s glass with a drop more of that bubbly, and give me a refill, and we’ll settle in for a nice little chat.’
And this they did, after Shane had attended to their drinks.
It was Shane who began, concentrating his attention entirely on Emma, his tone as sober as his face had become. He spoke rapidly, but clearly, as he generally did in business, plunging in without preamble. Emma appreciated his directness, and she, in turn, gave him all of her attention.
Shane said: ‘We’ve been wanting to build, or acquire, a hotel in New York for several years. Dad and I have both spent a great deal of time scouting out possibilities. Recently we found the ideal place. It’s a residential hotel in the East Sixties. Old-fashioned, of course, and the interiors are in need of considerable remodelling – rebuilding actually. That’s what we’ll do – most likely. You see, we tendered a bid, it has been accepted, and we’re buying the hotel. The papers are currently being drawn up.’
‘Congratulations, Shane, and you too, Blackie!’ Emma looked from one to the other, her face bathed in genuine delight. ‘But how can I be of help to you? Why do you need to talk to me? I don’t know a blessed thing about hotels, except whether or not they’re comfortable and efficient.’
‘But you do know New York City, Emma,’ Blackie countered, leaning forward with intentness. ‘That’s why we need you.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow you – ’
‘We need you to steer us in the right direction to the best people,’ Shane cut in, wanting to get to the crux of the matter. He pinned her with his bright black eyes. ‘It seems to me that you’ve made that city your own in so many different ways, so you must know what makes it tick. Or rather what makes its business and commerce tick.’ His generous mouth curved up into the cheekiest of grins. ‘We want to pick your brains, and use your connections,’ he finished, regarding her carefully, his cheekiness still very much in evidence.
Amusement flickered in Emma’s eyes. She had always liked Shane’s style, his directness, his boyish impudence. She stifled a laugh, said, ‘I see. Do continue.’
‘Right,’ Shane replied, all seriousness again. ‘Look, we’re a foreign corporation, and in my opinion that city’s as tight as drum. We can’t go in cold … well, we could, but we’d have a tough time. I’m sure we’d be resented. We need advisers – the proper advisers – and some good connections. Political connections for one thing. And we’ll need help with the unions, with any number of things. I’m sure you of all people understand what I’m talking about, Aunt Emma. So, where do we go? Who do we go to?’
Emma’s mind had been working with its usual swiftness and acuity, and she saw the sense in Shane’s words. He had analysed the situation most shrewdly. She told him this, went on without hesitation, ‘It would be unwise of you to start operating in New York without the most influential backing and support. You’ll need everybody in your corner, and the only way you’ll get them in it is through friends. Good friends with clout. I think I can help.’
‘I knew if anybody could, it would be you. Thanks, Aunt Emma,’ Shane said, and she saw him visibly relaxing.
‘Yes, we’re very grateful, me darlin’,’ Blackie added, pushing himself up out of the chair. He took his drink to the console behind the sofa, plopped in extra ice, added more water to his whiskey, and said, ‘Well, go on, Shane, as Emma asked.’ He touched her shoulder lightly, lovingly. Emma glanced behind her, questions on her face. Blackie chuckled. ‘Oh yes, there’s more,’ he said, and ambled back to his chair by the fireside.
Shane said: ‘We have a solid, well-established law firm representing us in the purchase of the hotel – they’re specialists in real estate. However, I feel we are going to need additional representation for other business matters. I’d like to find a really prestigious law firm that has political savvy and a few gilt-edged connections. Any suggestions about that?’
There was a moment of thoughtfulness, before Emma said, ‘Yes, of course. I could send you to my lawyers, and to any number of people who would be of use to you. But I’ve been thinking hard whilst I’ve been listening, and I believe there is one person who would be of more assistance to you than me and my lawyers and my friends put together. His name is Ross Nelson. He’s a banker – head of a private bank, in fact. He has the very best connections in New York, throughout the States, for that matter. I’m sure he’ll be able to recommend the law firm most qualified for your purposes, and assist you in a variety of other ways.’
‘But will he do it?’ Shane asked, doubt echoing.
‘He will if I ask him,’ she said, giving Shane the benefit of a reassuring smile. ‘I can telephone him on Monday, and explain everything. I hope I’ll be able to enlist his help immediately. Would you like me to do that?’
‘Yes, I would. We would.’ He swung his head to Blackie. ‘Wouldn’t we, Grandfather?’
‘Anything you say, my boy. This is your deal.’ Blackie tapped ash from his cigar, looked across at Emma. ‘That name Nelson rings a bell. Have I met him?’
‘Why yes, I think you did once. It was some years ago, Blackie. Ross was over in England with his great-uncle, Daniel P. Nelson. Dan was a close friend and associate of Paul’s, if you recall. He’s the fellow who wanted me to send Daisy over to the States during the war, to stay with him and his wife, Alicia. But as you know, I never wanted Daisy to be evacuated. Anyway, the Nelsons only had one child, Richard. The boy was killed in the Pacific. Dan was never quite the same after that. He made Ross his heir, after his wife, of course. Ross inherited controlling interest in the bank in Wall Street when Dan died, and God knows what else. Not millions. Zillions, I think. Daniel P. Nelson was one of the richest men in America, had tremendous power.’
Shane was impressed and this showed in his face. He asked quickly, ‘How old a man is Ross Nelson?’
‘Oh he must be in his late thirties, early forties, not much more.’
‘Are you sure he won’t mind helping us? I’d hate to think he would regard your request as an imposition. That kind of situation can create difficulties,’ Shane remarked. He was intrigued with Nelson, wanted to know more about him. He reached for his drink and took a swallow, observing Emma out of the corner of his eye.
Emma laughed quietly. ‘He owes me a few favours. And he won’t think I’m imposing, I can assure you of that.’ She gave Shane a shrewd look through her narrowed green eyes. ‘Mind you, I know Ross, and he’s going to expect something in return. Business, I’m sure, in one form or another. Actually, you might consider doing some of your investment banking with him, and let his bank handle your affairs on that side of the Atlantic. You could do worse.’ There was a cynical edge to her voice, as she finished, ‘There are two things you must remember, Shane … one hand always washes the other, and there’s never anything free in this world. Especially in business.’
Shane met her cool, concentrated gaze steadily. ‘I understand,’ he said softly. ‘And I learned long ago that anything for nothing is usually not worth having. As for Ross Nelson, I’ll know how to show my appreciation, you have no worries there.’
Blackie, who had been following this exchange with considerable interest, slapped his knee and laughed uproariously. ‘Ah, Emma, it’s a spry one I’ve got me here.’ He shook his head and his benevolent smile expressed his love and pride. ‘There are no flies on you, my boy, I’m glad to see, and it won’t be the same without you.’ A hint of sadness crept on to his face, wiping away the laughter. ‘I know it’s important and necessary, but I hate to see you go away again, and so quickly. It pains me, it truly does.’
Emma put down her glass and stared at Shane. ‘When are you leaving, Shane?’
‘I fly to New York on Monday morning. I’ll be staying there for a good six months, maybe longer. I’ll be supervising the rebuilding of the hotel in Manhattan, and trotting down to the Caribbean every few weeks to check on our hotels in the islands.’
‘Six months,’ she repeated in surprise. ‘That is a long time. We shall miss you.’ But perhaps it’s just as well he won’t be around for a while, she added under her breath, thinking of her granddaughter Sarah Lowther. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so she hoped.
Shane cut into her thoughts, when he said, ‘I shall miss you too, Aunt Emma, and Grandfather, everyone in fact. But I’ll be back almost before you can say Jack Robinson.’ He leaned into Emma and squeezed her arm. ‘And keep an eye on this lovable old scoundrel here. He’s very dear to me.’
‘And to me too, Shane. Of course I’ll look after him.’
‘Ah, and won’t we be taking care of each other now,’ Blackie announced, sounding extremely pleased with himself all of a sudden, thinking of his Plan with a capital P. ‘But then we’ve been doing that for half a century or more, and it’s a difficult habit to break, sure an’ it is.’
‘I can imagine.’ Shane laughed, marvelling at the two of them. What an extraordinary pair they were, and the love and friendship they felt for each other was a most enviable thing. Sighing under his breath, he reached for his scotch, peered into the amber liquid, reflecting. After a swallow he turned to Emma. ‘But getting back to Ross Nelson, what kind of a chap is he?’
‘Unusual in many ways,’ Emma said slowly, staring into space, as if visualizing Ross Nelson in her mind’s eye. ‘Ross is deceptive. He has a certain charm, and he appears to be very friendly. On the surface. I’ve always thought there was an innate coldness in him, and a curious kind of calculation, as if he stands apart from himself, watching the effect he has on people. There’s a terrific ego there, and especially when it comes to women. He’s something of a ladies’ man, and has just been divorced for the second time. Not that this is significant: on the other hand, it’s frequently struck me that he might be unscrupulous … in his private life.’
She paused, brought her eyes to meet Shane’s, and added, ‘But that has nothing to do with you or me. As far as business is concerned, I deem Ross to be trustworthy. You have no cause to worry in that respect. But be warned, he’s clever, razor sharp, and he has the need to get his own way – that monumental ego rears up constantly.’
‘Quite a picture you’ve painted, Aunt Emma. Obviously I’ll have to have my wits about me.’
‘That’s always wise, Shane, whoever you’re dealing with.’ She smiled faintly. ‘On the other hand, you’re going to Ross for advice, not pitting yourself against him in a business deal. You’ll be able to handle Ross Nelson very nicely. In fact, I think you’ll get along with him just fine. Don’t forget, he owes me a few favours, so he’ll bend over backwards to be co-operative and helpful.’
‘I know your judgement is never flawed, always spot on,’ Shane replied. He rose, walked around the sofa to fix himself another drink, thinking of the characterization she had drawn in her thumbnail sketch. He was anxious to meet the man. It was obvious that Nelson was going to be invaluable. And he was impatient to get the ball rolling with the New York hotel. He needed to submerge himself in business, to take his mind off troubling personal matters. Ross Nelson might possibly be a pain in the neck in his private life, but who cared about his philandering. As long as he was smart, shrewd, trustworthy, and willing to help, that was all that mattered.
Blackie’s eyes flicked briefly to his grandson, and then settled on Emma. ‘I’m not so sure I like the sound of this Ross Nelson fellow,’ he began.
Emma cut him off with a laugh. ‘My money’s on Shane. He’s a grown lad who knows how to take care of himself very well. Very well indeed, Blackie. I’ll even go as far as to say that Ross Nelson might have met his match in Shane.’ This observation seemed to entertain her, and she continued to laugh.
Shane grinned, but made no comment.
He was looking forward to meeting Mr Ross Nelson more than ever. The banker would add spice to the New York venture.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_61b8ef17-3cf5-5977-b0c0-a04846d9abb5)
They sat in front of the blazing fire in the library – just the two of them.
Blackie nursed a snifter of aged Napoleon cognac, and Emma sipped a cup of tea with lemon. He had poured her a small glass of Bonnie Prince Charlie, her favourite Drambuie liqueur, but it remained untouched on the Sheraton side table next to her chair.
They were quiet, lost in their diverse thoughts, relaxing after Mrs Padgett’s fine dinner. Shane had left, and, as much as they both loved him in their individual ways, they were content to have this time alone together.
The firelight flickered and danced across the bleached-pine panelled walls which had taken on a mellow amber cast in the warm roseate glow emanating from the hearth. In the garden beyond the French doors, the towering old oak creaked and rustled and swayed under the force of the wind that had turned into a roaring gale in the last hour. The door and the windows rattled, and the rain was flung against the glass in an unrelenting stream, beating a steady staccato rhythm, and it was difficult to see out through this curtain of falling water. But in the fine old room all was warmth, cosiness and comfort. The logs crackled and hissed and spurted from time to time, and the grandfather clock, an ancient sentinel in the corner, ticked away in unison.
His eyes had been focused on her for a while.
In repose, as it was now, Emma’s face was gentle, the firm jaw and determined chin and stern mouth softer, less forbidding in the flattering light. Her hair held the lustre of the purest silver, and she seemed, to him, to be a lovely dainty doll, sitting there so sedately, perfectly groomed and dressed as always, elegance and refinement apparent in every line of her slender body.
She had not changed really.
Oh, he was aware that when the flames blazed more brightly, he would notice the wrinkles and the hooded lids and the faint brown speckles of age on her hands. But he knew, deep in his soul, that she was still the same girl inside.
She would always be his wild young colleen of the moors, that little starveling creature he had come across early one morning in 1904, when she had been tramping so bravely to Fairley Hall to scrub and clean in order to earn a few miserable coppers to help her impoverished family. His destination had been the same place, for Squire Adam Fairley had hired him to do bricklaying at the Hall, and then he had stupidly gone and lost himself in the mist on those bleak and empty Godforsaken hills … so long ago … but not so long to him. He had never forgotten that day.
Blackie’s gaze lingered on Emma.
He had loved this woman from the first moment he had met her and all the days of his life thereafter. He had been eighteen, that day on the lonely moors, and she had been a fourteen-year-old waif, all skin and bones and huge emerald eyes, and she had touched his heart like no one else before or after, and bound him to her forever without even trying.
Once he had asked her to marry him.
She, believing it was out of kindness and friendship, and the goodness of his heart, had refused him. She had thanked him sweetly, her face wet with tears, and explained that she and the child she was carrying, by another man, would only be burdens to him. And she would not inflict such a terrible load on her dearest friend Blackie, she had said.
Eventually, he had married Laura Spencer, and he had loved her well and true. And yet he had never stopped loving his bonny mavourneen, even though at times he was hard pressed to explain that unique love to himself, or articulate it to her, or anyone else for that matter.
There was a time when he had half expected Emma to marry David Kallinski, but once again she had turned down a splendid, upright young man. Later, she had confided the reason to him. She had not wanted to create trouble between David and his family, who were Jewish. Although Mrs Kallinski was motherly towards her, Emma said she had long realized that as a Gentile she would not be considered appropriate as a daughter-in-law by Janessa Kallinski, who was Orthodox and expected her son to marry in the Faith.
Then one day, Joe Lowther had come riding by, metaphorically speaking, and to Blackie’s astonishment – and not inconsiderable bewilderment – Emma had plunged into holy matrimony with Joe. He had never been able to fully comprehend their union. In his opinion, it was difficult, if not downright impossible, to hitch a race horse and a cart horse to the same wagon. But Joe had been a kindly man, if plodding and dull and not particularly brilliant or engaging. Still, he and Blackie had liked each other well enough and had gone off to fight a war together. And he had seen Joe Lowther killed in the muddy trenches of the bloody, battle-torn Somme, and had wept real tears for him, for Joe had been too young a man to die. And he had, never been able to talk about Joe’s ghastly death, to tell her that he had seen Joe blown to smithereens. Only years later did he learn from Emma that she had married Joe, who adored her, to protect herself and her baby daughter Edwina from the Fairleys, after Gerald Fairley had attempted to rape her one night at her little shop in Armley. ‘It wasn’t as calculating as it sounds,’ she had gone on. ‘I liked Joe, cared for him, and because he was a good man I felt honour-bound to be a good wife.’ And she had been devoted, he knew that.
The second time he had wanted to marry Emma he had truly believed his timing was perfect, that he had every chance of being accepted, and he was buoyed up with soaring hopes and anticipation. It was a short while after the First World War when they were both widowed. In the end, though, uncertain of her true feelings for him, and filled with sudden nervousness about Emma’s astonishing achievements in comparison to his own, he had lost his nerve, and his tongue, and so he had not spoken up. Regrettably. And she had unexpectedly gone off and married Arthur Ainsley, a man not good enough to lick her boots, and had suffered all kinds of pain and humiliation at Ainsley’s hands. Finally, in the 1920s, as he was biding his time and waiting for the propitious moment, Paul McGill had come back to England to claim her at last for himself.
And he had lost his chance again.
Now it was too late for them to marry. Yet, in a sense, they had something akin to marriage and just as good, to his way of thinking … this friendship, this closeness, this total understanding. Yes, all were of immense and incalculable value. And Emma and he were perfectly attuned to each other in the twilight of their days, and what did the rest mean, or matter, at this stage in the game of life?
But he still had that ring …
Much to his own surprise, Blackie had kept the engagement ring he had bought for Emma so long ago. There had never been another woman to give it to – at least, not one he cared enough about; and for a reason he could not fathom, he had never wanted to sell it.
Tonight the ring had burned a hole in his pocket all through drinks and dinner, in much the same way his Plan with a capital P burned a hole in his head. Putting down his drink, he leaned closer to the hearth, lifted the poker and shoved the logs around in the grate, wondering if it was finally the right time to give it to her. Why not?
He heard the rustle of silk and a sigh that was hardly audible.
‘Did I startle you, Emma?’
‘No, Blackie.’
‘I have something for you.’
‘You do? What is it?’
He reached into his pocket and brought out the box, sat holding it in his large hands.
Emma asked curiously, ‘Is it my birthday present?’ and she gave him a warm little smile of obvious pleasure, laughter sparkling in her eyes.
‘Oh no, indeed it’s not. I intend to give you that on your birthday at the …’ He curbed himself. The elaborate party he and Daisy were planning was very hush-hush and meant to be a big surprise for Emma. ‘You’ll get your birthday gift at the end of the month, on the very day you’re eighty,’ he improvised adroitly. ‘No, this is something I bought for you …’ He had to laugh, as he added, ‘Fifty years ago, believe it or not.’
She threw him a startled look. ‘Fifty years! But why didn’t you give it to me before now?’
‘Ah, Emma, thereby hangs a long tale,’ he said, and fell silent as memories came unbidden.
How beautiful she had looked that night, with her red hair piled high on her head in an elaborate plaited coil, wearing a superb white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulders. Pinned to one of the small sleeves was the emerald bow he had had made for her thirtieth birthday, an exquisite replica of the cheap little green-glass brooch he had given her when she was fifteen. She had been touched and delighted that he had not forgotten his old promise, made to her in the kitchen of Fairley Hall. But on that particular Christmas night, in all her elegant finery, with McGill’s magnificent emeralds blazing on her ears, he had thought his emerald bow, costly though it had been, looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to those earrings …
Growing impatient, Emma frowned and exclaimed, ‘Well, are you going to tell me the tale or not?’
He pushed the past to one side, flashed her a smile. ‘Do you remember that first party I gave here? It was Christmas
‘Boxing Day night!’ Emma cried, her face lighting up. ‘You had just completed this house, finished furnishing it with all the lovely Sheraton and Hepplewhite pieces you’d scoured the country to find. And you were so proud of what you’d created all by yourself. Of course I remember the party, and very clearly. It was 1919.’
Blackie nodded, glanced down at the box, continuing to finger it. He raised his head. Unabashed love shone on his craggy, wrinkled face, giving it a more youthful appearance. ‘I’d bought this for you earlier that week. I’d travelled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweller, too. It was in the pocket of my tuxedo. I’d intended to give it to you at the party.’
‘But you never did … why not? Whatever made you change your mind, Blackie?’ She looked at him oddly, through eyes awash with perplexity.
‘I’d decided to have a talk first – with Winston. Why, it was here, in this very room, as a matter of fact.’ He looked about him, as if seeing that ancient scene being re-enacted in the shadows; seeing the ghost of Winston, as he had been as a young man, lurking there. He cleared his throat. ‘Your brother and I talked about you, and …’
‘What about me?’
‘We discussed you and your business ventures. I was worried to death about you, Emma, distressed because of the way you had plunged into the commodities market, and recklessly, or so I thought. I was concerned about your rapid expansion of the stores in the North, your determination to keep on building, acquiring other holdings. I believed you were over-extending yourself, gambling
‘I’ve always been a gambler,’ she murmured softly. ‘In a way, that’s the secret of my success … being willing to take chances …’ She left the rest unsaid. He surely knew it all by now.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it is. Anyway, Winston explained that you’d stopped the commodities lark, after making a fortune speculating, and he told me you were not in over your head. Just the opposite. He told me you were a millionairess. And as he talked, and ever so proudly, I began to realize that you were a far, far bigger success than I’d ever dreamed, that you’d surpassed me, outstripped David Kallinski, left us both behind in business. It suddenly seemed to me that you were quite beyond my reach. That’s why I never gave you this ring … You see Emma, I was going to ask you to marry me that night.’
‘Oh Blackie, Blackie darling,’ was all she could manage to say, so stupefied was she. Tears pricked the back of Emma’s eyes as a variety of emotions seized her with some force. Her love and friendship for him rose up in her to mingle with a terrible sadness and a sense of regret for Blackie, as she envisioned the pain he must have suffered then and afterwards, perhaps. He had wanted her, and he had not said a word. That was his tragedy. At the party in 1919 she had believed Paul McGill was lost to her forever. How vulnerable and susceptible she would have been to her one true friend Blackie in her heartbreak, loneliness and despair. And if he had been more courageous how different their lives would have turned out. Her thoughts ran on endlessly. Why had she never suspected that he cared for her in that way … that he had marriage on his mind? She must have been blind or dense or too involved with business.
The silence between them drifted.
Blackie sat unmoving in the chair, staring into the fire, saying not a word, remembering so much himself. It’s odd, he thought suddenly, how things which happened to me when I was a young man have an extraordinary vividness these days. More so than events of last week, or even yesterday. I suspect that’s part of growing old.
Emma was the first to rouse herself.
She said, in a small, pained voice, ‘Were you trying to tell me, a few minutes ago, that my success put you off? Prevented you from proposing? She studied that dear, familiar face with infinite compassion, thinking of the years he had wasted, the happiness he had let slip through his fingers, and all because of his love for her. A love unuttered.
Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose I am, mavourneen. I decided, there and then, that you could never be weaned away from your business because it was very much a part of you, was you, really. In any event, I lost my confidence. After all, I wasn’t half as rich and successful as you in those days. I didn’t think you’d have me. My nerve failed me. Yes, that’s precisely what happened.’
A deep sigh trickled out of Emma, and slowly she shook her head. ‘How foolish you were, my dearest, dearest friend.’
Blackie gaped at her, his jaw slack with astonishment. ‘Are you saying that you would have married me, Emma Harte?’ he asked, unable to keep the shock and incredulity out of his voice.
‘Yes, I believe I would, Blackie O’Neill.’
Now it was Blackie who began to shake his head, and he did so in wonderment, trying to absorb her words. For a few minutes he could not speak as old emotions took hold of him, surprising him with the strength of their impact.
At last he said, ‘It does me good to hear that, even so long afterwards.’ His voice took on a quavering treble, as he added, ‘Perhaps it’s just as well we didn’t marry, Emma. I’d have been left high and dry, not to mention brokenhearted, when Paul swept you off your feet again.’
‘How can you say such a thing! What kind of woman do you thing I am!’ she cried, her indignation flaring as she jerked herself up in the chair and glared at him with such unprecedented ferocity he flinched. ‘I would never have hurt you! I’ve always loved you, cared about your well being, and you know it. Apologize at once,’ she spluttered angrily, and added, as an afterthought, ‘or I’ll never speak to you again!’
He was so startled by her vehemence he was speechless for a few seconds. Slowly a shame-faced look crept on to his face. He said in a most tender and placating voice, ‘It’s sorry I am, Emma, I take back those words. I believe you. I don’t think you would have left me for Paul. And that’s not my ego talking. I know you … better than anyone does. No, you wouldn’t have betrayed me, you wouldn’t have given him the time of day if you’d been married to me. It’s not in you to be cruel to someone you love, and then there’s your morality and your loyalty and goodness and sense of responsibility. Those would have worked in my favour. Besides – ’ He gave her a boyish grin that brought his dimples out. ‘I would have made you happy.’
‘Yes, Blackie, I believe you would.’
This was said rapidly, and there was a sudden urgency in her manner as she leaned forward anxiously, needing to clarify the past, to make him understand the reasons which had motivated her and Paul, quite aside from their great love. ‘Don’t forget,’ she began, intent on jogging his memory. ‘My marriage to Arthur Ainsley was on the rocks long before Paul McGill returned to this country. I was on the verge of divorce when Paul showed up. Besides, and this is most important, Blackie, Paul wouldn’t have intruded, wouldn’t have sought me out, if I’d been happily married. It was only because Frank had told him I was miserable, and separated from Ainsley, that he arrived on my doorstep.’
She paused, settled back in the chair, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. ‘I know I would not have seen hide nor hair of Paul ever again, if my life had been on an even keel. He told me that himself. He came searching for me because he was aware I was unhappy – and also available. He most certainly wouldn’t have done that if I’d been married to you. Have you forgotten how much he liked and respected you?’
‘No, I haven’t. And you’re correct in what you say … Yes, Paul was a fine and honourable man. I always had a lot of time for him.’
Blackie now rose.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s all water under an old and decrepit bridge, my girl. There’s no point rehashing our troubles of half a century ago. And maybe it was meant to be …’ he lifted his hands and shoulders in a brief shrug ‘… exactly the way it is. But I would like you to have the ring. It’s always been yours, you know.’
He bent over her. She looked up at him, and then at the black leather box in his hands. He lifted the lid, turned the box to her.
Emma gasped.
The ring was exquisite, throwing off the most brilliant prisms of light, and sparkling with life and fire against the black velvet. The central diamond was round and multifaceted, and very large, at least twenty carats, and it was surrounded by smaller stones which were equally as lovely and superbly cut, and these formed a circle at the base of the mounting.
Even Emma, accustomed to magnificent jewellery, was awestruck and she found herself blinking, truly taken aback by its size and beauty. ‘It’s stunning, Blackie,’ she said a bit breathlessly. ‘One of the most beautiful rings I’ve ever seen.’
His joy at her words was evident. ‘It’s an old setting, of course, the original, and perhaps it’s even a bit outdated. But I didn’t want to have it reset. Here, slip it on, mavourneen.’
She shook her head. ‘No, you do it, my fine black Irishman.’ She offered him her left hand. ‘Put it on the third finger, next to my wedding ring.’
He did so.
Emma held out her small, strong hand, her head on one side, admiring the ring glittering so brightly in the fire’s glow. And then she glanced up at him, her expression unmistakably mischievous. ‘Are we finally engaged to be married then?’ she teased in a flirtatious voice, and offered him a smile that was decidedly coy.
Blackie laughed, with delight, hugely amused. He’d always enjoyed her sense of humour.
Bending closer to her, he kissed her cheek. ‘Let’s just say we’re engaged to be – to be the dearest and closest friends and companions for the rest of the time we have on this earth.’
‘Oh Blackie, that’s such a lovely thing to say, and thank you for my beautiful ring.’ She caught his hand and held on to it and pressed it tightly and looked up at him again, and then she smiled that incomparable smile that filled her face with radiance. ‘My dear old friend, you’re so very very special to me,’ she said.
‘As you are to me, my Emma.’
He stepped away from her chair as if heading to his own, and then he paused and swung his white head. ‘I hope you’re going to wear the ring,’ he remarked off-handedly but his glance remained riveted intently on hers. ‘I sincerely hope you’re not going to put it away in that safe of yours.’
‘Certainly not. How could you think such a thing. I’m never going to take it off … ever again.’
He touched her shoulder and returned to his seat, smiling to himself. ‘I’m glad I gave you your ring, me darlin’. I’ve thought about doing so many times, and I’ve often wondered what you’d say. I know I’m always accusing you of being a sentimentalist in your old age, but I do believe I’ve become a sentimental old man myself.’
‘And tell me, Blackie O’Neill, what’s wrong with sentiment? It’s a pity there isn’t more of it in this world,’ she said, her eyes unexpectedly moist. ‘It might be a better place to live in, for one thing.’
‘Aye,’ was all he said.
After a short while, Blackie cleared his throat, and remarked, ‘Now, what about that little proposition of mine, Emma? This morning you said you were doubtful that it would work, but I can’t agree.’
‘Do you know,’ she exclaimed brightly in an enthusiastic voice, ‘I was thinking about it again this afternoon. Emily’s moved in with me, and it suddenly struck me that the only way I’ll get a bit of peace and quiet is to accept your generous invitation.’
‘Then you’ll come with me! Ah, me darlin’, this news warms the cockles of me heart, sure an’ it does.’ He beamed at her, happiness and excitement welling inside him. He lifted his brandy balloon high. ‘Come along, take a sip of your Bonnie Prince Charlie, Emma. This calls for a toast, it does indeed.’
She held up her hand instead. ‘Wait a minute! I didn’t actually say yes. I can’t accept – at least not just yet. I am seriously thinking about the trip, but you’ll have to give me a few more weeks to settle things, to adjust to the idea of being absent for several months.’
Biting down on his disappointment, he said, ‘All right, I’ll be patient. However, I will have to start making the arrangements soon, so please don’t delay your answer for too long.’
‘I’ll let you know as quickly as possible. I promise.’
He sipped his cognac, savouring it, and slowly a sly gleam entered his eyes. He was wrapped in thought for a minute or two longer, said finally, ‘By the way, Emma, I’ve recently made a plan, as no doubt you’ll be surprised to hear. I think of it as my Plan with a capital P, since it happens to be the first plan I’ve ever made.’ He was unable to contain himself, and let out a throaty chortle and his eyes became merry and teasing. ‘Do you remember that first plan of yours?’
‘Goodness me, I’d forgotten all about that.’
‘I never did. And I even recall the day you confided it in me. Such a small slip of a thing you were, too, and I was most impressed. Anyway, if you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to tell you about mine. It’s a most marvellous plan, me darlin’, even though I say so myself. And I’ll bet my last quid it’s going to intrigue you, sure an’ I know it will.’
Amusement touched her mouth. ‘I’d love to hear about your plan, Blackie dear.’
He sat back expansively, nodding to himself, and began: ‘Well, it’s like this. There is this woman I know, and she’s the most stubborn creature I’ve met in all my born days. It just so happens that this stubborn, contrary, maddening but quite adorable woman has a grandson living in Australia. I know she wants to go and see him, and I thought it would be a wonderful treat for her, if I took her out there to see him myself. And so I’ve made a very special plan, and this is how it goes …’
Emily had fallen asleep on one of the huge sofas in the upstairs parlour.
To Emma, standing over her, she looked small and defenceless and innocent, wrapped in a white towelling robe and curled up in a ball against the pile of cushions. A feeling of infinite tenderness swept through Emma, and she bent down and gently moved a strand of pale blonde hair away from Emily’s eyes, and brushed her lips against the girl’s smooth young cheek. She straightened up, wondering whether to awaken her or not, decided to get ready for bed herself first, and tiptoed into the adjoining bedroom.
Emma hung up her sable jacket, took off her pearl choker and matching earrings and placed them on the dressing table. After removing her watch and the McGill emerald, she started to pull off Blackie’s ring, then stopped and looked down at it. This ring had lain in a vault waiting for her for fifty years, and she had promised Blackie she would never take it off. She pushed the ring back on her finger, next to Paul’s platinum wedding band, and finished undressing. She had just put on her nightgown when there was a tap on the door and Emily’s smiling face appeared around it.
‘There you are, Grandy. I waited up for you.’
‘So I noticed, darling. But you didn’t have to, you know.’
‘I wanted to, Gran. But to be honest, I didn’t think you’d be as late as this. It’s turned twelve-thirty!’
‘I’m well aware of the time, Emily. And look here, if you’re going to live with me, you mustn’t start monitoring my comings and goings. And I don’t need mothering either. I get enough of that from Paula at the store,’ Emma remarked evenly, putting on her silk dressing gown and knotting the belt.
Emily giggled and skipped into the room, obviously wide awake and full of her usual joie de vivre. ‘It’s not role reversal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not trying to mother you. I was merely commenting on the time.’
‘Just bear in mind what I said.’
‘I will, Grandma.’ Emily hovered near the dressing table. She saw the jewellery strewn across it and her eyes darted to Emma’s hand. She noticed the diamond at once, which shone with brilliance in the bright light from the lamps. ‘Aren’t you going to show me Blackie’s ring?’ she asked.
Emma’s brows shot up. ‘And how did you know about the ring?’ The words had no sooner left her mouth than she wondered why she had even bothered to ask Emily, of all people, such a question.
‘Merry and I were Blackie’s conspirators,’ Emily explained. ‘About two weeks ago he asked her to ask me to check your ring size. He thought your fingers might have shrunk.’
‘Did he indeed! I’ll have to have a few strong words with him tomorrow. Does he think I’ve turned into a shrivelled up old crone,’ Emma exclaimed pithily.
Emily could not keep the laughter out of her voice as she said, ‘Nobody would think that about you, Gran, least of all Blackie. You’re still beautiful.’
‘No, I’m not. I am an old woman,’ Emma stated flatly. ‘But thank you for being nice, Emily. Of course,’ she added with a laugh, ‘everyone knows you’re prejudiced.’ She held out her left hand. ‘Well, how do you like it?’
Emily took hold of Emma’s hand, her bright green eyes huge, and as round as saucers, her excitement apparent on her expressive, mobile face. ‘Gosh, Gran, I’d no idea it was going to be so big, and such a beauty! It’s fabulous!’ She scrutinized the ring more closely, and with an expert’s eye, lifted her head and nodded knowingly. ‘It’s a perfect diamond, Gran. I bet it cost a fortune …’ Her voice trailed off and she hesitated, then asked in an uncertain tone, ‘Does this mean you and Blackie are going to get married?’
Emma burst out laughing and extracted her hand. ‘Of course not, you silly goose. Whatever will you think of next.’ She touched Emily’s face lovingly, ‘You’re such a romantic girl,’ she murmured, sighing softly. ‘No, it wouldn’t be appropriate. Not at our ages. As Blackie said, we’re engaged to be the best of friends for the rest of our lives.’ Emma now became aware of the undisguised curiosity and interest lingering on Emily’s face, and before she could stop herself she said, ‘I’ll tell you the story about the ring, if you like.’
‘Oh yes, I’d love to hear it, Grandy. Let’s go to the parlour, though. I have a thermos of hot chocolate waiting for you. Come along.’ She took hold of her grandmother’s arm possessively, and shepherded her next door, not realizing she was fussing and bustling like a mother hen. Emma merely smiled, allowed herself to be bullied, secretly amused.
After filling two mugs with chocolate and giving one to Emma, Emily curled up on the sofa she had so recently vacated, tucked her feet under her and gleefully snuggled down into the cushions. Lifting her mug she took a sip and cried with delight, ‘This is such fun, it’s like being back at boarding school and having midnight feasts.’
Emma’s mouth twitched. ‘Don’t get carried away, Emily,’ she laughed. ‘We won’t be doing this every night. I’m usually in bed by this time. And talking of bed, it’s getting very late. I’d better tell you the story quickly, so that we can go to sleep. We have a hectic day tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Gran.’ Emily gave her grandmother her rapt attention.
When the old story was finally told, Emily said, ‘Oh Grandma, that’s so lovely and touching, and a little sad in a way. And imagine him keeping the ring all these years. Gosh, that’s real devotion.’ A wistful look swept across her delicately pretty face and she shook her head. ‘And you’re sceptical about unrequited love! This should prove you’re absolutely wrong.’
Emma smiled indulgently, made no comment.
Brightening, Emily rushed on in her breathy voice, ‘Just think, if you’d married Blackie instead of Awful Arthur all those years ago, your children would have been very different – it’s all a matter of genes, you know. I wonder if the oldies would have been any nicer?’ Emily tilted her head and pursed her lips, lost in thought, her mind racing. Several things occurred to her all at once, and she burst out, ‘What about your grandchildren? Paula, for instance. And me. Goodness, Grandy, I might not have been me at all. I could have been someone altogether different …’
Emma cut in, ‘But I would have loved you just as much, Emily, and Paula too.’
‘Oh yes, of course you would, I know that. But your family would have been very – ’
‘Now you’re speculating about things we’ll never know. And it’s all much too complicated for me, especially at this hour,’ Emma said with a dismissive yet kindly smile. ‘But speaking of my family, what happened here this evening? How was the dinner party?’
Instantly Emily’s face underwent a change, became serious as she sat up abruptly, swung her feet to the floor, and leaned closer to Emma. Her manner was confiding as she said, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but Edwina’s behaviour was quite extraordinary – ’
‘In what way?’ Emma asked sharply, dreading the worst.
Seeing the apprehensive expression settling on her grandmother’s face, Emily shook her head with some vehemence. ‘Don’t look like that. It was all right. Edwina was nice … so nice I couldn’t get over it, and neither could Paula. The Dowager Countess was charm personified. Well, that’s not strictly true.’ Emily made a moue. ‘You know I have a tendency to exaggerate.’ Emily wrinkled her nose, went on, ‘She was sort of … cautious with Paula and me. She doesn’t really like us. She was polite, though, and pleasant to everyone else. I can’t imagine what you said to her earlier, Grandma, but it certainly had a drastic effect on her.’ Emily searched Emma’s face and probed, ‘You must have given her an awful lecture. You did, didn’t you?’ A blonde brow lifted quizzically.
Emma said nothing.
Emily volunteered, ‘I think Aunt Edwina had been crying before she came down for drinks. Her eyes were puffy and red, and so was her nose. She didn’t want a drink. She asked me for aspirins and a glass of water. We’d only been alone together for a couple of minutes when Paula and Jim arrived with Aunt Daisy and Uncle David. Edwina attached herself to Daisy immediately – it’s funny, she seems to have a thing about Daisy. Anyway, she didn’t say much to anyone else, not even Jim, during cocktails.’ Emily’s shoulders hunched in a small off-handed shrug. ‘I thought she seemed ever so subdued, and she was certainly abstemious. You know how incorrigible she and Mummy are, always tippling. They never know when they’ve had enough. Edwina didn’t touch a drop all night, though, not even wine with dinner.’ Flopping back against the cushions, regarding Emma more closely, she pressed, ‘What actually did you say to her, Gran?’
‘Now, Emily, don’t be so nosy. That’s a private matter between Edwina and me. Anyway, it’s not important. What matters is that my words penetrated. Perhaps I drilled some sense into her after all.’
‘Oh I’m sure that’s true,’ Emily agreed. ‘And there’s something else – you’ll never guess what she did before we went in to dinner.’
‘No, I’m certain I won’t. So you might as well tell me, Emily.’
‘She asked Aunt Daisy if she could invite Anthony over for coffee later, and then went to telephone him at Uncle Randolph’s.’
Emma stiffened, asked with a frown, ‘Did he come?’
‘Oh yes.’ Emily grinned. ‘With cousin Sally. Oh Gran, they’re so much in love, and super together.’
‘Sally came with him! How did Edwina treat her?’
‘With cordiality. My eyes were popping, I can tell you that, and I wouldn’t have missed that little scene for all the tea in China. Of course Edwina was falling all over Anthony. She was a bit too obsequious, if you ask me, you know, Uriah Heapish, but then she’s always fawned over her son.’ She gave Emma a huge smile, and finished, ‘In a nutshell, Grandma, the dinner was a roaring success.’
Emma was flabbergasted and temporarily rendered speechless. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘this is one for the books. I never expected Edwina to do such a volte-face.’ Privately she congratulated herself. Her dire warnings had frightened Edwina into behaving like a normal person seemingly. This is a major victory, she thought, and hoped that her daughter would not have a change of heart. Edwina was unpredictable. There was no telling what she might do in a moment of pique. Now,, don’t go begging for trouble, Emma cautioned herself. Relax.
Smiling brightly, filled with an enormous sense of relief, Emma propelled herself to her feet. ‘On that rather surprising but pleasant note I think I’ll get off to bed, darling girl.’ She leaned over and kissed Emily. ‘It looks as if everyone is going to behave with decorum tomorrow. Well, let’s hope so. Goodnight, Emily.’
Emily rose and hugged her tightly. ‘I do love you so much, Gran. And goodnight, sleep tight.’ She picked up the tray. ‘I suppose I’d better do the same. I’ve got to collect the twins from Harrogate College tomorrow, and I’ve thousands of other chores.’ She sucked in her breath. ‘Phew!’ she exhaled, ‘I never seem to have a minute to spare.’
Emma swallowed a smile and disappeared into her bedroom before Emily decided to regale her with those chores she had planned for the following morning.
‘Oh Grandy,’ Emily called after her, ‘I’m glad you’re not upset about the Aire Communications deal collapsing.’
Emma came back to the doorway. ‘I’d venture to say that it’s their loss, our gain.’
‘Yes, so Paula indicated when she mentioned it earlier.’ Emily glided to the door, and muttered with a degree of terseness, ‘Sebastian Cross is simply dreadful. I thought Jonathan might make headway with him. Apparently he didn’t, and if Jonathan couldn’t succeed, then nobody could.’
Emma stood perfectly still, said with the utmost care, ‘What are you chattering on about, Emily?’
Emily stopped in her tracks, swung to face Emma. ‘The Aire deal. You asked Jonathan to talk to Sebastian, didn’t you?’
‘No,’ Emma replied in the quietest of voices.
‘Oh,’ Emily said, looking confused.
‘What makes you think I propelled Jonathan into those particular negotiations?’ As she spoke Emma steadied herself against the door jamb, her astute eyes glinting darkly as they rested with fixity on her grandchild. All of her senses were alerted, and she remarked tersely, ‘Obviously something did.’
‘Well, yes,’ Emily began, and scowled. ‘On Tuesday, when I had dinner with Daddy in London, I saw the two of them in the bar of Les Ambassadeurs when we were leaving. We’d had an early dinner, you see, and Daddy was in a frightful stew about being late for a business meeting. He was in such a hurry I didn’t get a chance to go over and speak to Jonathan.’
‘I see.’ Emma was thoughtful for a moment, asked, ‘Why did you suggest Jonathan would be able to influence young Cross?’
‘Because of their old friendship … they were at Eton together. But then you know that, Gran. You once took me there with you, when you went to visit Jonathan at half-term. Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes. Naturally I also remember that Jonathan went to Eton. What I hadn’t realized was that Cross was a pupil there as well, or that Jonathan and he had been friends in those days. I had – ’
‘I think they’re still friends actually,’ Emily interrupted.
This bit of information chilled Emma to the bone, but she attempted a smile. ‘He probably wanted to surprise me. He might have realized the negotiations were going to be touchy and was endeavouring to smooth the way for Paula,’ she said, trying to convince herself this was the truth. But her intuition told her it was not. Emma gripped the door jamb more tightly, and, adopting a meticulously casual tone, asked, ‘Did Jonathan see you in Les Ambassadeurs, Emily?’
Emily shook her head. ‘He was in deep conversation with Cross.’ She pondered, asked swiftly, ‘Why? Is it important?’
‘Not really. Did you mention this to Paula?’
‘I didn’t get an opportunity. She had just started to tell me about the Aire fiasco, as she called it, and Cross being horrid to her, when Hilda announced dinner.’ Emily bit her inner lip, frowning, beginning to wonder precisely what her grandmother was leading up to with her questions.
Emma nodded, as though to herself, remarked in that same lightly casual voice, ‘I’d prefer you not to say anything about this to Paula. I wouldn’t want her to think he was interfering, queering her pitch. Unintentionally, of course. And don’t bother to bring it up with Jonathan either. I’ll talk to him, find out what his aim was, if indeed he had an aim. It might have been a strictly social evening you know, in view of their friendship.’
‘Yes, Grandy, whatever you say.’
Emily stood rooted to the spot, studying her grandmother closely, filling with alarm. Emma’s face had paled as they had been talking and she noticed that the happy light in her eyes had fled. They were uncommonly dull, lifeless for once. Emily put down the tray hurriedly, and flew across the room. She grasped Emma’s arm, exclaimed with concern, ‘Are you all right, Gran darling?’
Emma made no response. Her mind was working with that razor-sharp precision and vivid intelligence which were so integral to her great genius. Assessing and analysing with her rare brand of shrewdness and perception, she suddenly saw things with a clarity that shocked. For a split second she recoiled from the truth. I’m making assumptions, she thought, but then her ingrained pragmatism reminded her that she was rarely wrong. The truth was staring her in the face.
Becoming conscious of Emily’s hand clutching her arm, her worry and anxiousness apparent, Emma dragged herself out of her disturbing thoughts. She patted the girl’s hand, brought a smile to her face that was convincing, reassuring in its certitude.
‘I’m just tired,’ Emma said in a contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.
CHAPTER 10 (#ulink_8271ca31-6abe-50f2-8f30-d74615e75e7a)
The medieval church at the top of the hill in Fairley village was filled to capacity, almost bursting at the seams.
Family and friends occupied the front pews and the villagers were crowded in closely behind, for they had turned out in full force to honour Emma Harte at the baptism of her great-grandchildren. And after the ceremony they would troop across the road to the parish hall to partake of the special celebration tea, which Emma had instructed Alexander to arrange.
All was peace and serenity within the ancient grey stone walls. Sunshine pouring in through the stained-glass windows threw rainbow arcs of dancing, jewelled light across the sombre stone floor and the dark wood pews. Masses of spring flowers were banked around the altar and on the altar steps. The mingled scents of hyacinths, narcissi, freesia, imported mimosa and lilac filled the air, diminishing the peculiar musty smell of mildew and dust and old wood that was so prevalent in the church. It was the odour of antiquity, and one Emma had detested since childhood: she had automatically chosen the most fragrant of flowers for this occasion in an attempt to counteract it.
She sat in the front pew, proud and dignified, wearing a midnight-blue wool-crêpe dress and loose matching coat. A small velvet beret of the same deep blue was perched at a jaunty angle on her immaculate silver hair, and she wore the McGill emeralds and a long rope of matchless pearls. Blackie was seated to her left, handsome in a dark suit, whilst Daisy sat with her husband, David Amory, to Emma’s right. Edwina was wedged in between David and Sarah Lowther, her posture rigid, her expression rather prim, as usual.
Emma had been somewhat taken aback to find Sarah standing on the porch steps when they had arrived. No one had expected to see her, since she was supposed to have a bad cold. They had spoken briefly at the back of the church before taking their seats, and Emma had been immediately struck by her granddaughter’s healthy appearance. In her opinion, Sarah had either made a miraculous recovery overnight, or had not been sick in the first place. It was more than likely she had toyed with the idea of not coming in order to avoid Shane. Emma could not hold that against her. She understood, had a good idea how Sarah probably felt. But, she thought, I’ll say this for Sarah. She’s a cool customer. Sarah had not blinked an eyelash nor displayed the slightest sign of self-consciousness when Shane had greeted them earlier.
Now Emma sneaked a look at him.
He was sitting with his parents in a pew across the nave, his face in profile. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being observed, he turned his head slightly to the right and caught Emma’s eye, half smiled and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. Emma returned his smile, swung her eyes back to the altar.
Paula and Jim were standing at the carved stone font which dated back to 1574, and were surrounded by the godparents of their children, totalling six in all. The vicar, the Reverend Geoffrey Huntley, having christened the boy Lorne McGill Harte Fairley, was now preparing to baptize the girl, who was to be named Tessa. Like her twin she would bear the same additional middle names.
Emily, one of Tessa’s godmothers, was holding the baby in her arms, and standing on Emma’s left were Anthony, and Vivienne Harte, who were the other godparents. Vivienne’s elder sister, Sally, was godmother to Lorne and cradled him, flanked on either side by his godfathers, Alexander and Winston.
What an attractive group of young people they are, Emma said inwardly, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, and she saw in her mind, for a brief instant, their antecedents … her own parents, her brother Winston, Arthur Ainsley, Paul McGill, Adele and Adam Fairley. How miraculous it was that she and Blackie were still alive and were able to be here today to witness this event, to share in the joyfulness of the occasion.
She shifted her eyes to Paula and Jim.
They do look well together, she thought. He so tall and broad and fair, and the living embodiment of his great-grandfather, Adam; Paula so slender and willowy and dark, and so dramatic looking with her vivid McGill colouring. And Paula’s inbred elegance was most apparent in the way she held herself, and in her clothes. She had chosen a tailored wool suit of a deep violet tone, and wore it with a lighter coloured violet satin blouse and a satin pillbox of the same tone. The violet echoed her eyes. She’s still too thin, Emma thought, but she has such an extraordinary radiance this afternoon.
Her love for her granddaughter and her pride in the girl were emotions most paramount in Emma at this moment, and her face relaxed into softer lines as she continued to regard Paula. The young woman standing up there at the font had given her nothing but happiness and comfort since the day she had been born, in much the same way her mother, Daisy, had done, and continued to do.
Emma closed her eyes. Paul would have been as proud of Paula as she was, for the girl had all the qualities he had most admired: Honour, integrity, honesty, fairness and an intelligence that frequently startled with its brilliance. Although she had gentle manners, and was inclined to shyness, Paula possessed a certain cool poise, and she had inherited her grandfather’s great sense of fun, as had Daisy. Yes, she’s a McGill all right, Emma remarked under her breath. But she’s a Harte as well. Thank God she has my toughness and astuteness, my indomitability and stamina. She’s going to need all of those in the years to come, with what I’m leaving her, with what she has inherited from her grandfather. I hope she never thinks of her inheritance as a terrible burden. It is an enormous responsibility, of course …
Baby Tessa started to shriek, her piercing wails echoing throughout the church. Emma opened her eyes and blinked. She leaned forward, peered at the scene at the font. Everyone wore expressions of concern. The vicar was holding the baby, sprinkling the holy water on her forehead, christening her now in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. When he had finished he handed the child back to Emily, obviously with some relief. Emily began to rock her, trying to calm and soothe the infant to no avail.
Emma chuckled quietly, knowing it was the shock of the cold water on her forehead which had made Tessa cry. The child was protesting – and most vociferously. I can see it already, she thought, little Tessa McGill Harte Fairley is going to be the rebellious one in that family.
Daisy, also smiling, took hold of her mother’s arm and squeezed it. She whispered, ‘It sounds to me as if Tessa is a chip off the old block, Mummy.’
Emma turned her head to look into her favourite daughter’s wide clear blue eyes. ‘Yes,’ Emma whispered back, ‘she’s always been the livelier of the two. Another maverick in the brood?’ She arched a silver brow most eloquently. Daisy simply nodded in answer, her fine eyes dancing with happiness and some amusement.
Within minutes the ceremony was over and they were slowly filing up the aisle. Emma, her arm tucked through Blackie’s, smiled and nodded graciously, but she did not pause to speak to anyone.
Before long the entire family, their friends and the villagers were assembled on the porch, congratulating the parents and chatting amongst themselves.
Several of the local residents came up to Emma, stood talking to her for a few minutes, but very shortly she excused herself and drew Blackie away from the crowd. She said, ‘I’ll slip away now and I’ll be back before anyone notices my absence. Then we can get off to Pennistone Royal.’
‘All right, Emma. Are you sure I can’t go with you?’
‘No. But thanks anyway, Blackie. I won’t be a minute.’
As Emma edged away from the busy porch, Milson, Blackie’s chauffeur, hurried towards her carrying a basket of flowers. She took it from him, smiled, and murmured her thanks.
She went through the lych-gate leading into the graveyard adjoining the church.
Her feet knew the way by heart, and they led her down the flagged path to the far corner, a bit secluded and bosky and shaded by an old elm tree growing by the side of the moss-covered stone wall. Lying in that corner, beneath the headstones she herself had chosen years before, were her parents, John and Elizabeth Harte. Next to them were her two brothers, Winston and Frank. She took bunches of flowers from the basket and placed one on each of the four graves. Straightening up, she rested her hand on her mother’s headstone and stared out towards the bleak moors, a smudged dark line against the periwinkle blue sky filled with scudding white clouds and intermittent sunshine. It was a lovely day, surprisingly warm, balmy even, after the thunderstorms of yesterday. A perfect day to go climbing to the Top of the World. She strained her eyes, but that spot was too far away in the distance to see, and obscured by the soaring fells. She sighed, remembering. Her eyes swept from headstone to headstone, name to name. I’ve carried each one of you in my heart all the days of my life, she said silently. I’ve never forgotten any of you. Then unexpectedly the queerest thought entered her mind – she would not be coming back here again to visit these graves.
Emma turned away at last.
Her steps carried her along the same flagged path that curved through the cemetery, and she did not stop until she reached a wide plot of ground at the other side, in the gloomy shadows of the church. This large private plot was encircled by iron railings which set it apart, told everyone that it was special and exclusive. She pushed open the small gate and found herself amongst generations of Fairleys. She glanced at the graves, and finally her eyes came to rest on Adam Fairley’s headstone made of white marble. On either side of him were his two wives – Adele, the first, and Olivia, the second. Those two beautiful sisters who had loved and married the same man, and who had, in their own ways, been good to her when she had been a young girl. She had never forgotten their kindness to her, but it was on the middle grave that her gaze lingered for a moment longer.
Well, Adam Fairley, she thought, I won. In the end it was I who triumphed. There is nothing left that your family owns in the village, except this plot of land where you are buried. Everything else belongs to me, and even the church operates mostly through my largesse. Your great-great-grandchildren have just been christened and they bear both of our names, but it is from me that they will inherit great wealth and power and position. These thoughts were not rancorous, ran through her mind in a matter-of-fact way, for she had lost all hatred for the Fairleys, and it was not in her nature to gloat, especially when standing next to a man’s last resting place.
Slowly she walked back to the church, and the smile on her serene face was one of gentleness and peace.
Coming through the lych-gate, Emma saw Blackie standing to one side, away from the large group of people, talking to her two youngest grandchildren, Amanda and Francesca.
Blackie chuckled as she came to a standstill by his side. ‘You might know these two would see you do your disappearing act! I had to forcibly restrain them from running after you. Well, almost.’
‘We wanted to look at the graves, too, Grandy,’ Amanda explained. ‘We love cemeteries.’
Emma gave her a look of mock horror. ‘How morbid.’
‘No, it isn’t, it’s interesting,’ Francesca chirped up. ‘We like to read the tombstones, and we try to guess what the people were like, what kind of lives they led. It’s like reading a book.’
‘Is it now.’ Emma laughed, and the look she gave the fifteen-year-old was affectionate. ‘I think we should go back to the house,’ Emma continued. ‘Did Emily tell you we’re having a champagne tea this afternoon?’
‘Yes, but she said we couldn’t have any champagne. We can, though, can’t we, Gran?’ Amanda asked.
‘Just one glass each, I don’t want you both getting tiddly.’
‘Oh thank you, Gran,’ Amanda said, and Francesca linked her arm in Emma’s, and announced, ‘We’ll come with you. Uncle Blackie’s car is much nicer than Emily’s old Jag.’
‘That’s not a very nice attitude, Francesca. You came with Emily, and you will drive back with her. Besides, Uncle Blackie and I have things to discuss.’
But they did not really have anything very special or important to talk about. Emma simply wanted to be alone with her dear old friend, to relax before the reception, to catch her breath before she was engulfed by her large and unorthodox clan.
At one point, as they were driving along, Blackie looked at her and said, ‘It was a grand christening, Emma. Very beautiful. But you had such a strange look on your face when the vicar was baptizing Lorne, I couldn’t help wondering what was going through your mind.’
Emma half turned to face him. ‘I was thinking about another christening … the one you performed when you baptized Edwina with Armley tap water in Laura’s kitchen sink.’ Her eyes held his for the longest moment. ‘I couldn’t help dwelling on the past. You know, Edwin Fairley wouldn’t have been permitted to marry me when I was pregnant, even if he had wanted to, and so Edwina could never have been christened here at Fairley. That really struck home today.’
‘Yes,’ he said in agreement, ‘it would have been denied her, no matter what.’
Emma nodded. ‘And so, as I thought of everything that has gone before in my long life, it suddenly occurred to me that this occasion today was a most compelling example of ironic reversal. And that Adam Fairley, more than anyone else, would have appreciated the poetic justice of it all.’
She paused, smiled faintly. ‘The wheel of fortune truly has come full circle.’
CHAPTER 11 (#ulink_0f06f349-776c-5732-9c03-66618a3c77a3)
Jim Fairley, orphaned at the age of ten and raised by his widowed grandfather, had always been lonely as a child.
In consequence, he thoroughly enjoyed being a part of Emma Harte’s huge family, one which had become his own when he married Paula in 1968. In a way, being flung head first into this extraordinary clan was something of a novelty to him; also, as yet, he remained unscathed by them and thus had kept an open mind about their individual characters, had not attempted to do a tally of their attributes or their faults. And he had held himself apart from the complex animosities and alliances, feuds and friendships that flourished around Emma.
Because Jim rarely thought ill of anyone, he was frequently startled when Paula came down hard on one of her aunts or uncles, and at times he even wondered if she exaggerated when she listed their imperfections, the terrible wrongs they had done her grandmother. But then she was fiercely protective of her beloved Grandy, whom she doted on. Jim was secretly amused by his wife’s attitude, since he believed no one was better equipped to take care of herself than Emma Harte.
A short while ago Jim had decided that Paula’s warnings about the Countess of Dunvale were written in water. So far this weekend Edwina had behaved impeccably – as he had fully expected she would. If she was somewhat reserved with Paula she was at least civil, and he had even managed to make Edwina laugh on their way back from church. She was still in an amiable mood, as he could now see.
His aunt was chatting with her son, Anthony, and Sally Harte, near the fireplace and her usually stiff, tight-lipped expression had all but vanished. For once she appeared to be relatively at ease. Poor old thing, she’s not so bad, he thought, as always charitable about others, and swung his eyes to the painting to Edwina’s left. This hung over the white marble fireplace and it was one of his favourites.
Jim stood at the entrance to the Peach Drawing Room. Pennistone Royal, that lovely mixture of Renaissance and Jacobean design, boasted two formal reception rooms. Paula had chosen this one for the christening party.
He was glad that she had.
He thought it was the loveliest spot in the entire house, with its cream and peach colour scheme and exquisite paintings. Although Emma had depleted her renowned collection of Impressionists by selling some of them off last year, she had retained the two Monets and the three Sisleys that graced these walls. In his opinion it was the works of art that gave the tranquil and elegant Regency room its great beauty.
Jim gazed at the Sisley for a second or two longer, admiring it from this vantage point. He had never coveted anything material in his whole life, but he longed to own this painting. Of course he never would. It would always hang in this house, as Emma had decreed in her will. One day it would be Paula’s property, and therefore he would never be deprived of it, could gaze at the landscape whenever he wished. That was why his intense desire for personal possession of it constantly startled him. He had never felt so strongly about anything, except perhaps his wife. His eyes sought Paula without success. The room had filled up during the ten minutes he had been absent with the photographer, who was setting up his equipment in the Grey Drawing Room. It was just possible she was hidden from view.
He went in rapidly.
At six foot one, well built but trim of figure and with long legs, James Arthur Fairley cut quite a swathe, especially since he was something of a clothes horse, was never anything but faultlessly dressed right down to his handmade shoes. Like his great-grandfather before him, he had a weakness for elegant clothes and a penchant for wearing them with a bit of a dash. Fair of colouring, with light brown hair, he had a pleasant rather sensitive face and soulful greyish-blue eyes. Born and bred a gentleman, he had a natural self-confidence and handled himself easily, and with aplomb, in any given situation. He had a certain quiet charm and a ready smile for everyone.
This flashed as he strode into the centre of the room, glanced about, looking for Paula.
Since he could not find her he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and made a move in his father-in-law’s direction. Edwina spotted him and hurried over, cutting him off before he reached David Amory. She at once launched into a rave about the church ceremony, and then engaged him in a conversation that centred on Fairley village. As he listened patiently, Jim realized yet again, and with a recurrence of his initial surprise, that being a Fairley was of tremendous importance to her. Ever since their first meeting, she had continued to ply him with questions about his grandfather, his grandmother and her father, the long-dead Earl of Carlesmoor, and was inquisitive about his own parents who had been tragically killed in a plane crash in 1948.
On the various occasions he had been with his half-great-aunt, for that was what she actually was, he had detected a sense of embarrassment in her because of her illegitimacy, and he had always felt slightly sorry for her. This was one of the reasons he tried to be kind, to include her in those family celebrations about which he had something to say. His mother-in-law had a nice way with Edwina, but apart from this, Jim recognized that Edwina was drawn to Daisy because they had both been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Emma’s first child strongly identified with her youngest because of this similarity in their births. But their illegitimacy was the only thing they had in common. The two women were the antithesis of each other. His mother-in-law had the sweetest nature, was a compassionate and considerate woman, and a lady in the truest sense of that word. There was no ‘side’ to Daisy Amory, and he liked her for her relaxed attitude towards life, her gaiety and her sense of humour. Sadly, his Aunt Edwina was inflexible and sour, tense and standoffish, a dyed-in-the-wool snob, whose basic values were quite alien to him. Yet there was something indefinable in her that touched him, filled him with a curious sympathy for her. Perhaps this was because they shared the same blood. Paula constantly said that blood was not thicker than water, but he tended to disagree. He was sure of one thing. His relationship with Edwina, slender and tenuous though it was, annoyed Paula to the point of anger. He found this to be most unreasonable on her part, and he fervently wished she could be less emotional about his aunt. In his opinion, Edwina was a harmless old lady.
‘I’m so sorry, Aunt Edwina, I missed that,’ Jim said with an apologetic smile, giving her his undivided attention again.
‘I was saying that it was a pity my mother had Fairley Hall torn down.’ Edwina gave him a long and careful look through her narrowed silvery eyes. ‘The house was very old, and by rights it really ought to have been preserved as a landmark in Yorkshire. And just think, if it were still standing, you could have lived there with Paula.’
Jim missed the inherent criticism of her mother in these words. He laughed and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t like the look of Fairley Hall from the photographs I’ve seen. According to Grandfather it was a hodgepodge of architectural styles and a bit of a monstrosity. He never liked it himself, and personally I think Grandy did the right thing.’
Daisy, who had been hovering close by, caught the tail end of their conversation, and exclaimed, ‘I second that, Jim. Besides, Mother put the land it stood on to very good use, by turning it into a park for the villagers. It’s a charming spot for them during the warm weather. It was very generous of her.’ She glanced across at the Vicar of Fairley who was talking to her husband, and explained, ‘And the reason Reverend Huntley is beaming right now is because Mother has just given him a large cheque for the church restoration fund. She keeps that village going in more ways than one.’ Having rebutted Edwina, squelched her in the pleasantest way, Daisy gave her half-sister a warm smile. ‘I haven’t complimented you, Edwina dear. You look lovely, and that’s a very smart suit you’re wearing.’
‘Oh,’ Edwina said, startled by these kind words. She hardly ever received compliments, and she preened a little, and a sparkle entered her pale eyes as she automatically reached up and patted her hair. Then remembering her manners, she rushed on, ‘Thank you very much, Daisy. You look beautiful yourself, but then you always do. As for my suit, it’s by Hardy Amies. I wasn’t sure it was right for me, but he persuaded me it was.’
The two women discussed clothes for a few seconds, then Daisy exclaimed, ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. I can see Mother trying to catch my eye.’
Left alone with Jim again, Edwina began to enumerate the delights of her home in Ireland. ‘I do wish you could see Clonloughlin at this time of year, Jim. It’s perfectly beautiful, everything’s so green. Why don’t you and Paula make plans to come over for a weekend soon? You’ve never seen it, and we’d love to have you. It’s only a hop, skip and a jump in that plane of yours.’
‘Thank you, Edwina, perhaps we will.’ As he spoke Jim knew Paula would never agree. He decided to cover himself, added, ‘However, I don’t think I’ll be able to drag her away from the babies for some time yet.’
‘Yes, I do understand,’ Edwina murmured, wondering if she had been rebuffed, and to cover her confusion, she went on talking nonstop.
Jim, listening politely and trying to be attentive, wished he could make his escape. Because of his height he towered above Edwina, who was quite small, and now he glanced over her silvery blonde head, looking around, wondering what had happened to Paula. Most of their guests had arrived. She was noticeably absent.
Sarah Lowther had just walked in on the arm of her cousin, Jonathan Ainsley. Bryan and Geraldine O’Neill were talking to Alexander Barkstone and his girlfriend. Blackie was standing by the window, engaged in an animated conversation with Randolph Harte, and he appeared to be excited about something, was beckoning to his granddaughter. Miranda floated over to join them, a vision in one of her crazy costumes, her freckled face brimming with laughter, her bright auburn hair gleaming like a copper helmet in the sunshine pouring through the tall windows.
Jim shifted slightly on his feet, surveying the room at large. Emma was perched on the arm of a sofa, being attentive to her brothers’ widows, Charlotte and Natalie. These two genteel-looking ladies gave the impression of frailty and great age in comparison to Emma, who exuded vitality and happiness this afternoon. He studied her face for a moment. He had revered and respected this remarkable woman all the years he had worked for her; since his marriage to her granddaughter he had come to know a different side of her, had grown to love her. Emma had such an understanding heart, was kind and generous, and the most fair minded person he had ever met. What a fool his grandfather had been to let her escape. But he supposed things were difficult in those days. Stupid class differences, he thought, and sighed under his breath. Then, quite suddenly, he wished that Edwin Fairley had lived long enough to witness this day … to see the Fairleys and the Hartes united at last through matrimony. Their blood was mingled now. He and Paula had started a new blood line.
He became aware that Edwina had stopped her ceaseless chattering and was staring up at him. He said quickly, ‘Let me give you a refill, Aunt Edwina, then I think I’d better go and look for Paula. I can’t imagine what’s happened to her.’
‘No more champagne at the moment, thank you, Jim,’ Edwina said with the faintest of smiles. She was determined to remain cool and collected and keep a clear head this afternoon. Too much wine would have an adverse effect on her, make her lose her self-possession. That she could not afford. She said, ‘Before you disappear, there is one thing I’d like to ask of you. I’ve been wondering if you would be kind enough to invite me to your house in Harrogate. I know it belonged to your grandfather.’ She hesitated, nervously cleared her throat, finished, ‘I’d love to see where he … where my father lived for so many years of his life.’
‘Of course, you must come over for drinks,’ Jim said, understanding this need in her. He hoped Paula would not fly into one of her tempers when he told her he had acquiesced to his aunt’s request. He began to edge away when Emily, with Amanda and Francesca in tow, breezed up to them, cutting off his escape route.
Smiling brightly, Emily grabbed his arm, glanced at Edwina and cried, ‘Hello, you two. Isn’t this the most amazing bun fight. I think it’s going to be a super party.’
Jim smiled at her indulgently. He was extremely fond of young Emily. ‘Have you seen my wife anywhere?’ he asked.
‘She went upstairs with the nursemaid and the babies, muttering something about changing them. I guess they wet themselves rather thoroughly.’ Emily giggled and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Just be glad they didn’t get that elegant Kilgour and French suit of yours drenched with their wee w–’
‘Really, Emily,’ Edwina sniffed reprovingly, ‘don’t be so vulgar.’ She gave her niece a cold and disapproving look.
Emily, blithely unconcerned, giggled again. ‘Babies do do that, you know. They’re like puppies. They can’t control their bladders. And I wasn’t being vulgar, Aunt Edwina, merely stating a fact of life.’
Jim could not resist laughing, recognizing that Emily was purposely being provocative. He threw her a warning frown, glanced at his aunt, praying she would not pounce on Emily.
Edwina was obviously annoyed. Fortunately, before she could think of a suitably chilly response, Winston hove in view, made a beeline for them, greeted everyone and positioned himself between Emily and Amanda.
He turned to Jim, and said, ‘Sorry to bring up business on such a festive occasion, but I’m afraid I have no alternative. I’d like to get together with you first thing on Monday, to discuss a couple of matters. Will you have time to see me?’
‘Of course,’ Jim said, giving Winston a puzzled look. Concern edged into his eyes and he frowned. ‘Anything serious?’
‘No, no, and the only reason I mentioned it now was to make sure you’d keep an hour free for me. I have to go to Doncaster and Sheffield that day, and the rest of the week is impossible. I’m really jammed.’
‘Then let’s make a definite date, Winston. Say about ten-thirty? I’ll have the first edition out on the streets by then.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Winston.
With this matter settled, Jim said, ‘Your father seems very pleased with himself, and so does Blackie. Look at them both. They’re behaving like a couple of kids with a new toy. What’s all the excitement about?’
Winston glanced over his shoulder and laughed. ‘My father wants to run Emerald Bow in the National next year, and Blackie’s tickled to death about it. I think Aunt Emma’s just as thrilled.’
‘So I can see,’ Jim said.
‘Gosh, what marvellous news, Winston,’ Emily exclaimed.
‘I hope Grandma invites us all to go to Aintree next March.’ The conversation now centred around the Grand National and the possibility of Emerald Bow winning the steeplechase. All kinds of opinions were voiced, and even the fifteen-year-old twins had something to say.
But not Edwina. She was silent.
She sipped the last drop of champagne in her glass, eyed Winston with an oblique surreptitiousness. She did not particularly like him. But then she had never had much time for the Hartes. All they had was pots and pots of money. And looks. She could not deny that they were a good looking family – each and every one of them. Suddenly, with a small start of surprise, she saw how closely Winston resembled her mother. She had always been aware they shared certain physical characteristics, yet had never realized how pointed and strong these were. Why, Winston Harte is a younger, male replica of her, Edwina muttered to herself. More so than any of her children or grandchildren. The same features, so clearly defined they might have been cut by a chisel; that red hair shot through with gold; those quick intelligent eyes of an unnatural green. Even his small hands holding the glass are like hers. My God, it’s uncanny, Edwina thought, and looked away quickly, wondering why this revelation disturbed her.
Jim, who had been listening with interest to Winston talking about Steve Lamer, the jockey, interrupted him when he exclaimed, ‘There’s Paula at last.’ His face filled with pleasure and he waved to her. ‘I’ll see you all a little later.’ He squeezed Edwina’s arm reassuringly and dashed across the room.
Paula watched him hurrying to her, a happy expectant smile playing around her mouth. Her heart tightened. She loved Jim very much and she was so lucky to have found him. He was the dearest, sweetest man, and fine and honourable and good. She would have to try harder with Edwina … she wanted so much to please her husband.
Jim caught Paula’s hands in his as he came to a standstill by her side. He smiled down into her face. ‘You were gone such a long time,’ he said. ‘I missed you.’
‘The babies, darling, they needed me.’ Her sparkling bright eyes rested on him lovingly. ‘I hope you’re not going to turn out to be one of those jealous fathers I keep hearing about.’
‘Not on your life. I adore those little moppets.’ He leaned into her, pulled her closer and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘But I also adore you. Listen, darling, let’s sneak away tonight and have a quiet dinner. Just the two of us. Your parents won’t mind. They can have dinner with Emma.’
‘Well …’
‘I won’t take no for an answer, my pet.’ He bent over her and whispered in her ear, gripped her hands all that more tightly as he did so.
Paula blushed at his words, then laughed a light sweet laugh. ‘You’re positively wicked. A regular devil.’ Looking at him archly, she teased flirtatiously, ‘I’ll have you know I’m a married woman, sir. What you propose is most indecent. Quite improper, I’d say.’
‘Do you really think so?’ He laughed, and then he winked, ‘I think my ideas are very exciting.’
‘Mummy’s heading this way,’ Paula said laughing and adroitly changing the subject. ‘And she’s looking very determined about something.’
‘Say yes,’ Jim demanded. ‘To everything.’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
Daisy looked from one to the other fondly and shook her head. ‘Sorry to break up you two lovebirds, but Mother is champing at the bit. She wants to get the photography out of the way as soon as possible now. I’m rounding everyone up. So come along, let’s start assembling in the Grey Drawing Room. Oh, and by the way, Jim dear, I’ve suggested that Edwina be included in one of the family group portraits, and my mother has agreed.’
‘How very nice of you, Daisy,’ Jim exclaimed with warmth and sincerity, thinking how typical it was of her to be thoughtful, and caring about another person’s feelings. That Daisy had shown such consideration for Edwina was doubly commendable.
Emma Harte had never missed a trick in her entire life.
This afternoon was no exception. Her eyes were everywhere, and from her position near the fireplace she had an overall view of the room, and everyone in it. In much the same way that Jim Fairley held himself apart and took in everything, so Emma herself played the observer much of the time these days.
However, unlike Jim, who only saw things on the surface and, moreover, believed exactly what he saw, Emma had an almost frightening perception, one that pierced any façade to comprehend what actually lay behind it. She understood that nothing was ever the way it seemed, and so she was acutely conscious of the undercurrents in the room – the rivalries, the conflicts, the bad blood that existed between some of those present.
A sardonic smile touched her lips. As usual, cliques had formed. It was easy to see who was allied to whom. And she could read them all like an open book.
Edwina was the one who had surprised her the most, in that she had obviously had the intelligence to accept the inevitable. Her eldest daughter was giving off an aura of cordiality, sitting on the sofa near the window, chatting with Sally. On the other hand, Emma had noticed that she was assiduously avoiding any real contact with the other Hartes in the drawing room.
Randolph, Sally’s father, and his two other children, Vivienne and Winston, were most decidedly persona non grata with Edwina, and her intense dislike of them was barely concealed behind the stiff and chilly smiles she had given them earlier. Edwina was also cold-shouldering Blackie, although there was nothing new about that. Once, last year, Edwina had referred to him as the grand seigneur, meaning it disparagingly, her voice ringing with sarcasm.
Emma smiled inwardly. She had rather liked the description then: she did so now. It was apt.
Blackie was indeed behaving like the grand patrician gentleman, strolling around as if he had territorial rights, his manner distinctly proprietary, being gracious and charming, playing the genial host to the limit. And why not? He was her greatest friend, and her escort after all, and this was her house, and she was the hostess at this gathering. He had stood at her side during the toasts and the cutting of the christening cake, and after Randolph had finished speaking he had made a toast himself. To her. He had called her the youngest and most beautiful great-grandmother in the world. Now he had paused, was hovering over Paula, who in turn hovered over her babies. Daisy joined them, her serenity and sincerity and goodness a beacon in this room.
Emma shifted her eyes to the far corner, where they settled on her grandson, Alexander.
Always reserved, Alexander seemed particularly so with Jonathan and Sarah, whom he had briefly acknowledged when he had arrived. Since then he had consistently and carefully ignored them. He had attached himself to Bryan and Geraldine O’Neill at the commencement of the reception, returned to sit with them after the photographs had been taken. She did not understand why he was being cool and distant with Sarah and Jonathan. Could they have had a disagreement? Even a falling out? Or was he simply bored by the company of his cousins, with whom he worked at Harte Enterprises? She turned these possibilities over and then let them go. She would know soon enough if there were any real problems between these three. She wished Alexander would make up his mind about that nice Marguerite Reynolds. He had kept that poor girl dangling for too long. Now where was she hiding herself?
Emma scanned the room. Ah yes, there she was, near the door, laughing with Merry O’Neill and Amanda. Good God, was that child drinking another glass of champagne. Her third? Emily is supposed to be looking after those sisters of hers, and she’s not even in the room, Emma thought, and took a step forward, making for Amanda, then stopped in her tracks. Emily had just returned with Winston and Shane, had spotted Amanda and was about to chastise her little sister, who wore a guilty expression. Emma nodded to herself, amused at the little scene being enacted. Emily, for all her youth and gay disposition, could be very tough when she wanted to be.
Shane had detached himself from Winston and Emily, and was prowling across the floor. Her eyes followed him. He came to a stop next to David, drew Paula’s father to one side, began speaking to him intently. Shane is not himself today, Emma decided. He has a remote air. It occurred to her he might be suffering from ennui at this family function of hers, not to mention preoccupation with his impending trip to New York.
As for Sarah, her auburn-haired granddaughter appeared to be patently uninterested in Shane. Did Emily exaggerate? No, definitely not. Sarah, clinging to Jonathan like a barnacle to a hull, was, by her very actions, proving to Emma that she did indeed care greatly. If Shane no longer mattered to her she would not be huddled in a corner staying out of his way. Was Jonathan a handy convenience? Or had he and Sarah formed some kind of special alliance lately? If so, why? They had never been particularly close in the past.
Emma gave Jonathan a long hard stare, studying that bland and smiling face, noting his insouciant manner. How disarming he could be. He’s clever, she thought, but not quite as clever as he believes he is. He has acquired the knack of dissembling, most likely from me. And because I’m better at dissimulation than he is, he doesn’t deceive me one little bit. I have no hard evidence of his treachery, nothing concrete with which I can nail him, and yet I know he’s up to no good.
When Emma had first arrived at Fairley Church, Jonathan had rushed over to her, and told her he would see her on Monday morning, would bring her his new evaluation of the Aire Communications building. She had merely nodded, kept her face inscrutable. But she had immediately wondered why he suddenly thought the evaluation of the building’s worth was no longer urgent, that it could now wait until Monday. She had been stressing its urgency to him for some time. Emma had not had to think very hard to come up with the answer. Jonathan knew the evaluation was no longer pressing because he was aware that the Aire deal had collapsed. Neither she nor Paula had mentioned the failure of those negotiations, so he could only have acquired his information from Sebastian Cross, and in the last twenty-four hours.
This conversation at the church, coupled with Emily’s revelation of the night before, had convinced Emma that Jonathan was somehow involved with the Crosses, in cahoots with them. But to what purpose?
She did not know. But she would soon find out. She had no intention of confronting Jonathan on Monday morning. It was not her way to show her hand when that hand could be doling out rope, forming a noose. Instead she would go to London next week and start digging. Discreetly. Jonathan’s behaviour today had only served to underscore the nagging suspicion that he was not trustworthy, a feeling that she had harboured for weeks. Without realizing it, he had alerted her further. If he were really smart he would have acted as though the Aire deal were still alive. He had made a small slip – but it was a fatal one in her eyes.
Jonathan happened to turn around at this moment. His glance met hers. He smiled broadly and loped across the room to her.
‘Goodness, Grandy, why are you standing here all alone?’ he asked showing concern for her. Not waiting for a reply he went on, ‘Do you want anything? A glass of champagne, or a cup of tea maybe? And do come and sit down. You must be tired.’ He took hold of her arm affectionately, and his posture was loving.
‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ Emma said. ‘And I’m not a bit tired. In fact, I never felt better.’ She gave him a smile as fraudulently sweet as his had been. Extracting her arm ever so gently, she remarked, ‘I’ve been enjoying myself, standing here watching everyone. You’d be surprised what people reveal about themselves when they believe they’re unobserved.’ Her eyes were riveted to his face.
She waited.
He squirmed under her unflinching gaze, returned it, managed to keep his expression open and candid. But he laughed too quickly and too loudly as he said, ‘You are a card, Grandy.’
And possibly you’re the joker in the pack, Emma thought coldly. She said, ‘What’s wrong with Sarah? She’s being rather aloof with everyone, apart from you, of course.’
‘She’s not feeling well,’ he answered with swiftness. ‘Fighting a bad cold.’
‘She looks as fit as a fiddle to me,’ Emma observed dryly, throwing a rapid glance in Sarah’s direction.
Emma suddenly stepped back, moved away from Jonathan, and levelled her direct stare on him again. ‘Did you come up here together? And when did you arrive in Yorkshire?’
‘No, we came separately. Sarah by train last night. I drove up this morning.’ This was said steadily enough, and he smiled down at her.
Emma saw the faintest flicker of deceit in his light eyes. She studied his face briefly. Arthur Ainsley’s weak mouth, she thought. She said, ‘I’m glad Sarah has you to look after her today, Jonathan. It’s most kind of you.’
He said nothing, changed the subject by remarking, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to sit down, Grandmother?’
‘I suppose I might as well.’
He steered her across the room towards Charlotte and Natalie, and Emma smothered a laugh. So that’s where he thinks I belong, with the old ladies, she thought with some acerbity.
He saw her settled on the sofa, spoke briefly to his great-aunts, and disappeared, heading back to Sarah.
Emma watched him go, filled with sadness and disappointment. Too bad about Jonathan, she thought with resignation. He surely doesn’t realize it, but he’s as transparent as water. Just like his father. She had always seen right through Robin, and had been several jumps ahead of him all of his life, usually to his perpetual irritation and discomfort. Sighing, Emma pushed herself into the cushions and accepted a cup of tea offered by one of the waiters, then turned to her sisters-in-law. Natalie, Frank’s widow, was unusually garrulous this afternoon, and she soon dominated the conversation, caught up in an endless recital about her only child, Rosamund, who lived in Italy with her diplomat husband. Charlotte and Emma listened, eyeing each other with amusement from time to time, but Emma’s interest rapidly waned. She soon fell into her myriad thoughts.
Emma would never know what prompted her to suddenly put down her cup of tea, stand up, and swing around at the precise moment that she did. And later, when she thought about it in private, she was to wish she had remained seated.
But she did go through these motions, and found Shane O’Neill in her direct line of vision. He did not see her. He stood alone, leaning against the wall in the shadow of a tall Regency cabinet. There was an expression of such unadulterated love and aching yearning on his handsome face Emma had to stifle a gasp of surprise. His face was naked, utterly vulnerable, and it revealed the strongest and most powerful emotions a man could feel for a woman.
And it was Paula whom Shane was staring at with such concentrated intensity and longing.
Oh my God, Emma thought, dismay flooding through her. Her heart missed a beat. How well she knew that look on a man’s face. It signified passion and desire, the overwhelming urgency to possess absolutely. And forever.
But her granddaughter was oblivious to him. She was bending over the nursemaid who sat cradling Tessa, adjusting the child’s christening robe, cooing to her. Paula’s face was tender with a mother’s love and she was completely absorbed in the baby.
Emma was so shocked by what she saw she could not move. She was rooted to the spot, staring at him transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away from Shane, who undoubtedly believed he was safe from prying eyes. Emma reached out blindly and gripped the back of the sofa, filled with a terrible shaking sensation.
To her immense relief the expression on Shane’s face was fleeting. In a flash it vanished, was replaced by a studied expression of assumed nonchalance, one she knew so well. He moved out of the shadows without noticing her, and mingled with the crowd again. Distantly she heard his vibrant, throaty laugh, and then Randolph’s voice in response to something he had said.
Endeavouring to marshal her thoughts, Emma shifted her stance, turned to face the room. Had anyone else witnessed this intensely private moment of Shane’s when his guard was down? Where was Jim? Emma’s quick alert eyes darted from side to side, came to rest on Emily, who stood motionless a few yards away, staring back at her appalled, anxiety clouding her pretty young face.
Emma frowned. She pinned Emily with a knowing look, then motioned to the door with a brief nod of her head. Emma went out of the drawing room slowly. She was filled with sorrow, and her heart ached for Shane O’Neill. And as she crossed the Stone Hall everything became crystal clear to her, and her sorrow deepened immeasurably.
Upon entering the library, Emma sat down heavily on the nearest chair. She was surprised her legs had carried her this far. She felt weak at the knees.
Emily came in a split second later, closed the door firmly behind her, and leaned against it speechlessly.
To Emma she looked as if she had seen a ghost. She was unnaturally pale and her face was tight, very strained.
Emma said, ‘You saw it then? The way Shane was gazing at Paula?’
‘Yes,’ Emily whispered.
‘He’s very much in love with her,’ Emma said, her voice husky. Her throat tightened. She paused, got a grip on herself, ‘But then you knew that before today, Emily. In fact, you almost let it slip out yesterday. But you managed to stop yourself just in time. That is correct, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Gran.’
‘Don’t look so scared, Emily. And come here and sit with me. I must talk to you about this. It’s most disturbing.’
Emily ran across the room and took the adjoining chair. She gazed deeply into Emma’s troubled face, which looked oddly fatigued and weary all of a sudden. She said, ‘I’m truly sorry you had to find out. I never wanted you to know, Grandma. I knew it would pain you.’
‘Yes, that’s true, it does. But now that I do know, I’ve a couple of questions. First of all, how did you find out that Shane was in love with Paula in the first place?’
‘Because I’ve seen that look on his face before. It was at Paula’s wedding in London last year … when he thought no one was watching him. Much the same kind of situation as today. He was tucked away in a corner, at the reception at Claridge’s, and his eyes never left her. And then there’s his behaviour … let’s face it, Grandy, he’s been distant and peculiar with her for the longest time. Actually, to be honest, he’s dropped her like a ton of bricks. Obviously he can’t bear to be around her, knowing she’s married to someone else.’
Emily bit her lip nervously. ‘I suspect that’s also one of the reasons he spends so much time abroad. I know he has to travel because of their hotel chain, but Merry recently said something to me about Shane constantly jumping on planes at the slightest excuse. She said he seemed to have ants in his pants these days.’
‘I see,’ Emma said. ‘So Shane has never confided in you?’
‘God no! He wouldn’t. He’s too proud.’
‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘I know what you mean.’ She was reflective for a moment, then said almost to herself, ‘That seems to be a family characteristic. And it’s false pride, too. What a waste of time that is. So very foolish in the long run. It serves no good purpose.’ She looked away, staring into the distance absently, seeing so much, understanding.
Emily patted her hand in her old-fashioned, motherly way, and urged, ‘Try not to worry, Gran. I know you love Shane like one of your own grandchildren, but there’s nothing you can do about this.’
‘I’m aware of that, darling. But getting back to the incident in the drawing room, do you think anyone else saw what we saw? Jim, for instance?’
‘Jim had gone outside a few minutes before, Gran. I spoke to him as he followed Anthony and Sally out on to the terrace. Then Miranda joined them, and the twins.’ Emily chewed her inner Up again. ‘Sarah. She has been sneaking looks at Shane all afternoon. She might have caught it, I’m just not sure.’
‘I certainly hope she didn’t!’ Emma exclaimed worriedly.
‘So do I.’ Emily took a deep breath, volunteered in a low voice, ‘There was one person who noticed …’
‘Who?’ Emma demanded, looking at her swiftly.
‘Winston.’
‘Well, thank God for small mercies. I’m glad it wasn’t anyone else. Go and fetch him to me, Emily, and don’t discuss a thing. Not in there. Too many nosy parkers around.’
‘Yes, Grandmother.’ Emily flew out of the room.
Emma rose and went to the windows, staring out at her beautiful gardens. How peaceful they look in the radiant sunlight … next door in the drawing room there is a young man who has everything except the woman he loves and who may never know genuine peace in his whole life because of that. Unless his love for Paula ceases to exist. Emma doubted this would happen. The kind of love she had seen etched on his face was everlasting. Its depth and intensity chilled her to the bone. She was absolutely convinced that a man like Shane O’Neill would not be content to worship from afar. His emotions could easily propel him to take more overt action in time. He might try to fight for Paula one day, in the future. And even if Paula was not interested in Shane, the situation still spelled trouble, in Emma’s opinion. Triangles were not only uncomfortable, they were explosive.
Emma let out a tiny sigh. She had no answers, no solutions, and speculating was surely a big waste of time.
Her thoughts settled on Paula. She prayed her granddaughter would be happy with Jim Fairley for the rest of her life. If she was not, Shane might indeed make headway with her. Yet this first year of the marriage had been idyllic. On the other hand, there were things she herself had noticed, and which had given her food for thought and cause to wonder about Jim. Instinctively, she knew that he was no match for Paula when it came to inherent strength of character. Paula was inordinately stubborn, and she had a will of iron. And she was so much cleverer than Jim – on every level.
Emma admired Jim professionally – he was a brilliant newspaperman. Also, she was fond of him personally. It was difficult not to be. On the other hand, Emma had recognized for some time that his judgement was flawed in many areas, and most especially when it came to his assessment of people. He was not terribly discriminating He liked everyone; furthermore, he wanted everyone to be happy, and all of the time, no less. He hated controversy and upset, bent over backward to keep the peace – and very often that was to his own detriment. In Emma’s mind, one of Jim’s main problems was his overwhelming need to be liked in return, to be popular with every member of the family, his friends, and those in his employment. This trait in him both dismayed and irritated Emma. It was lonely at the top. And it was generally not very wise to be overly familiar with employees. That quickly led to trouble. Loath though she was to admit it, Jim was simply not of the same calibre as Paula. Would he hold up over the years? Every marriage had its problems, its stresses, its emotional upheavals. If Jim caved in because of his lack of stamina and endurance under pressure, what would happen to that marriage? To Paula? To their children? She hated to contemplate the future in this dismal way, and instantly pushed all negative thoughts out of her mind. They did love each other very much, and perhaps their love would overcome any differences they may have.
Winston said, ‘You wanted to see me Aunt Emma?’ He sounded both nervous and concerned.
‘Yes,’ Emma said, pivoting. She walked over to a grouping of chairs, motioned Winston and Emily to join her.
They sat down opposite her, waiting.
Winston had been mystified when Emily had dragged him out of the drawing room, whispering that Emma had sent her to get him. He knew at once, from the girl’s anxious demeanour, that something was wrong. Now his worried air intensified as he puffed rapidly on his cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Emily’s face was stark above her yellow suit, its bony pallor more pronounced.
Getting right to the point, Emma said, ‘A few minutes ago I saw Shane looking at Paula in such a way that it left no doubt in my mind about his feelings for her. Emily tells me you also noticed.’
‘Yes, I did,’ Winston said, at once, realizing there was no point in denying it, or lying. He braced himself, wondering what she would say next. He studied her face which was severe and grave.
‘Shane is in love with Paula,’ Emma announced in a clipped tone.
‘Yes. And desperately so,’ Winston replied, shaking his head. He had wondered for a long time when this would come out in the open, and now that it had he decided it was wisest to be completely candid with Emma. In a way, he felt relieved that she finally knew. It had been a heavy burden for him to carry alone.
Desperately, Emma repeated under her breath. And her heart sank. Winston was underscoring her own suspicions, confirming her conclusions. She said slowly, ‘Has Shane discussed his feelings for her with you, Winston?’
‘No, Aunt Emma, he hasn’t. He’s a very private man, and discreet. But I’ve picked up a few things lately, and I’ve known about his emotional involvement with Paula for a while now … through my own observations. After all, we do share the same house at weekends. To be honest, I have a feeling Shane thinks I know, but he’s never brought the matter tip. As I said, he’s extremely discreet.’
Emma sat back, pursing her lips, her eyes more reflective than before. After a short silence, she said, ‘They’ve been as close as two peas in a pod all of their lives, Winston. How could he have let her slip through his fingers?’
‘I can only hazard a guess,’ Winston muttered, eyeing her closely. He stubbed out his cigarette, the gesture filled with sudden anger. ‘It’s because they grew up together … I mean, I don’t think he could see the wood for the trees, see what was under his nose. I’m positive Shane only realized the depth of his feelings for her when she became engaged to Jim. And they got married so quickly after their engagement was announced, Shane hardly had time to catch his breath. Or act. It all went very fast, as you know.’
Winston now lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug, and glanced away, thinking of Shane’s abject misery. It had grown more intense and acute – and more noticeable – lately. He was glad Shane was going to the States – for Shane’s own sake. He turned back to Emma, finished, ‘That’s my analysis of what happened, for what it’s worth, Aunt Emma. I truly believe that it took another man in the picture to make Shane understand how much he loved Paula.’
‘Yes, I think you’re correct, Winston,’ Emma said.
‘Do you think Paula ever knew, or knows, that he cares about her in that way?’ Emily asked Winston in a hushed voice, touching his arm lightly, looking up at him.
‘I honestly can’t answer that, Emily. But I – ’
Emma interrupted with great firmness, ‘I’m sure she didn’t and doesn’t have an inkling, dear.’ She cleared her throat, continued in that same clear strong voice, ‘This is a most tragic state of affairs for Shane, but there’s nothing anyone can do, least of all me. Not any more. Also, it’s really none of my business. Nor is it anyone else’s, for that matter. The last thing I want is for Shane or Paula to become topics for the gossip mongers in this family, and we all know there are a few who would love to tittle-tattle, perhaps blow this matter out of proportion. I have implicit faith in the both of you, and in your discretion and loyalty. However, I must ask you both to promise me faithfully that you will never mention what you saw this afternoon to anyone, ever. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Of course I promise, Grandma,’ Emily cried in a shocked voice, looking at Emma aghast. ‘You must know I would never talk about Paula, or do anything to hurt her. I feel the same way about Shane.’
‘I wasn’t doubting you, Emily. I simply felt compelled to stress the importance of your absolute silence on this matter.’ She directed her attention at Winston.
He said, ‘I promise, Aunt Emma. I care about Paula and Shane as much as Emily does. And I tend to agree with you about the gossips in our family. There’s also a lot of free-floating jealousy about Paula. Shane too, in many ways. They’re very special people, so obviously they’ll always be targets. My lips are sealed, Aunt Emma. Please don’t worry about me.’
‘Thank you,’ Emma said, and made a mental note of Winston’s astute comments. She smiled thinly. ‘I would prefer it if we ourselves never referred to this matter again. I believe it would be best forgotten by the three of us. Shane is going away for six months. Let’s hope he will forget Paula – ’
‘He’ll never let go of her!’ Winston cut in fiercely, heatedly. ‘It’s not in his nature to – ’ Angrily he clamped his mouth shut, regretting that he had opened it in the first place.
But he had said enough for Emma to get a clear picture. Yes, she thought, that’s what I’m afraid of, too. She said, as steadily as possible, ‘Perhaps he will always care for her, Winston. But he’s a young man, and virile. He has normal appetites and desires, I’ve no doubt. Let us hope that he’ll eventually find someone who’ll meet his needs, and come up to his standards, a woman who can help him to forget Paula. I sincerely hope he makes a rewarding life for himself, finds fulfilment and happiness.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Winston muttered, changing his mind yet again. He ought to be truthful with Emma. He owed her that, after all. He threw his aunt a gloom-filled glance. And then, because he had always been able to say anything to her without a shred of embarrassment, he added, in a blunt fashion, ‘I’m sure he’ll continue to have his brief, hit-and-run affairs, his sexual entanglements. He couldn’t avoid them, not the way women throw themselves at him. Shane’s no saint, you know. And he’s hardly the type to lead a celibate life. After all, Aunt Emma, you don’t have to be in love with a woman to sleep with her.’
‘Quite,’ Emma said, lifting a brow, glancing at Emily.
Winston noticed this, but Emily was a big girl. She knew what was what. Undeterred, he plunged on, ‘I suppose you won’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway. In my opinion, Shane O’Neill will never love anyone but Paula. You said a few minutes ago that this was a tragic thing for Shane. And it is. But it’s also tragic for Paula, I think. She’d have been far better off and happier with a man like Shane than with Jim Fairley.’
Winston’s harsh tone, not to mention his condemning words, brought Emma up with a start. She looked at him swiftly, in astonishment, noticing the grim expression ringing his mouth, the angry glint in his eyes. Why, he bears a grudge against Jim, she thought, that’s what his suppressed rage and resentment are all about. Winston is against Jim Fairley because he won Paula, cut Shane out.
Emma nodded, made no comment whatsoever.
Emily, her face puckering up, said quietly, ‘Poor Shane. Life’s so unfair.’
‘Come now, darling, you’re only seeing Shane’s side of this situation.’ Emma clucked gently, reprovingly. ‘Perhaps Paula doesn’t think life is unfair. I’m sure she’s happy with Jim. I know she loves him. And besides, Emily, whoever told you life is fair? It’s most unfair, and it has always been damned hard, in my experience. How we cope with life, react to our hardships and suffering, and overcome them, that’s what really counts in the end. We must all be strong, learn from our troubles, grow in stature and character. We can’t ever let adversity get us down, Emily. Now, let us end this discussion. Run along, the two of you. I want to be alone for a few minutes.’
Winston went over and kissed her. So did Emily. They left together in silence.
Emma sat by herself for a while.
She felt weary, bone tired. It seemed to her that she solved one problem only to encounter another. But then her life had never been any different. Dear, dear Shane, she murmured under her breath. My heart goes out to you. Life has dealt you a bad hand in this particular instance. But you’ll survive. We all do.
Quite unexpectedly tears came into her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She searched her pockets for a handkerchief and dabbed at her wrinkled old face. She felt like weeping buckets of tears. But that was not her way, giving in like that. And tears solved nothing. She blew her nose, pocketed her handkerchief, and stood up, smoothing down her dress as she did.
Emma walked over to the windows again, taking a few deep breaths, drawing on her great strength, her will power. And slowly she pulled herself together. Her thoughts came back to Shane. Perhaps Winston was right in his assessment. Maybe Shane hadn’t realized how he truly felt about Paula until it was too late. Then again, maybe he had believed he had all the time in the world to claim her for his own. We all think that time is endless when we’re young, she sighed to herself. The years ahead seem to stretch out forever and indefinitely. But they don’t … they disappear in a flash, in the wink of an eye. Blackie edged into her mind. She wondered what he would have to say about this situation. She decided, at once, not to tell him. It would upset him, cause him too much grief.
Last night Blackie had said that life was too damned short for dilly-dallying. There was a great deal of truth and wisdom in his words. Especially when it came to a couple of old warriors like themselves. Emma made another sudden decision. She was going to accept Blackie’s invitation to go on that trip around the world after all. No more dilly-dallying for her.
Turning away from the window, Emma walked briskly across the floor and left the library. She went into the drawing room purposefully, seeking Blackie, picturing his expression when she told him to put his Plan with a capital P into operation immediately. And this she fully intended to do the minute she found him in the crowded room.
CHAPTER 12 (#ulink_fc88df85-ba22-55c7-8aa7-53ed95f41eed)
‘Do you think all families are like ours?’
‘What do you mean – exactly?’ Winston asked, turning to face Emily.
‘We’ve always got a drama of one kind or another erupting. It seems to me there’s never been a minute’s peace for as long as I can remember. If it’s not the awful aunts and uncles being beastly and scratching everyone’s eyes out, it’s our generation quarrelling and creating the most dreadful upsets. To tell you the truth, I feel as though I’m on a battlefield half the time, and I don’t think I’m a very good combatant.’
Winston chuckled at her mournful tone, which reflected her dire expression. ‘You manage all right, Emily. You’re a good little scrapper – so I’ve noticed.’
The two of them sat together on an old stone garden seat at the bottom on the rolling lawns that sloped away from the wide terrace which fronted the Peach Drawing Room. Behind them, Pennistone Royal soared up into a sky of deepening blue, awesome in its grandeur and majestic beauty, the many windows glittering in the sunshine of late afternoon.
Now Winston said more thoughtfully, ‘But to answer your question, I don’t suppose other families are quite like ours. After all, how many have an Emma Harte as the matriarch?’
Emily drew away, looking up at him, a small frown puckering her smooth brow. Her eyes held his gravely as she said, ‘Don’t blame Grandma for the dramatics that are being endlessly enacted. I think she’s an innocent bystander, poor thing. I really get angry when I think of the heartache some members of this family cause her.’
Winston exclaimed, ‘I wasn’t being critical of her, if that’s what you think. Or suggesting for one minute that she’s responsible for these situations, Emily. I agree with you – she’s not at fault. I was merely pointing out that as the most remarkable woman of our time, and an original, there’s bound to be controversy surrounding her. Look, she’s had a very complex and complicated life, and one she’s certainly lived to the fullest. She has shoals of children and grandchildren, and if you include all of us Hartes, which you must, her family is huge. Bigger than most. And don’t forget her other close attachments – the O’Neill and Kallinski clans. Add up the numbers – and you’ve got an army, more or less.’
‘Everything you say is true, Winston. Still, I do get awfully fed up with the infighting and bickering. I just wish we could all live peacefully together, and get on with it, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes … but there’s another thing you must take into consideration, Emily. Immense wealth and power are vested in her, and in this family, so obviously there are going to be jealousies and competitiveness and all kinds of machinations. It strikes me that intrigues are inescapable, given the nature of people … they can be rotten, Emily. Selfish, greedy, self-serving and ruthless. I’ve discovered that some people will stop at nothing when their own interests are at stake.’
‘Don’t I know it!’ Emily stared down into the murky depths of the pond, looking troubled. Finally she lifted her head, swung her eyes to Winston. ‘When I mentioned dramas a few minutes ago, naturally I was referring to Shane. But, I must admit, I sensed things this afternoon, you know, undercurrents. As usual, the room was divided into camps. There was a lot of manoeuvring going on.’
‘And who was doing what to whom?’ Winston asked with some alertness, his curiosity aroused.
‘Jonathan and Sarah are as thick as thieves, for one thing. That’s very strange, because I know she never used to like him. I can’t put my finger on it, yet I can’t help feeling they’re concocting something. Alexander is probably suspicious of that new liaison. Didn’t you notice how he’s steered clear of them today?’
‘Now that you mention it, yes. Personally, I’ve never had much time for Jonathan Ainsley. He was a bully as a child, and like all bullies he’s basically a coward. He projects a lot of charm these days, but I don’t expect he’s changed much over the years, not inside. I haven’t forgotten the time he hit me over the head with a cricket bat. The nasty little bugger. He could have done me real damage.’
‘I know he could, and he was always horrid to me when we were growing up. I still believe it was Master Jonathan who cut the tyres on that bicycle Grandy gave me when I was ten, even though he denied it when she challenged him. He came up with some sort of plausible alibi about his whereabouts that day, but I just know it was a total fib.’ Emily scowled. ‘As for Sarah, well, she’s been a loner, and secretive, all of her life.’
‘You know what they say – still waters run deep and the devil’s at the bottom,’ Winston remarked.
He bent down, picked up a pebble and idly threw it into the pond, watching the ripples eddying out from the pool’s centre. ‘There have been occasions when I’ve thought that Sarah has the hots for Shane.’
Emily started in surprise. ‘You’re not the only one,’ she admitted quietly. ‘Well, fat chance she’s got …’ She stopped, added swiftly, ‘That sounded mean, and I didn’t intend to be catty, Winston. I don’t dislike Sarah. She can be very sweet, and I feel sorry for her really. Carrying a torch for a man like Shane O’Neill must be positively awful. Even heartbreaking, perhaps. She and I have never been all that close, but … well, I always thought she was true blue – until today. Now I’m not sure any more.’
‘She might have been using Jonathan as a shield, and that’s all. It was pretty obvious she was trying to disappear into the woodwork, because of Shane’s presence, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Changing the subject, Emily remarked, ‘Jim’s very taken with Edwina and with Anthony, by the look of it. He’s been glued to our young earl for the last hour or so. Maybe titles impress him. Anyway, what do you think about Anthony and Sally getting together?’
‘Anthony’s decent enough, but my father’s not so happy about Sally’s involvement with him, mostly because of Edwina. If Sally does marry him, we’re going to have that old battleaxe slap bang in our midst. Not a very pleasing prospect. She hates the Hartes for some reason.’
‘It’s because Grandma is a Harte!’ Emily exclaimed. ‘Edwina has always looked down her nose at her mother. What a stupid woman she is, I really can’t bear her.’ Emily looked away, pondering. After a short silence, she said in a casual tone, ‘You don’t like Jim Fairley, do you?’
Winston shook his head vehemently. ‘No, no, you’re wrong there. I do like him, and I certainly have a high regard for his professional abilities. It’s just that – ’ Winston shrugged, made a face, ‘ – well, I know Paula better than most people. Despite that quiet façade, she’s very strong, as you know. She’s also ambitious, driven, a work horse, and a brilliant businesswoman to boot. She’s quite extraordinary for her age, and the older she gets the more like Emma she’ll become, you mark my words. Actually she’s been brought up and groomed to be exactly that – the next Emma Harte. By Emma Harte herself. So, because of this, and the differences in their personalities, I can’t help thinking she and Jim are ill suited. But then I’m prejudiced I suppose … in Shane’s favour. He’s my best friend, and one hell of a man. But then – ’
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Barbara Taylor Bradford
From the internationally bestselling author of A Woman of Substance comes the continuing story of indomitable heroine, Emma HarteEmma Harte was the heroine of Barbara Taylor Bradford’s multi-million copy bestseller, A Woman of Substance.Now she is eighty years old and ready to hand over the reins of the vast business empire she has created.To her favourite grandchild, Paula McGill Fairley, Emma bequeaths her mighty retailing empire with these heartfelt words: ‘I charge you to hold my dream.’A towering international success, this is the powerfully moving tale of one woman’s determination to ‘hold the dream’ which was entrusted to her, and in so doing find the happiness and passion which is her legacy.
BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
Hold the Dream
Copyright (#ulink_1e4c5e5f-147a-553d-8feb-f5c3ae41fc52)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This paperback edition 2004
First published in paperback by Grafton 1986
First published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1985
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1985
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780586058497
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007363698
Version: 2018-11-08
Dedication (#ulink_c7376d52-21dd-5adf-b348-48342bdab4b0)
For Bob – who makes everything possible
for me, with my love.
Epigraph (#ulink_0d0142fc-f59c-585a-af56-7ec68a31990d)
‘She possessed, in the highest degree,
all the qualities which were required in a
great Prince.’
GIOVANNI SCARAMELLI,
Venetian Ambassador
to the Court of Elizabeth Tudor,
Queen of England
‘I would have you know that this kingdom
of mine is not so scant of men but there be
a rogue or two among them.’
ELIZABETH TUDOR, Queen of England
Contents
Cover (#ubde91d91-5d28-5ab5-88fa-ef5bc227d72b)
Title Page (#ue2e4e0a6-c6d4-5bf9-b86b-5ad8b89d2130)
Copyright (#ulink_ad341617-5097-5cd2-8b5d-a76287066c90)
Dedication (#ulink_63b33d4a-b36f-5e31-8d12-a165c27f295f)
Epigraph (#ulink_5f3e0a4f-d62a-5b61-ae8d-754a566856c0)
Family Tree (#ulink_82e849ff-4bdb-5ee7-8ed7-24a7b221d379)
Book One: Matriarch (#ulink_3e628d36-68aa-500f-ac45-7d829bcb9f25)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_6db092c3-d461-5d50-9c94-4af40e908a76)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_0061436b-1fda-5387-a8db-7beda0c08fde)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_c6501a25-5638-57d3-b4bc-b39776dd92c9)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_c9fc463f-8328-5dc7-bd24-8800a4724175)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_a2f85c69-d9b8-5d13-b64c-bdb4be0bf27b)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_a08a207f-278a-5438-a327-8e3d29ddf1bf)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_58f4082d-65cc-5bb9-87e9-b74b3379da21)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_f6f5e046-8112-55f4-a9e4-c0215aecf3be)
Chapter 9 (#ulink_6412a30e-4403-5781-afc6-a5d558f0bc0c)
Chapter 10 (#ulink_202a3513-04b3-5438-8034-062d17796df5)
Chapter 11 (#ulink_c5ba6f07-a363-530d-be31-b7977da951f0)
Chapter 12 (#ulink_6da5b370-29c9-5f1e-a5d4-502b014f568b)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Book Two: Heiress (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Book Three: Tycoon (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Family Tree (#ulink_73316960-bf2b-5810-9cd2-b865cdb5e7d6) (Emma Harte)
Matriarch (#ulink_9b5595cf-a2ce-527e-9876-135f31089064)
‘I speak the truth, not so much as I
would, but as much as I dare; and
I dare a little more, as I grow older.’
MONTAIGNE
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_cf5068be-17e3-5244-8c46-4fb5352bff2f)
Emma Harte was almost eighty years old.
She did not look it, for she had always carried her years lightly. Certainly Emma felt like a much younger woman as she sat at her desk in the upstairs parlour of Pennistone Royal on this bright April morning of 1969.
Her posture was erect in the chair, and her alert green eyes, wise and shrewd under the wrinkled lids, missed nothing. The burnished red-gold hair had turned to shining silver long ago, but it was impeccably coiffed in the latest style, and the widow’s peak was as dramatic as ever above her oval face. If this was now lined and scored by the years, her excellent bone structure had retained its clarity and her skin held the translucency of her youth. And so, though her great beauty had been blurred by the passage of time, she was still arresting, and her appearance, as always, was stylish.
For the busy working day stretching ahead of her she had chosen to wear a woollen dress of tailored simplicity in the powder-blue shade she so often favoured, and which was so flattering to her. A frothy white lace collar added just the right touch of softness and femininity at her throat, and there were discreet diamond studs on her ears. Otherwise she wore no jewellery, except for a gold watch and her rings.
After her bout with bronchial pneumonia the previous year she was in blooming health, had no infirmities to speak of, and she was filled with the restless vigour and drive that had marked her younger days.
That’s my problem, not knowing where to direct all this damned energy, she mused, putting down her pen, leaning back in the chair. She smiled and thought: The devil usually finds work for idle hands, so I’d better come up with a new project soon before I get into mischief. Her smile widened. Most people thought she had more than enough to keep her fully occupied, since she continued to control her vast business enterprises which stretched halfway round the world. Indeed, they did need her constant supervision; yet, for the most part, they offered her little challenge these days. Emma had always thrived on challenge, and it was this she sorely missed. Playing watchdog was not particularly exciting to her way of thinking. It did not fire her imagination, bring a tingle to her blood, or get her adrenaline flowing in the same way that wheeling and dealing did. Pitting her wits against business adversaries, and striving for power and supremacy in the international marketplace, had become such second nature to her over the years they were now essential to her well-being.
Restlessly she rose, crossed the floor in swift light steps, and opened one of the soaring leaded windows. She took a deep breath, peered out. The sky was a faultless blue, without a single cloud, and radiant with spring sunshine. New buds, tenderly green, sprouted on the skeletal branches, and under the great oak at the edge of the lawn a mass of daffodils, randomly planted, tossed yellow-bright heads under the fluttering breeze.
‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vale and hill, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils,’ she recited aloud, then thought: Good heavens, I learned that Wordsworth poem at the village school in Fairley. So long ago, and to think that I’ve remembered it all these years.
Raising her hand, she closed the window, and the great McGill emerald on the third finger of her left hand flashed as the clear Northern light struck the stone. Its brilliance caught her attention. She had worn this ring for forty-four years, ever since that day, in May of 1925, when Paul McGill had placed it on her finger. He had thrown away her wedding ring, symbol of her disastrous marriage to Arthur Ainsley, then slipped on the massive square-cut emerald. ‘We might not have had the benefit of clergy,’ Paul had said that memorable day. ‘But as far as I’m concerned, you are my wife. From this day forward until death do us part.’
The previous morning their child had been born. Their adored Daisy, conceived in love and raised with love. Her favourite of all her children, just as Paula, Daisy’s daughter, was her favourite grandchild, heiress to her enormous retailing empire and half of the colossal McGill fortune which Emma had inherited after Paul’s death in 1939. And Paula had given birth to twins four weeks ago, had presented her with her first great-grandchildren, who tomorrow would be christened at the ancient church in Fairley village.
Emma pursed her lips, suddenly wondering if she had made a mistake in acquiescing to this wish of Paula’s husband, Jim Fairley. Jim was a traditionalist, and thus wanted his children to be christened at the font where all of the Fairleys had been baptized, and all of the Hartes for that matter, herself included.
Oh well, she thought, I can’t very well renege at this late date, and perhaps it is only fitting. She had wreaked her revenge on the Fairleys, the vendetta she had waged against them for most of her life was finally at an end, and the two families had been united through Paula’s marriage with James Arthur Fairley, the last of the old line. It was a new beginning.
But when Blackie O’Neill had heard of the choice of church he had raised a snowy brow and chuckled and made a remark about the cynic turning into a sentimentalist in her old age, an accusation he was frequently levelling at her of late. Maybe Blackie was right in this assumption. On the other hand, the past no longer troubled her as it once had. The past had been buried with the dead. Only the future concerned her now. And Paula and Jim and their children were that future.
Emma’s thoughts centred on Fairley village as she returned to her desk, put on her glasses and stared at the memorandum in front of her. It was from her grandson Alexander, who, with her son Kit, ran her mills, and it was bluntly to the point, in Alexander’s inimitable fashion. The Fairley mill was in serious trouble. It had been failing to break even for the longest time and was now deeply in the red. A crucial decision hovered over her head … to close the mill or keep it running at a considerable loss. Emma, ever the pragmatist, knew deep in her bones that the wisest move would be to close down the Fairley operation, yet she balked at this drastic measure, not wanting to bring hardship to the village of her birth. She had asked Alexander to find an alternative, a workable solution, hoped that he had done so. She would soon know. He was due to arrive for a meeting with her imminently.
One possibility which might enable them to resolve the situation at the Fairley mill had occurred to Emma, but she wanted to give Alexander his head, an opportunity to handle this problem himself. Testing him, she admitted, as I’m constantly testing all of my grandchildren. And why not? That was her prerogative, wasn’t it? Everything she owned had been hard won, built on a life rooted in single-mindedness of purpose and the most gruelling work and dogged determination and relentlessness and terrible sacrifice. Nothing had ever been handed to her on a plate. Her mighty empire was entirely of her own making, and, since it was hers and hers alone, she could dispose of it as she wished.
And so with calm deliberation and judiciousness and selectivity she had chosen her heirs one year ago, bypassing four of her five children in favour of her grandchildren in the new will she had drawn; yet she continued to scrutinize the third generation, forever evaluating their worth, seeking weaknesses in them whilst inwardly praying to find none.
They have lived up to my expectations, she reassured herself, then thought with a swift stab of dismay: No, that’s not strictly true. There is one of whom I am not really sure, one whom I don’t think I can trust.
Emma unlocked the top drawer of her desk, took out a sheet of paper, and studied the names of her grandchildren, which she had listed only last night when she had experienced her first feelings of uneasiness. Is there a joker in this pack, as I suspect? she asked herself worriedly, squinting at the names. And if there is, how on earth will I handle it?
Her eyes remained riveted to one name. She shook her head, with sadness, pondering.
Treachery had long ceased to surprise Emma, for her natural astuteness and psychological insight had been sharply honed during a long, frequently hard, and always extraordinary life. In fact, relatively few things surprised her any more, and, with her special brand of cynicism, she had come to expect the worst from people, including family. Yet she had been taken aback last year when she had discovered through Gaye Sloane, her secretary, that her four eldest children were wilfully plotting against her. Spurred on by their avariciousness and vaunting ambition, they had endeavoured to wrest her empire away from her in the most underhanded way, seriously underestimating her in the process. Her initial shock, and the pain of betrayal, had been swiftly replaced by an anger of icy ferocity, and she had made her moves with speed and consummate skill and resourcefulness, which was her way when facing any opponent. And she had pushed sentiment and emotions aside, had not allowed feelings to obscure intelligence, for it was her superior intelligence which had inevitably saved her in disastrous situations in the past.
If she had outwitted the inept plotters, had left them floundering stupidly in disarray, she had also finally come to the bitter, and chilling, realization that blood was not thicker than water. It had struck her, and most forcibly, that ties of the blood and of the flesh did not come into play when vast amounts of money and, more importantly, great power, were at stake. People thought nothing of killing to attain even the smallest portions of both. Despite her overriding disgust and disillusionment with her children, she had been very sure of their children, their devotion to her. Now one of them was causing her to re-evaluate her judgement and question her trust.
She turned the name over in her mind … Perhaps she was wrong; she hoped she was wrong. She had nothing to go on really – except gut instinct and her prescience. But, like her intelligence, both had served her well throughout her life.
Always when she faced this kind of dilemma, Emma’s instinctive attitude was to wait – and watch. Once again she decided to play for time. By doing thus she could conceal her real feelings, whilst gambling that things would sort themselves out to her advantage, thereby dispensing with the need for harsh action. But I will dole out the rope, she added inwardly. Experience had taught her that when lots of freely proffered rope fell into unwitting hands it invariably formed a noose.
Emma considered the manifold possibilities if this should happen, and a hard grimness settled over her face and her eyes darkened. She did not relish picking up the sword again, to defend herself and her interests, not to mention her other heirs.
History does have a way of repeating itself, she thought wearily, especially in my life. But I refuse to anticipate. That’s surely borrowing trouble. Purposefully, she put the list back in the drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.
Emma Harte had the enviable knack of shelving unsolvable problems in order to concentrate on priorities, and so she was enabled to subdue the nagging – and disturbing – suspicion that a grandchild of hers was untrustworthy, and therefore a potential adversary. Current business was the immediate imperative, and she gave her attention to her appointments for the rest of the day, each of which was with three of the six grandchildren who worked for her.
Alexander would come first.
Emma glanced at her watch. He was due to arrive in fifteen minutes, at ten-thirty. He would be on time, if not indeed early. Her lips twitched in amusement. Alexander had become something of a demon about punctuality, he had even chided her last week when she had kept him waiting, and he was forever at odds with his mother, who suffered from a chronic disregard for the clock. Her amused smile fled, was replaced by a cold and disapproving tightness around her mouth as she contemplated her second daughter.
Elizabeth was beginning to push her patience to the limits – gallivanting around the world in the most scandalous manner, marrying and divorcing haphazardly, and with such increasing frequency it was appalling. Her daughter’s inconsistency and instability had ceased to baffle her, for she had long understood that Elizabeth had inherited most of her father’s worst traits. Arthur Ainsley had been a weak, selfish and self-indulgent man; these flaws were paramount in his daughter, and following his pattern, the beautiful, wild and wilful Elizabeth flouted all the rules, and had remained untamed. And dreadfully unhappy, Emma acknowledged to herself. The woman has become a tragic spectacle, to be pitied, perhaps, rather than condemned.
She wondered where her daughter was at the moment, then instantly dropped the thought. It was of no consequence, she supposed, since they were barely on speaking terms after the matter of the will. Surprisingly, even Alexander had been treated to a degree of cold-shouldering by his adoring mother because he had been favoured in her place. But Elizabeth had not been able to cope with Alexander’s cool indifference to her feelings, and her hysterical tantrums and the rivers of tears had abruptly ceased when she realized she was wasting her time. She had capitulated in the face of his aloofness, disapproval, and thinly-veiled contempt. Her son’s good opinion of her, and his love, were vital, apparently, and she had made her peace with him, mended her ways. But not for long, Emma thought acidly. She soon fell back into her bad habits. And it’s certainly no thanks to that foolish and skittish woman that Alexander has turned out so well.
Emma experienced a little rush of warmth mingled with gratification as she contemplated her grandson. Alexander had become the man he was because of his strength of character and his integrity. He was solid, hardworking, dependable. If he did not have his cousin Paula’s brilliance, and lacked her vision in business, he was, nonetheless, sound of judgement. His conservative streak was balanced by a degree of flexibility, and he displayed a genuine willingness to weigh the pros and cons of any given situation, and, when necessary, make compromises. Alexander had the ability to keep everything in its proper perspective, and this was reassuring to Emma, who was a born realist herself.
This past year Alexander had proved himself deserving of her faith in him, and she had no regrets about making him the chief heir to Harte Enterprises by leaving him fifty-two per cent of her shares in this privately-held company. Whilst he continued to supervise the mills, she deemed it essential for him to have a true understanding of every aspect of the holding corporation, and she had been training him assiduously, preparing him for the day when he took over the reins from her.
Harte Enterprises controlled her woollen mills, clothing factories, real estate, the General Retail Trading Company, and the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company, and it was worth many millions of pounds. She had long recognized that Alexander might never increase its worth by much, because of his tendency to be cautious; but, for the same reason, neither would he ruin it through rash decisions and reckless speculation. He would keep it on the steady course she had so carefully charted, following the guidelines and principles she had set down years ago. This was the way she wanted it, had planned it, in point of fact.
Emma drew her appointment book towards her, and checked the time of her lunch with Emily, Alexander’s sister.
Emily was due to arrive at one o’clock.
When she had phoned earlier in the week Emily had sounded somewhat enigmatic when she had said she had a serious problem to discuss. There was no mystery, as far as Emma was concerned. She knew what Emily’s problem was, had known about it for a long time. She was only surprised her granddaughter had not asked to discuss it before now. She lifted her head and stared into space reflectively, turning the matter over in her mind, and then she frowned. Two weeks ago she had come to a decision about Emily, and she was convinced it was the right one. But would Emily agree? Yes, she answered herself. The girl will see the sense in it, I’m positive of that. Emma brought her eyes back to the open page of the diary.
Paula would stop by at the end of the afternoon.
She and Paula were to discuss the Cross project. Now, if that is skilfully handled by Paula, and she brings the negotiations to a favourable conclusion, then I’ll have the challenge I’m looking for, Emma thought. Her mouth settled into its familiar resolute lines as she turned her attention to the balance sheets of the Aire Communications Company, owned, by the Crosses. The figures were disastrous – and damning. But its financial problems aside, the company was weighted down with serious afflictions of such enormity they boggled the mind. According to Paula, these could be surmounted and solved, and she had evolved a plan so simple yet so masterful in its premise, Emma had been both intrigued and impressed.
‘Let’s buy the company, Grandy,’ Paula had said to her a few weeks ago. ‘I realize Aire looks like a catastrophe, and actually it is, but only because of its bad management, and its present structure. It’s a hodgepodge. Too diversified. And they have too many divisions. Those that make a good profit can never get properly ahead and really flourish because they’re burdened by the divisions which are in the red, and which they have to support.’ Paula had then walked her through the plan, step by step, and Emma had instantly understood how Aire Communications could be turned round and in no time at all. She had instructed her granddaughter to start negotiating immediately.
How she would love to get her hands on that little enterprise. And perhaps she would, and very soon too, if her reading of the situation was as accurate as she thought. Emma was convinced that no one was better equipped to deal with John Cross and his son, Sebastian, than Paula, who had developed into a tough and shrewd negotiator. She no longer equivocated when Emma hurled her into touchy business situations that required nimble thinking and business acumen, which she possessed in good measure. And of late her self-confidence had grown.
Emma glanced at her watch again, then curbed the impulse to telephone Paula at the store in Leeds, to give her a few last-minute tips about John Cross and how to deal with him effectively. Paula had proved she had come into her own, and Emma did not want her to think she was forever breathing down her neck.
The telephone rang. Emma reached for it. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Aunt Emma. Shane. How are you?’
‘Why Shane, how lovely to hear your voice. And I’m fine, thanks. You sound pretty good yourself. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, at the christening.’ As she spoke, she took off her glasses and laid them on the desk, relaxed in the chair.
‘I was hoping to see you before then, Aunt Emma. How would you like to go out on the town tonight, with two fun-loving bachelors?’
Emma laughed gaily. ‘And who’s the other fun-loving bachelor?’
‘Grandfather, of course, who else?’
‘Fun-loving! He’s getting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, if you ask me.’
‘I wouldn’t be saying that, mavourneen,’ Blackie boomed into the phone, having taken it away from his grandson. ‘I bet I could still give you a run for your money, if I got half the chance.’
‘I’m sure you could, darling.’ Emma smiled into the phone, her heart warming to him. ‘However, I’m afraid you won’t get that chance tonight. I can’t accept your invitation, Blackie dear. Some of the family are arriving later, and I ought to be here.’
‘No,’ Blackie interjected peremptorily. ‘You can see them tomorrow. Ah now, don’t be refusin’ me, darlin’,’ he cajoled. ‘Apart from wanting the pleasure of your lovely company, I need your advice on an important business matter.’
‘Oh!’ Emma was mildly taken aback by this statement. Blackie had retired and left the running of his companies to his son, Bryan, and to Shane. Not unnaturally, her curiosity was piqued, and she said, ‘What kind of business?’
‘I don’t want to be discussing it on the telephone, Emma,’ Blackie said in a softly chiding tone. ‘It’s not something that’s so cut and dried it can be settled in the matter of a few minutes. We have to be going back and forth, you know, dissecting it a bit, and I think we should be doing it over a nice drop of Irish and a fine meal.’
Emma laughed under her breath, wondering how important this so-called business matter really was, but found herself conceding, ‘I suppose I can let them fend for themselves. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t much looking forward to tonight. Even though Daisy and David will be here, the prospect of a family gathering isn’t particularly exciting. So I accept. And where are you and your dashing grandson planning to take me? Out on the town in Leeds isn’t too exciting.’
Laughingly, Blackie concurred and said, ‘But don’t worry, we’ll cook up something, and I promise you won’t be bored.’
‘What time then?’
‘Shane will pick you up around six. Is that all right, me darlin’ girl?’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Good. Good. Until later then. Oh, and Emma?’
‘Yes, Blackie?’
‘Have you given any more thought to me little proposition?’
‘Yes, and I have serious doubts about it working.’
‘Oh, so you’re still me Doubting Emma after all these years, I can see. Well, we’ll discuss that tonight, too, and maybe I can be convincing you yet.’
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured softly as he hung up.
Emma sat back, contemplating Blackie O’Neill. Doubting Emma. A faint smile flickered in her eyes. When had he first called her that? Was it 1904 or 1905? She was no longer sure, but it had been thereabouts, and Blackie had been her dearest, closest friend for all of those sixty-five years. For a whole lifetime. Always there when she needed him, loyal, devoted, supportive and loving. They had been through most of life’s exigencies together, had shared each other’s terrible losses and defeats, pain and anguish; had celebrated each other’s triumphs and joys. Of their contemporaries, there were only the two of them left, and they were closer than ever, inseparable really. She did not know what she would do if anything happened to him. She resolutely squashed this unacceptable thought before it took hold. Blackie was an old war horse, just as she herself was an old war horse, and even though he was eighty-three there was a great deal of surging life and vitality left in him. But no one lasts indefinitely, she thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiousness, whilst acknowledging the inevitable. At their grand ages mortality was a given, one which could not be argued with, and impending death was an old, if unwelcome, familiar.
There was a knock on the door.
Emma glanced at it, adopted her normal expression of cool inscrutability, and called, ‘Come in.’
The door swung open and Alexander entered. He was tall, lean and trim in build, with his mother’s dark good looks, her large, light-blue eyes; but his somewhat serious, saturnine face made him appear older than his twenty-five years, gave him a dignified air. He wore a well-cut dark grey worsted suit, a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, all of which reflected, and reinforced, his rather sober personality.
‘Good morning, Grandmother,’ he said, striding towards her. Reaching the desk, he added, ‘I must say, you’re looking pretty nifty today.’
‘Morning, Alexander, and thank you for the compliment. Mind you, flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me,’ she responded crisply. Nonetheless, her eyes danced and she regarded her grandson fondly.
Alexander kissed her on the cheek, seated himself opposite, and protested, ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, Grandy, honestly I’m not. You do look absolutely spiffing. That colour really suits you and the dress is very chic.’
Emma nodded impatiently, waved her hand in airy dismissal, and fixed her grandson with a keen and penetrating stare. ‘What have you come up with?’
‘The only solution to the Fairley problem,’ Alexander began, understanding she wanted to curtail the small talk and plunge into business. His grandmother loathed procrastination, unless it suited her own ends; then she could elevate procrastination to an art. But she scarcely tolerated it in others, so he rushed on. ‘We have to change our product. By that I mean we have to stop manufacturing the expensive woollens and worsted cloths that hardly anybody is buying, and start weaving blends. Man-made fibres, such as nylon and polyester, blended with wool. Those are our best bets.’
‘And you think this move will get us out of the red and into the black?’ Emma asked, her stare intensifying.
‘Yes, I do, Grandy,’ he replied, sounding sure of himself. ‘One of our chief problems at Fairley has been trying to compete with the man-made fibre goods on the market today. Nobody wants pure wool any more, except the Savile Row boys, and they’re not a big enough market for the Fairley output. Look, either we produce the blends or shut up shop – which you don’t want to do. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Can we make the changeover easily?’
Alexander nodded emphatically. ‘We can. By manufacturing cheaper goods we can capture the more popular-priced markets here and abroad, and do volume sales. Of course, it is a question of sales and getting a real foothold in those new markets. But I’m sure we can pull it off.’ He reached into his inside breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve analysed every aspect of the plan, and I’m certain I’ve not overlooked one thing. Here it is.’
Emma took it from him, reached for her glasses, studied the closely-typed sheet. She recognized immediately that he had done his homework with his usual diligence. He had refined the idea she herself had toyed with, although she had no intention of revealing this, not wishing to undermine him, or diminish his efforts. She looked up, removed her spectacles and gave him the benefit of a warm, congratulatory smile.
‘Well done, Sandy!’ she exclaimed, reverting to the affectionate diminutive of his childhood. ‘You’ve put a lot of sound thinking into this, and I’m delighted, really delighted.’
‘That’s a relief,’ he said, a smile breaking through. Reserved of nature though he was, Alexander was always completely relaxed and outgoing with Emma, who was the one person he truly loved, and now he confessed, ‘I’ve really bashed my brains out on this one, Grandy, played around with all manner of convoluted ideas, I don’t mind telling you. Still, I kept coming back to my original plan for creating the new blends.’ He leaned closer to the desk, and gave her one of her own penetrating stares. ‘But, knowing you, I have a feeling you’d already thought of the solution before you threw the problem at me.’
Emma was tickled at his perceptiveness, but she stifled the laugh that bubbled in her throat. She looked into his candid blue eyes and slowly shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she lied. Then observing his disbelief, she added, ‘But I suppose I would have. Eventually.’
‘You’re damned right you would,’ he acknowledged. He shifted slightly in the chair and crossed his legs, wondering how to break the bit of bad news to her. He decided to jump in with both feet. ‘There is one other thing, though, Grandmother.’ He hesitated, worry suddenly clouding his face. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cut down on our running costs at the mill. Really tighten our belts out there at Fairley, if we want to operate more efficiently – and profitably. I hate to tell you this, but a number of men will have to be laid off.’ There was a slight pause before he finished gloomily, ‘Permanently laid off.’
Emma’s face tightened in aggravation. ‘Oh dear.’ She nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself. ‘Well, I sort of expected that, Alexander. If you have to do it, you have to do it. I presume you’ll be letting the older men go, those who are near retirement age?’ she asked, one brow lifting questioningly.
‘Yes. I think that’s the fairest thing.’
‘See to it that they get a special bonus, severance pay, whatever you want to call it. And naturally their pensions will become effective immediately. No penny pinching, and waiting it out until they actually reach retirement age. I won’t have any of that nonsense, Sandy.’
‘Yes, of course. I second-guessed you on that one. I’m preparing a list of names, and details of our financial obligations to the men. I’ll get it to you next week, if that’s all right with you.’ He sat back, waiting.
Emma made no response. She pushed herself up and walked slowly to the oriel window, where she stood looking down into the magnificent gardens of Pennistone Royal. Concern edged on to her wrinkled face as she ruminated on the mill at Fairley. Her life had been bound up with it in so many different ways. Her father had worked there, and her brother, Frank, when he was only a small boy and should have been at school. Frank had been a bobbin ligger, slaving from early morning until nightfall, hardly able to drag his weary little legs home at the end of the long day, sickly pale from exhaustion and lack of fresh air and sunshine.
Adam Fairley, Jim’s great-grandfather and the Squire of Fairley, had been the owner of the mill then. How she had hated him as a girl; for the best part of her life really. With the wisdom of great age, she knew Adam had not been the tyrant she had believed him to be. But he had been negligent, and that in itself was a crime in her eyes. His monumental negligence and his selfish preoccupation with his personal problems and his all-consuming love for Olivia Wainright had caused grievous trouble for others less fortunate. Yes, Adam Fairley had been guilty of abdicating his duties in the most careless and callous fashion, and without so much as a glance at those poor souls who toiled in his mills: The workers who made his cushioned life of ease and privilege possible, who were dependent on him, and were, in a very real sense, his responsibility. Half a century ago, she commented silently. I may understand something of the man now, but I’ll never forget what he did. Never.
She glanced down at her small but strong hands, soft and well cared for, the nails manicured to expensive perfection. But once those hands had been red and chapped and sore from scrubbing and polishing and washing and cooking for the Fairleys, when she had been bound in service to them as a child. Lifting one hand, she touched her face, and remembered with stunning clarity Murgatroyd’s sharp blows on her cheek. The detestable Murgatroyd, Adam Fairley’s butler, who had been permitted by the squire to rule that pernicious and secretive doomed house with a cruelty that bordered on savagery. Despite his harshness and his unremitting persecution of her, Murgatroyd had never frightened her. It was that monstrous house which had filled her with a nameless terror and from which she had wanted always to flee.
Then, one day, she had owned that great mausoleum of a place – Fairley’s Folly, the villagers had called it – and she had known at once that she would never live in it, would never play the role of the grand lady of the manor. And with a flash of sudden and intense vision she had understood exactly what she must do. She must obliterate it from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. And so she had torn it down, brick by brick by brick, until not a trace of it was left, and she could still recall to this very day the grim satisfaction she had experienced when she had finally razed it to the ground.
Now, across the span of four decades, she heard an echo of her own voice saying to Blackie: ‘And destroy this garden. Demolish it completely. I don’t want a rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’ Blackie had done exactly as she had instructed, uprooting that walled rose garden where Edwin Fairley had so inhumanly and shamefully repudiated her and their child, which she had been carrying. Miraculously, in the space of a few days, the garden, too, had disappeared as if it had never been there at all, and only then had she felt free of the Fairleys at last.
At this time in her life, Emma had acquired the mill. She had done her utmost to give the men proper living wages and overtime and all manner of fringe benefits, and she had kept the village going for years, often at great financial cost to herself. The workers were part of her in a way, for it was from their class that she herself came, and they held a favoured and unique place in her affections. The thought of letting a single one of them go distressed her, yet she had no choice, it seemed. Better, surely, to operate at half her work capacity and keep the mill rolling, than to close it down completely.
Half turning she said, ‘By the way, Alexander, have you discussed any of this with Kit?’
‘Uncle Kit,’ Alexander exclaimed, his startled tone reflecting the expression flicking on to his face. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘For one thing, he hasn’t been around. And for another, he doesn’t seem interested in any of the mills, Fairley least of all. He hasn’t appeared to give a damn since you dumped him out of your will.’
‘That’s a crude way of putting it, I must say!’ Emma snapped, and returned to her desk with a show of briskness. ‘I didn’t dump him, as you call it. I passed him over. For his daughter, remember. As I did your mother for you and Emily, and your Uncle Robin for Jonathan. And you know the reasons why, so I won’t bother elucidating on them again. Also, let’s not forget that my will doesn’t come into effect until I die. Which won’t be for a long time, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Or me either,’ Alexander cried swiftly, as always dismayed by her talk of dying.
Emma smiled at him, fully aware of his devotion to her, his genuine concern for her well being. She continued, in that business-like tone, ‘Well, so much for Kit. Mmmm. Of course, I realized he was being a bit derelict in his duties; on the other hand, I did think he made an occasional visit, if only for appearances’ sake.’
‘Oh yes, he does do that. But he’s so morose and uncommunicative he might as well not be there,’ Alexander explained, adding, as an afterthought, ‘I can’t begin to guess what he does with his time these days.’
‘Not much, if I know my eldest son. He never was blessed with much imagination,’ Emma shot back sardonically, the suggestion of a disdainful smirk playing on her mouth. She made a mental note to talk to Kit’s daughter, Sarah, about her father’s present mood. Morose indeed, Emma thought, with disgust. He brought his troubles on entirely by himself. No, not true. Robin gave him a helping hand, and Elizabeth and Edwina, his cohorts in the plot against me. Aware that Alexander was waiting expectantly, Emma finished, ‘Anyway, since Kit’s not around, he’s not going to hamper you – as he has so often in the past. Your way is clear. Put this plan into operation immediately. You have my blessing.’
‘Thanks, Grandy.’ He leaned forward, said with earnestness, ‘We are doing the right thing.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘And don’t worry about the men who are to be retired. They will be all right, really they will.’
She glanced at him quickly, her eyes narrowed under the hooded lids. She thought: I am so glad it’s not Alexander whom I suspect of treachery and duplicity. That I could not bear. It would kill me. She said, ‘It pleases me that you’ve always been so involved with the Fairley mill, and on such a personal basis, Sandy. You care, and that’s important to me. And I appreciate your understanding … I mean of my involvement with that particular mill.’ She smiled wryly and shook her head. ‘The past, you know, is always with us, always reaching out to claim part of us, and I learned a very long time ago that we cannot escape it.’
‘Yes,’ he said laconically, but the look in his eyes expressed so much more.
Emma said, ‘I’ve decided to go to the Fairley mill next week. I’ll be the one to explain the changes we’re going to make. Tell them about the retirements myself, in my own words. It’s only proper.’
‘Yes, it is, Grandy. And they’ll be thrilled to see you. They all worship you, but then you know that.’
‘Humph!’ she snorted. ‘Don’t be so foolish, Alexander. And don’t exaggerate. You know I can’t abide exaggeration.’
Alexander swallowed a smile, remained silent, watching her closely as she sorted through some of the papers on the desk, her head bent. She had spoken swiftly, crossly even, but there had been a curious gruffness in her voice, and he knew that she had been touched by his words. He was amused by her mild chastisement. It was a hoot. Her whole life had been an extraordinary exaggeration, for God’s sake. Why, she was larger than life.
‘Are you still here?’ Emma said, glancing up, frowning and feigning annoyance. ‘I thought you’d be halfway to the office by now, with all you’ve got to do today. Get along with you!’
Alexander laughed, jumped up and went around the desk. He hugged her to him, and kissed the crown of her silvery head. ‘There’s nobody like you in this entire world, Emma Harte,’ he said gently. ‘Nobody like you at all.’
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_dd07b5ac-effa-51f3-8fe0-0a4b9040748c)
‘Nobody in this world but Emma Harte would have come up with such a preposterous proposition,’ Sebastian Cross cried indignantly, glaring, his face turning choleric.
‘She didn’t come up with it, I did,’ Paula replied in her coldest voice, returning his angry look with a steady unblinking gaze.
‘Tommy rot! It’s your grandmother talking, not you!’
Paula felt herself stiffening in the chair, and she suppressed the swift denial that sprang to her lips. Self-control was essential in all business dealings, and particularly with this odious man. She would not permit him to put her down, nor bait her with his inference that her grandmother was manipulating this negotiation from afar.
‘Think what you will,’ she said, after a slight pause. ‘But regardless of whoever formulated the deal, that’s it, as I’ve outlined it. It’s a take it or leave it situation.’
‘Then we’ll leave it, thank you very much,’ Sebastian shot back, filled with rancorous hatred for her and her strange yet compelling beauty, her money and her power. His dark eyes blazed, as he added, ‘Who the hell needs you or your grandmother.’
‘Now, now, Sebastian, let’s not be too hasty,’ John Cross soothed. ‘And please, do calm down.’ He threw his son a cautionary look, then turned to Paula, his whole manner unexpectedly conciliatory. ‘You must make allowances for my son. Naturally he’s rather upset. After all, your proposal came as something of a shock to him. He is very committed to Aire Communications, as I have always been, and he has no desire to leave the company. Neither do I. In short, we both expect, indeed fully intend, to continue in our present positions. I as chairman of the board, and Sebastian as managing director. Harte Enterprises would have to agree to that.’
‘I don’t believe that is possible, Mr Cross,’ Paula said.
‘Forget it, Dad,’ Sebastian almost shouted. ‘We’ll go elsewhere for the money.’
‘You’ve nowhere else to go,’ Paula could not help retorting icily, reaching for her briefcase on the conference room table. She stood up, announced with finality, ‘Since we seem to have reached an impasse, there’s obviously nothing more to say. I think I’d better leave.’
John Cross sprang to his feet, took her arm. ‘Please,’ he said quietly. ‘Please sit down. Let’s talk a little more about this.’
Paula hesitated, staring at him. Throughout their relatively short meeting, whilst his son had blustered and snarled, John Cross had adopted a stance of inflexibility, displayed a quiet but firm resoluteness to make the deal on his terms, despite their original understanding. Now, for the first time, she detected a sign of wavering on his part. And whether he was aware of it or not, the preceding months of tension and anxiety had taken their toll. The troubles of his floundering company were much in evidence, clearly imprinted on his gaunt and weary face, and there was a quiet desperation behind the bloodshot eyes which held a hint of new panic. He knows I’m right about everything, she thought, carefully assessing him yet again, but he just won’t admit it. The fool. She instantly corrected herself. The man standing before her had built up Aire Communications from nothing, so she could hardly characterize him as a fool. Misguided, yes; and, regrettably, he suffered from the serious malady of paternal blindness. He had long invested his son with qualities Sebastian did not possess, nor was ever likely to possess, and therein lay his downfall.
‘All right,’ she said at last, seating herself tentatively on the edge of the chair. ‘I’ll stay for a few minutes to hear what you have to say. But very frankly, I meant it when I said we’d reached an impasse.’
‘That’s not strictly true, in my opinion,’ he responded, smiling faintly, and his relief at her continuing presence in his board room was barely concealed as he took a cigarette and lit it. ‘Your proposition is a bit preposterous, you know. We want new financing. We don’t want to be taken over and thrown out of our own company. No, no, that’s not what we had in mind when we came to you,’ he finished, shaking his head several times for added emphasis.
Paula gazed at him in amazement. She gave him a curious smile. ‘You’ve just pin-pointed the crux of the matter. You came to us, remember. We didn’t seek you out. And you certainly knew enough about Harte Enterprises, and how we operate, to understand that we never invest in companies that are in trouble. We take those over, reorganize them, and put them under new management. Our management. In other words, we get them running smoothly, efficiently, and on a profitable basis. We’re not interested in financing other people’s continuing disasters. It doesn’t pay.’
John Cross winced at this unmistakable thrust, but resisted the parry. Instead he said, ‘Quite so, quite so. I’ve been thinking … Maybe we can arrive at a workable compromise–’
‘Dad! Don’t!’ Sebastian exploded irately, moving violently in his chair.
His father held up one hand, and frowned at him. ‘Hear me out, Sebastian. Now, Paula, here’s what I think we might do, how we might make a deal after all. Harte Enterprises could buy fifty-two per cent of Aire Communications’ shares. That gives you the control you insist you must have. You put in your management, reorganize as you wish, but you must let us stay with – ’
‘Dad! What are you saying? Are you crazy?’ Sebastian bellowed, his flushed face darkening considerably. ‘Where would that leave us? I’ll tell you where. Out in the bloody cold, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Sebastian! Please,’ John Cross shouted back, finally losing his composure, his exasperation running high. ‘Let me finish for once in my life.’
‘Just a minute, Mr Cross,’ Paula cut in rapidly, her irritation echoing in her voice. ‘Before you go any further, I must point out, yet again, that we wouldn’t be interested. It must be a full buy out. One hundred per cent or nothing. And I told you this right from the – ’
‘That’s the old monster talking again, Dad,’ Sebastian interrupted derisively, his mouth contorted into an ugly line. ‘Emma Harte! Jesus Christ, the only heart she’s got is in her name. Don’t deal with them, Dad. They’re vultures, both of them, and this one learned well at the knee of the master, that’s patently bloody obvious. She wants to swallow us up, in the same way her grandmother has swallowed up companies over the years. I told you, we don’t need them.’
Paula chose to ignore this unruly and vindictive outburst, deeming it unworthy of a response. She focused all of her attention on John Cross. She was appalled at his deviousness and enraged, but controlling herself, she said as evenly as possible, ‘I started to say, that I quite clearly recall mentioning the full buy out to you, Mr Cross, long before today’s meeting. I find it hard to believe you’ve forgotten the protracted conversations we’ve had about that very matter.’ She gave him a hard stare, wondering if he thought she was stupid.
John Cross coloured under her sharp scrutiny. He remembered her initial statements only too well. But he had hoped to get Harte Enterprises interested in the company, whet Emma Harte’s appetite, then structure the deal to suit himself. He had been elated when he had realized it was Paula who would do the negotiating. He had believed he could manipulate her, and the situation, to his advantage. His plan, had somehow misfired. Maybe Sebastian was right. Yes, Emma Harte was undoubtedly working behind the scenes; all of this had her unmistakable stamp to it. An unreasonable anger surged through him, and he exclaimed heatedly, ‘Look here, you’re not being fair.’
‘Fair,’ Paula repeated. She smiled thinly, added in a clipped tone, ‘The issues of fair or unfair just won’t play in this instance.’ She held him with her startlingly blue eyes. ‘I’m surprised to hear you use that word. I told you, at the outset of today’s meeting, that Harte Enterprises is prepared to pay you two million pounds for Aire Communications. That’s more than fair. It’s downright generous. Your company is in an unholy mess. It could go belly up at any moment.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose that’s your affair, Mr Cross, not mine,’ She leaned forward, grasped the handle of her briefcase. ‘We seem to have nothing further to say to each other.’
The senior Cross said, ‘If, and I am saying if, we do decide to accept your offer, can my son and I remain with the company?’
She shook her head.
John Cross thought rapidly, came to an unpalatable but necessary decision. ‘I would be willing to step aside. After all, I am near retirement age.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, fixed his pale eyes on her. ‘However,’ he went on firmly, ‘you must reconsider your decision regarding Sebastian. No one knows this company like my son. Why, he would be invaluable to you. I must insist that he be appointed to the new board of directors and that he be given a contract for five years as special consultant. I would have to have your guarantee on that, and in writing, before we can proceed any further.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no place in Aire Communications for your son if we take the company over.’
The older man was silent.
Sebastian looked pointedly at his father, his expression at once both baleful and condemning. John Cross dropped his eyes, unable to meet that accusatory gaze, toyed with his gold pen, said nothing at all. Sebastian leaped up angrily, seething, and strode across the board room. He stood looking out of the window, his body rigid, and he cursed Paula Fairley under his breath.
Paula’s glance followed Sebastian. She felt the malignancy and alertness in him, but intuitively so, for she could not see his face. It was turned into the shadows cast by the window and the buildings outside. Involuntarily she shivered and brought her eyes back to his father. They regarded each other alertly, each wondering which one of them would make the next move. Neither did.
Paula saw a thin, grey-haired man in his early sixties, a self-made man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, and who, in the process, had acquired a distinguished air and a degree of superficial polish. He was also a frightened man. His company was sinking like a torpedoed battleship with a gaping hole in its bow, yet seemingly he was prepared to spurn the life belt she had thrown him because of his love for his son. The son who had so badly mismanaged Aire Communications that he had brought it to its present weakened and crippled state. She noticed a muscle twitching in the elder Cross’s face and glanced away.
John Cross, for his part, sat facing a young woman of great elegance in her grooming and her dress. She wore a magenta wool suit, magnificently cut and tailored, obviously a pricey piece of haute couture, with a man-tailored shirt of white silk. There was an absence of jewellery, except for a simple watch and a plain gold wedding band. He knew that Paula McGill Amory Fairley was only in her mid-twenties, yet she gave the impression of being so much older with her inbred caution, her cool authoritative manner. She reminded him of her famous grandmother, even though her colouring was so different. The glossy black hair, cut in a straight bob that grazed her jawline, the blue eyes flicked with violet, and the ivory complexion were unquestionably striking; but whereas Emma’s fabled russet-golden tints had always suggested softness and beguiling femininity, Paula’s beauty was somewhat austere, at least to suit his taste in women. Neither were her features quite as perfect as Emma’s had once been. Still, they did share the same aura of presence, and she had apparently inherited the old lady’s steely toughness as well as that uncommon widow’s peak, those sharp eyes that penetrated with a keen intelligence. His heart sank as he continued to study that palely beautiful but obdurate face.
He would never win with her. As this unpleasant realization sank in he did another volte-face, made yet another decision, and this one was final. He would seek financing from another source and insist that the deal include Sebastian. He must ensure his boy’s future with the company – one which had been built up expressly for him. That was the only thing he could do; the right and proper thing to do. Yes, he must protect his son above all else, otherwise what had his life been about?
John Cross was the one who broke the prolonged silence. ‘We are deadlocked, Paula. I have to pass.’ He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, then let them fall on to the conference table limply. ‘Thank you for your time. And please tell your grandmother that her terms are too harsh for my palate.’
Paula laughed softly as they both rose. ‘They’re my terms, Mr Cross, but I won’t labour the point.’ Being a courteous young woman she thrust out her hand. ‘I wish you lots of luck,’ she said with studied politeness.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice equally as civil as hers but not quite as steady. ‘Let me escort you to the lift.’
As they passed the window, Paula said, ‘Goodbye, Sebastian.’
He swivelled his dark head, nodded curtly, and she was so startled by the naked hatred etched on his cold and bitter face she hardly heard his muttered response. She had recognized a most dangerous enemy.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_4ab9caf2-2c20-50fd-b48f-7a1ae8a2b4de)
Paula was blazing mad.
Walking rapidly down the Headrow, one of the main thoroughfares in Leeds, she soon put distance between herself and the Aire Communications building. Her mind was racing. Although she had felt the sharp thrust of Sebastian Cross’s vindictive and combative personality, had readily acknowledged that he detested her and had become her arch enemy, her thoughts now centred on his father, and with good reason. Having more or less agreed to her terms right from the start, John Cross had ultimately reneged, and, moreover, in the most treacherous and despicable way.
It did not require much analysis on her part to understand why he had done so. It was apparent that he did not want to lose face in front of his domineering son, whose presence had unnerved him, made him defensive and, very possibly, more reckless than he had ever been in his entire life. Yet surely his honour and integrity were important to him too, took precedence over everything else? And what about retaining his son’s respect? She laughed hollowly at herself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. A young man of Sebastian’s perfidious nature had never made the acquaintance of those particular qualities. During the meeting, when she had understood that John Cross was not to be trusted, she had been momentarily astonished. He enjoyed a good reputation in Yorkshire’s business community, had always been considered honourable if not necessarily the wisest of men. That he would go back on his word was inconceivable to her.
Her pace accelerated, and so did her anger, as she recalled the energy and thought and time she had expended on Aire Communications. Her grandmother was going to be as infuriated as she was. Emma Harte would not tolerate being played for a fool; neither could she abide anyone who did not deal from a straight deck. Grandy would handle the situation in one of two ways. She would either shrug disdainfully and turn away in disgust, or she would treat Mr Cross to a tongue lashing the likes of which he had never heard before. Her grandmother had an intractable sense of honour, never went back on her handshake or her word, both of which were as good as a written contract, as the whole world knew.
The thought of Emma Harte putting the duplicitous John Cross firmly in his place brought a flicker of a smile to Paula’s violet-blue eyes. He deserved that if nothing else. But in reality he was facing much worse than Emma’s acid tongue and her virulent condemnation. He was looking disaster right in the eye. Bankruptcy. Total ruin. Obliteration. She knew he was convinced that he could easily find another conglomerate or company to refinance Aire. She also knew he was absolutely wrong in this foolish belief. She had her ear to the ground, and the word was out. Nobody wanted to touch Aire Communications. Not even those ruthless and rapacious asset strippers who bought companies, plundered them, and then tossed to one side the empty shells which were left.
It suddenly occurred to Paula, as she cut down Albion Street, that, Unbelievable though it was, John Cross had no real conception of what was about to happen to him or his company. She thought then of those he would take down with him, and of the many employees at Aire who would be thrown out of work. We could have saved him, more importantly saved them, she muttered under her breath. The man is unconscionable. Ever since she could remember, her grandmother had instilled a sense of responsibility in her, and this was one of the mandatory rules in Emma’s special code of ethics.
‘Great wealth and power bring enormous responsibilities, and don’t you ever forget that,’ Grandy had told her time and time again. ‘We must always look after those who work for us, and with us, because they help to make all this possible. And they rely on us, just as we rely on them in other ways,’ she had constantly pointed out. Paula was well aware that there were those magnates and industrialists who were jealous of Emma Harte, and who, as adversaries, misguidedly saw her as a hard, ruthless, driven and power-hungry woman. Yet even they did not have the temerity to deny that she was eminently fair. That was something every Harte employee knew from firsthand experience, hence their extraordinary loyalty and devotion to her grandmother, and their love for her.
Paula stopped abruptly, and took several deep breaths. She must get rid of the anger boiling inside her. It was exhausting, took too much of her precious energy – energy which could be directed elsewhere and to much better purpose. And besides, rage blocked reasonable and intelligent thought. She started to walk again, but now her step was slower and more regulated, and by the time she reached Commercial Street she had managed to calm herself considerably. She dawdled a little bit, stopping to glance in shop windows, until finally she was drawing to a standstill in front of E. Harte, her grandmother’s huge department store at the end of the street. She smiled at the uniformed doorman, whom she had known since childhood. ‘Hello, Alfred,’ she said, smiling.
‘’Ello, Miss Paula,’ he responded with a benevolent grin, touching his cap. ‘It’s a right beautiful day. Yes, luvely, it is that, Miss Paula. Let’s ’ope t’weather ’olds til termorrer, for yer bairns’ baptisms.’
‘Yes, let’s hope so, Alfred.’
He grinned again and pushed open the door for her. She thanked him, hurried through the perfumery department and took the lift to her office on the fourth floor. Her secretary, Agnes, looked up as she walked in, and exclaimed, with a small frown, ‘Oh dear, Mrs Fairley, you’ve just missed Mr O’Neill. Shane O’Neill, that is, and only by a few minutes too. What a shame. He waited for quite a while, then had to rush off to an appointment.’
‘Oh.’ Paula stopped dead in her tracks, taken aback, but she recovered herself, and asked quickly, ‘Did he say why he dropped in? Or leave a message?’
‘I gathered he was passing the store and decided to say hello on the spur of the moment. No message though, other than to tell you he would be coming to the christening.’
‘I see. Anything else, Agnes?’
‘Mr Fairley phoned from London. You can’t call him back, he was on his way to a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. He’ll be arriving on schedule, at six, with your parents. The other messages are on your desk. Nothing vital.’ Agnes hesitated, then asked, ‘How did your meeting go at Aire?’
Paula made a sour face. ‘Not good, Agnes. In fact I’d venture to say that it went extremely badly.’
‘I am sorry, Mrs Fairley. I know the amount of work you put in on those dreadful balance sheets, and then the hours you devoted to the contracts.’ Agnes Fuller, prematurely grey at thirty-eight, plain of feature and with a severe expression that actually betrayed the kindest of hearts, had worked her way up through the ranks of the Leeds store. She had been flattered yet apprehensive when Paula had promoted her to private secretary. After all, Paula was the heiress apparent, and Emma Harte’s favourite; also, there were those in the store who thought she was cold, remote, unyielding and something of a snob who lacked Emma’s extraordinary common touch. But Agnes had soon discovered that Paula had none of the characteristics so unkindly attributed to her by detractors. She was reserved of nature – even a little shy – cautious and prudent, and a veritable work horse, and these traits had, very simply, been misconstrued. Over the past three years, Agnes had come to love the younger woman, was admiring of her, and considered her to be a brilliant executive who was a warm and caring person and a considerate employer.
As she peered at her young boss through her bifocals, Agnes noticed that Paula was paler than usual, and drawn. She gave her a look of sympathy mingled with regret. ‘It’s all very annoying,’ she clucked in commiseration, shaking her head. ‘And I hope you’re not going to let it bother you, particularly this weekend.’
‘No, I won’t, I promise you that,’ Paula reassured. ‘As my grandmother always says, you win a few, lose a few. We lost this one – ’ She did not finish, and a reflective expression settled on her face. ‘But, come to think of it, perhaps that’s just as well.’ There was a thoughtful pause, before she finished, ‘Excuse me, Agnes, I’ll see you shortly.’
Paula went into her office and sat down at the huge antique partners’ desk which dominated the room. After taking the Aire Communications papers out of her briefcase, she picked up a red pen and wrote dead in capitals across the front of the bulging folder. She rose, went to the filing cabinet and slipped it inside, then returned to her desk. The deal was dead as far as she was concerned. The negotiations had ended in a fiasco, and, in consequence, she had lost all interest in Aire Communications.
More than any other of the Harte offspring, Paula had inherited an unusual number of Emma’s characteristics, and those she had not been born with she had acquired by osmosis, from years of working at Emma’s side. Chief amongst these was the ability to admit any kind of mistake with openness and candour, and then put it behind her philosophically. Like Emma, she would invariably say: It didn’t work. Perhaps my judgement was flawed. But let’s go on from here. We mustn’t look back.
And this was exactly what she said to herself now. In her mind, Aire Communications was already a thing of the past. If she had gravely misjudged John Cross and wasted a great deal of time and effort on him, she had no intention of compounding these errors by dwelling on them unnecessarily. She wondered whether she ought to give her grandmother a ring, to explain what had happened, then decided against it. Grandy was seeing both Alexander and Emily this morning, and was bound to be busy. Later, she would drive out to Pennistone Royal, as arranged, and apprise her of the situation. Grandy is going to be disappointed, of course, she thought, sorting through the sheaf of messages. But that won’t last long, and I’ll soon find another project for her.
Picking up the telephone, Paula returned all of her business calls, signed the stack of letters Agnes had typed, and then sat back in the chair, glancing at her personal messages.
Her mother had called. Nothing important. Don’t bother to call back. Will see you tonight, Agnes had scribbled, then added one of her inimitable postscripts. Mrs Amory sounded marvellous, elated about tomorrow. We had a lovely chat. She’s got a new hairstyle, and is wearing a grey Christian Dior suit for the event.
Paula smiled at Agnes’s comments, then scanned the message from her cousin, Sarah Lowther. Apparently she was fighting a cold and might not be well enough to attend the christening. But she didn’t sound at all sick, Agnes had written cryptically. How strange, Paula thought, frowning and re-reading the slip of paper. Sarah obviously doesn’t want to come. I wonder why? Since she could not hazard a guess, she turned to the last message. Miranda O’Neill was at the Leeds office of O’Neill Hotels International. Please call her back before lunch, Agnes had instructed.
Paula immediately dialled Miranda’s private number. The line was busy, as it usually was when she was in the city. Like her grandfather, Miranda had what the poet Dylan Thomas had called ‘the beautiful gift of the gab’. She could easily be talking for the next hour. Automatically, Paula’s thoughts turned to Miranda’s brother, Shane, and instantly she saw his vivid laughing face in her mind’s eye. She was terribly disappointed she had missed him earlier. Such a visit had become a rarity. For years he had made it a habit to drop in on her both in Leeds and London, and when these unexpected visits had ceased abruptly she had been hurt and baffled.
Shane O’Neill, son of Bryan, grandson of Blackie, had been Paula’s closest friend since childhood. They had grown up with each other, had spent all of their school holidays together, and they had been inseparable for most of their lives, so much so that Emma had nicknamed Paula the Shadow. As her mind lingered on Shane, she realized she had not set eyes on him for many, many months. He was constantly travelling these days, dashing off to Spain and the Caribbean, where a number of the O’Neill hotels were located, and when he was in England, and if she chanced to run into him, he had a preoccupied air and a distant manner. She exhaled softly, slowly. How odd it was that their closeness should end with such finality, as it had two years ago. It still puzzled her. When she had eventually tackled Shane, had asked him what had happened between them, he had looked at her in the most peculiar way, and denied that anything had. He had blamed business and his time-consuming schedule for his absence from her life. Perhaps he had simply outgrown her. Childhood friendships often did change radically; very frequently they deteriorated to such an extent they could never be reinstated. Regrettably, she thought. And I do miss him. I wish I’d been here this morning.
The buzz of the telephone cut into her thoughts. She reached for it. Agnes said, ‘It’s Miss O’Neill, Mrs Fairley.’
‘Thanks, Agnes, put her through, please.’
A split second later Miranda’s lilting voice flowed over the wire. ‘Hello, Paula. I thought I’d better call you again, since my phone’s been busy for ages.’
‘That’s par for the course,’ Paula said with an affectionate laugh. ‘When did you get in from London?’
‘Last night. I drove up with Shane. And for the last time, I don’t mind telling you. He’s a maniac in a car. The tyres sizzled the roads. I thought we’d end up in a ditch. I’ll never know how I got here safe and sound. I was so shaken up, and white, when we arrived at the house, Mummy knew immediately what had happened. She’s forbidden me to drive with him again. She gave him quite a piece of her mind, and – ’
‘I’ll bet,’ Paula broke in, with another laugh. ‘Your mother thinks the sun shines out of Shane. He can’t do anything wrong in her eyes.’
‘Well, he’s in the doghouse at the moment, my dear. She really told him off, and so did Dad.’
‘Shane came to see me today, Miranda.’
‘Hey, that’s good news. Like you, I can’t understand why he’s so aloof with you these days, but then he’s a strange one, that big brother of mine. Too much of the Celt in him, perhaps. Anyway, what did he have to say?’
‘Nothing, Miranda, since I wasn’t here. I was out at a meeting.’
‘Too bad. Still, he’s coming to the christening. I know you had your doubts, but he told me he was definitely going to go. He even offered to drive me.’ Miranda groaned in mock horror at this idea. ‘I declined. I was going to go with Grandpops, but naturally he’s escorting Aunt Emma. So I’ll toddle over by myself. Listen, Paula, apart from wanting to say hello, I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch? I’ve got to come over to the store to pick up a package for my mother. I could meet you in the Birdcage in half an hour. What do you think?’
‘That’s a nice suggestion, Merry. I’ll see you there at noon.’
‘It’s a date,’ Miranda said. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ As she began clearing her desk of papers, Paula was suddenly glad Miranda had suggested lunch. Her friend was a delight to be with, and a very special girl, with her naturalness, her sweetness, her gaiety and effervescence. She had a joyous, carefree disposition, and laughter sprang readily to her lips, undoubtedly the reason why her nickname Mirry had soon turned into Merry when she was small.
Paula smiled to herself, wondering what Miranda was wearing today, what surprise was in store for her. The twenty-three-year-old girl had a penchant for creating the most outlandish outfits – costumes really – but they were put together with imagination and style, and she certainly carried them off with élan. They would have looked perfectly ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow they were exactly right on Miranda O’Neill. Apart from suiting her tall, somewhat boyish figure, they were an adjunct to her fey and whimsical personality. Or so it seemed to Paula, who considered Merry to be an original, the one genuine free spirit she knew. Her grandmother was equally fond of Miranda, and said that Blackie’s granddaughter was the best tonic in the world for all of them, because she chased their blues away. ‘There’s not a bad bone in that girl’s body,’ Emma had remarked to Paula recently. ‘And now that she’s grown up she reminds me a lot of her grandmother. There’s a good deal of Laura Spencer in Merry – Laura’s true goodness for one thing. Also, there’s a wise head on those young shoulders, and I’m pleased you two have become such good friends. Every woman needs a close and trusted friend of the same sex. I should know. I never really had one after Laura died.’
Remembering these words of Emma’s, Paula thought: But she always had Blackie, and she still has him; whereas I’ve lost Shane. Funny, though, that Miranda and I drew closer together once Shane had dropped out …
There was a knock and Agnes poked her head around the door. ‘These proofs just came up from the advertising department. Can you give them your okay?’
‘Yes, come in, Agnes.’
‘They’re the advertisements for the spring fashion sales,’ Agnes explained, handing them to her.
After studying the newspaper advertisements for a few seconds, Paula initialled the proofs, gave them back to her secretary and stood up. ‘I’m going out on to the floor for a while. Could you phone the Birdcage, Agnes, and tell them I’ll need my usual table, please. At noon.’
‘Right away,’ Agnes said as they went out together.
When Emma Harte had first opened the café on the second floor of the Leeds store, she had called it the Elizabethan Gazebo, and had decorated it in the style of an English country garden. Such things as handpainted wallpaper depicting pastoral scenes, panels of white trellis, artificial topiary animals, and antique birdcages combined to create a most enchanting little setting.
Over the years, as she refurbished the café, the name changed to match the theme, or vice versa. But always a garden or outdoor motif prevailed, often with an international flavour, as Emma had given rein to her imagination and fantasies with flair and not a little wit. After a trip to the Bosphorus, with Paul McGill, she had been inspired to create the effect of a courtyard in a Seraglio. Mosaic tiles, silver wallpaper painted with peacocks, potted palms and a splashing fountain were combined in the new design. She had called the café Turkish Delight, and had been delighted herself to witness its instantaneous popularity as a smart gathering place, not only for women shoppers but local businessmen who came in for lunch. Several years later, Emma decided a more homespun motif was in order. Highland Fling was the name she chose, and the setting took on the appearance of a Scottish castle yard, featuring rustic furniture and colourful tartans. Eventually this ambience gave way to one which suggested an Oriental teahouse and drew its inspiration from the elegant decorative elements of the Far East. The café was renamed the China Doll. Then came the Balalaika, redolent of nineteenth-century Russia; after that it was transformed into Riviera Terrace, and in 1960 Emma redid the café yet again. This time she used a sophisticated theme based on the skyline of New York City, lining the walls with giant-sized photographic murals of Manhattan. The decor suggested a big-city roof garden and she called it Skyscrapers. But by the late summer of 1968 Emma had grown tired of this decorative mood, and, as the café needed a complete overhaul at this time, she gave the project to Paula, asking her to create something different.
Paula knew everything there was to know about all of the stores in the Harte chain, and she remembered the photographs she had seen of the original Elizabethan Gazebo. She went into the archives, dug out the original plans and sketches, and was instantly struck by the uniqueness and beauty of the antique birdcages. Since she was aware they were stored in packing cases in the basement, she had them brought up and unwrapped. And so the current theme and the latest name were born.
Paula had the wooden and brass birdcages repainted or repolished and, after finding more to add to the collection, she featured them throughout the restaurant. They stood out beautifully against a background of lime-green wallpaper over-patterned with a sharp white trellis design; white wicker chairs and matching tables with glass tops reiterated the outdoor mood. Paula loved all growing things, was, in fact, a gifted gardener, and so her final, masterful touch was a lush assortment of small trees, flowering shrubs and plants. It was the many pots of hydrangeas and azaleas that gave the Birdcage its cachet, and this real garden within the heart of the store bloomed in all seasons under her personal supervision. Emma had recognized at once that it was an evocation of her own first design and as such a little tribute to her, and she was flattered.
A few minutes after twelve, on this Friday morning, Paula hurried into the Birdcage and as always she was struck by the refreshing sight of the flowers and foliage, one which appeared to cheer everyone up. Moving between the tables, where morning shoppers were settling down to lunch, Paula saw that Miranda O’Neill had already arrived. Her burnished copper hair, cascading in a glorious mass of waves and curls around her heart-shaped face, seemed to catch and hold all the light, was like a shining beacon at the far side of the room. Miranda glanced up from the menu she was perusing, saw Paula, and waved.
‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ Paula apologized when she reached the table. ‘I was delayed in the Designer Salon. We’ve been having the most awful trouble with the new lighting, and I wanted to check on it again. It’s still not right I’m afraid.’ She bent down and kissed her friend, slipped into the next chair.
Miranda grinned a little impishly, and said, ‘Oh dear, the trials and tribulations of running a store! I’ll swap jobs with you any day. Doing public relations for a chain of hotels can be the pits at times.’
‘If I remember correctly, you really badgered your father for that job.’
‘That’s true. But I wouldn’t have, if I’d known what I was letting myself in for,’ Miranda grumbled, making a long face. But she then had the good grace to laugh, and admitted, ‘I suppose I enjoy it really. It’s only occasionally that I feel the pressure. But right now I’m in Dad’s good books. He’s very happy with my latest campaign, and he even went so far as to say I’d been innovative the other day. That’s praise indeed from him. He’s not given to paying me compliments, as you know. He even said that if I behave myself he’s going to send me to Barbados in a few weeks, to look over the hotel we’ve just bought there. By the time we’ve remodelled it and redecorated, it’ll be super de luxe and as elegant as the Sandy Lane. We all believe it’s going to be an important addition to our chain.’
‘That’s marvellous, Merry. Really exciting for you. Now, shall we order? I don’t want to rush you, but I have to leave the store early today.’
‘No problem, I’m a bit pushed myself.’ Miranda glanced at the menu again, said, ‘I’ll have the plaice and chips, I think.’
‘Good idea. I’ll join you.’ Paula caught the attention of the waitress, ordered, and then turned to Miranda, looking her over quickly, at once captivated by her outfit. Today she was wearing a rather theatrically-styled jerkin with a wide, flaring collar and three-quarter sleeves, and it was laced up the front over a white silk shirt with longer sleeves. There was a twinkle in Paula’s eyes as she said, ‘You look like a female Robin Hood, in all that Sherwood Green suede, Merry. The only things that are missing are a quiver of arrows and a perky little felt hat with a sweeping feather.’
Miranda broke into laughter. ‘Don’t think I don’t have the hat! I do. But I didn’t dare wear it to lunch, in case you’d think I was bonkers. Everyone else does.’ She swivelled in the chair to reveal her legs, which were encased in tight green-suede pants and matching boots that came up above her knees. ‘When Shane saw me this morning he said I looked like the Principal Boy in a pantomime. I went the whole hog with this outfit, I’m afraid. Is it too theatrical?’
‘Not really. And you could have worn the hat. I for one happen to like you in your fanciful costumes.’
Miranda looked pleased. ‘Coming from the elegant you that’s a real compliment.’ Leaning closer, she hurried on, ‘Are you and Jim busy tonight? I was wondering if I could invite you out to dinner?’
‘I’d love you to join us tonight, if you won’t be bored. Grandy’s having a family dinner at Pennistone Royal.’
‘I’m not sure that that’s still on, Paula. Your grandmamma has a hot date with my grandfather.’ Miranda’s laugh held a hint of mischief, which was reflected in her eyes, as she said, ‘Can you imagine, and at their ages!’
Paula was thrown by this statement. ‘Oh, you must be mistaken. I’m certain Grandy intends to be there.’
‘I’m not wrong, honestly I’m not. I heard Shane talking to my father a little while ago. Grandfather is taking Aunt Emma out to dinner. But I was only teasing when I said they had a hot date, since Shane’s going with them.’
‘Then Grandy must have changed her plans,’ Paula said, dreading the thought of the dinner without her grandmother’s presence. ‘I expect my mother will play hostess in her place, since I can’t imagine Grandy actually cancelling it without talking to me first.’
‘No, I don’t think she would do that.’ Leaning forward again, her manner still teasing, Miranda said, ‘When my grandfather and your grandmother get together, they’re incorrigible. I told him the other day that it was about time he made an honest woman out of Aunt Emma and married her.’
‘If anyone’s incorrigible, it’s you, Merry! And what did Uncle Blackie say to that?’
‘He chuckled, and told me he’d only been waiting for my approval, and now that he had it he was going to pop the question. ’Course, I knew he was only kidding me in return. But to tell you the truth, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, do you?’
Paula merely smiled. She said, ‘Anyway, getting back to the family dinner, you’re very welcome. Come around seven-thirty for drinks. Dinner’s at eight-thirty.’
‘You are a darling, Paula. Thank you. You’ve just rescued me from a boring evening with Ma and Pa. All they do these days is talk about the baby.’
‘I’m not sure your evening with us will be much more stimulating. My mother has become something of a doting grandma. All she does is rave about the twins. I can’t seem to shut her up.’
‘But I adore Aunt Daisy. She’s such a lovely woman, and not a bit like the rest of you – ’ Miranda stopped, horrified at her words. Her pale, freckled face flamed to scarlet.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Paula demanded, a dark brow arching as she pretended to be insulted, but the amusement touching her mouth betrayed her.
‘I didn’t mean it the way it came out,’ Miranda exclaimed in embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t referring to you or Aunt Emma, or your cousins, but to your aunts and uncles actually. I am sorry, though. It was rather rude of me.’
‘Don’t apologize, I happen to agree with you.’ Paula fell silent thinking specifically of her Aunt Edwina, the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, who was due to arrive from Ireland later that day. It was because of Edwina that she and Jim had had their first truly serious quarrel. Some weeks ago, to her utter astonishment and disbelief, Jim had decided that Edwina must be invited to the christening. When Paula had objected, and strenuously so, and had reminded him that Edwina was no favourite of Grandy’s, he had brushed aside her protestations and told her she was being silly. And then he had reminded her that Emma wanted bygones to be bygones, sought peace within the family. ‘Well, you’d better not invite Edwina until I’ve mentioned it to Grandy,’ Paula cautioned, and he had acquiesced to this suggestion, at least. When she had told her grandmother about it, Emma had appeared off-hand, indifferent even, and had told her to accept the situation gracefully, to let him invite Edwina, and to put a good face on it if she accepted. But there had been a strange look in Grandy’s eyes, and Paula suspected that Emma had been disappointed in Jim. As she had herself, but she had overcome this feeling, loving him as much as she did; and she had excused Jim, too, because he had no family of his own to invite to his children’s christening, and Edwina was half Fairley. If only Edwina weren’t so hostile to Emma and to her.
Miranda, studying her friend, saw that she looked troubled, and ventured, ‘You’re awfully pensive all of a sudden, Paula. Is something wrong?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Paula forced a smile, and changing the subject, she asked, ‘How’s your mother?’
‘Her health’s much better, thanks. Also, I think she’s finally recovered from the shock of getting pregnant at forty-five and giving birth to a change-of-life baby. And little Laura is simply adorable. I love to watch Grandfather playing with her. He’s quite infatuated, and of course he’s thrilled they called her Laura, after my grandmother. They almost gave me that name, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t, Merry.’
‘Yes. Then they changed their minds, I suppose. But I wouldn’t have minded being named for my grandmother, and I certainly wish I’d known her. She must have been a remarkable woman. Everyone loved her so, especially Aunt Emma.’
‘Yes, and Grandy told me, only the other day, that she’s never stopped missing Laura since the day she died.’
‘We’re all muddled up, aren’t we, Paula?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Hartes and the O’Neills. And the Fairleys, for that matter. Our lives are inextricably linked … we can’t really escape each other, can we?’
‘No, I don’t suppose we can.’
Miranda reached over and squeezed Paula’s hand. ‘I’m glad we can’t. I think it’s rather nice to have you and Aunt Emma and Aunt Daisy for a second family.’ Her huge hazel eyes, sparkling with tiny prisms of gold, overflowed with warmth and affection.
Paula returned the pressure of her hand. ‘And it’s nice for me to have the O’Neills.’
The arrival of the waitress with the tray of food interrupted this exchange, and for the next fifteen minutes or so the two young women talked mostly about Paula’s babies, the christening the next day, and the reception Emma was giving after the church ceremony. But then Miranda, quite suddenly, adopted a serious tone, when she said, ‘There’s something very important I’d like to discuss with you.’
Paula, at once noticing the change in her friend’s demeanour, asked swiftly, ‘Do you have problems?’
‘Not at all. But I do have an idea I’d like to throw at you, to get your reaction.’
‘What kind of idea, Merry?’ she asked curiously.
‘You and I doing business together.’
‘Oh.’ This was the last thing Paula expected, and after her initial exclamation she was startled into momentary silence.
Miranda grinned, and not giving her a chance to comment further or brush the idea to one side, she rushed on: ‘I had a flash of inspiration last week, when I was going over the blueprints for the new hotel we’re building in Marbella. The architect has planned a galleria of shops, and it struck me immediately that we must include a boutique. Naturally, I thought of Harte’s, then I realized one boutique wouldn’t interest you. So I took the idea a step further … Harte boutiques in all of our hotels. There’s the new one we’re doing over in Barbados, we’re about to remodel the Torremolinos hotel, and eventually the entire chain will get a revamp. We could have a boutique in each one, and Harte’s could run them.’ Miranda sat back and searched Paula’s face for a clue to her feelings, but it was unreadable. She asked eagerly, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Paula said. ‘Have you discussed this with Uncle Bryan?’
‘Yes, and Dad liked the idea. He was very gung ho actually, and told me to talk to you.’ Miranda gazed at her friend expectantly and crossed her fingers. ‘Would you be willing to go into the venture with us?’
‘I think we might be. I’d have to talk to my grandmother, of course.’ This was uttered with Paula’s usual caution, but she could not conceal the interest quickening on her face. With a small rush of excitement, she thought: It could be the perfect project for Grandy. The one I’ve been looking for, and it would certainly take the sting out of the Cross fiasco. Straightening up, Paula said in a more positive voice, ‘Give me some additional details, Merry,’ and she listened attentively as the other girl talked. Within minutes she began to recognize the endless possibilities and advantages inherent in Miranda O’Neill’s idea.
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_d6b5980d-3603-5695-99fc-6c62de729629)
Emma sat up with an abrupt jolt.
I don’t believe it. I almost dozed off, she thought with exasperation. Only old ladies do that in the middle of the day. She began to laugh. Well, she was an old lady, even though she was loath to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.
Shifting her position on the sofa, she stretched, then straightened her skirt, and immediately became aware of the heat from the blazing fire. The room was stifling, even for her – she who had always suffered from the cold and rarely ever felt warm enough. No wonder she had become so drowsy.
With a burst of energy she propelled herself up and off the sofa, and hurried to the windows. She opened one of them and took several deep breaths, fanning herself with her hand. The crisp air felt good, and the breeze brushing against her face soon refreshed her, and she stood there for a moment or two until she was cooler, before turning away and retracing her steps.
Her pace was slower, and she looked around as she skirted the two large plump sofas in the centre of the floor. She nodded with pleasure, thinking how lovely the room appeared at this moment, washed as it was in the golden sunlight now streaming in through the many windows. But then it always did look beautiful to her, and she would rather be here than anywhere else on this earth.
Is it age, I wonder, that makes us cleave to the best-known spaces in our lives, and the well-loved and familiar things? Is it the memories of the years gone by, and of those we cared so much about, which bind us to those places and make them so special in our deepest hearts? She believed that this was true – at least for her. She felt safe, and comforted, when she was in surroundings where so many episodes of her long and colourful life had been played out.
Such a place was Pennistone Royal, this ancient, historic and rambling house on the outskirts of Ripon, which she had purchased in 1932. In particular she favoured this room – the upstairs parlour – where she had spent so many endless happy hours over the years. She had often wondered how it had come to be called the upstairs parlour, for there was nothing parlour-like about it at all. This struck her once again as her glance took in the impressive architectural details and the splendid furnishings.
By the very nature of its dimensions the room had a singular grandeur, with its high, Jacobean ceiling decorated with elaborate plasterwork, its tall leaded windows flanking the unique oriel window, and the carved fireplace of bleached oak. Yet for all its imposing detail, and despite its size, Emma had introduced a mellow charm and great comfort, plus a subtle understated elegance that had taken time, much patience, superb taste and a vast amount of money to create.
Being confident of her original choices, Emma had never felt it necessary to change anything, so the room had remained the same for over thirty years. She knew, for instance, that no other paintings could ever surpass the fine portraits of a young nobleman and his wife by Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the priceless Turner landscape. The three oils were in perfect harmony with her graceful Georgian antiques, collected so lovingly and with infinite care. And such things as the Savonnerie carpet, faded now to a delicate beauty, and her Rose Medallion china in the Chippendale cabinet, were matchless touches that added to the room’s graciousness and style. Even the walls were always repainted in their original primrose, for to her discerning eye this pale and delicate colour made the most restful backdrop for the art and the rich patinas of the dark woods, and it introduced the cheerful sunny aspect she preferred.
This morning, the springlike mood of the setting, created by the airy colour scheme and the brightly-patterned chintz on the sofas, was reinforced by porcelain bowls brimming with jonquils, tulips and hyacinth, which spilled their lively yellows, reds, pinks and mauves on to some of the darkly-gleaming surfaces, and their fragrant scents were aromatic on the still and gentle air.
Emma moved forward, then paused again in front of the fireplace. She never tired of looking at the Turner which hung above the mantelpiece, dominating the soaring chimney wall with its misty greens and blues. The landscape was bucolic, evocative, and a superb example of Turner’s poetic and visionary interpretations of the pastoral scene.
It’s definitely the light, she decided for the hundredth time, as always fascinated by the luminous sky in the painting. In Emma’s opinion, no one had ever been able to capture light on canvas in quite the same manner as Turner. The clear cool light in this masterpiece was forever associated in her mind with the Northern skies under which she had grown up, and had lived for most of her life, and which she would love always. She believed them to be unique because of their clarity, and a radiance that seemed unearthly at times.
Her eye now caught the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost one. She had better pull herself together, and very smartly, since Emily was due momentarily, and everyone had to be on their toes when the volatile, whirlwind Emily was around. Most especially old ladies, she added inwardly, chuckling softly again.
Hurrying briskly into the adjoining bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table. After dabbing her nose with powder, she renewed her pink lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. There, that does it. Passable, she added under her breath, peering into the glass. No, more than passable. I really do look pretty nifty today, as Alexander said.
She swung her head and stared at Paul’s photograph standing on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.
I wonder what you would think of me, if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?
Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him, and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of dust off the glass. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York. On 3 February 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Risë Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterwards, Paul had taken them to Delmonico’s for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson’s talk of impending war, and Paul’s equally bleak assessment of the world situation. Paul’s mood had been gay later, at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.
She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had passed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.
Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life … particularly a long life like mine.
Without thinking, she spoke aloud: ‘If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been.’ Her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.
‘Grandma … are you alone?’ Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.
Startled, Emma jumped, and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. ‘Oh hello, Emily dear. I didn’t hear you come through the parlour. And of course I’m alone.’
Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, ‘I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran.’
‘I was. I was talking to him.’ She inclined her head at the photograph, and added dryly, ‘And if you think I’m getting senile, you can forget it. I’ve talked to that photograph for thirty years.’
‘Gosh, Grandy, you’re the last person I’d ever think of as being senile!’ Emily was quick to reassure, meaning every word. ‘Mummy maybe, but never you.’
Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. ‘Where is your mother, Emily. Do you know?’
‘Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that’s where she’s gone.’
‘Haiti.’ Emma sat up in the chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. ‘Isn’t that the place they practise voodoo. I hope she isn’t having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does.’
Emily also laughed, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn’t think of anything like that. I doubt she’s ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I’m sure she’s far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman.’
‘Oh. So, she’s done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations.’
‘Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy.’ Emily’s green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.
Emma said, ‘Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious title. What’s this one’s name?’
‘Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He’s always in the gossip columns. And you’re right on target, regarding his character. But he doesn’t have a title, dubious or otherwise.’
‘That’s a relief. I’m sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unpronounceable names, grandiose ideas and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn’t he?’
‘I’d categorize him as IWT, Gran.’
‘What on earth does that mean, dear?’ Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.
‘International White Trash.’
Emma guffawed. ‘That’s a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily.’
‘It’s a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfil in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won’t be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London.’ Emily made a disagreeable face. ‘Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair’s fashionable drawing rooms for years, and I’m surprised Mummy got involved with him. He’s so transparent. He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran.’
Emma frowned. ‘Have you met him then?’
‘Yes, and before Mummy too.’ She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pass at her first. That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, ‘He’s quite ghastly.’
Emma sighed, and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive – frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash, too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said, with some asperity, ‘Your mother is impossible. Impossible. Where are her brains, for God’s sake? Don’t bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian.’
Emily stared at her in disbelief. ‘Grandy!’ she shrieked. ‘What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact, you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him.’
‘I changed my mind,’ Emma replied loftily. ‘As it turned out he wasn’t a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go into the parlour and have a drink before lunch.’ She tucked her arm through Emily’s companionably, and steered her across the floor. She asked again, ‘So, where is Gianni what’s-his-name?’
‘He’s around. He’s moved out of Mummy’s flat, of course. But he’s still in London. He’s got himself a job with some Italian importing company, antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He’s rather attached to them I think.’
‘I see.’ Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself on to one of the sofas. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honours, please, dear.’
‘Yes, Grandy. I think I’ll have one myself.’ Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal glasses. Emma’s eyes followed her. In the red wool suit and frilly lilac blouse Emily reminded her of an iridescent humming-bird, so small, so swift, so brilliantly plumed, and so full of life. She’s a good girl, Emma thought. Thank God she hasn’t turned out like her mother.
Mixing the drinks deftly, Emily said, over her shoulder, ‘Talking of my baby half-sisters, Gran, are you going to let them stay at Harrogate College?’
‘For the moment. But I fully intend to pack them off to finishing school in Switzerland this September. In the meantime, they seem to be happy at the college. Of course, I realize that’s because of my proximity. I suppose I spoil them, letting them come home so much.’ Emma paused, remembering the fuss and bother and upset the previous year, when her two youngest grandchildren had tearfully begged to come and live with her. Emma had finally succumbed under their constant pressuring, although her acquiescence had been conditional. For their part, they had had to agree to attend the nearby boarding school Emma had selected. The girls had been thrilled, their mother delighted to be rid of them, Emma relieved that she had averted a nasty family contretemps from developing further.
Leaning back against the cushions, she let out a tiny sigh. ‘Anyway, spoil them or not, I do feel those two need mothering, and a chance to lead a normal family life. They’ve had little enough of either with your mother.’
‘That’s true,’ Emily agreed, carrying the drinks over to the seating arrangement in front of the fire. ‘I feel a bit sorry for them myself. I suppose Alexander and I got the best of Mummy, I mean her better years. The girls have had a rough time of it … all those husbands. It seems to me that ever since she left their father, our mother has been on a downward slide. Oh well, what can you do? …’ Emily’s young breathy voice petered out sadly. She shrugged in resignation, and her whole demeanour reflected her disenchantment. ‘There’s not much you or I can do about your daughter, my mother, Grandy. She’s not likely to change.’
Emily now looked across at her grandmother, her blonde brows meeting in a frown. She said in a fretful tone, ‘The trouble with poor Mummy is that she suffers from the most terrible insecurity about herself, her looks, her figure, her personality … well, just about everything.’
‘Oh, do you think so,’ Emma exclaimed in astonishment at this remark. Her face changed and there was a glint of malice in her flinty green eyes as she remarked, with immense coldness, ‘I can’t imagine why.’ She lifted her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers, Gran darling.’
Emma settled into a corner of the vast sofa, and, squinting in the sunlight, she focused on the attractive twenty-two-year-old Emily. The girl had a special place in her affections, for apart from being open and uncomplicated, she had a very lovable personality, one that was sunny, cheerful, and perennially optimistic, and she was a dynamic girl, filled with enthusiasm for life and her work. If Emily’s pink-and-cream blonde prettiness had the porcelain fragility of a Dresden shepherdess, it was, nevertheless, deceptive, belying an extraordinary drive that had the velocity and power of an express train running at full speed. Emma knew there were those in the family, specifically her sons, who thought Emily was scatterbrained and flippant. This secretly amused Emma, since she was fully aware that Emily purposely chose to give this fraudulent impression. In no way did it reflect her basic seriousness and diligence. Emma had long ago decided that her sons really disliked their niece because she was far too blunt and opinionated – and truthful – for their comfort. Emma had been witness to more than one scene when the intrepid Emily had made Kit and Robin squirm.
Emma looked into the clear green eyes, a reflection of her own as they had once been, saw the expectancy flickering in them, then noted the confident smile etched on Emily’s mouth. Emily had obviously convinced herself she was going to get her own way. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath, Emma said, with a faint laugh, ‘For someone with a serious problem, you certainly don’t look very troubled, dear. You’re positively glowing this morning.’
Emily nodded, and admitted, ‘I don’t think my problem’s all that serious, Grandy. I mean, it doesn’t seem to be today.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. You sounded as if you had the burdens of the world on your shoulders, when you spoke to me on Tuesday morning.’
‘Did I really,’ Emily laughed. ‘I suppose things seem so much brighter when I’m with you. Perhaps that’s because I know you can always solve any problem, and I just know you’ll – ’ She broke off when Emma held up a silencing hand.
Emma said: ‘I’ve known for some time that you want to go back to Paris, to work in the store there. That is what you want to discuss, isn’t it? That is your problem?’
‘Yes, Gran,’ Emily said, her eyes shining with eagerness.
Emma put down her drink on the butler’s tray table, and leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. She said carefully, ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you go to Paris. I’m very sorry to disappoint you, Emily, but you will have to stay here.’
The happy smile vanished, and Emily’s face dropped. ‘But why, Grandy?’ she asked in a crushed voice. ‘I thought you were pleased with the way I handled things in Paris all last summer and through the autumn.’
‘I was. Very pleased, in fact, and proud of you. Your performance has nothing to do with my decision. No, that’s not strictly true. One of the reasons I’ve formulated new plans for you is because of the way you performed over there.’ Emma’s eyes did not leave her granddaughter’s face as she explained carefully, ‘Plans for your future. Which, in my considered opinion, is with Harte Enterprises.’
‘Harte Enterprises!’ Emily cried, her voice rising incredulously.
She froze on the sofa, staring at her grandmother dumbfounded. ‘Where would I fit in there? Alexander, Sarah and Jonathan are working in that company, and I’d just be a spare wheel! A dogsbody, with nothing to do. Anyway, I’ve always worked for you. In the stores. I love retailing, and you know that, Gran. I’d just hate, positively hate and detest, being pushed into that organization,’ Emily protested with uncommon fierceness, flushing bright pink. Breathlessly, she rushed on, ‘I really mean it. You’ve always said it’s important to enjoy one’s work. Well, I certainly wouldn’t enjoy working at Harte Enterprises. Oh please let me go to Paris. I really love that store, and I want to continue to help you get it properly on its feet. Please change your mind. Please, oh please, Gran darling. I’ll just be miserable if you don’t,’ she wailed, and her face was as woebegone as her voice as she clenched her hands together in her lap.
Emma made an irritated clucking noise, and shook her head reprovingly. ‘Now, now, Emily, don’t be so dramatic,’ she exclaimed with unusual sharpness. ‘And do stop trying to cajole me. I know all about your wheedling. Sometimes it works, other times, like right now, I am quite impervious to it. And incidentally, the Paris store is on its feet, thanks, in no small measure, to you. So you’re not needed there any more. Very frankly, I need you here.’
This remark, although uttered mildly, caused Emily to sit up swiftly, and she frowned, further taken aback. ‘You need me, Grandy. What for? What do you mean?’ Emily’s eyes widened and filled with worry. She wondered if her grandmother had a serious problem within Harte Enterprises. Hardly. Her health? That seemed unlikely too. But obviously something was amiss.
‘What’s wrong, Grandma?’ she asked, giving words to her spiralling anxiety, all ideas about Paris swept completely out of her head.
‘There is nothing wrong, dear,’ Emma said with a bright smile, detecting the girl’s concern. ‘Before I explain my reasons for wanting you here, I would like to clarify my remark about your future. Naturally I realize you like working at the stores, but you can’t get much further at Harte’s. Paula and your Uncle David have the real power there these days, and Paula will inherit all of my shares one day. Paula respects your ability, and she would love to keep you by her side, but Emily, you’d always be a salaried employee, with no financial interest whatsoever. I do – ’
‘I know that,’ Emily interjected. ‘But – ’
‘Don’t interrupt me,’ Emma snapped, cutting her off. ‘As you learned last spring, I have left you sixteen per cent of Harte Enterprises, and that’s a huge interest, since the company is so very rich. And solid. As solid as the Bank of England, in my opinion. Your wealth, your future security, will come from your shares in Harte Enterprises, and I have felt for the longest time that you must have a hand in running it. After all, it will belong, in part, to you one day.’
Emma could not fail to miss the worried expression now settling on Emily’s face and she reached across the table and squeezed her arm affectionately. ‘Don’t look so distressed. I’m not implying that I lack confidence in your brother. You must know that I don’t. Alexander will guide, and guard, Harte Enterprises with all of his strength and ability, and with great devotion, I’ve no fear. Nevertheless, I want you to be active there, along with Sandy and your cousins. I really believe that you must direct that considerable energy of yours, and your many talents into the company in which you have such a major stake, and from which you will reap so many benefits.’
Emily was quiet, mulling over her grandmother’s words, and after a longish pause, she said slowly, ‘Yes, I see what you mean, and I know you have my interests at heart, but there’s nothing about the company that appeals to me. Anyway, Sarah has always enjoyed running the clothing end, and she’d resent it if you shoved me in there with her. As for Jonathan, he’d really get on that high horse of his, if you foist me on him. He considers the real estate division to be his little kingdom, and his alone. He’d be in revolt if I started poking around there. So what would I do at HE? The only thing I understand is retailing.’ Her voice faltered, for she was on the verge of tears, and she looked away swiftly, staring out of the window, her expression exceedingly glum.
The prospect of leaving the Harte chain of stores, and Paula, whom she worshipped, was depressing and distressing to Emily. And she would have to leave. That had already been decided, she had the good sense to recognize. Her opinion wasn’t being sought. She was being told what to do, told what was expected of her, and her grandmother’s authority was unassailable. Besides, that cold and stubborn look was now engraved on her grandmother’s face, and it was a look they were all familiar with, one which left nothing to the imagination. It said, in no uncertain language, that Emma Harte would have her own way no matter what. Emily felt the prick of tears behind her eyes, as she contemplated her miserable future. Mortified, she blinked them back and swallowed, endeavouring to hold on to her diminishing composure. Tears, emotion, and any other sign of weakness in business were anathema to her grandmother.
Emma, observing the girl closely, saw how troubled and upset she was growing, and realized immediately that she must allay Emily’s worries. Adopting her most sympathetic manner, Emma said, ‘Don’t take this so hard, dear. It’s not half as bad as you imagine. And I certainly had no intention of putting you in either of the divisions run by your cousins. That wouldn’t be fair to any of you. Nor am I considering making you Sandy’s assistant – if that idea has entered your agile little brain. No, no, nothing like that. When I said I needed you here, I did mean here. In Yorkshire. I would like you to work at General Retail Trading, and learn everything there is to know about that division of Harte Enterprises. You see, Emily, I want you to run it for me eventually.’
For a moment Emily thought she had misheard. She was so surprised she was speechless. She gaped at her grandmother, and then finally managed to ask, ‘Are you serious?’
‘Really, Emily, that’s a stupid question. Do you honestly think I would joke about my business?’
‘No, Grandy.’ Emily bit her lip, trying to digest her grandmother’s words. The General Retail Trading Company, known within the family as Genret, was one of Harte Enterprises’ most important assets, and an enormous money-maker. As the implications behind her grandmother’s announcement began to sink in, she was assaulted by a mixture of emotions: she was flattered, overwhelmed, worried and scared all at once. But these feelings were almost instantaneously overshadowed by genuine bafflement.
Sitting forward with a jerk, she asked in a puzzled voice, ‘But why do you suddenly need me? You have Leonard Harvey. He’s been running Genret for years, and brilliantly. Or so you’ve always said.’
‘And I meant what I said.’ Emma picked up her drink, took a sip, sat nursing it in her hands. ‘However, Len reminded me several weeks ago that he will be retiring in three years. I’d hoped he would stay on, but he insists on going when it’s time. He wants a chance to enjoy life, do a few of the things he’s always wanted to do, like take a trip around the world, for one thing.’ Emma laughed softly. ‘I can certainly understand his point of view. That man’s worked for me for over thirty-five years, and I don’t remember him ever taking a day off, except for his annual summer holidays in August. Naturally, I’d no option but to agree, albeit reluctantly.’
Emma put down her drink, rose, and went to stand with her back to the fireplace. She stared down at Emily, and continued matter-of-factly: ‘Len brought up his retirement because he thought it was high time I started to think about his successor. It occurred to me at once that here was the perfect opening for you. I’ve been racking my brains for months, wondering how to get you situated within Harte Enterprises, in a division you would enjoy. I believe I’ve found it, Emily, and I’m also convinced Genret could well use your special talents.’
Emily said nothing. She, who had an opinion about everything which she usually had no qualms expressing, was now oddly at a loss for words.
Emma stood waiting, giving Emily a chance to catch her breath and marshal her thoughts. She understood perfectly the girl’s unprecedented reticence. She had just dropped a bombshell on her. But as the silence grew, Emma, always in a hurry to settle matters and move on, announced peremptorily, ‘I need you to start working at Genret immediately. Len wants to begin his training programme at once. Three years may seem like a long time to you, but it isn’t really. Genret is a large company, and you will have a great deal to absorb and understand. So, what do you say?’
Still Emily was mute, and Emma threw her a sharper look. Then she scowled at her. ‘Come along, dear, you must have some comment to make. I can’t believe that the cat’s got your tongue permanently.’
Pulling herself together, Emily gave her grandmother an uncertain smile. ‘Are you sure? Really sure about me going into Genret?’
‘I wouldn’t have suggested it, if I’d had any doubts,’ Emma retorted crossly.
‘But what about the group at Genret?’ Emily asked quickly. ‘I mean, will they sit still for it? For me?’
‘I am Genret, Emily. Or had you forgotten that?’
‘No, no, of course I hadn’t, Grandmother. What I meant was, will Len and the top management team accept me? I know you can appoint anybody you want, since it’s your company, but surely Len must have a protégé, somebody he would like to follow in his footsteps, who knows the inner workings of Genret.’
‘He doesn’t. Furthermore, he thinks you’re the ideal choice. And he’s not just pandering to me. Len’s too shrewd and outspoken to fall into that trap. And, whilst he realizes I would like a member of the family inside Genret once he goes, he would tell me point blank if there was no suitable candidate. He would insist we look outside the family. It just so happens that he thinks you’re ideally suited to head up a wholesale supply company. For several reasons, all of them excellent. Your experience with the stores, your considerable knowledge of retailing, not to mention merchandise, plus your natural business abilities. That you also happen to be my granddaughter is simply fortuitous. It didn’t influence him one iota, I can assure you of that. Besides, you’re a quick study, Emily, and you’ve learned a lot in the last five years.’
‘I’m glad to have Len’s vote of confidence, as well as yours, Grandy.’ Emily started to relax, and as her depression also began to lift, she discovered she was excited about the sudden turn of events. She asked, ‘And Alexander? Have you discussed it with him?’
‘Naturally. He thinks you’ll be marvellous.’
‘What does Paula say?’
‘She’s delighted too. She’s going to miss you at the stores, but she recognizes the good sense behind my plans for you.’
‘Then it’s settled!’ Emily beamed, and allowed her natural enthusiasm to surface. ‘Genret is a big responsibility, but now that I’ve recovered from my initial surprise, I’m looking forward to it, I really am. I’ll try very hard, and I’ll do my best not to let you down.’
‘I know you will, dear.’ Emma returned her smile, delighted to finally witness Emily’s eagerness and her excitement. Not that she had had any doubts about her offer being accepted. Emily was far too clever to thwart her, or to pass up the opportunity to head a division. Besides, Emily loved a challenge. This last thought prompted Emma to add, ‘I’m quite certain you’ll enjoy this new venture as much as you did your sojourn in Paris last year. It’s going to be equally as challenging, and ultimately very rewarding.’
‘Yes, I know it will be.’ With a sudden flush of embarrassment, Emily recalled her outburst of earlier. Looking extremely shame-faced, she apologized, ‘I’m sorry I behaved in such a childish way, when you said I couldn’t go back to Paris, Grandy. It was ridiculous of me to act like that.’
‘I understand. You were disappointed. In any case, you’ll be going to Paris quite a lot for Genret, and travelling all over the world on your buying trips. That’s certainly something to look forward to, Emily.’
‘Oh it is, Grandy. And thank you for your faith in me, and for this wonderful opportunity.’ Emily jumped up and hugged Emma tightly. With a happy little laugh, she said, ‘Oh Grandy, you’re such an inspiration! You make everything seem possible – and attainable. And exciting as well. Do you know what? I feel like rushing down to the Genret offices in Leeds right now, and getting stuck into the work with Len immediately.’
‘Len and Genret have managed to exist without you until now, Emily, so I think they’ll survive for another few days,’ Emma replied, her mouth twitching with hidden laughter. ‘In the meantime, I have a much better idea. I think you should come downstairs with me, and have lunch instead. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_9354a0af-d561-5735-9d1b-6347532a2bf5)
Emma sat at the table in her splendidly-appointed Adam dining room, sipping a cup of coffee after lunch, smiling and nodding occasionally, enjoying Emily’s natural joie de vivre and bubbling enthusiasm for everything. Earlier, when they had been eating, Emily had bombarded her with questions about Genret. Each one had been probing and not without a certain shrewdness, and this had pleased Emma.
Now, the twenty-two-year-old was entertaining her with titbits of gossip about the family, and, as usual, Emma found her pithy comments hilarious. Robin and Kit were most often the butts of her barbed wit, and she had already managed to get in a few sharp digs about her uncles.
But here her sarcasm stopped, for she never made astringent or unkind remarks about anyone else. Although Emily tended to be something of a chatterbox, she was not malicious, nor was she a talebearer intent on stirring up trouble. In point of fact, she was anything but this, and Emma was well aware that her granddaughter’s predilection for chattering was harmless enough, especially since she knew herself to be the girl’s only confidante. To Emma’s considerable relief, Emily was not only discreet but extremely close-mouthed with everyone else in the family, and even Paula and Alexander, with whom she was on very intimate terms, were no exceptions to this rule.
Unexpectedly, Emily veered away from her discourse on the family, and launched into glowing descriptions of the outfits she had chosen for the fifteen-year-old twins to wear the next day. Recently Emily had elected to play a motherly big-sister role with Amanda and Francesca, and Emma had assigned to her the task of selecting their clothes and looking after similar details.
But it was not very long before Emma found her attention straying, her mind forever preoccupied with business, and specifically Paula’s meeting with the Crosses. She could not help speculating on the outcome, wondering how Paula had fared. If the negotiations had gone well she was facing a fair amount of work. Not that this troubled Emma unduly. She had always thrived on honest-to-goodness toil, and still did, and Paula had laid out foolproof plans for the takeover.
Emma and Paula wanted Aire Communications for its three most important assets: its magazine division, its local radio stations, its huge, modern building on the Headrow. Following Paula’s advice, she fully intended to make Aire Communications a subsidiary of the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company. Once she had relocated the entire staff of Aire in the offices of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, her newspaper headquartered in Leeds, she would sell the Aire Communications building. This would enable her to cut down on Aire’s staggering overheads, and at the same time she would cleverly recoup part of the purchase price, possibly a good half of her two-million-pound investment. Yes, that building’s worth at least a million, Emma reflected, whatever Jonathan says to the contrary. She would have to have a little talk with her grandson tomorrow, a very serious talk. He was dragging his feet with his second evaluation of Aire’s prime bit of real estate. She had asked him for it days ago and he had not yet responded. Once again she wondered why, and her mouth tightened.
‘Grandy, you’re not listening to me!’ Emily shook her arm impatiently.
‘Oh sorry, dear. You were saying you’d chosen navy-blue dresses and coats for the twins. I’m sure they’re very smart, you have such good – ’
‘Goodness, Gran, that was five minutes ago,’ Emily interjected. ‘I was already on to another subject. Aunt Edwina to be precise.’
‘Now why on earth is she suddenly so interesting to you?’
‘She’s not really. I think she’s an old sourpuss and a crashing bore,’ Emily said in her typical blunt fashion. ‘However, I’m positive we’re going to be in for a rocky ride with her this weekend. I bet she’s going to give us all an earful.’
‘What about?’ Emma asked, sounding slightly baffled.
‘The divorce,’ Emily said succinctly.
This reply brought Emma upright in her chair, and she stared hard at Emily. ‘So, you’ve heard about that, have you?’ Surprise immediately gave way to humour, and Emma chuckled and shook her head. ‘Is there anything you don’t know about this family of ours?’
‘Not much,’ said Emily, grinning at her. ‘But I don’t pry, Gran. You know that. Everyone just tells me things automatically. It must be my sympathetic nature.’ Her grin widened. ‘And then I tell you. Never secrets, though. I don’t break a confidence. Ever.’
‘I should hope not, dear. Remember what I’ve always said … a still tongue and a wise head. Anyway, who mentioned Anthony’s divorce?’
‘Jim. He came to see me last weekend. He wanted my opinion about something, my advice really. He brought up the divorce in passing. It was Aunt Edwina who told him. Apparently she’s terribly upset … scandal touching the sacred name of the Dunvales and all that silly nonsense. As if anybody cares about divorce these days. But she’ll harp on about it for the next few days, you mark my words.’
‘I doubt it, since Anthony will be here himself. In fact, he’s already here.’
‘In this house?’ It was Emily’s turn to be astonished.
‘No. He’s staying with your Uncle Randolph up at Middleham. Actually, he’s going to be there for the next week.’ A wicked gleam entered Emma’s eyes, and she could not resist teasing, ‘Obviously there are some things you don’t know, Emily. Our young earl is staying with the Hartes because he’s courting Sally. Very seriously courting her.’ Emma was unable to hold back a laugh as she observed the expression on Emily’s face.
Emily was so dumbfounded by this piece of news her jaw had dropped. But it took less than a second for her to recover, and she retorted, ‘And I bet Aunt Edwina doesn’t know either! Otherwise she would have scuttled that relationship ages ago. And she’ll still try.’
‘She can do nothing,’ Emma snapped, her face hardening. ‘Anthony is not only of age, he’s thirty-three. He doesn’t have to answer to his mother, or anyone else for that matter, and I told him so last night. He has my blessing. Frankly, I’m glad he’s going to marry Sally. She’s a fine girl and quite lovely, and it’s a perfect match in my opinion.’
‘I second that, about Sally being a lovely person. But then I’m prejudiced. So are you – even more so, because she looks so much like your mother. And Edwina’s going to be prejudiced too, in the other direction.’ Emily stopped, thinking of her aunt’s reaction, which would be violent, and she cried excitedly, ‘Oh my God! I can’t wait to see Aunt Edwina’s face when she finds out he’s involved with Sally Harte. She’s going to be absolutely furious, Grandma. She has such grand ideas about everything. And after all, Sally’s only a generation removed from the working class.’
‘And what do you think Edwina is?’
‘A countess,’ Emily giggled gleefully, ‘and a Fairley to boot! She’s never been the same since she discovered her father was Sir Edwin Fairley, and a KC, no less. She’s an even bigger snob now than she was before. It’s a pity you ever told her the truth about you and old Edwin, Gran.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’
Emma averted her face, looked out of the window, focused her thoughts on her eldest grandchild, son of her own first-born child. Anthony Standish was the only offspring of Edwina’s marriage with the Earl of Dunvale, and as such he was her whole life. Because Emma had been estranged from Edwina for years, she had not really come to know Anthony until he was eighteen. That was in 1951, when her brother Winston had effected a reconciliation between her and her daughter. More like an armed truce, Emma said inwardly, but at least the boy and I took to each other immediately, and thankfully we have continued to be close. She was extremely fond of Anthony, who, despite his reserved nature and gentle manner, had an inner strength and a toughness of mind that Emma had recognized instantly and privately applauded. Upon his father’s death, he had inherited the latter’s title and lands in Ireland. For the most part, Anthony lived at Clonloughlin, his estate in County Cork, but whenever he had the occasion to be in England he never failed to visit her. It was on one of these trips to Yorkshire, six months ago, that he had become re-acquainted with Sally, Winston’s granddaughter, who was his cousin. According to Anthony they had fallen in love at once. ‘It was a coup de foudre, Grandmother,’ he had confided shyly last night. ‘And as soon as my divorce from Min is final I intend to marry Sally.’ Emma, delighted at this news, had indicated her pleasure, and assured him of her full support.
Shifting in the chair, Emma glanced at Emily, and said, ‘I wouldn’t worry your head about Anthony. He can take care of himself. I told him not to hide his relationship with Sally any more, from his mother, that is, and to behave naturally at the christening. We might as well get this out in the open once and for all.’
‘Edwina will make trouble, Grandma. Big, big trouble,’ Emily warned, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.
‘If she knows what’s good for her she won’t,’ Emma replied, her voice murderously soft. ‘Now, on to other things. You said Jim wanted your advice. What about?’
‘The gift he’s bought for Paula. It’s a strand of pearls, and he wasn’t sure she’d like them. But they’re beautiful, and I told him she’d be thrilled.’
‘That’s nice.’ Emma glanced at her watch, feeling restless. ‘I’ll have another quick cup of coffee, and then I’d better go up and do a little paperwork until Paula arrives.’
‘I’ll get the coffee for you,’ Emily volunteered, taking Emma’s cup to the sideboard. Returning with it, she said, ‘I had dinner with T.B. when I was in London on Tuesday. He sends his love.’
Emma’s face softened considerably. She had always cared for Tony Barkstone, Elizabeth’s first husband and father of Emily and Alexander. They had remained good friends over the years, and she asked, with a warm smile, ‘How is he?’
‘In good form. He’s as sweet as always, and he seems happy. No, content might be a better word. Or perhaps accepting is even better. Yes, that’s it. He’s accepting.’ Emily sighed heavily.
And a little too dramatically, in Emma’s opinion. But then Emily was a romantic girl and Emma knew that she had long harboured the desire for her parents to be reunited. A most unlikely event, as far as Emma was concerned. Looking at Emily thoughtfully, Emma’s brow lifted quizzically, and she murmured, ‘Accepting is a peculiar word to use about your father’s life, isn’t it, dear?’
‘Not really. I think T.B. is accepting – of his new family. But I don’t believe my father has been really happy since he split with Mummy. To tell you the truth, Gran, I think he’s still in love with her.’ She confided this in an intense tone, giving Emma a long and knowing look.
‘Oh phooey!’
‘Well, she was his grand passion, that I know for a fact – because he once told me so. I believe he’s carrying a torch for her.’
‘That’s a bit farfetched, Emily, they’ve been divorced for donkey’s years.’
‘Even so, he could have remained shackled to her emotionally.’ Emily tilted her blonde head to one side and wrinkled her nose. ‘Unrequited love, and all that. Why are you looking so sceptical, Grandma? Don’t you believe that’s possible?’
‘Possible. Not very practical. And I’m quite certain your father has more common sense than to yearn after Elizabeth. He had her pegged years ago.’
‘I hope you’re right. I’m sure that being in love with someone who doesn’t care in return is most unsatisfactory, not to mention painful. Very impractical in the long run, as you just said.’ A faraway expression flickered in Emily’s wide green eyes, and she said, almost inaudibly, ‘If only Sarah would recognize that.’
As quiet as her voice had been Emma had heard her. She put down her coffee cup with a loud clatter and gaped at Emily, frowning. ‘Our Sarah. Is she in love with someone who doesn’t love her?’
‘Oh gosh, Gran, I shouldn’t have mentioned Sarah. It’s really none of my business,’ Emily muttered, her face flushing and filling with chagrin. ‘Please don’t say anything to her, will you? She’d be ever so upset.’
‘Of course I won’t say anything. I never do, do I? Who’s she carrying a torch for? That’s what you implied, you know.’
Emily hesitated. She was suddenly tempted to fib. But she had never lied to her grandmother in her whole life. Still, perhaps in this instance she ought to resort to a white lie.
Emma pressed, ‘Who is it?’
There was a moment of silence. Emily swallowed, and knowing herself to be trapped, she mumbled, ‘Shane.’
‘I’ll be damned.’ Emma leaned back and focused her keen old eyes on her granddaughter, ‘Well, well, well,’ she said, and a slow smile spread across her face.
Emily shot up in her chair, her eyes flaring open, and she cried, ‘Oh Grandy, don’t look like that! Please don’t look like that!’
‘And how am I looking?’
‘Gratified. And ever so conspiratorial. I know you and Uncle Blackie have long had hopes that one of us, or one of the Harte girls, would marry Shane O’Neill, and unite our families. But he’s not interested in any of us, except for – ’ Emily bit off the rest of her sentence abruptly, instantly wishing she could also bite off her tongue. This time she really had said far too much. She jumped up and went to the Hepplewhite sideboard, where she hovered over the silver bowl of fruit. ‘I think I’ll have a banana,’ she said, attempting nonchalance. ‘Would you like one too, Gran dear?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t, thank you very much.’ Emma swung her head and studied her granddaughter’s back. ‘Except for whom, Emily?’
‘No one, Gran.’ Emily wondered how to extricate herself, and adroitly, without arousing her grandmother’s suspicions further. She sauntered back to her chair, flopped down, and attacked the banana with her dessert knife and fork, her head studiously bent.
Emma watched her, knowing that Emily was avoiding her eyes. And avoiding answering.
‘I know you were about to tell me who Shane is interested in, Emily. If anyone knows, it’s you.’ She laughed lightly, endeavouring to be casual. ‘You’ve always been my conduit for information about everyone in the family. And out of it for that matter. So come along, finish your sentence.’
Emily, who was still cutting the skin off the banana with painstaking care, finally lifted her head. Her face was a picture of innocence as she said, ‘I wasn’t about to reveal a thing, really I wasn’t. I’m not in Shane’s confidence – I don’t know anything about his love life. What I was going to say, before, is that he isn’t interested in any of us, except for a one-night stand.’
‘Really, Emily!’
‘Sorry.’ Emily dropped her eyes, then coyly looked up at Emma through her long lashes. ‘Have I shocked you, Grandma?’
‘At my age I’m shock resistant, my girl,’ Emma replied tartly. ‘But I am rather surprised by your remark about Shane. It wasn’t very nice. Extremely unkind, in fact.’ A new thought struck Emma, and she gave her granddaughter a fierce stare. ‘Has he ever suggested anything of the sort – ’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Emily burst out peremptorily before Emma could finish. And then she was swift to qualify her previous statement about Shane. ‘It’s just a feeling I have about him,’ she mumbled, hating herself for maligning Shane, who was the nicest person imaginable. ‘I didn’t mean any harm, Grandy, honestly I didn’t. Besides, who can blame him for being a bit of a lady-killer, when women fall at his feet like ninepins. That’s hardly his fault.’
‘True,’ Emma acknowledged. ‘But getting back to Sarah, I hope this crush she has on him is going to pass soon. I can’t bear to think that she’s miserable. How does she really feel, dear?’
‘I don’t know, Gran,’ Emily replied in all truthfulness. ‘She’s only discussed Shane with me once, ages ago, and I think she’s regretted mentioning him ever since. But I know she’s smitten with him, just through my own observation. She always blushes furiously whenever his name comes up, and she gets all self-conscious and sort of dopey when he’s around.’ Emily levelled her gaze at Emma, and it was direct and candid, as she added, ‘No, she’ll never say anything to anyone about her feelings. Sarah’s basically much too secretive to confide.’
This last comment further surprised Emma, but she decided not to pursue it for the moment. Conscious of the girl’s stricken expression, she hastened to say, ‘You don’t have to be apprehensive about me, darling. Have no fear, I won’t mention Shane to Sarah … I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing her. And she’ll come to her senses, if she hasn’t already.’ Emma’s eyes rested on the bowl of spring hyacinths in the centre of the table, and she ruminated briefly on all that had been said. When she raised her head she smiled kindly at Emily. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m questioning your powers of observation, or your judgement, but you do have a tendency to be overly imaginative at times. You could be wrong about Sarah. Perhaps she has forgotten Shane by now, in view of his lack of interest in her. She does have her feet on the ground, you know.’
‘Yes, Gran,’ Emily said, although she did not agree with her grandmother’s assessment of her cousin. Sarah might look as if her feet were firmly planted on the ground but her head was most definitely in the clouds. Emily bit her lip, and she wished more fervently than before that she had never mentioned Sarah in the first place. Embarking on this kind of conversation with her canny grandmother had been a horrible mistake. The trouble was, she was constantly doing it. Emma had always been the most dominant and important person in her young life, and confiding everything in her was a childhood habit which was difficult, if not impossible, to break. But Emily was thankful for one thing – she had caught herself in the nick of time, had managed not to reveal the truth about Shane to Grandy, who doted on him as if he were one of her own.
The realization that she had protected him made Emily feel better, for she liked and admired Blackie’s grandson. She smiled to herself as she toyed with the banana in front of her, filled with sudden self-congratulation. For once she had been rather clever, side-stepping Grandy’s probing so skilfully. And thankfully Shane O’Neill’s secret was still safe. It would always be safe with her. Poor Shane, she thought with a twinge of sadness, what a terrible burden he has to carry. Stifling a sigh, Emily finally said, ‘I don’t think I want any more of this,’ and she pushed her dessert plate away, making a face.
Emma, anxious to bring the lunch to an end, nodded quickly, and said, ‘I’d better get back to my desk. What are your plans for this afternoon? You’ve finished at the Harrogate store, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Grandy. I completed the stock inventories you wanted, and selected the clothing for the sales,’ Emily explained, relieved that Emma had apparently now dismissed Shane and Sarah Lowther from her mind. ‘I’m going to potter around in my room. Hilda asked one of the maids to unpack my suitcases when I arrived, but I prefer to arrange my things myself.’
‘Suitcases in the plural, Emily? How many did you bring?’
‘Ten, Gran.’
‘For the weekend?’
Emily cleared her throat and gave her grandmother one of her most engaging and persuasive smiles. ‘Not exactly. I thought I’d stay with you for a while, if that’s all right with you. It is, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ Emma answered slowly, wondering what this unexpected move on Emily’s part was all about. ‘But what about your flat in Headingley?’ she thought to ask with a small frown.
‘I want to get rid of it. I have for some time, actually. I decided to sell it, or rather that you should ask Jonathan to do so. Anyway, last night I packed a lot of my clothes and other things, because I’d convinced myself you’d be sending me to Paris next week. Now that I’m not going, I might as well stay here at Pennistone Royal. I’ll be company for you, Gran. You won’t be so lonely.’
I’m not lonely, Emma thought, but said, I’m probably being dense, but you seemed awfully taken with that flat when I bought it for you last November. Don’t you like it any more, Emily?’
‘It’s a very nice flat, really it is, but – . Well, to be honest, Gran darling, I have felt rather isolated there by myself. I’d much rather be here. With you.’ Emily flashed her beguiling smile again. ‘For one thing, it’s a lot more fun. And exciting.’
‘Personally, I find it pretty dull here. Pretty dull indeed,’ Emma muttered and stood up, headed for the dining room door. Over her shoulder she said, ‘But you’re quite welcome, Emily,’ and she hoped she had not sounded too grudging. First the twins, and now Emily, she sighed under her breath. Suddenly they’re all moving in on me. And just when I thought I was going to get some peace and quiet for once in my life.
As she walked briskly across the vast Stone Hall and mounted the staircase, with Emily trailing in her wake, Emma had another thought: maybe she would take Blackie up on his little proposition after all.
Paula talked and Emma listened.
They sat together in the upstairs parlour, facing each other across the Georgian silver tea service which Hilda had brought up a few minutes after Paula had arrived.
Emma had poured tea for them both, but she had hardly touched her own cup. She sat so still on the sofa she might have turned to stone, and the familiar mask of inscrutability had dropped down over her face as she concentrated on Paula’s words, absorbing each one.
Paula spoke well, recounting the meeting at Aire Communications with precision and careful attention to the smallest detail, and her narration was so graphically descriptive Emma felt as though she had been present herself. Several times she experienced a spurt of anger or annoyance, but not an eyelash flickered, not a muscle moved in her blank, impenetrable face, and not once did she interrupt the flow of words.
Long before Paula came to the retelling of the final scene in the board room, Emma’s mind, so agile and astute, leaped ahead. She knew without having to be told that John Cross had reneged on the deal. For a moment she was as startled as Paula had been earlier in the day, but when this initial reaction passed with some swiftness she realized she was not so surprised after all. And she came to the conclusion that she knew John Cross better than she had believed. Years ago she had spotted him for what he was, an egotist, puffed up with his own self-importance, a foolish man with immeasurable weaknesses. At this time in his life he was between a rock and a hard place, dealing from fear and desperation and propelled by increasing panic, and it was patently clear that he would be capable of just about anything. Even a dishonourable action, for apparently he was a man without scruples. And then there was that disreputable son of his, goading him on. A pretty pair indeed, she thought disdainfully.
Paula came to the end of her story at last, and finished with a tiny regretful sigh, ‘And there you have it, Grandy. I’m sorry it ended in a debacle. I did my best. More than my best.’
‘You certainly did,’ Emma said, looking her fully in the face, proud of her, thinking how she had progressed. A year ago Paula would have blamed herself for the breakdown in the talks. ‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, and just chalk this one up to experience and learn from it.’
‘Yes, Grandy, I will.’ Paula regarded her closely. ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked, continuing to study that impassive face in an effort to gauge her grandmother’s feelings about the Cross situation.
‘Why, nothing. Nothing at all.’
Although she was not altogether surprised by this statement, Paula nevertheless felt bound to say, and a bit heatedly, ‘I thought that might be your attitude, but I can’t help wishing you’d give John Cross a piece of your mind, tell him what you think of him. Look at all the effort we put into this deal. He’s not only wasted our valuable time, but played us for a couple of fools.’
‘Played himself for a fool,’ Emma corrected, her voice low and without a trace of emotion. ‘Very frankly, I wouldn’t waste my breath, or the tuppence, on a phone call to him. There’s not much to be gained from flogging a dead horse. Besides, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m put out. There’s another thing … indifference is a mightily powerful weapon, and so I prefer to ignore Mr Cross. I don’t know what his game is, but I won’t be a party to it.’ The look Emma gave Paula was full of shrewdness and her eyes narrowed. ‘It strikes me that he might be using our offer to jack up the price with another company. He won’t succeed, he won’t have any takers.’ A cynical smile glanced across her face, and she laughed quietly to herself. ‘He’ll come crawling back to you, of course. On his hands and knees. And very soon. Then what will you do, Paula? That’s more to the point.’ Settling back against the cushions she let her eyes rest with intentness on her granddaughter.
Paula opened her mouth to speak, then closed it swiftly. For a split second she hesitated over her answer. She asked herself how Grandy would act in these particular circumstances and then dismissed the question. She knew exactly what her course of action was going to be.
In a resolute tone, Paula said, ‘I shall tell him to go to hell. Politely. I know I could hammer him down, get Aire Communications at a much lower figure, because when he does come back to us, and I agree that he will, he’ll be choking. He’ll accept any terms I offer. However, I don’t want to do business with that man. I don’t trust him.’
‘Good girl!’ Emma was pleased with this reply and showed it, then went on, ‘My sentiments exactly. I’ve told you many times that it’s not particularly important to like those with whom we do business. But there should always be an element of trust between both parties in any transaction, otherwise it’s begging for problems. I concur with what you think about Cross and that son of his. Their behaviour was appalling, unconscionable. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot barge pole myself.’
Despite these condemning words and the stern expression lingering on Emma’s face, her overall reaction had been so understated, so mild, Paula was still a trifle puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be much more annoyed than you are, Grandy, unless you’re not showing it. And you don’t seem very disappointed either,’ she said.
‘My initial anger soon changed to disgust. As for being disappointed, well, of course I am in some ways. But even that is being replaced by an enormous sense of relief. As much as I wanted Aire Communications, now, quite suddenly, I’m glad things turned out the way they did.’
‘I am too.’ There was the slightest hesitation on Paula’s part before she remarked quietly, ‘Sebastian Cross has become my enemy, Grandmother.’
‘So what!’ Emma exclaimed in a dismissive tone. ‘If he’s your first, he’s surely not going to be your last.’ As she spoke Emma became aware of the concern reflected in the lovely, deep-violet eyes fastened on hers, and she sucked in her breath quickly. Making an enemy troubles Paula, she thought, and she reached out and squeezed the girl’s arm, adopted a gentler tone. ‘As unpleasant as it may be, you’re bound to make enemies, as I myself did. Very frequently it happens through no fault of ours, that’s the sad part.’ Emma let out a tiny sigh. ‘So many people are jealous and envious by nature, and you will always be vulnerable to that kind, and a target, because you have so much. Wealth and power through me, not to mention your looks, your brains and your immense capacity for work. All very enviable attributes. You must learn to ignore the backbiting, darling, rise above it. As I have always done. And forget Sebastian Cross. He’s the least of your worries.’
‘Yes, you’re right on all counts, as usual, Grandmother,’ Paula said and pushed away the dismaying memory of those hard eyes which had filled with loathing for her that morning. She felt a shiver trickle through her. Sebastian Cross would do her harm if he could. This unexpected thought immediately seemed silly, farfetched and overly imaginative, and Paula laughed silently at herself, and dismissed such an idea.
Rising, she crossed to the fireplace and stood warming her back for a moment or two. Her eyes swept around the lovely old room. It looked so peaceful, so gentle in the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the many windows, with every beautiful object in its given place, the fire crackling merrily in the huge grate, the old carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece as it had for as long as she could remember. She had loved the upstairs parlour all of her life, had found comfort and tranquillity here. It was a room abundant with graciousness and harmony, where nothing ever changed, and it was this timelessness which made it seem so far removed from the outside world and all its ugliness. It’s a very civilized room, she said to herself, created by a very civilized and extraordinary woman. She looked across at Emma, relaxed on the sofa and so pretty in the pale blue dress, and her eyes became tender. Paula thought: she is an old woman now, in her eightieth year, yet she never seems old to me. She could easily be my age with her vigour and strength and zest and enthusiasm. And she is my best friend.
For the first time since she had arrived, Paula smiled. ‘So much for my wheeling and dealing … skirmishing might be a better way to describe it, Grandy.’
‘And so much for my new project. Now that that’s flown out of the window, I’ll have to find another one, or take up knitting.’
Paula could not help grinning. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she retorted, merriment swamping her face. Stepping back to the sofa, she sat down, lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, then remarked casually, ‘I had lunch with Miranda O’Neill today, and – ’
‘Oh dear, that reminds me, I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner this evening. I’m going out with Blackie and Shane.’
‘Yes, so Merry told me.’
‘My God, can’t I take a breath around here without everyone knowing!’ Emma paused, scanned Paula’s face. ‘Well, you don’t seem too upset, so I presume you don’t mind that I’m trotting off and leaving you to cope with Edwina. Don’t worry, she’ll behave.’
‘I’m not concerned. I was at first, but I decided she’s Jim’s problem. He invited her, so he can entertain her. In any case, Mummy’s always pretty good with Edwina. She knows how to appropriately squelch her, in the nicest possible way too.’ Paula put down her cup and saucer, leaned closer. ‘Listen, Grandy dear, Merry has had an idea, one that might appeal to you. It could be just the project you’re looking for.’
‘Oh, has she. Well then, tell me about it.’
Paula did so, but as she came to the end of her little recital she made a small moue with her mouth, and finished lamely, ‘I can tell you’re not enthusiastic. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’
Emma laughed at her crestfallen expression. ‘Yes, I do. However I’m not interested in taking it on as a personal project. Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pursue the idea and develop it further with Merry. It could be good for the stores. Come back to me when you have it refined. Perhaps we will open the boutiques.’
‘I’ll set up a meeting with her for next week – ’ Paula stopped, peered at Emma. ‘Out of curiosity, why don’t you think it’s a project for you?’
‘There’s no challenge to it. I like tougher nuts to crack.’
‘Oh Lord! And where on earth am I going to find such a thing for you?’
‘I might find my own project, you know.’ Emma’s green eyes twinkled, and she shook her head. ‘You’re constantly trying to mother me these days. I do wish you’d stop.’
Paula joined in Emma’s laughter and admitted, ‘Yes, I am doing that lately, aren’t I. Sorry, Gran.’ She glanced at the clock, swung her eyes back to Emma, said: ‘I think I’d be much better off going home and mothering my babies. If I hurry I’ll get back in time to help the nurse bathe them.’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that, darling. These early years are the most precious, the best really. Don’t sacrifice them.’
Paula stood up and slipped into the magenta jacket, found her handbag, came to kiss Emma. ‘Have a lovely time tonight, and give Uncle Blackie and Shane my love.’
‘I will. And if I don’t see you later, I’ll talk to you in the morning.’
Paula was halfway across the room when Emma called, ‘Oh, Paula, what time do you expect Jim and your parents?’
‘Around six. Jim said he’d be landing at Leeds-Bradford Airport at five.’
‘So he’s flying them up in that dreadful little plane of his, is he?’ Emma pursed her lips in annoyance and gave Paula the benefit of a reproving stare. ‘I thought I’d told the two of you I don’t like you flitting around in that pile of junk.’
‘You did indeed, but Jim has a mind of his own, as you well know. And flying is one of his main hobbies. But perhaps you’d better mention it to him again.’
‘I certainly will,’ Emma said, and waved her out of the room.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_584b568d-0bc8-5880-9454-76446eebc6da)
They all said that he was a true Celt.
And Shane Desmond Ingham O’Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride.
When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments.
But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.
It was as a very small boy that Shane O’Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.
Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew – through books. If he was ‘a curious throwback to the Celts’, as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled. He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendour and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him, and as alive, as the present.
In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby. Like his Celtic forebears he venerated words and their power, for filled with a recklessness and gaiety though he was, he was also a man of intellectual vigour. And perhaps it was this extraordinary mingling of contrasts – his mass of contradictions – that made him so unusual. If his angers and enmities were deep rooted, so his loves and loyalties were immovable and everlasting. And that theatricality, constantly attributed to the Celt in him, existed easily alongside his introspection and his rare, almost tender, understanding of nature and its beauty.
At twenty-seven there was a dazzle to Shane O’Neill, an intense glamour that sprang not so much from his remarkable looks as from his character and personality. He could devastate any woman in a room; equally, he could captivate his male friends with an incisive discussion on politics, a ribald joke, a humorous story filled with wit and self-mockery. He could entertain with a song in his splendid baritone, whether he was rendering a rollicking sea shanty or a sentimental ballad, and poetry flew with swiftness from his tongue. Yet he could be hard-headed, objective, outspoken and honest almost to the point of cruelty, and he was ambitious and driven, by his own admission. Greatness, and greatness for its own sake in particular, appealed strongly to him. And he appealed to everyone who crossed his path. Not that Shane was without enemies, but even they never denied the existence of his potent charm. Some of these traits had been passed on from his paternal Irish grandfather, that other larger-than-life Celt, whose physique and physical presence he had inherited. Yet there was also much of his mother’s ancestry in him.
Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O’Neill stood with his horse, aptly called War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still proud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless halls and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone amongst the daffodils, snowdrops and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.
With his vivid imagination, it was never hard for Shane to visualize how it had once been centuries ago when Warwick and Gareth Ingham, an ancestor on his mother’s side, had lived within that stout fortress, spinning their convoluted schemes. Instantly, in his mind’s eye, he saw the panoply unfolding as it had in a bygone age … glittering occasions of state, princely banquets, other scenes of royal magnificence and of pomp and ceremony, and for a few seconds he was transported into the historical past.
Then he blinked, expunging these images, and lifted his head, tore his eyes away from the ruined battlements, and gazed out at the spectacular vista spread before him. He always felt the same thrill when he stood on this spot. To Shane there was an austerity and an aloofness to the vast and empty moors, and a most singular majesty dwelt within this landscape. The rolling moors swept up and away like a great unfurled banner of green and gold and umber and ochre, flaring out to meet the rim of the endless sky, that incredible blaze of blue shimmering with silvered sunlight at this hour. It was a beauty of such magnitude and stunning clarity Shane found it almost unendurable to look at, and his response, as always, was intensely emotional. Here was the one spot on this earth where he felt he truly belonged, and when he was away from it he was filled with a sense of deprivation, yearned to return. Once again he was about to exile himself, but like all of his other exiles, this, too, was self-imposed.
Shane O’Neill sighed heavily as he felt the old sadness, the melancholy, trickling through him. He leaned his head against the stallion’s neck and squeezed his eyes shut, and he willed the pain of longing for her to pass. How could he live here, under the same sky, knowing she was so close yet so far beyond his reach. So he must go … go far away and leave this place he loved, leave the woman he loved beyond reason because she could never be his. It was the only way he could survive as a man.
Abruptly he turned, and swung himself into the saddle, determined to pull himself out of the black mood which had so unexpectedly engulfed him. He spurred War Lord forward, taking the wild moorland at a flat out gallop.
Halfway along the road he passed a couple of stable lads out exercising two magnificent thoroughbreds and he returned their cheery greetings with a friendly nod, then branched off at the Swine Cross, making for Allington Hall, Randolph Harte’s house. In Middleham, a town famous for a dozen or more of the greatest racing stables in England, Allington Hall was considered to be one of the finest, and Randolph a trainer of some renown. Randolph was Blackie O’Neill’s trainer, and permitted Shane to stable War Lord, Feudal Baron, and his filly, Celtic Maiden, at Allington alongside his grandfather’s string of race horses.
By the time he reached the huge iron gates of Allington Hall, Shane had managed to partially subdue his nagging heartache and lift himself out of his depression. He took several deep breaths, and brought a neutral expression to his face as he turned at the end of the gravel driveway and headed in the direction of the stables at the back of the house. To Shane’s surprise, the yard was deserted, but as he clattered across the cobblestones a stable lad appeared, and a moment later Randolph Harte walked out of the stalls and waved to him.
Tall, heavy-set, and bluff in manner, Randolph had a voice to match his build, and he boomed, ‘Hello, Shane. I was hoping to see you. I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare me a minute.’
Dismounting, Shane called back, ‘It will have to be a minute, Randolph. I have an important dinner date tonight and I’m running late.’ He handed the reins of War Lord to the lad, who led the horse off to the Rubbing House to be rubbed down. Shane strode over to Randolph, grasped his outstretched hand, and said, ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No, no,’ Randolph said quickly, steering him across the yard to the back entrance of the house. ‘But let’s go inside for a few minutes.’ He looked up at Shane, who at six feet four was several inches taller, and grinned. ‘Surely you can make it five minutes, old chap? The lady, whoever she is, will no doubt be perfectly happy to wait for you.’
Shane also grinned. ‘The lady in question is Aunt Emma, and we both know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘Only too true,’ Randolph said, opening the door and ushering Shane inside. ‘Now, have you time for a cup of tea, or would you prefer a drink?’
‘Scotch, thanks, Randolph.’ Shane walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, glancing around the room, feeling suddenly relaxed and at ease for the first time that afternoon. He had known and loved this study all of his life, and it was his favourite room at the Hall. Its ambience was wholly masculine, this mood reflected in the huge Georgian desk in front of the window, the Chippendale cabinet, the dark wine-coloured leather Chesterfield and armchairs, the circular rent table littered with such magazines as Country Life and Horse and Hounds, along with racing sheets from the daily papers. A stranger entering this room would have no trouble guessing the chief interest and occupation of the owner. It was redolent of the Turf and the Sport of Kings. The dark green walls were hung with eighteenth-century sporting prints by Stubbs; framed photographs of the winning race horses Randolph had trained graced a dark mahogany chest; and cups and trophies abounded. There was the gleam of brass around the fireplace, in the horse brasses hanging there, and in the Victorian fender. On the mantelpiece, Randolph’s pipe rack and tobacco jar nestled between small bronzes of two thoroughbreds and a pair of silver candlesticks. The study had a comfortable lived-in look, was even a bit shabby in spots, but to Shane the scuffed carpet and the cracked leather on the chairs only added to the mellow feeling of warmth and friendliness.
Randolph brought their drinks, the two men clinked glasses and Shane turned to sit in one of the leather armchairs.
‘Whoah! Not there. The spring’s going,’ Randolph exclaimed.
‘It’s been going for years,’ Shane laughed, but seated himself in the other chair.
‘Well, it’s finally gone. I keep meaning to have the damn thing sent to the upholsterers, but I always forget.’
Shane put his glass on the edge of the brass fender and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one, said, ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Emerald Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?’
A surprised look flashed across Shane’s face and he sat up straighter. ‘He’d be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she’s a fine mare, but the Aintree course … Jaysus! as Blackie would say.’
Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. ‘Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She’s done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points, and most impressively.’ Randolph paused to light his pipe, then remarked, with a twinkle, ‘I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But, seriously, she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I’ve ever trained.’
‘Oh my God, this is wonderful news!’ Shane cried, excitement running through him. ‘It’s always been Grandfather’s dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?’
‘Steve Lamer. He’s a tough sod, just what we need to take Emerald Bow around Aintree. If anyone can negotiate her over Beecher’s Brook twice it’s Steve. He’s a brilliant horseman.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned it to Grandfather?’
‘I wanted to get your reaction first. You’re the closest to him.’
‘You know he always takes your advice. You’re his trusted trainer, and the best in the business, as far as we’re concerned.’
‘Thanks, Shane. Appreciate the confidence. But to be honest, old chap, I’ve never seen Blackie fuss over any of his horses the way he does that mare. He’d like to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, if you ask me. He was out here last week, and he was treating her as if she was his great lady love.’
A grin tugged at Shane’s mouth. ‘Don’t forget, she was a gift from his favourite lady. And talking of Emma, did I hear a hint of annoyance when you mentioned her earlier?’
‘Not really. I was a bit irritated with her last night, but …’ Randolph broke off, and smiled genially. ‘Well, I never harbour a grudge where she’s concerned, and she is the matriarch of our clan, and she’s so good to us all. It’s just that she can be so bloody bossy. She makes me feel this high.’ He held his hand six inches off the ground, and grinned. ‘Anyway, getting back to Emerald Bow, I’d intended to mention it to Blackie tomorrow. What do you think about my timing? Should I wait until next week perhaps?’
‘No, tell him tomorrow, Randolph. It’ll make his day, and Aunt Emma will be delighted.’ Shane finished his drink and stood Up. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I for one am thrilled about this decision of yours. Now, I’m afraid I really have to leave. I want to stop by the stables for a second, to say goodbye to my horses.’ Shane smiled a trifle ruefully. ‘I’m going away again, Randolph. I’m leaving Monday morning.’
‘But you just got back!’ Randolph exclaimed. ‘Where are you off to this time?’
‘Jamaica, then Barbados, where we’ve recently bought a new hotel,’ Shane explained as they left the study together. ‘I’ve a great deal of work there, and I’ll be gone for quite a few months.’ He fell silent as they crossed the stable yard, and Randolph made no further comment either.
Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.
Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane’s demeanour at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O’Neill since he had been a child, and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane’s closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodelled it and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Georgina, had been alive she had often had to comfort more than one broken-hearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn’t have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scallywags, but he did love them both very dearly.
Shane finally took leave of his horses and walked slowly back to Randolph standing at the entrance to the stalls. As always, and especially when he had not seen him for a while, Randolph was struck by Shane’s unique good looks. He’s a handsome son-of-a-gun, Randolph commented silently. Blackie must have looked exactly like Shane fifty years ago.
Putting his arm around the older man’s shoulder, Shane said, ‘Thanks for everything, Randolph.’
‘Oh lad, it’s a pleasure. And don’t worry about the horses. They’ll be well cared for, but then you should know that by now. Oh and Shane, please ask Winston to call me later.’
‘I will.’
Randolph’s eyes followed Shane O’Neill as he strode off to his car, and there was a thoughtful look on his face. There goes one unhappy young man, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bafflement. He has everything anybody could ever want. Health, looks, position, great wealth. He tries to conceal it, but I’m convinced he’s miserable inside. And I’m damned if I know the reason why.
Beck House, so called because a pretty little stream ran through the grounds, stood at the bottom of a small hill, at the edge of the village of West Tanfield, about halfway between Allington Hall and Pennistone Royal.
Situated in a dell, shaded at the rear by a number of huge old oaks and sycamores, the manor dated back to the late Elizabethan period. It was a charming house, low and rambling, made of local stone supposedly from Fountains Abbey, and it had a half-timbered front façade, tall chimneys and many leaded windows.
Winston and Shane had originally bought the old manor with the intention of selling it once they had rebuilt the ruined parts, remodelled the old-fashioned kitchen and bathrooms, added garages, and cleared away the wilderness which covered the neglected grounds. However, they had devoted so much time and energy and loving care on the house, had become so attached to the manor during the renovations, they had finally decided to keep it for themselves. They were the same age, had been at Oxford together, and had been close since their salad days. They enjoyed sharing the house, which they used mainly at weekends, since they both maintained flats in the Leeds area to be near their respective offices.
Winston Harte was the only grandson of Emma’s brother Winston, and her great-nephew, and he had worked for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company since he had come down from Oxford. He did not have a specific job, nor a title. Emma called him her ‘minister without portfolio’, which, translated, meant troubleshooter to most people. He was, in a sense, her ambassador-at-large within the company, and her eyes and ears and very frequently her voice as well. His word on most things was the final word and he answered only to Emma. Behind his back the other executives called him ‘God’, and Winston knew this and generally smiled to himself knowingly. He was well aware who ‘God’ was at Consolidated. It was his Aunt Emma. She was the law, and he respected and honoured her; she had his complete devotion.
Young Winston, as he was still sometimes called in the family, had always been close to his namesake, and his grandfather had instilled in him a great sense of loyalty and duty to Emma, to whom the Hartes owed everything they had. His grandfather had worshipped her until the day he had died at the beginning of the sixties, and it was from him that Winston had learned so much about his aunt’s early life, the hard times she had had, the struggles she had experienced as she had climbed the ladder to success. He knew only too well that her brilliant career had been hard won, built on tremendous sacrifices. Because he had been reared on so many fantastic, and often moving, stories about the now-legendary Emma, Winston believed that in certain ways he understood her far better than her own children. And there was nothing he would not do for her.
Winston’s grandfather had left him all of his shares in the newspaper company, whilst his Uncle Frank, Emma’s younger brother, had left his interest to his widow, Natalie. But it was Emma, with her fifty-two per cent, who controlled the company as she always had. These days, however, she ran it with Winston’s help. She consulted with him on every facet of management and policy, frequently deferred to his wishes if they were sound, constantly took his advice. They had a tranquil working relationship and a most special and loving friendship which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.
The newspaper company was very actively on Winston’s mind as he drove slowly into the grounds of Beck House. Even so, as preoccupied as he was, he noticed that the little beck was swollen from the heavy rains which had fallen earlier that week. He made a mental note to mention this to Shane. The banks would probably need reinforcing again, otherwise the lawns would be flooded in no time at all, as they had been the previous spring. O’Neill Construction will definitely have to come out here next week, Winston decided, as he pulled the Jaguar up to the front door, parked, took his briefcase and alighted. He went around to the boot of the car to get his suitcase.
Winston was slender, light in build, and about five foot nine, and it was easy to see at a glance that he was a Harte. In point of fact, Winston bore a strong look of Emma. He had her fine, chiselled features and her colouring, which was reflected in his russet-gold hair and vivid green eyes. He was the only member of the family, other than Paula, who had Emma’s dramatic widow’s peak, and which, his grandfather had once told him, they had all inherited from Big Jack Harte’s mother, Esther Harte.
Winston glanced up, squinting at the sky as he approached the short flight of steps leading into the house. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the East Coast and they presaged rain. There was a hint of thunder in the air since the wind had dropped, and a sudden bolt of lightning streaked the tops of the leafy spring trees with a flash of searing white. As he inserted the key large drops of rain splashed on to his hand. Damn, he muttered, thinking of the beck. If there’s a storm, we’re going to be in serious trouble.
Dimly, from behind the huge carved door, he heard the telephone ringing, but by the time he had let himself inside the house it had stopped. Winston stared at it, fully expecting it to ring again, but when it didn’t he shrugged, deposited his suitcase at the foot of the staircase and walked rapidly through the hall. He went into his study at the back of the manor, sat down at his desk, and read the note from Shane telling him to call his father. He threw the note into the wastepaper basket and glanced vaguely at his mail, mostly bills from the village shops and a number of invitations for cocktail parties and dinners from his country neighbours. Putting these on one side, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk and closed his eyes, bringing all of his concentration to bear on the matter at hand.
Winston had a problem, and it gave him cause for serious reflection at this moment. Yesterday, during a meeting with Jim Fairley at the London office, he had detected a real and genuine discontent in the other man. Oddly enough, Winston discovered he was not terribly surprised. Months ago he had begun to realize that Jim loathed administration, and in the last few hours, driving back from London, he had come to the conclusion that Jim wanted to be relieved of his position as managing director. Intuitively, Winston felt that Jim was floundering and was truly out of his depth. Jim was very much a working newspaperman, who loved the hurly burly of the news room, the excitement of being at the centre of world events, the challenge of putting out two daily papers. After Emma had promoted him a year ago, upon his engagement to Paula, Jim had continued to act as managing editor of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the Yorkshire Evening Standard. Essentially, by holding down the old job along with the new one, Jim was wearing two hats. Only that of the newspaperman fitted him, in Winston’s opinion.
Maybe he ought to resign, Winston thought. It’s better that Jim does one job brilliantly, rather than screw up on two. He snapped his eyes open, swung his legs to the floor purposefully and pulled the chair up to the desk. He sat staring into space, thinking about Jim. He admired Fairley’s extraordinary ability as a journalist, and he liked the man personally, even though he knew Jim was weak in many respects. He wanted to please everybody and that was hardly possible. And one thing was certain: Winston had never been able to comprehend Paula’s fascination with Fairley. They were as different as chalk and cheese. She was far too strong for a man like Jim, but then, that relationship was none of his business really, and anyway perhaps he was prejudiced, considering the circumstances. She was a blind fool. He scowled, chastising himself for thinking badly of her, for he did care for Paula and they were good friends.
Winston now reached for the phone to ring Emma and confide his problem in her, then changed his mind at once. There was no point worrying her at the beginning of her very busy weekend of social activities which had been planned for weeks. Far better to wait until Monday morning and consult with her then.
All of a sudden he felt like kicking himself. How stupid he had been. He should have challenged Jim yesterday, asked him point blank if he wanted to step down. And if he did, who would they appoint in his place? There was no one qualified to take on such heavy responsibilities, at least not inside the company. That was the crux of the problem, his chief concern. At the bottom of him, Winston had the most awful feeling that his aunt might lumber him with the job. He did not want it. He liked things exactly the way they were.
It so happened that Winston Harte, unlike other members of Emma’s family, was not particularly ambitious. He did not crave power. He was not crippled by avarice. In fact, he had more money than he knew what to do with. Grandfather Winston, with Emma’s guidance, advice and help, had acquired an immense fortune, had thus ensured that neither his widow, Charlotte, nor his offspring would ever want for anything.
Young Winston was dedicated, hard working, and he thrived in the world of newspapers, where he was in his element. But he also enjoyed living. Long ago he had made a decision and it was one he had never veered away from: He was not going to sacrifice personal happiness and a tranquil private life for a big business career. Treadmills were decidedly not for him. He would always work diligently at his job, for he was not a parasite, but he also wanted a wife, a family, and a gracious style of living. Like his father, Randolph, Winston was very much at ease in the role of country gentleman. The pastoral scene held a special appeal for him, gave him a sense of renewal. His weekends away from the city were precious, and recharged his batteries. He found horse riding, point-to-point meetings, village cricket, antiquing and pottering around in the grounds of Beck House therapeutic and immensely satisfying. In short, Winston Harte preferred a quiet, leisurely existence, and he was determined to have it. Battles in board rooms made him irritable, and he found them endlessly boring. That was why Paula continued to surprise him. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Winston that she was indeed cast in the same mould as her grandmother. Both women relished corporate skirmishing. It seemed to him that business, power, and winning hands-down over a business adversary were narcotics to them. When Emma had wanted him to be Paula’s back-up in the negotiations with Aire, he had swiftly demurred, suggested she send Paula in alone. His aunt had readily agreed, much to his considerable relief.
Oh what the hell, he thought, becoming impatient with himself. I’m not going to spend the entire weekend worrying about Jim Fairley’s intentions. I’ll thrash it out with him next week, once the plans for taking over Aire Communications have been put into operation. Pushing business matters to the back of his mind, he rang his father at Allington Hall and chatted with him for a good twenty minutes. He then dialled Allison Ridley, his current girlfriend. He felt a rush of warmth when he heard her voice, and she sounded equally pleased to hear his. He confirmed that he and Shane would be at her dinner party the following evening, made plans with her for Sunday, and finally dashed upstairs to change.
Ten minutes later, wearing comfortable corduroys, a heavy wool sweater, Wellington boots and an old raincoat, Winston meandered through the dining room and out on to the flagged terrace overlooking the fish pond. The sky had brightened after the brief shower. The trees and shrubs and lawns appeared to shimmer with dewy greenness in the lovely late afternoon light which brought a soft incandescent glow to the fading blue of the sky. The scent of rain and damp grass and wet earth and growing things pervaded the air, and it was a smell Winston loved. He stood on the terrace for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, relaxing and shedding the rest of his business worries, then ran lightly down the steps into the gardens. He hurried in the direction of the beck, wanting to satisfy himself that the condition of the banks had not deteriorated after the recent shower.
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_d7a53010-c27f-51e5-affd-bf48fb4f5444)
Edwina had arrived.
Emma was aware that her eldest daughter was sitting downstairs in the library, having a drink and recovering from her journey from Manchester Airport. In the last few minutes first Hilda, then Emily, had been up to see her, to pass on this news.
Well, there’s no time like the present, Emma murmured, as she finished dressing in readiness for her dinner date with Blackie and Shane. Putting off the inevitable is not only foolish, it frays the nerves. There’s a time bomb ticking inside Edwina, and I’d better defuse it before the weekend begins.
Nodding to herself, glad she had stopped wavering, Emma fastened a pearl choker around her throat, glanced at herself in the mirror, picked up her evening bag and sable jacket, and hurried out.
She descended the long winding staircase at a slower pace, thinking about the things she would say, how she would handle Edwina. Emma had an aversion to confrontation and conflict, preferred to move in roundabout ways, and often with stealth, to accomplish her ends. Accommodation and compromise had been, and still were, her strong suits, both in business and personal matters. But now, as she approached the library, she recognized there was only one thing she could do: tackle Edwina head on.
Her quick, light step faltered as she walked through the vast Stone Hall, and dismay flew to the surface as she thought of doing battle. But Anthony’s happiness was at stake, and therefore Edwina had to be dealt with before she made serious trouble for him, for everyone, in fact. Emma took a deep breath, then continued across the hall, her step now ringing with new determination, her manner resolute.
The library door was partially open, and Emma paused for a moment before going in, one hand resting on the door jamb as she observed Edwina sitting in the wing chair in front of the fire. Only one lamp had been turned on and the light in the rest of the room was gloomy. Suddenly a log spurted and flared up the chimney, the lambent flames illuminating the shadowed face, bringing it into sharper focus. Emma blinked, momentarily startled. From this distance her daughter was the spitting image of Adele Fairley … the same silvery blonde hair, the delicate yet clearly defined profile, the shoulders hunched in concentration. How often had she seen Adele sitting like that, beside the fire in her bedroom at Fairley Hall, staring into the distance, lost in her thoughts. But Adele had not lived to see her thirty-eighth year and Edwina was sixty-three and her beauty had never been as ethereal and as heart-stopping as Adele’s once was. So Emma knew this image was part illusion; still, the resemblance was there, had been there since Edwina’s birth, and she had always been more of a Fairley than a Harte in many respects.
Clearing her throat, Emma said, ‘Good evening, Edwina,’ and bustled forward with briskness, not wanting her to know she had been watching her from the doorway.
Her daughter started in surprise and swung her head, straightening up in the chair as she did. ‘Hello, Mother,’ she replied in a formal voice that rang with coldness.
Emma paid no attention to the tone, accustomed to it by now. It had not changed much over the years. She deposited her jacket and bag on a chair, then proceeded to the fireplace, turning on several lamps as she walked past them. ‘I see you have a drink,’ she began, seating herself in the other wing chair. ‘Does it need refreshing?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
‘How are you?’ Emma asked pleasantly.
‘I’m all right, I suppose.’ Edwina eyed her mother. ‘There’s no need to ask how you are. You’re positively blooming.’
Emma smiled faintly. Sitting back, she crossed her legs, and said, ‘I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner after all. I have to go out. A last minute – ’
‘Business as usual, I’ve no doubt,’ Edwina sniffed scornfully, giving her an unfriendly look.
Emma winced, but suppressed her annoyance. Edwina’s rudeness and sneering manner were generally inflammatory to Emma, but tonight she was determined to overlook her daughter’s unwarranted attitude towards her. You don’t catch flies with vinegar, she thought dryly; and so she would continue to be pleasant and diplomatic, no matter what. Studying Edwina’s face, she at once noticed the tiredness of the drooping mouth, the weary lines around her silver-grey eyes which swam with sadness. Edwina had lost weight, and she seemed nervous, anxious even, and certainly the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, usually filled with her own importance, was not quite so smug this evening. It was apparent she was besieged by troubles.
Emma felt a stab of pity for her, and this was such an unprecedented feeling, and so unexpected, she was a little amazed at herself. Poor Edwina. She is truly miserable, and frightened, but she does bring it on herself I’m afraid, Emma thought. If only I could make her see this, get her to change her ways. Then becoming aware that she was being looked over as carefully as she was scrutinizing, Emma said, ‘You’re staring at me, Edwina. Is there something wrong with my appearance?’
‘The frock, Mother,’ Edwina replied without a moment’s hesitation. ‘It’s a little young for you, isn’t it?’
Emma stiffened, and wondered if her charitable feelings had been misplaced. Edwina was intent on being obnoxious. Then she relaxed and laughed a gay, dismissive laugh, resolved not to let Edwina get her goat. When she spoke her voice was even. ‘I like red,’ she said. ‘It’s lively. What colour would you like me to wear? Black? I’m not dead yet you know, and whilst we’re on the subject of clothes, why do you insist on wearing those awful lumpy tweeds?’ Not waiting for a reply, she added, ‘You have a lovely figure, Edwina. You should show it off more.’
Edwina let this small compliment slide by her. And she asked herself why she had ever accepted Jim Fairley’s invitation, or agreed to stay here at Pennistone Royal. She must be insane, to expose herself to her mother in this way.
Emma compressed her lips, her eyes narrowing as they weighed Edwina speculatively. She said, with the utmost care, ‘I’d like to talk to you about Anthony.’
This statement jolted Edwina out of her introspection, and swinging to face Emma, she exclaimed, ‘Oh no, Mother! When Emily said you’d be coming down to see me, I suspected as much. However, I refuse to discuss my son with you. You’re manipulative and controlling.’
‘And you, Edwina, are beginning to sound like a broken record,’ Emma remarked. ‘I’m tired of hearing that accusation from you. I’m also fed up with your continual sniping. It’s impossible to have a decent conversation with you about anything. You’re defensive and hostile.’
Strong as these words were, Emma’s tone had been mild, and her face was devoid of emotion as she pushed herself up and out of the chair. She went to the William and Mary chest in the corner, poured herself a small glass of sherry, then resumed her position in front of the fire. She sat holding her drink, a reflective light in her eyes. After a long moment, she said, ‘I am an old woman. A very old woman really. Although I realize there will never be total peace in this family of mine, I would like a bit of tranquillity for the rest of my life, if that’s possible. And so I’m prepared to forget a lot of the things you’ve said and done, Edwina, because I’ve come to the conclusion it’s about time you and I buried the hatchet. I think we should try to be friends.’
Edwina gaped at her in astonishment, wondering if she was dreaming. She had hardly expected to hear these words from her mother. She finally managed, ‘Why me? Why not any of the others? Or are you planning to give the same little speech to them this weekend?’
‘I don’t believe they’ve been invited. And if they had, I would hope they’d have enough sense not to come. I don’t have much time for any of them.’
‘And you do for me?’ Edwina asked incredulously, mentally thrown off balance by her mother’s conciliatory gesture.
‘Let’s put it this way, I think you were the least guilty in that ridiculous plot against me last year. I know now that you were coerced to a certain extent. You never were very devious, avaricious or venal, Edwina. Also, I do regret our estrangement over the years. We should have made up long ago, I see that now.’ Emma genuinely meant this, but she was also motivated by another reason. Anthony. Emma was convinced that only by winning Edwina over to her side could she hope to influence her, get her to adopt a more reasonable attitude towards her son. So she said again, ‘I do think we should give it a try. What do we have to lose? And if we can’t be real friends, perhaps we can have an amicable relationship at the very least.’
‘I don’t think so, Mother.’
Emma exhaled wearily. ‘I am saddened for you, Edwina, I really am. You threw away one of the most important things in your life, but – ’
‘What was that?’
‘My love for you.’
‘Oh come off it, Mother,’ Edwina said with a sneer, looking down her nose at Emma. ‘You never loved me.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I don’t believe this conversation!’ Edwina exclaimed, shifting in her chair. She took a gulp of her scotch, then brought the glass down on the Georgian side table with a bang. ‘You’re incredible, Mother. You sit there making these extraordinary statements and expecting me to swallow them whole. That’s the joke of the century. I might be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.’ She leaned forward, staring hard at Emma, her eyes like chips of grey ice. ‘What about you? My God, it was you who threw me away when I was a baby.’
Emma brought herself up in the chair with enormous dignity and her face was formidable, her eyes steely as she said, ‘I did not. And don’t you ever dare say that to me again. Ever, do you hear? You know that I put you in your Aunt Freda’s care because I had to work like a drudge to support you. But we’ve gone through this enough times in the past, and you’ll think what you want, I suppose. In the meantime, I have no intention of being side tracked from what I have to say to you, just because you have the need to dredge up all your old grudges against me.’
Edwina opened her mouth, but Emma shook her head. ‘No, let me finish,’ she insisted, her green eyes holding Edwina’s sharply. ‘I don’t want you to make the same mistake twice in your life. I don’t want you to throw Anthony’s love away, as you did mine. And you’re in grave danger of doing so.’ She sat back, hoping her words would sink in, would have some effect.
‘I have never heard anything quite so ridiculous,’ Edwina snorted, assuming a haughty expression.
‘It’s the truth, nevertheless.’
‘What do you know about my relationship with my son!’
‘A great deal. But despite his love for you, which is considerable, you are hell bent on driving a wedge between the two of you. Why, only last night, he told me how concerned he is about your relationship, and he looked pretty damn worried to me.’
Edwina lifted her head swiftly. ‘So he is here. When I phoned him at his London club last night they said he’d already left. I couldn’t imagine where he was. I had no idea he was coming to the christening. Is he here?’
This was asked with anxiousness, and Emma saw the eager light flickering in her daughter’s eyes. She said, ‘No, he’s not.’
‘Where is he staying?’
Emma chose to ignore this question for the moment. She said, ‘Anthony can’t understand why you’re so opposed to his divorce. It seems you’re making his life miserable, badgering him night and day to reconcile with Min. He is baffled and distressed, Edwina.’
‘So is poor Min! She’s heartbroken, and she can’t comprehend him, or his behaviour. Neither can I. He’s upsetting our lives in the most disturbing way, creating havoc. I’m almost as distraught as she is.’
‘Well, that’s understandable. No one likes divorce, nor the pain it involves. However, you must think of Anthony before anyone else. From what he tells me, he’s been very unhappy for – ’
‘Not that unhappy, Mother,’ Edwina interrupted, her voice snippy and high-pitched with tension. ‘He and Min do have a lot in common, whatever he might have told you. Naturally, he’s disappointed she hasn’t had a child. On the other hand, they’ve only been married six years. She could still get pregnant. Min is perfect for him. And don’t look at me like that, Mother, so very superior and knowing. It just so happens that I know my son better than you do. Anthony might have strength of character, as you’re so fond of pointing out to me whenever you get the opportunity. Nonetheless, he does have certain weaknesses.’
Edwina stopped, uncertain about continuing, then decided her mother might as well know the truth. ‘Sex, for one thing,’ she announced flatly, staring Emma down with a show of defiance. ‘He’ll go for a pretty face every time. He got himself into the most awful scrapes with women before he married Min.’ Edwina shook her head, and bit her lip, muttering in a low voice, ‘I don’t know how much Min actually knows, but I’m aware that in the last couple of years Anthony has had several affairs, and as usual with the wrong sort of women.’
Emma was not unduly surprised by this bit of information, nor was she particularly interested, and she did not rise to the bait. Instead she gave Edwina a curious look, asked, ‘What exactly do you mean by the wrong sort of women?’
‘You know very well what I mean, Mother. Unsuitable females with no background or breeding. A man in Anthony’s position, a peer of the realm with enormous responsibilities, should have a wife who comes from the aristocracy, his own class, who understands his way of life.’
Stifling her amusement at Edwina’s hidebound snobbery, Emma said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, stop talking like a Victorian dowager. We’re living in the twenty-first century – well almost. Your views are outdated, my dear.’
‘I might have known you’d say something like that,’ Edwina replied in a snooty voice. ‘I must admit, you constantly surprise me, Mother. For a woman of your immense wealth and power you are awfully careless about certain things. Background is one of them.’
Emma chuckled and sipped her sherry and her eyes twinkled over the rim of the glass. ‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,’ she said, and chuckled again.
Edwina’s face coloured, and then wrinkling her nose in a gesture of distaste, she said, ‘I dread to think of who he’ll end up with, if this divorce ever goes through.’
‘Oh it’s going through all right,’ Emma said in her softest tone. ‘I think you would be wise to accept that. Immediately. It’s a fact of life you cannot change.’
‘We’ll see about that. Min has to agree before he can do anything.’
‘But, my dear Edwina, she has agreed.’
Edwina was shocked and she stared at her mother through horrified eyes, trying to grasp these words. For a split second she was disbelieving, and then with a sinking heart she acknowledged that her mother spoke the truth. Whatever else she was, Emma Harte was not a liar. Furthermore, her information was always reliable, deadly accurate. Edwina finally stammered, ‘But … but …’ Her voice let her down, and she was unable to continue. She reached for her glass with a shaking hand, and then put it back on the table without drinking from it. Slowly she said, ‘But Min didn’t say anything to me last night when we had dinner. How very strange. We’ve always been close. Why, she’s been like a daughter to me. I wonder why she didn’t confide in me, she always has in the past.’ Edwina’s face was a picture of dismay as she pondered Min’s extraordinary behaviour, and her very perplexing reticence.
For the first time, with a sudden flash of insight, Emma understood why her daughter was so frantic. She was obviously on intimate terms with Min, happy in the relationship. Yes, she was comfortable, secure and safe with her daughter-in-law. Anthony, in upsetting the matrimonial applecart, had put his mother’s world in jeopardy, or at least so Edwina believed. She was petrified of change, of a new woman in her son’s life, who may not accept her quite as readily as Min had, who might even alienate her son from her.
Leaning towards Edwina, Emma said with more gentleness than usual, ‘Perhaps Min was afraid to tell you, afraid of distressing you further. Look here, you mustn’t feel threatened by this divorce. It’s not going to change your life that much, and I’m sure Anthony won’t object if you remain friendly with Min.’ She attempted a light laugh. ‘And after all, Anthony is getting a divorce from Min, not from you, Edwina. He would never do anything to hurt you,’ she placated.
‘He already has. His behaviour is unforgivable.’ Edwina’s voice was harsh and unrelenting and her face flooded with bitterness.
Emma drew back, and the irritation she had been suppressing suddenly rose up in her. Her mouth curved down in a tight line, and her eyes turned cold. ‘You’re a selfish woman, Edwina,’ she admonished. ‘You’re not thinking of Anthony, you’re only concerned with yourself. You claim your son is the centre of your life, well, if he is, you have a damn poor way of showing it. He needs your love and support at a difficult time like this, not your animosity.’ Emma threw her a condemning stare. ‘I don’t understand you. There’s far too much resentment and hostility in you, for everyone, not only me. I can’t imagine why. You’ve had a good life, your marriage was happy, at least I presume it was. I know Jeremy adored you, and I always thought you loved him.’ Her glance remained fixed on Edwina. ‘I hope to God you did love him, for your own sake. Yet despite all the wonderful things life has given you, you are filled with an all-consuming anger. Please turn away from it, put this bitterness out of your heart once and for all.’
Edwina remained engulfed in silence, her expression as obdurate as ever, and Emma went on, ‘Trust your son, trust his judgement. I certainly do. You’re knocking your head against a brick wall, fighting this divorce. You can’t possibly win. In fact, you’ll end up the loser. You’ll drive Anthony away forever.’ She searched her daughter’s face, seeking a sign of softening on her part, but it was still closed and unyielding.
Sighing to herself, Emma thought: I give up. I’ll never get through to her. And then she felt compelled to make one last stab at convincing her to change her views. She cautioned gravely, ‘You’ll end up a lonely old woman. I can’t believe you would want that to happen. And if you think I have an axe to grind, remember I have nothing to gain. Very genuinely, Edwina, I simply want to prevent you from making the most terrible mistake.’
Although Edwina was unresponsive, sat huddled in the chair, avoiding her mother’s penetrating eyes, she had been listening attentively for the last few minutes, and digesting Emma’s words. They had struck home, Emma’s belief to the contrary. Now, in the inner recesses of Edwina’s mind, something stirred. It was a dim awareness that she had been wrong. Suddenly, discomfort with herself overwhelmed her, and she felt guilty about Anthony. She had been selfish, more selfish than she had realized until this moment. It was true that she loved Min like the daughter she had never had, and she dreaded the thought of losing her. But she dreaded losing her son more. And that had already begun to happen.
Edwina did not have much insight, nor was she a clever woman, but she was not without a certain intelligence, and this now told her that Anthony had turned to his grandmother in desperation, had confided in Emma instead of her. Resentment and jealousy, her worst traits, flared within her at the thought of this betrayal on her son’s part. And then, with a wisdom uncommon for her, she put aside these feelings. Anthony had not really been treacherous or disloyal. It was all her fault. She was driving him away from her, as her mother had pointed out. Emma was being sincere in trying to bridge the rift rapidly developing between herself and her son. Emma did want them to remain close, that seemed obvious, if she considered her words dispassionately and with fairness. This admission astonished Edwina, and against her volition she experienced a feeling of gratitude to her mother for making this effort on her behalf.
Edwina spoke slowly, in a muted voice. ‘It’s been a shock, the divorce, I mean. But you’re right, Mother. I must think of Anthony first. Yes, it’s his happiness that counts.’
For the first time in her life, Edwina found herself turning to Emma for help. Her anger and bitterness now somewhat diffused, she asked softly, ‘What do you think I should do, Mother? He must be very angry with me.’
Believing that her attempts to drill some common sense into Edwina had had no effect whatsoever, Emma was a bit taken aback by this unanticipated reversal. Rapidly regrouping her thoughts, she said, ‘No, he’s not angry. Hurt perhaps, worried even. He loves you very much, you know, and the last thing he wants is a permanent split between you.’ Emma half smiled. ‘You asked me what you should do. Why, Edwina, I think you should tell him exactly what you’ve just told me … that his happiness is the most important thing to you, and that he has your blessing, whatever he plans to do with his life.’
‘I will,’ Edwina cried. ‘I must.’ She gazed at Emma, for once without rancour, and added, ‘There’s something else.’ She swallowed, finished in a strangled voice, ‘Thank you, Mother. Thank you for trying to help.’
Emma nodded and glanced away. Her face was calm but she was filling with uneasiness. I have to tell her about Sally, she thought. If I avoid revealing his involvement with the girl, holy hell will break loose tomorrow. Everything I’ve accomplished in the last half-hour will be swept away by Edwina’s wrath when she sees them together. This way, she’ll have time to sleep on her rage, perhaps put it behind her. When she’s calm she’ll surely recognize she cannot live her son’s life for him.
Gathering her strength, Emma said, ‘I have something further to say to you, Edwina, and I want you to hear me out before you make any comment.’
Edwina frowned. ‘What is it?’ she asked nervously, clasping her hands together in her lap. Emma was silent, but her face was readable for a change. It telegraphed trouble to Edwina. Steeling herself for what she somehow knew would be a body blow, she nodded for her mother to proceed.
Emma said, ‘Anthony is in love with another woman. It’s Sally … Sally Harte. Now, Edwina, I – ’
‘Oh no!’ Edwina cried, aghast. Her face had paled and she gripped the arms of the chair to steady herself.
‘I asked you to hear me out. You just said your son’s happiness was the only thing that matters. I trust you really meant that. He intends to marry Sally when he is free to do so, and you are – ’
Again Edwina interrupted. ‘And you said you had no axe to grind!’
‘I don’t,’ Emma declared. ‘And if you think I’ve encouraged them, you’re mistaken. I was aware he’d taken her out several times, when he’s been in Yorkshire, I don’t deny that. But I hadn’t paid much attention. Anyway, it seems they are seriously involved. Also, Anthony came to announce his plans to me, not ask my permission to marry my great-niece. Furthermore, I gather he took the same Stance with Randolph, told him he was going to marry his daughter, and without so much as a by your leave. Randolph can be old-fashioned at times, and his nose was considerably out of joint when we spoke late last night. But I soon put him straight.’
Moving to the edge of the chair, the fuming Edwina let her furious glance roam over Emma. She examined that old and wrinkled face minutely, looking for signs of duplicity and cunning. But they were absent, and the hooded green eyes were clear, guileless. Then without warning, a vivid picture of Sally Harte flew into Edwina’s twisting mind. They had run into each other nine months ago, at the exhibition of Sally’s paintings at the Royal Academy. She had sought Edwina out actually, and had been charming, very friendly. At the time Edwina had thought that Sally had grown up to become one of the most beautiful women she had ever laid eyes on. A Harte though, through and through, with her grandfather Winston’s arresting looks, his carefree blue eyes, his dark windblown hair.
Edwina snuffed out the disturbing image of Sally Harte and concentrated her attention on the old woman sitting opposite her, who in turn was observing her acutely and with sternness. Always ready and willing to brand her mother a manipulator, a schemer who contrived to control them and run all of their lives, Edwina decided that in this instance Emma Harte had indeed been an innocent bystander. As much as she wanted to blame her for this … this disaster, she could not. She had the most dreadful conviction that it was her son’s doing, and his alone. Anthony would be unable to resist that lovely, laughing, bewitching face, which she had been so struck by herself. It was his pattern, after all … falling for beautiful features and a shapely figure. Yes, once again, Anthony had managed to get himself involved with the wrong sort of woman, and all because of sex.
With a little shiver, Edwina drew herself up, and said in a clipped voice, ‘Well, Mother, I must admit you’ve convinced me that you’ve not been a party to this unfortunate relationship. I give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Emma said.
‘Nonetheless,’ Edwina continued purposefully, her face set, ‘I must voice my disapproval of this match, or I should say mismatch, to my son. Sally is not cut out to be his wife. She is most unsuitable. For one thing, she is dedicated to her career. Her painting will always come first with her. Consequently, she most certainly won’t fit into his life at Clonloughlin, a life that revolves around the estate, the local gentry and their country pursuits. He is making a terrible mistake, one he will live to regret for the rest of his life. So, therefore, I intend to put a stop to this affair at once.’
How could I have ever given birth to such a pig-headed fool? Emma asked herself. She stood up and said, with great firmness, her manner conclusive, ‘I must leave. Shane will be here any minute. But before I go I have two statements to make, and I want you to listen most carefully. The first concerns Sally. You cannot point a finger at her, since she is beyond reproach and her reputation is impeccable in every sense. As for her career, well, she can just as easily paint at Clonloughlin as she can here. I might also remind you, silly snob that you are, that she is not only accepted by those ridiculous nitwits in so-called high society, whom you have the desire to kowtow to constantly, but is assiduously courted by them. Thank God she has more sense than you, and hasn’t fallen for all that worthless, high-falutin clap trap.’
‘As usual, you’re being insulting, Mother,’ Edwina snapped.
Emma shook her silvered head disbelievingly, her lips pursing. Trust Edwina to interrupt a serious conversation because her sensibilities were offended. She said with a small, very cold smile, ‘Old people believe that age gives them the licence to say exactly what they think, without being concerned that they may be giving offence. I don’t mince my words these days, Edwina. I speak the truth. And I will continue to do so until the day I die. Anything else is a waste of time. But getting back to Sally, I would like to remind you that she is an artist of some repute, also, in case you’d forgotten, she is an heiress in her own right, since my brother Winston left his grandchildren a great fortune. Mind you, I’ll give you your due, I know money isn’t particularly interesting to you, or Anthony, for that matter. Still, that doesn’t change the facts, and you’re making yourself look ridiculous by saying she is unsuitable. Poppycock! Sally is ideal for him. And let’s not dismiss their feelings for each other. They are in love, Edwina, and that’s the most important consideration of all.’
‘Love? Sex, you mean,’ Edwina began, and then stopped, seeing the look of disapproval in Emma’s eyes. ‘Well, you are correct about one thing, Mother, money doesn’t matter to the Dunvale family,’ Edwina finished, looking as if she had just smelled something rotten.
Emma said with cool authority, ‘Anthony is his own man, and for that I will be eternally grateful. He will do as he wishes. And if this relationship is a mistake, then it will be his own mistake to make. Not yours, not mine. Anthony is a man of thirty-three, not a snot-nosed boy in short pants. It would behove you to stop treating him as such.’
Abruptly Emma swung away from Edwina and crossed to the desk in front of the window. She stood behind it, regarding her daughter intently. ‘And so, my dear Edwina, if you do speak to Anthony, I suggest you restrict your conversation to motherly words of love and concern for his well being. And I want you to restrain yourself when he mentions Sally, as no doubt he will. I don’t believe he will tolerate any criticism of her, or his future plans.’
A horn hooted outside the window, startling both women. Emma glanced over her shoulder, saw Shane getting out of his bright red Ferrari. Turning back to Edwina she lifted the address book off the desk and waved it at her. ‘You will find Randolph’s number in here. Anthony is staying at Allington Hall. Take my advice, call your son and make up with him.’ Emma paused, added with finality, ‘Before it is too late.’
Edwina sat rigidly in the chair and not one word passed her white and trembling mouth.
Emma gave her only a cursory glance as she passed the chair, picked up the jacket and evening bag, and left the library. Closing the door quietly behind her she reassured herself she had tried her very best to solve this troublesome family problem and make friends with Edwina at the same time. But she and Edwina did not matter. They would live with their armed truce as they had always done. Only Anthony and Sally were important in the scheme of things.
Emma threw back her shoulders and drew herself to her full height, striking out across the Stone Hall to the front door. And she hoped against hope that Edwina would come to her senses about her son and give him her blessing.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_1c374d5f-cd3e-5d4f-a44c-88d6ee3f90a6)
Blackie O’Neill had a plan.
Now, this plan vastly entertained him whenever he thought about it, which had been frequently in the last few days. He was mostly amused because he had never come up with a plan in his entire life.
It had always been Emma who had had a plan. When she had been a little snippet of a girl in patched clothes and worn-out button boots there had been her Plan with a capital P. That had been a plan so grand it had left no room for doubt, and when she had set it finally in motion it had carried her away from Fairley and out into the wide world to seek her fame and fortune. Later she had devised innumerable other plans – for her first shop, her second and her third; then she had created plans to acquire the Gregson Warehouse, the Fairley mills, and yet another for the creation of the Lady Hamilton line of fashions with David Kallinski. And of course there had been her Building Plan, which she tended to pronounce as if this, too, were capitalized. He had been very much a part of that most grandiose plan of all, drawing the architectural blueprints and building her enormous store in Knightsbridge. And this great edifice still stood and it was a proud testament to her most extraordinary achievements.
Yes, his Emma had lived with one kind of plan or another for as long as he had known her, and each one had been put into operation with determination and carried through with consummate skill in her inimitable way. And with every success she would give him a tiny smile of cold triumph and say, ‘You see, I told you it would work.’ He would throw back his head and roar, and congratulate her, and insist they celebrate, and her face would soften and he knew that she was giddy with excitement inside, even if she did not really want to show it.
But he had never made a plan before.
In fact, almost everything that had happened to Blackie O’Neill in his long life had been by sheer happenstance.
When he had first come over from Ireland as a young spalpeen, to work on the Leeds canals with his Uncle Pat, he had never imagined in his wildest fantasies that he would become a millionaire many times over. Oh, he had boasted that he was going to be a rich ‘toff’ to young Emma, when she had been a servant at Fairley Hall, but at that time it had seemed unlikely ever to come true. It had been something of an idle boast, and he had laughed at himself in secret. His boasting had proved not to be so idle after all.
Over the years, Emma had often teased him and said that he had the luck of the Irish, and this was true in many respects. He had had to work hard; on the other hand, he had also carried Lady Luck in his breast pocket, and great and good fortune had continually blessed him. There had been times of terrible sadness in his personal life, and sorrow too. For one thing, he had lost his lovely Laura far too young, but she had given him his son, and he considered Bryan to be his best bit of luck of all. As a child Bryan had been warm and loving, and they had stayed close, enjoyed a unique relationship to this day. Bryan had a shrewd, sharp brain, was inspired and fearless in business, a genius really, and together they had parlayed O’Neill Construction into one of the biggest and most important building companies in Europe. When Bryan’s wife, Geraldine, had inherited two hotels from her father, Leonard Ingham, it was Bryan who had had the foresight and brains to hang on to them. Those little hotels in Scarborough and Bridlington, catering to family holidaymakers, had become the nucleus for the great O’Neill chain, which was now an international concern, and a public company trading on the London Stock Exchange.
But had Blackie planned all this? No, never. It had simply come about by chance, through the most marvellous serendipity. Of course he had been smart enough to recognize his train when it had come rolling through his station, and he had jumped on it with alacrity, and he had used every opportunity that presented itself to his advantage. In so doing, he had, like Emma, created an empire, and founded a dynasty of his own.
These thoughts ran through Blackie’s head as he dressed for dinner, and he chuckled to himself from time to time as he contemplated his first Plan, also with a capital P. Not unnaturally, it involved Emma, with whom he spent a great deal of time these days. He had decided to take her on a trip around the world. When he had first suggested this a few weeks ago, she had looked at him askance, scoffed at the idea, and told him she was far too busy and preoccupied with her affairs to go gallivanting off on a holiday in foreign parts. His smooth Irish tongue and persuasive manner had seemingly had no effect. Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to get his own way. After a great deal of thought, and pacing the floor racking his brains, he had devised a plan – and the key to it was Australia. Blackie knew that Emma secretly itched to go to Sydney, to see her grandson Philip McGill Amory, who was being trained to take over the vast McGill holdings. He was also aware that Emma had balked at the thought of the long and exhausting trip to the other side of the world, and she was still vacillating about going.
So he would take her, and they would travel in style.
Naturally she would be unable to resist his invitation when he explained how comfortable, luxurious, leisurely and effortless their journey would be. First they would fly to New York and spend a week there, before going to San Francisco for another week. Once they were rested and refreshed they would hop over to Hong Kong and the Far East, and slowly head to their final destination in easy stages.
And he fully intended to make sure she had a little fun on their peregrinations. Blackie could no longer count the times he had asked himself if Emma had ever really had any honest-to-goodness fun in her life. Perhaps becoming one of the richest women in the world had been her way of enjoying herself. On the other hand, he was not sure how much pleasure she had derived from this consuming, back-breaking endeavour. In any event, he was planning all sorts of entertaining diversions, and young Philip was the tempting morsel he would dangle in front of her nose, and if he was not mistaken the trip would prove to be irresistible to her.
Blackie knotted his blue silk tie and stood away from the mirror, eyeing it critically.
It’s sober enough, I am thinking, he muttered, knowing Emma would make a sarcastic remark if he wore one of his gaudier numbers. Long, long ago Laura had curbed, at least to some extent, his exotic taste for colourful brocade waistcoats, elaborately-tailored suits and flashy jewellery; Emma had cured him completely. Well, almost. Occasionally Blackie could not resist the temptation to indulge himself in a few jazzy silk ties and handkerchiefs and ascots in florid patterns and brilliant colours, but he made certain never to wear them when he was seeing Emma. He reached for his dark blue jacket and put it on, smoothed the edge of his pristine white collar, and nodded at his reflection. I might be an old codger, but sure an’ I feel like a young spalpeen tonight, he thought with another chuckle.
Snowy-haired though he was, Blackie’s bright black eyes were still as merry and mischievous as they had been when he was a young man in his prime, and his bulk and size were undiminished by age. He was in remarkable health and looked more like a man in his seventies than one who was eighty-three. His mind was alert, agile and unimpaired, and senility was a foreign word to him, in much the same way as it was to Emma.
Pausing in the middle of the bedroom he dwelled momentarily on the evening ahead, the business matter he would discuss with Emma. He was glad Shane and he had decided to broach the subject to her. Once that was out of the way, and when they were alone, he would move gently into the conversation about the trip. It won’t be easy, he told himself, you know she’s the stubborn one. When he had first met Emma he had recognized at once that she had the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter, and it had only grown more inflexible over the years.
A scene flashed, transporting him back to the past. 1906. A bitter cold January day. Emma sitting next to him on the tramcar going to Armley, looking impossibly beautiful in a new black wool coat and the green-and-black scarf and tam-o’-shanter he had given her for Christmas. The green tones in the tartan bringing out the green depths in her eyes, the black showing off the flawlessness of her alabaster skin.
What a pallor her face had held that Sunday, nonetheless, it had not marred her loveliness, he ruminated, remembering every detail of that afternoon so clearly. She had been seventeen and carrying Edwina, and oh how rigid she had been in her obstinacy. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to manoeuvre her on to that tram. She had not wanted to go to Armley, nor to make the acquaintance of his dear friend, Laura Spencer. Still, when the two girls had met they had taken to each other instantly, and were the closest of loving friends until the day poor Laura died. Yes, Emma’s terrible burdens had eased, once she had moved into Laura’s snug little house, and he had experienced an enormous sense of relief, knowing Laura would mother her, watch over her. And he had won that day, as he fully intended to win with her now, sixty-three years later.
Opening the top drawer of the bureau at the other side of the room, he took out a small black leather jewel box, stared at it thoughtfully, and then slipped it in his pocket. Humming to himself he strode out and went downstairs.
Blackie O’Neill still lived in the grand mansion he had built for himself in Harrogate in 1919. A handsome wide staircase, so beautifully designed it appeared to float, curved down into a charming circular entrance hall of lovely dimensions, where walls painted a rich apricot acted as a counterpoint to the crisp black-and-white marble floor. The square marble slabs had been set down at an angle, so that they became diamond shapes, and they led the eye to the niches on either side of the front door. White marble statues, of the Greek goddesses Artemis and Hecate, graced these niches and were highlighted by hidden spots. An elegant Sheraton console, inlaid with exotic fruitwoods, stood against one wall underneath a gilt Georgian mirror, and was flanked on either side by Sheraton chairs upholstered in apricot velvet. Illuminating the hall was a huge antique crystal-and-bronze-dore chandelier which dropped down from the domed ceiling, and the setting had elegance without the slightest hint of ostentation.
Crossing the hall, Blackie went into the drawing room. Here a log fire burned cheerily in the Adam fireplace, and the silk-shaded lamps cast rafts of warming light on to the cool green walls, on the sofas and chairs covered in darker green silk. Splendid paintings, and Sheraton and Hep-plewhite antiques, added to the graciousness of the room, which exemplified Blackie’s sense of style and colour and perspective in furniture and design.
He fussed with the bottle of champagne in the silver wine cooler, turning it several times, shifting the ice around, then he took a cigar from the humidor and went over to his favourite chair to wait. He had no sooner trimmed the cigar, and lighted it, than he heard them in the hall. He put the cigar in the ashtray, and rose.
‘There you are, mavourneen,’ he cried, hurrying to meet Emma as she came into the room. There was a wide smile on his ruddy face as he exclaimed, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He hugged her tightly to his broad chest, held her away and looked down at her. He smiled again, admiration shining in his eyes. ‘And aren’t you my bonny colleen tonight.’
Emma smiled back at him, love and warmth overflowing in her. ‘Thank you, Blackie dear. And I must admit, you don’t look so bad yourself. That’s a beautiful suit.’ Her eyes twinkled merrily as she ran a hand down his arm expertly. ‘Mmmm. Very nice cloth. It feels like a bit of my best worsted.’
‘It is, it is,’ Blackie said, and winked at Shane who was standing behind Emma. ‘Would I be wearing anything else now. But come, me darlin’, and sit here, and let me get you a glass of champagne.’
Emma allowed him to guide her across the room to the sofa. She sat down, and a brow lifted. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
‘No, no, not really. Unless it’s reaching our grand old ages and being in such good health.’ He squeezed her shoulder affectionately, added, ‘Also, I know you prefer wine to the stronger stuff.’ He glanced at Shane. ‘Would you do the honours, me boy? And make mine a drop of me good Irish.’
‘Right you are, Grandfather.’
Blackie seated himself in the chair facing Emma, picked up his cigar and puffed on it reflectively for a moment, then said to her, ‘And I expect you’ve had a busy day as usual. I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll ever retire … as you’re constantly threatening to do.’
‘I don’t suppose I ever will,’ Emma laughed. ‘You know very well I plan to go with my boots on.’
Blackie shot her a chastising look. ‘Don’t talk to me about dying. I’ve no intention of doing that for a long time.’ He chuckled softly. ‘I’ve a lot more damage to do yet.’
Emma laughed with him, and so did Shane, who carried their drinks over to them. He fetched his own, and they clinked glasses and toasted each other. Shane took a swallow of his scotch, and said, ‘Would you both excuse me for a few minutes. I have to phone Winston.’
Emma said, ‘I hope you have better luck than I did. I was trying to get him for ages, earlier. First the line was busy, then there was no answer.’
Shane frowned. ‘Perhaps he’d slipped down to the village. Any message, Aunt Emma?’
‘Tell him that we didn’t – ’Changing her mind, she broke off and shook her head. ‘Never mind, Shane. It’s not important. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow, and I’m sure we’ll have a chance to chat at some point then.’
When they were alone, Blackie reached across and took Emma’s hand in his, and stared deeply into her face. ‘It’s grand to see you, me darlin’. I’ve missed you.’
Emma’s eyes danced. ‘Get along with you, you silly old thing. You just saw me the day before yesterday,’ she exclaimed, amusement surfacing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our dinner at Pennistone.’
‘Of course I haven’t. But it seems like a long time to me, caring about you the way I do.’ He patted her hand affectionately and sat back in his chair, giving her the fondest of looks. ‘And I meant it when I said you looked bonny, Emma. You’re a real bobby dazzler in that dress, it’s very flattering on you, me darlin’ girl.’
‘Some girl! But thank you, I’m glad you like it,’ she answered with a smile of real pleasure. ‘My friend Ginette Spanier, at Balmain’s, picked it out for me and had it shipped over from Paris last week. Mind you, Edwina was rather scathing earlier. She told me it was too young for me, the colour, you know.’
Blackie’s expression altered radically. ‘She was just being catty, Emma. Edwina’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of that old oak tree out yonder in my garden. She’ll never change.’ He noticed the look of pain flit across Emma’s face, and he frowned with concern for her, cursing her daughter under his breath, Edwina had always been troublesome. But then so had most of the others, and there were a couple of Emma’s children whom he could quite cheerfully strangle with his bare hands. He cried heatedly, ‘I hope she’s not been giving you a hard time!’
‘No, not really.’
She sounded unusually hesitant, and Blackie spotted this immediately, and shook his marvellous white, leonine head, and exhaled in exasperation. ‘I’ll never understand Jim. I don’t know what prompted him to invite her. It was stupid on his part, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, and Paula was upset too, but I decided not to intervene. I thought it would look petty. But …’ Emma shrugged, and, since she confided most things in Blackie these days, she told him about her conversation with Edwina, her attempts to reason with her daughter.
Blackie listened carefully, occasionally nodding, and when she had finished he said, in a low voice, ‘Well, I’m happy for Sally, if this is what she wants. She’s a lovely lass, and Anthony is a nice chap. Down-to-earth, and not a bit stuck up, which is more than I can say for that mother of his.’ He paused. Recollections swamped him. Slowly, he added, ‘She was most peculiar when she was growing up, and never very nice to you, Emma. Always slighting you, if I remember correctly, and believe me, I do. I haven’t forgotten how she used to show her preference for Joe Lowther, making it so bloody obvious too. She was a little bitch, and she hasn’t changed. Please promise me you’ll let this matter about Anthony rest. I don’t want you getting agitated because of Edwina. She’s not worth it.’
‘Yes, you’re right, and I. promise.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Let’s forget about Edwina. Where are you taking me to dinner? Shane was most mysterious when we were driving over here.’
‘Was he now, mavourneen.’ Blackie grinned from ear to ear. ‘To tell you the truth, Emma, I couldn’t think of a nice enough place, so I told Mrs Padgett to prepare dinner for us here. I know you like her home cooking, and she’s rustled up a lovely bit of spring lamb. I told her to make new potatoes, brussel sprouts and Yorkshire pudding, all your favourites. Now, me darlin’, how does that sound to you?’
‘Delicious, and I’m glad we’re not going out. It’s much cosier here, and I do feel a bit tired.’
His black eyes narrowed under his bushy brows as he examined her alertly. ‘Ah,’ he said softly, ‘so you’re finally admitting it. I do wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard. There’s no need for it any more, you know.’
Dismissing this comment with an easy smile, Emma leaned closer to him, and no longer able to suppress her curiosity, she asked eagerly, ‘What do you want my advice about? You sounded cagey on the phone this morning.’
‘I didn’t mean to, darlin’.’ He sipped his whiskey, puffed away for a moment, and continued, ‘But I’d prefer to wait until Shane comes back, if you don’t mind, since it concerns him.’
‘What concerns me?’ Shane asked from the doorway. He strolled into the room, his drink in his hand.
‘The business matter I want to discuss with Emma.’
‘I’ll say it concerns me!’ Shane exclaimed rather forcefully. ‘It was my idea in the first place.’ Seating himself on the sofa next to Emma, he settled against the cushions, crossed his legs and turned to her. ‘Winston’s sorry he missed your calls. He was out in the garden earlier, worrying about the beck flooding. It’s dangerously near to it apparently.’ His eyes swivelled to his grandfather. ‘I just rang Derek and asked him to get a couple of our men over to Beck House tomorrow, to check things out.’
‘Aye, that’s a good idea. But they’ll have to shore up those banks a lot better than they did last year,’ Blackie remarked pointedly. ‘Now, if you’d both listened to me, it would have been done right in the first place. Let me explain a couple of things.’ He commenced to do so, not giving Shane a chance to respond. And then for the next couple of minutes they discussed various methods of reinforcement. They sounded for all the world like a couple of builders about to embark on a major construction project, and Blackie was most vociferous in his opinions, which tickled Emma. He was still a bricklayer at heart.
But she soon lost interest in their somewhat technical conversation. She had become extremely conscious of Shane’s presence next to her. His bulk did more than fill the sofa, it commandeered it. For the first time in years she began to regard him through newly perceptive and objective eyes, not as an old family friend, but as a younger woman – a stranger – might. How marvellous looking he was tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored grey suit and a pale-blue voile shirt with a silver-grey silk tie. He had inherited his grandfather’s large frame, his broad sweeping back and powerful shoulders, along with Blackie’s wavy black hair and those sparkling eyes so like jet. His complexion was dark too, but his light mahogany tan came from winter sun, garnered on the ski slopes of Switzerland or a lazy Caribbean beach, and not from toiling long hours as a navvy out in the open as his grandfather had once done.
His appearance was much like Blackie’s had been at his age. The face is different, though, she thought, sneaking another surreptitious look at him, but he does have Blackie’s distinctive cleft in his chin, the same dimples when he smiles. And that long upper lip betrays his Celtic origins. I bet he’s broken many a heart already, she added silently with an inward smile of amusement. Then she experienced a tiny pang of sadness for Sarah. Easy to understand why the girl had a crush on him. He was a splendid young man who exuded virility and manliness, and there was a unique warmth and gentleness in him. That was the most devastating of combinations, and she knew only too well about men like Shane O’Neill. She had loved such a man herself, had had her heart broken by him once when she had been young and vulnerable and very much in love. But he had repaired her broken heart, had given her immeasurable happiness and fulfilment in the end. Yes, Paul McGill had had the same kind of potency and fatal charm such as Shane O’Neill possessed in some abundance.
Blackie said, ‘Daydreaming, Emma darlin’?’
She shifted her position on the sofa and smiled lightly. ‘No. I’m patiently waiting for you two to finish discussing that damn beck, so we can get down to brass tacks about the business you want my advice on.’
‘Why yes, of course, it’s wasting time we are,’ he admitted, his manner more genial than ever. In fact, conviviality seemed to spill out of Blackie tonight, and he beamed first at Emma, then at Shane. ‘Now, me boy,’ he said, ‘please top up Emma’s glass with a drop more of that bubbly, and give me a refill, and we’ll settle in for a nice little chat.’
And this they did, after Shane had attended to their drinks.
It was Shane who began, concentrating his attention entirely on Emma, his tone as sober as his face had become. He spoke rapidly, but clearly, as he generally did in business, plunging in without preamble. Emma appreciated his directness, and she, in turn, gave him all of her attention.
Shane said: ‘We’ve been wanting to build, or acquire, a hotel in New York for several years. Dad and I have both spent a great deal of time scouting out possibilities. Recently we found the ideal place. It’s a residential hotel in the East Sixties. Old-fashioned, of course, and the interiors are in need of considerable remodelling – rebuilding actually. That’s what we’ll do – most likely. You see, we tendered a bid, it has been accepted, and we’re buying the hotel. The papers are currently being drawn up.’
‘Congratulations, Shane, and you too, Blackie!’ Emma looked from one to the other, her face bathed in genuine delight. ‘But how can I be of help to you? Why do you need to talk to me? I don’t know a blessed thing about hotels, except whether or not they’re comfortable and efficient.’
‘But you do know New York City, Emma,’ Blackie countered, leaning forward with intentness. ‘That’s why we need you.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow you – ’
‘We need you to steer us in the right direction to the best people,’ Shane cut in, wanting to get to the crux of the matter. He pinned her with his bright black eyes. ‘It seems to me that you’ve made that city your own in so many different ways, so you must know what makes it tick. Or rather what makes its business and commerce tick.’ His generous mouth curved up into the cheekiest of grins. ‘We want to pick your brains, and use your connections,’ he finished, regarding her carefully, his cheekiness still very much in evidence.
Amusement flickered in Emma’s eyes. She had always liked Shane’s style, his directness, his boyish impudence. She stifled a laugh, said, ‘I see. Do continue.’
‘Right,’ Shane replied, all seriousness again. ‘Look, we’re a foreign corporation, and in my opinion that city’s as tight as drum. We can’t go in cold … well, we could, but we’d have a tough time. I’m sure we’d be resented. We need advisers – the proper advisers – and some good connections. Political connections for one thing. And we’ll need help with the unions, with any number of things. I’m sure you of all people understand what I’m talking about, Aunt Emma. So, where do we go? Who do we go to?’
Emma’s mind had been working with its usual swiftness and acuity, and she saw the sense in Shane’s words. He had analysed the situation most shrewdly. She told him this, went on without hesitation, ‘It would be unwise of you to start operating in New York without the most influential backing and support. You’ll need everybody in your corner, and the only way you’ll get them in it is through friends. Good friends with clout. I think I can help.’
‘I knew if anybody could, it would be you. Thanks, Aunt Emma,’ Shane said, and she saw him visibly relaxing.
‘Yes, we’re very grateful, me darlin’,’ Blackie added, pushing himself up out of the chair. He took his drink to the console behind the sofa, plopped in extra ice, added more water to his whiskey, and said, ‘Well, go on, Shane, as Emma asked.’ He touched her shoulder lightly, lovingly. Emma glanced behind her, questions on her face. Blackie chuckled. ‘Oh yes, there’s more,’ he said, and ambled back to his chair by the fireside.
Shane said: ‘We have a solid, well-established law firm representing us in the purchase of the hotel – they’re specialists in real estate. However, I feel we are going to need additional representation for other business matters. I’d like to find a really prestigious law firm that has political savvy and a few gilt-edged connections. Any suggestions about that?’
There was a moment of thoughtfulness, before Emma said, ‘Yes, of course. I could send you to my lawyers, and to any number of people who would be of use to you. But I’ve been thinking hard whilst I’ve been listening, and I believe there is one person who would be of more assistance to you than me and my lawyers and my friends put together. His name is Ross Nelson. He’s a banker – head of a private bank, in fact. He has the very best connections in New York, throughout the States, for that matter. I’m sure he’ll be able to recommend the law firm most qualified for your purposes, and assist you in a variety of other ways.’
‘But will he do it?’ Shane asked, doubt echoing.
‘He will if I ask him,’ she said, giving Shane the benefit of a reassuring smile. ‘I can telephone him on Monday, and explain everything. I hope I’ll be able to enlist his help immediately. Would you like me to do that?’
‘Yes, I would. We would.’ He swung his head to Blackie. ‘Wouldn’t we, Grandfather?’
‘Anything you say, my boy. This is your deal.’ Blackie tapped ash from his cigar, looked across at Emma. ‘That name Nelson rings a bell. Have I met him?’
‘Why yes, I think you did once. It was some years ago, Blackie. Ross was over in England with his great-uncle, Daniel P. Nelson. Dan was a close friend and associate of Paul’s, if you recall. He’s the fellow who wanted me to send Daisy over to the States during the war, to stay with him and his wife, Alicia. But as you know, I never wanted Daisy to be evacuated. Anyway, the Nelsons only had one child, Richard. The boy was killed in the Pacific. Dan was never quite the same after that. He made Ross his heir, after his wife, of course. Ross inherited controlling interest in the bank in Wall Street when Dan died, and God knows what else. Not millions. Zillions, I think. Daniel P. Nelson was one of the richest men in America, had tremendous power.’
Shane was impressed and this showed in his face. He asked quickly, ‘How old a man is Ross Nelson?’
‘Oh he must be in his late thirties, early forties, not much more.’
‘Are you sure he won’t mind helping us? I’d hate to think he would regard your request as an imposition. That kind of situation can create difficulties,’ Shane remarked. He was intrigued with Nelson, wanted to know more about him. He reached for his drink and took a swallow, observing Emma out of the corner of his eye.
Emma laughed quietly. ‘He owes me a few favours. And he won’t think I’m imposing, I can assure you of that.’ She gave Shane a shrewd look through her narrowed green eyes. ‘Mind you, I know Ross, and he’s going to expect something in return. Business, I’m sure, in one form or another. Actually, you might consider doing some of your investment banking with him, and let his bank handle your affairs on that side of the Atlantic. You could do worse.’ There was a cynical edge to her voice, as she finished, ‘There are two things you must remember, Shane … one hand always washes the other, and there’s never anything free in this world. Especially in business.’
Shane met her cool, concentrated gaze steadily. ‘I understand,’ he said softly. ‘And I learned long ago that anything for nothing is usually not worth having. As for Ross Nelson, I’ll know how to show my appreciation, you have no worries there.’
Blackie, who had been following this exchange with considerable interest, slapped his knee and laughed uproariously. ‘Ah, Emma, it’s a spry one I’ve got me here.’ He shook his head and his benevolent smile expressed his love and pride. ‘There are no flies on you, my boy, I’m glad to see, and it won’t be the same without you.’ A hint of sadness crept on to his face, wiping away the laughter. ‘I know it’s important and necessary, but I hate to see you go away again, and so quickly. It pains me, it truly does.’
Emma put down her glass and stared at Shane. ‘When are you leaving, Shane?’
‘I fly to New York on Monday morning. I’ll be staying there for a good six months, maybe longer. I’ll be supervising the rebuilding of the hotel in Manhattan, and trotting down to the Caribbean every few weeks to check on our hotels in the islands.’
‘Six months,’ she repeated in surprise. ‘That is a long time. We shall miss you.’ But perhaps it’s just as well he won’t be around for a while, she added under her breath, thinking of her granddaughter Sarah Lowther. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so she hoped.
Shane cut into her thoughts, when he said, ‘I shall miss you too, Aunt Emma, and Grandfather, everyone in fact. But I’ll be back almost before you can say Jack Robinson.’ He leaned into Emma and squeezed her arm. ‘And keep an eye on this lovable old scoundrel here. He’s very dear to me.’
‘And to me too, Shane. Of course I’ll look after him.’
‘Ah, and won’t we be taking care of each other now,’ Blackie announced, sounding extremely pleased with himself all of a sudden, thinking of his Plan with a capital P. ‘But then we’ve been doing that for half a century or more, and it’s a difficult habit to break, sure an’ it is.’
‘I can imagine.’ Shane laughed, marvelling at the two of them. What an extraordinary pair they were, and the love and friendship they felt for each other was a most enviable thing. Sighing under his breath, he reached for his scotch, peered into the amber liquid, reflecting. After a swallow he turned to Emma. ‘But getting back to Ross Nelson, what kind of a chap is he?’
‘Unusual in many ways,’ Emma said slowly, staring into space, as if visualizing Ross Nelson in her mind’s eye. ‘Ross is deceptive. He has a certain charm, and he appears to be very friendly. On the surface. I’ve always thought there was an innate coldness in him, and a curious kind of calculation, as if he stands apart from himself, watching the effect he has on people. There’s a terrific ego there, and especially when it comes to women. He’s something of a ladies’ man, and has just been divorced for the second time. Not that this is significant: on the other hand, it’s frequently struck me that he might be unscrupulous … in his private life.’
She paused, brought her eyes to meet Shane’s, and added, ‘But that has nothing to do with you or me. As far as business is concerned, I deem Ross to be trustworthy. You have no cause to worry in that respect. But be warned, he’s clever, razor sharp, and he has the need to get his own way – that monumental ego rears up constantly.’
‘Quite a picture you’ve painted, Aunt Emma. Obviously I’ll have to have my wits about me.’
‘That’s always wise, Shane, whoever you’re dealing with.’ She smiled faintly. ‘On the other hand, you’re going to Ross for advice, not pitting yourself against him in a business deal. You’ll be able to handle Ross Nelson very nicely. In fact, I think you’ll get along with him just fine. Don’t forget, he owes me a few favours, so he’ll bend over backwards to be co-operative and helpful.’
‘I know your judgement is never flawed, always spot on,’ Shane replied. He rose, walked around the sofa to fix himself another drink, thinking of the characterization she had drawn in her thumbnail sketch. He was anxious to meet the man. It was obvious that Nelson was going to be invaluable. And he was impatient to get the ball rolling with the New York hotel. He needed to submerge himself in business, to take his mind off troubling personal matters. Ross Nelson might possibly be a pain in the neck in his private life, but who cared about his philandering. As long as he was smart, shrewd, trustworthy, and willing to help, that was all that mattered.
Blackie’s eyes flicked briefly to his grandson, and then settled on Emma. ‘I’m not so sure I like the sound of this Ross Nelson fellow,’ he began.
Emma cut him off with a laugh. ‘My money’s on Shane. He’s a grown lad who knows how to take care of himself very well. Very well indeed, Blackie. I’ll even go as far as to say that Ross Nelson might have met his match in Shane.’ This observation seemed to entertain her, and she continued to laugh.
Shane grinned, but made no comment.
He was looking forward to meeting Mr Ross Nelson more than ever. The banker would add spice to the New York venture.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_61b8ef17-3cf5-5977-b0c0-a04846d9abb5)
They sat in front of the blazing fire in the library – just the two of them.
Blackie nursed a snifter of aged Napoleon cognac, and Emma sipped a cup of tea with lemon. He had poured her a small glass of Bonnie Prince Charlie, her favourite Drambuie liqueur, but it remained untouched on the Sheraton side table next to her chair.
They were quiet, lost in their diverse thoughts, relaxing after Mrs Padgett’s fine dinner. Shane had left, and, as much as they both loved him in their individual ways, they were content to have this time alone together.
The firelight flickered and danced across the bleached-pine panelled walls which had taken on a mellow amber cast in the warm roseate glow emanating from the hearth. In the garden beyond the French doors, the towering old oak creaked and rustled and swayed under the force of the wind that had turned into a roaring gale in the last hour. The door and the windows rattled, and the rain was flung against the glass in an unrelenting stream, beating a steady staccato rhythm, and it was difficult to see out through this curtain of falling water. But in the fine old room all was warmth, cosiness and comfort. The logs crackled and hissed and spurted from time to time, and the grandfather clock, an ancient sentinel in the corner, ticked away in unison.
His eyes had been focused on her for a while.
In repose, as it was now, Emma’s face was gentle, the firm jaw and determined chin and stern mouth softer, less forbidding in the flattering light. Her hair held the lustre of the purest silver, and she seemed, to him, to be a lovely dainty doll, sitting there so sedately, perfectly groomed and dressed as always, elegance and refinement apparent in every line of her slender body.
She had not changed really.
Oh, he was aware that when the flames blazed more brightly, he would notice the wrinkles and the hooded lids and the faint brown speckles of age on her hands. But he knew, deep in his soul, that she was still the same girl inside.
She would always be his wild young colleen of the moors, that little starveling creature he had come across early one morning in 1904, when she had been tramping so bravely to Fairley Hall to scrub and clean in order to earn a few miserable coppers to help her impoverished family. His destination had been the same place, for Squire Adam Fairley had hired him to do bricklaying at the Hall, and then he had stupidly gone and lost himself in the mist on those bleak and empty Godforsaken hills … so long ago … but not so long to him. He had never forgotten that day.
Blackie’s gaze lingered on Emma.
He had loved this woman from the first moment he had met her and all the days of his life thereafter. He had been eighteen, that day on the lonely moors, and she had been a fourteen-year-old waif, all skin and bones and huge emerald eyes, and she had touched his heart like no one else before or after, and bound him to her forever without even trying.
Once he had asked her to marry him.
She, believing it was out of kindness and friendship, and the goodness of his heart, had refused him. She had thanked him sweetly, her face wet with tears, and explained that she and the child she was carrying, by another man, would only be burdens to him. And she would not inflict such a terrible load on her dearest friend Blackie, she had said.
Eventually, he had married Laura Spencer, and he had loved her well and true. And yet he had never stopped loving his bonny mavourneen, even though at times he was hard pressed to explain that unique love to himself, or articulate it to her, or anyone else for that matter.
There was a time when he had half expected Emma to marry David Kallinski, but once again she had turned down a splendid, upright young man. Later, she had confided the reason to him. She had not wanted to create trouble between David and his family, who were Jewish. Although Mrs Kallinski was motherly towards her, Emma said she had long realized that as a Gentile she would not be considered appropriate as a daughter-in-law by Janessa Kallinski, who was Orthodox and expected her son to marry in the Faith.
Then one day, Joe Lowther had come riding by, metaphorically speaking, and to Blackie’s astonishment – and not inconsiderable bewilderment – Emma had plunged into holy matrimony with Joe. He had never been able to fully comprehend their union. In his opinion, it was difficult, if not downright impossible, to hitch a race horse and a cart horse to the same wagon. But Joe had been a kindly man, if plodding and dull and not particularly brilliant or engaging. Still, he and Blackie had liked each other well enough and had gone off to fight a war together. And he had seen Joe Lowther killed in the muddy trenches of the bloody, battle-torn Somme, and had wept real tears for him, for Joe had been too young a man to die. And he had, never been able to talk about Joe’s ghastly death, to tell her that he had seen Joe blown to smithereens. Only years later did he learn from Emma that she had married Joe, who adored her, to protect herself and her baby daughter Edwina from the Fairleys, after Gerald Fairley had attempted to rape her one night at her little shop in Armley. ‘It wasn’t as calculating as it sounds,’ she had gone on. ‘I liked Joe, cared for him, and because he was a good man I felt honour-bound to be a good wife.’ And she had been devoted, he knew that.
The second time he had wanted to marry Emma he had truly believed his timing was perfect, that he had every chance of being accepted, and he was buoyed up with soaring hopes and anticipation. It was a short while after the First World War when they were both widowed. In the end, though, uncertain of her true feelings for him, and filled with sudden nervousness about Emma’s astonishing achievements in comparison to his own, he had lost his nerve, and his tongue, and so he had not spoken up. Regrettably. And she had unexpectedly gone off and married Arthur Ainsley, a man not good enough to lick her boots, and had suffered all kinds of pain and humiliation at Ainsley’s hands. Finally, in the 1920s, as he was biding his time and waiting for the propitious moment, Paul McGill had come back to England to claim her at last for himself.
And he had lost his chance again.
Now it was too late for them to marry. Yet, in a sense, they had something akin to marriage and just as good, to his way of thinking … this friendship, this closeness, this total understanding. Yes, all were of immense and incalculable value. And Emma and he were perfectly attuned to each other in the twilight of their days, and what did the rest mean, or matter, at this stage in the game of life?
But he still had that ring …
Much to his own surprise, Blackie had kept the engagement ring he had bought for Emma so long ago. There had never been another woman to give it to – at least, not one he cared enough about; and for a reason he could not fathom, he had never wanted to sell it.
Tonight the ring had burned a hole in his pocket all through drinks and dinner, in much the same way his Plan with a capital P burned a hole in his head. Putting down his drink, he leaned closer to the hearth, lifted the poker and shoved the logs around in the grate, wondering if it was finally the right time to give it to her. Why not?
He heard the rustle of silk and a sigh that was hardly audible.
‘Did I startle you, Emma?’
‘No, Blackie.’
‘I have something for you.’
‘You do? What is it?’
He reached into his pocket and brought out the box, sat holding it in his large hands.
Emma asked curiously, ‘Is it my birthday present?’ and she gave him a warm little smile of obvious pleasure, laughter sparkling in her eyes.
‘Oh no, indeed it’s not. I intend to give you that on your birthday at the …’ He curbed himself. The elaborate party he and Daisy were planning was very hush-hush and meant to be a big surprise for Emma. ‘You’ll get your birthday gift at the end of the month, on the very day you’re eighty,’ he improvised adroitly. ‘No, this is something I bought for you …’ He had to laugh, as he added, ‘Fifty years ago, believe it or not.’
She threw him a startled look. ‘Fifty years! But why didn’t you give it to me before now?’
‘Ah, Emma, thereby hangs a long tale,’ he said, and fell silent as memories came unbidden.
How beautiful she had looked that night, with her red hair piled high on her head in an elaborate plaited coil, wearing a superb white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulders. Pinned to one of the small sleeves was the emerald bow he had had made for her thirtieth birthday, an exquisite replica of the cheap little green-glass brooch he had given her when she was fifteen. She had been touched and delighted that he had not forgotten his old promise, made to her in the kitchen of Fairley Hall. But on that particular Christmas night, in all her elegant finery, with McGill’s magnificent emeralds blazing on her ears, he had thought his emerald bow, costly though it had been, looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to those earrings …
Growing impatient, Emma frowned and exclaimed, ‘Well, are you going to tell me the tale or not?’
He pushed the past to one side, flashed her a smile. ‘Do you remember that first party I gave here? It was Christmas
‘Boxing Day night!’ Emma cried, her face lighting up. ‘You had just completed this house, finished furnishing it with all the lovely Sheraton and Hepplewhite pieces you’d scoured the country to find. And you were so proud of what you’d created all by yourself. Of course I remember the party, and very clearly. It was 1919.’
Blackie nodded, glanced down at the box, continuing to finger it. He raised his head. Unabashed love shone on his craggy, wrinkled face, giving it a more youthful appearance. ‘I’d bought this for you earlier that week. I’d travelled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweller, too. It was in the pocket of my tuxedo. I’d intended to give it to you at the party.’
‘But you never did … why not? Whatever made you change your mind, Blackie?’ She looked at him oddly, through eyes awash with perplexity.
‘I’d decided to have a talk first – with Winston. Why, it was here, in this very room, as a matter of fact.’ He looked about him, as if seeing that ancient scene being re-enacted in the shadows; seeing the ghost of Winston, as he had been as a young man, lurking there. He cleared his throat. ‘Your brother and I talked about you, and …’
‘What about me?’
‘We discussed you and your business ventures. I was worried to death about you, Emma, distressed because of the way you had plunged into the commodities market, and recklessly, or so I thought. I was concerned about your rapid expansion of the stores in the North, your determination to keep on building, acquiring other holdings. I believed you were over-extending yourself, gambling
‘I’ve always been a gambler,’ she murmured softly. ‘In a way, that’s the secret of my success … being willing to take chances …’ She left the rest unsaid. He surely knew it all by now.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it is. Anyway, Winston explained that you’d stopped the commodities lark, after making a fortune speculating, and he told me you were not in over your head. Just the opposite. He told me you were a millionairess. And as he talked, and ever so proudly, I began to realize that you were a far, far bigger success than I’d ever dreamed, that you’d surpassed me, outstripped David Kallinski, left us both behind in business. It suddenly seemed to me that you were quite beyond my reach. That’s why I never gave you this ring … You see Emma, I was going to ask you to marry me that night.’
‘Oh Blackie, Blackie darling,’ was all she could manage to say, so stupefied was she. Tears pricked the back of Emma’s eyes as a variety of emotions seized her with some force. Her love and friendship for him rose up in her to mingle with a terrible sadness and a sense of regret for Blackie, as she envisioned the pain he must have suffered then and afterwards, perhaps. He had wanted her, and he had not said a word. That was his tragedy. At the party in 1919 she had believed Paul McGill was lost to her forever. How vulnerable and susceptible she would have been to her one true friend Blackie in her heartbreak, loneliness and despair. And if he had been more courageous how different their lives would have turned out. Her thoughts ran on endlessly. Why had she never suspected that he cared for her in that way … that he had marriage on his mind? She must have been blind or dense or too involved with business.
The silence between them drifted.
Blackie sat unmoving in the chair, staring into the fire, saying not a word, remembering so much himself. It’s odd, he thought suddenly, how things which happened to me when I was a young man have an extraordinary vividness these days. More so than events of last week, or even yesterday. I suspect that’s part of growing old.
Emma was the first to rouse herself.
She said, in a small, pained voice, ‘Were you trying to tell me, a few minutes ago, that my success put you off? Prevented you from proposing? She studied that dear, familiar face with infinite compassion, thinking of the years he had wasted, the happiness he had let slip through his fingers, and all because of his love for her. A love unuttered.
Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose I am, mavourneen. I decided, there and then, that you could never be weaned away from your business because it was very much a part of you, was you, really. In any event, I lost my confidence. After all, I wasn’t half as rich and successful as you in those days. I didn’t think you’d have me. My nerve failed me. Yes, that’s precisely what happened.’
A deep sigh trickled out of Emma, and slowly she shook her head. ‘How foolish you were, my dearest, dearest friend.’
Blackie gaped at her, his jaw slack with astonishment. ‘Are you saying that you would have married me, Emma Harte?’ he asked, unable to keep the shock and incredulity out of his voice.
‘Yes, I believe I would, Blackie O’Neill.’
Now it was Blackie who began to shake his head, and he did so in wonderment, trying to absorb her words. For a few minutes he could not speak as old emotions took hold of him, surprising him with the strength of their impact.
At last he said, ‘It does me good to hear that, even so long afterwards.’ His voice took on a quavering treble, as he added, ‘Perhaps it’s just as well we didn’t marry, Emma. I’d have been left high and dry, not to mention brokenhearted, when Paul swept you off your feet again.’
‘How can you say such a thing! What kind of woman do you thing I am!’ she cried, her indignation flaring as she jerked herself up in the chair and glared at him with such unprecedented ferocity he flinched. ‘I would never have hurt you! I’ve always loved you, cared about your well being, and you know it. Apologize at once,’ she spluttered angrily, and added, as an afterthought, ‘or I’ll never speak to you again!’
He was so startled by her vehemence he was speechless for a few seconds. Slowly a shame-faced look crept on to his face. He said in a most tender and placating voice, ‘It’s sorry I am, Emma, I take back those words. I believe you. I don’t think you would have left me for Paul. And that’s not my ego talking. I know you … better than anyone does. No, you wouldn’t have betrayed me, you wouldn’t have given him the time of day if you’d been married to me. It’s not in you to be cruel to someone you love, and then there’s your morality and your loyalty and goodness and sense of responsibility. Those would have worked in my favour. Besides – ’ He gave her a boyish grin that brought his dimples out. ‘I would have made you happy.’
‘Yes, Blackie, I believe you would.’
This was said rapidly, and there was a sudden urgency in her manner as she leaned forward anxiously, needing to clarify the past, to make him understand the reasons which had motivated her and Paul, quite aside from their great love. ‘Don’t forget,’ she began, intent on jogging his memory. ‘My marriage to Arthur Ainsley was on the rocks long before Paul McGill returned to this country. I was on the verge of divorce when Paul showed up. Besides, and this is most important, Blackie, Paul wouldn’t have intruded, wouldn’t have sought me out, if I’d been happily married. It was only because Frank had told him I was miserable, and separated from Ainsley, that he arrived on my doorstep.’
She paused, settled back in the chair, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. ‘I know I would not have seen hide nor hair of Paul ever again, if my life had been on an even keel. He told me that himself. He came searching for me because he was aware I was unhappy – and also available. He most certainly wouldn’t have done that if I’d been married to you. Have you forgotten how much he liked and respected you?’
‘No, I haven’t. And you’re correct in what you say … Yes, Paul was a fine and honourable man. I always had a lot of time for him.’
Blackie now rose.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s all water under an old and decrepit bridge, my girl. There’s no point rehashing our troubles of half a century ago. And maybe it was meant to be …’ he lifted his hands and shoulders in a brief shrug ‘… exactly the way it is. But I would like you to have the ring. It’s always been yours, you know.’
He bent over her. She looked up at him, and then at the black leather box in his hands. He lifted the lid, turned the box to her.
Emma gasped.
The ring was exquisite, throwing off the most brilliant prisms of light, and sparkling with life and fire against the black velvet. The central diamond was round and multifaceted, and very large, at least twenty carats, and it was surrounded by smaller stones which were equally as lovely and superbly cut, and these formed a circle at the base of the mounting.
Even Emma, accustomed to magnificent jewellery, was awestruck and she found herself blinking, truly taken aback by its size and beauty. ‘It’s stunning, Blackie,’ she said a bit breathlessly. ‘One of the most beautiful rings I’ve ever seen.’
His joy at her words was evident. ‘It’s an old setting, of course, the original, and perhaps it’s even a bit outdated. But I didn’t want to have it reset. Here, slip it on, mavourneen.’
She shook her head. ‘No, you do it, my fine black Irishman.’ She offered him her left hand. ‘Put it on the third finger, next to my wedding ring.’
He did so.
Emma held out her small, strong hand, her head on one side, admiring the ring glittering so brightly in the fire’s glow. And then she glanced up at him, her expression unmistakably mischievous. ‘Are we finally engaged to be married then?’ she teased in a flirtatious voice, and offered him a smile that was decidedly coy.
Blackie laughed, with delight, hugely amused. He’d always enjoyed her sense of humour.
Bending closer to her, he kissed her cheek. ‘Let’s just say we’re engaged to be – to be the dearest and closest friends and companions for the rest of the time we have on this earth.’
‘Oh Blackie, that’s such a lovely thing to say, and thank you for my beautiful ring.’ She caught his hand and held on to it and pressed it tightly and looked up at him again, and then she smiled that incomparable smile that filled her face with radiance. ‘My dear old friend, you’re so very very special to me,’ she said.
‘As you are to me, my Emma.’
He stepped away from her chair as if heading to his own, and then he paused and swung his white head. ‘I hope you’re going to wear the ring,’ he remarked off-handedly but his glance remained riveted intently on hers. ‘I sincerely hope you’re not going to put it away in that safe of yours.’
‘Certainly not. How could you think such a thing. I’m never going to take it off … ever again.’
He touched her shoulder and returned to his seat, smiling to himself. ‘I’m glad I gave you your ring, me darlin’. I’ve thought about doing so many times, and I’ve often wondered what you’d say. I know I’m always accusing you of being a sentimentalist in your old age, but I do believe I’ve become a sentimental old man myself.’
‘And tell me, Blackie O’Neill, what’s wrong with sentiment? It’s a pity there isn’t more of it in this world,’ she said, her eyes unexpectedly moist. ‘It might be a better place to live in, for one thing.’
‘Aye,’ was all he said.
After a short while, Blackie cleared his throat, and remarked, ‘Now, what about that little proposition of mine, Emma? This morning you said you were doubtful that it would work, but I can’t agree.’
‘Do you know,’ she exclaimed brightly in an enthusiastic voice, ‘I was thinking about it again this afternoon. Emily’s moved in with me, and it suddenly struck me that the only way I’ll get a bit of peace and quiet is to accept your generous invitation.’
‘Then you’ll come with me! Ah, me darlin’, this news warms the cockles of me heart, sure an’ it does.’ He beamed at her, happiness and excitement welling inside him. He lifted his brandy balloon high. ‘Come along, take a sip of your Bonnie Prince Charlie, Emma. This calls for a toast, it does indeed.’
She held up her hand instead. ‘Wait a minute! I didn’t actually say yes. I can’t accept – at least not just yet. I am seriously thinking about the trip, but you’ll have to give me a few more weeks to settle things, to adjust to the idea of being absent for several months.’
Biting down on his disappointment, he said, ‘All right, I’ll be patient. However, I will have to start making the arrangements soon, so please don’t delay your answer for too long.’
‘I’ll let you know as quickly as possible. I promise.’
He sipped his cognac, savouring it, and slowly a sly gleam entered his eyes. He was wrapped in thought for a minute or two longer, said finally, ‘By the way, Emma, I’ve recently made a plan, as no doubt you’ll be surprised to hear. I think of it as my Plan with a capital P, since it happens to be the first plan I’ve ever made.’ He was unable to contain himself, and let out a throaty chortle and his eyes became merry and teasing. ‘Do you remember that first plan of yours?’
‘Goodness me, I’d forgotten all about that.’
‘I never did. And I even recall the day you confided it in me. Such a small slip of a thing you were, too, and I was most impressed. Anyway, if you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to tell you about mine. It’s a most marvellous plan, me darlin’, even though I say so myself. And I’ll bet my last quid it’s going to intrigue you, sure an’ I know it will.’
Amusement touched her mouth. ‘I’d love to hear about your plan, Blackie dear.’
He sat back expansively, nodding to himself, and began: ‘Well, it’s like this. There is this woman I know, and she’s the most stubborn creature I’ve met in all my born days. It just so happens that this stubborn, contrary, maddening but quite adorable woman has a grandson living in Australia. I know she wants to go and see him, and I thought it would be a wonderful treat for her, if I took her out there to see him myself. And so I’ve made a very special plan, and this is how it goes …’
Emily had fallen asleep on one of the huge sofas in the upstairs parlour.
To Emma, standing over her, she looked small and defenceless and innocent, wrapped in a white towelling robe and curled up in a ball against the pile of cushions. A feeling of infinite tenderness swept through Emma, and she bent down and gently moved a strand of pale blonde hair away from Emily’s eyes, and brushed her lips against the girl’s smooth young cheek. She straightened up, wondering whether to awaken her or not, decided to get ready for bed herself first, and tiptoed into the adjoining bedroom.
Emma hung up her sable jacket, took off her pearl choker and matching earrings and placed them on the dressing table. After removing her watch and the McGill emerald, she started to pull off Blackie’s ring, then stopped and looked down at it. This ring had lain in a vault waiting for her for fifty years, and she had promised Blackie she would never take it off. She pushed the ring back on her finger, next to Paul’s platinum wedding band, and finished undressing. She had just put on her nightgown when there was a tap on the door and Emily’s smiling face appeared around it.
‘There you are, Grandy. I waited up for you.’
‘So I noticed, darling. But you didn’t have to, you know.’
‘I wanted to, Gran. But to be honest, I didn’t think you’d be as late as this. It’s turned twelve-thirty!’
‘I’m well aware of the time, Emily. And look here, if you’re going to live with me, you mustn’t start monitoring my comings and goings. And I don’t need mothering either. I get enough of that from Paula at the store,’ Emma remarked evenly, putting on her silk dressing gown and knotting the belt.
Emily giggled and skipped into the room, obviously wide awake and full of her usual joie de vivre. ‘It’s not role reversal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not trying to mother you. I was merely commenting on the time.’
‘Just bear in mind what I said.’
‘I will, Grandma.’ Emily hovered near the dressing table. She saw the jewellery strewn across it and her eyes darted to Emma’s hand. She noticed the diamond at once, which shone with brilliance in the bright light from the lamps. ‘Aren’t you going to show me Blackie’s ring?’ she asked.
Emma’s brows shot up. ‘And how did you know about the ring?’ The words had no sooner left her mouth than she wondered why she had even bothered to ask Emily, of all people, such a question.
‘Merry and I were Blackie’s conspirators,’ Emily explained. ‘About two weeks ago he asked her to ask me to check your ring size. He thought your fingers might have shrunk.’
‘Did he indeed! I’ll have to have a few strong words with him tomorrow. Does he think I’ve turned into a shrivelled up old crone,’ Emma exclaimed pithily.
Emily could not keep the laughter out of her voice as she said, ‘Nobody would think that about you, Gran, least of all Blackie. You’re still beautiful.’
‘No, I’m not. I am an old woman,’ Emma stated flatly. ‘But thank you for being nice, Emily. Of course,’ she added with a laugh, ‘everyone knows you’re prejudiced.’ She held out her left hand. ‘Well, how do you like it?’
Emily took hold of Emma’s hand, her bright green eyes huge, and as round as saucers, her excitement apparent on her expressive, mobile face. ‘Gosh, Gran, I’d no idea it was going to be so big, and such a beauty! It’s fabulous!’ She scrutinized the ring more closely, and with an expert’s eye, lifted her head and nodded knowingly. ‘It’s a perfect diamond, Gran. I bet it cost a fortune …’ Her voice trailed off and she hesitated, then asked in an uncertain tone, ‘Does this mean you and Blackie are going to get married?’
Emma burst out laughing and extracted her hand. ‘Of course not, you silly goose. Whatever will you think of next.’ She touched Emily’s face lovingly, ‘You’re such a romantic girl,’ she murmured, sighing softly. ‘No, it wouldn’t be appropriate. Not at our ages. As Blackie said, we’re engaged to be the best of friends for the rest of our lives.’ Emma now became aware of the undisguised curiosity and interest lingering on Emily’s face, and before she could stop herself she said, ‘I’ll tell you the story about the ring, if you like.’
‘Oh yes, I’d love to hear it, Grandy. Let’s go to the parlour, though. I have a thermos of hot chocolate waiting for you. Come along.’ She took hold of her grandmother’s arm possessively, and shepherded her next door, not realizing she was fussing and bustling like a mother hen. Emma merely smiled, allowed herself to be bullied, secretly amused.
After filling two mugs with chocolate and giving one to Emma, Emily curled up on the sofa she had so recently vacated, tucked her feet under her and gleefully snuggled down into the cushions. Lifting her mug she took a sip and cried with delight, ‘This is such fun, it’s like being back at boarding school and having midnight feasts.’
Emma’s mouth twitched. ‘Don’t get carried away, Emily,’ she laughed. ‘We won’t be doing this every night. I’m usually in bed by this time. And talking of bed, it’s getting very late. I’d better tell you the story quickly, so that we can go to sleep. We have a hectic day tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Gran.’ Emily gave her grandmother her rapt attention.
When the old story was finally told, Emily said, ‘Oh Grandma, that’s so lovely and touching, and a little sad in a way. And imagine him keeping the ring all these years. Gosh, that’s real devotion.’ A wistful look swept across her delicately pretty face and she shook her head. ‘And you’re sceptical about unrequited love! This should prove you’re absolutely wrong.’
Emma smiled indulgently, made no comment.
Brightening, Emily rushed on in her breathy voice, ‘Just think, if you’d married Blackie instead of Awful Arthur all those years ago, your children would have been very different – it’s all a matter of genes, you know. I wonder if the oldies would have been any nicer?’ Emily tilted her head and pursed her lips, lost in thought, her mind racing. Several things occurred to her all at once, and she burst out, ‘What about your grandchildren? Paula, for instance. And me. Goodness, Grandy, I might not have been me at all. I could have been someone altogether different …’
Emma cut in, ‘But I would have loved you just as much, Emily, and Paula too.’
‘Oh yes, of course you would, I know that. But your family would have been very – ’
‘Now you’re speculating about things we’ll never know. And it’s all much too complicated for me, especially at this hour,’ Emma said with a dismissive yet kindly smile. ‘But speaking of my family, what happened here this evening? How was the dinner party?’
Instantly Emily’s face underwent a change, became serious as she sat up abruptly, swung her feet to the floor, and leaned closer to Emma. Her manner was confiding as she said, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but Edwina’s behaviour was quite extraordinary – ’
‘In what way?’ Emma asked sharply, dreading the worst.
Seeing the apprehensive expression settling on her grandmother’s face, Emily shook her head with some vehemence. ‘Don’t look like that. It was all right. Edwina was nice … so nice I couldn’t get over it, and neither could Paula. The Dowager Countess was charm personified. Well, that’s not strictly true.’ Emily made a moue. ‘You know I have a tendency to exaggerate.’ Emily wrinkled her nose, went on, ‘She was sort of … cautious with Paula and me. She doesn’t really like us. She was polite, though, and pleasant to everyone else. I can’t imagine what you said to her earlier, Grandma, but it certainly had a drastic effect on her.’ Emily searched Emma’s face and probed, ‘You must have given her an awful lecture. You did, didn’t you?’ A blonde brow lifted quizzically.
Emma said nothing.
Emily volunteered, ‘I think Aunt Edwina had been crying before she came down for drinks. Her eyes were puffy and red, and so was her nose. She didn’t want a drink. She asked me for aspirins and a glass of water. We’d only been alone together for a couple of minutes when Paula and Jim arrived with Aunt Daisy and Uncle David. Edwina attached herself to Daisy immediately – it’s funny, she seems to have a thing about Daisy. Anyway, she didn’t say much to anyone else, not even Jim, during cocktails.’ Emily’s shoulders hunched in a small off-handed shrug. ‘I thought she seemed ever so subdued, and she was certainly abstemious. You know how incorrigible she and Mummy are, always tippling. They never know when they’ve had enough. Edwina didn’t touch a drop all night, though, not even wine with dinner.’ Flopping back against the cushions, regarding Emma more closely, she pressed, ‘What actually did you say to her, Gran?’
‘Now, Emily, don’t be so nosy. That’s a private matter between Edwina and me. Anyway, it’s not important. What matters is that my words penetrated. Perhaps I drilled some sense into her after all.’
‘Oh I’m sure that’s true,’ Emily agreed. ‘And there’s something else – you’ll never guess what she did before we went in to dinner.’
‘No, I’m certain I won’t. So you might as well tell me, Emily.’
‘She asked Aunt Daisy if she could invite Anthony over for coffee later, and then went to telephone him at Uncle Randolph’s.’
Emma stiffened, asked with a frown, ‘Did he come?’
‘Oh yes.’ Emily grinned. ‘With cousin Sally. Oh Gran, they’re so much in love, and super together.’
‘Sally came with him! How did Edwina treat her?’
‘With cordiality. My eyes were popping, I can tell you that, and I wouldn’t have missed that little scene for all the tea in China. Of course Edwina was falling all over Anthony. She was a bit too obsequious, if you ask me, you know, Uriah Heapish, but then she’s always fawned over her son.’ She gave Emma a huge smile, and finished, ‘In a nutshell, Grandma, the dinner was a roaring success.’
Emma was flabbergasted and temporarily rendered speechless. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘this is one for the books. I never expected Edwina to do such a volte-face.’ Privately she congratulated herself. Her dire warnings had frightened Edwina into behaving like a normal person seemingly. This is a major victory, she thought, and hoped that her daughter would not have a change of heart. Edwina was unpredictable. There was no telling what she might do in a moment of pique. Now,, don’t go begging for trouble, Emma cautioned herself. Relax.
Smiling brightly, filled with an enormous sense of relief, Emma propelled herself to her feet. ‘On that rather surprising but pleasant note I think I’ll get off to bed, darling girl.’ She leaned over and kissed Emily. ‘It looks as if everyone is going to behave with decorum tomorrow. Well, let’s hope so. Goodnight, Emily.’
Emily rose and hugged her tightly. ‘I do love you so much, Gran. And goodnight, sleep tight.’ She picked up the tray. ‘I suppose I’d better do the same. I’ve got to collect the twins from Harrogate College tomorrow, and I’ve thousands of other chores.’ She sucked in her breath. ‘Phew!’ she exhaled, ‘I never seem to have a minute to spare.’
Emma swallowed a smile and disappeared into her bedroom before Emily decided to regale her with those chores she had planned for the following morning.
‘Oh Grandy,’ Emily called after her, ‘I’m glad you’re not upset about the Aire Communications deal collapsing.’
Emma came back to the doorway. ‘I’d venture to say that it’s their loss, our gain.’
‘Yes, so Paula indicated when she mentioned it earlier.’ Emily glided to the door, and muttered with a degree of terseness, ‘Sebastian Cross is simply dreadful. I thought Jonathan might make headway with him. Apparently he didn’t, and if Jonathan couldn’t succeed, then nobody could.’
Emma stood perfectly still, said with the utmost care, ‘What are you chattering on about, Emily?’
Emily stopped in her tracks, swung to face Emma. ‘The Aire deal. You asked Jonathan to talk to Sebastian, didn’t you?’
‘No,’ Emma replied in the quietest of voices.
‘Oh,’ Emily said, looking confused.
‘What makes you think I propelled Jonathan into those particular negotiations?’ As she spoke Emma steadied herself against the door jamb, her astute eyes glinting darkly as they rested with fixity on her grandchild. All of her senses were alerted, and she remarked tersely, ‘Obviously something did.’
‘Well, yes,’ Emily began, and scowled. ‘On Tuesday, when I had dinner with Daddy in London, I saw the two of them in the bar of Les Ambassadeurs when we were leaving. We’d had an early dinner, you see, and Daddy was in a frightful stew about being late for a business meeting. He was in such a hurry I didn’t get a chance to go over and speak to Jonathan.’
‘I see.’ Emma was thoughtful for a moment, asked, ‘Why did you suggest Jonathan would be able to influence young Cross?’
‘Because of their old friendship … they were at Eton together. But then you know that, Gran. You once took me there with you, when you went to visit Jonathan at half-term. Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes. Naturally I also remember that Jonathan went to Eton. What I hadn’t realized was that Cross was a pupil there as well, or that Jonathan and he had been friends in those days. I had – ’
‘I think they’re still friends actually,’ Emily interrupted.
This bit of information chilled Emma to the bone, but she attempted a smile. ‘He probably wanted to surprise me. He might have realized the negotiations were going to be touchy and was endeavouring to smooth the way for Paula,’ she said, trying to convince herself this was the truth. But her intuition told her it was not. Emma gripped the door jamb more tightly, and, adopting a meticulously casual tone, asked, ‘Did Jonathan see you in Les Ambassadeurs, Emily?’
Emily shook her head. ‘He was in deep conversation with Cross.’ She pondered, asked swiftly, ‘Why? Is it important?’
‘Not really. Did you mention this to Paula?’
‘I didn’t get an opportunity. She had just started to tell me about the Aire fiasco, as she called it, and Cross being horrid to her, when Hilda announced dinner.’ Emily bit her inner lip, frowning, beginning to wonder precisely what her grandmother was leading up to with her questions.
Emma nodded, as though to herself, remarked in that same lightly casual voice, ‘I’d prefer you not to say anything about this to Paula. I wouldn’t want her to think he was interfering, queering her pitch. Unintentionally, of course. And don’t bother to bring it up with Jonathan either. I’ll talk to him, find out what his aim was, if indeed he had an aim. It might have been a strictly social evening you know, in view of their friendship.’
‘Yes, Grandy, whatever you say.’
Emily stood rooted to the spot, studying her grandmother closely, filling with alarm. Emma’s face had paled as they had been talking and she noticed that the happy light in her eyes had fled. They were uncommonly dull, lifeless for once. Emily put down the tray hurriedly, and flew across the room. She grasped Emma’s arm, exclaimed with concern, ‘Are you all right, Gran darling?’
Emma made no response. Her mind was working with that razor-sharp precision and vivid intelligence which were so integral to her great genius. Assessing and analysing with her rare brand of shrewdness and perception, she suddenly saw things with a clarity that shocked. For a split second she recoiled from the truth. I’m making assumptions, she thought, but then her ingrained pragmatism reminded her that she was rarely wrong. The truth was staring her in the face.
Becoming conscious of Emily’s hand clutching her arm, her worry and anxiousness apparent, Emma dragged herself out of her disturbing thoughts. She patted the girl’s hand, brought a smile to her face that was convincing, reassuring in its certitude.
‘I’m just tired,’ Emma said in a contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.
CHAPTER 10 (#ulink_8271ca31-6abe-50f2-8f30-d74615e75e7a)
The medieval church at the top of the hill in Fairley village was filled to capacity, almost bursting at the seams.
Family and friends occupied the front pews and the villagers were crowded in closely behind, for they had turned out in full force to honour Emma Harte at the baptism of her great-grandchildren. And after the ceremony they would troop across the road to the parish hall to partake of the special celebration tea, which Emma had instructed Alexander to arrange.
All was peace and serenity within the ancient grey stone walls. Sunshine pouring in through the stained-glass windows threw rainbow arcs of dancing, jewelled light across the sombre stone floor and the dark wood pews. Masses of spring flowers were banked around the altar and on the altar steps. The mingled scents of hyacinths, narcissi, freesia, imported mimosa and lilac filled the air, diminishing the peculiar musty smell of mildew and dust and old wood that was so prevalent in the church. It was the odour of antiquity, and one Emma had detested since childhood: she had automatically chosen the most fragrant of flowers for this occasion in an attempt to counteract it.
She sat in the front pew, proud and dignified, wearing a midnight-blue wool-crêpe dress and loose matching coat. A small velvet beret of the same deep blue was perched at a jaunty angle on her immaculate silver hair, and she wore the McGill emeralds and a long rope of matchless pearls. Blackie was seated to her left, handsome in a dark suit, whilst Daisy sat with her husband, David Amory, to Emma’s right. Edwina was wedged in between David and Sarah Lowther, her posture rigid, her expression rather prim, as usual.
Emma had been somewhat taken aback to find Sarah standing on the porch steps when they had arrived. No one had expected to see her, since she was supposed to have a bad cold. They had spoken briefly at the back of the church before taking their seats, and Emma had been immediately struck by her granddaughter’s healthy appearance. In her opinion, Sarah had either made a miraculous recovery overnight, or had not been sick in the first place. It was more than likely she had toyed with the idea of not coming in order to avoid Shane. Emma could not hold that against her. She understood, had a good idea how Sarah probably felt. But, she thought, I’ll say this for Sarah. She’s a cool customer. Sarah had not blinked an eyelash nor displayed the slightest sign of self-consciousness when Shane had greeted them earlier.
Now Emma sneaked a look at him.
He was sitting with his parents in a pew across the nave, his face in profile. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being observed, he turned his head slightly to the right and caught Emma’s eye, half smiled and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. Emma returned his smile, swung her eyes back to the altar.
Paula and Jim were standing at the carved stone font which dated back to 1574, and were surrounded by the godparents of their children, totalling six in all. The vicar, the Reverend Geoffrey Huntley, having christened the boy Lorne McGill Harte Fairley, was now preparing to baptize the girl, who was to be named Tessa. Like her twin she would bear the same additional middle names.
Emily, one of Tessa’s godmothers, was holding the baby in her arms, and standing on Emma’s left were Anthony, and Vivienne Harte, who were the other godparents. Vivienne’s elder sister, Sally, was godmother to Lorne and cradled him, flanked on either side by his godfathers, Alexander and Winston.
What an attractive group of young people they are, Emma said inwardly, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, and she saw in her mind, for a brief instant, their antecedents … her own parents, her brother Winston, Arthur Ainsley, Paul McGill, Adele and Adam Fairley. How miraculous it was that she and Blackie were still alive and were able to be here today to witness this event, to share in the joyfulness of the occasion.
She shifted her eyes to Paula and Jim.
They do look well together, she thought. He so tall and broad and fair, and the living embodiment of his great-grandfather, Adam; Paula so slender and willowy and dark, and so dramatic looking with her vivid McGill colouring. And Paula’s inbred elegance was most apparent in the way she held herself, and in her clothes. She had chosen a tailored wool suit of a deep violet tone, and wore it with a lighter coloured violet satin blouse and a satin pillbox of the same tone. The violet echoed her eyes. She’s still too thin, Emma thought, but she has such an extraordinary radiance this afternoon.
Her love for her granddaughter and her pride in the girl were emotions most paramount in Emma at this moment, and her face relaxed into softer lines as she continued to regard Paula. The young woman standing up there at the font had given her nothing but happiness and comfort since the day she had been born, in much the same way her mother, Daisy, had done, and continued to do.
Emma closed her eyes. Paul would have been as proud of Paula as she was, for the girl had all the qualities he had most admired: Honour, integrity, honesty, fairness and an intelligence that frequently startled with its brilliance. Although she had gentle manners, and was inclined to shyness, Paula possessed a certain cool poise, and she had inherited her grandfather’s great sense of fun, as had Daisy. Yes, she’s a McGill all right, Emma remarked under her breath. But she’s a Harte as well. Thank God she has my toughness and astuteness, my indomitability and stamina. She’s going to need all of those in the years to come, with what I’m leaving her, with what she has inherited from her grandfather. I hope she never thinks of her inheritance as a terrible burden. It is an enormous responsibility, of course …
Baby Tessa started to shriek, her piercing wails echoing throughout the church. Emma opened her eyes and blinked. She leaned forward, peered at the scene at the font. Everyone wore expressions of concern. The vicar was holding the baby, sprinkling the holy water on her forehead, christening her now in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. When he had finished he handed the child back to Emily, obviously with some relief. Emily began to rock her, trying to calm and soothe the infant to no avail.
Emma chuckled quietly, knowing it was the shock of the cold water on her forehead which had made Tessa cry. The child was protesting – and most vociferously. I can see it already, she thought, little Tessa McGill Harte Fairley is going to be the rebellious one in that family.
Daisy, also smiling, took hold of her mother’s arm and squeezed it. She whispered, ‘It sounds to me as if Tessa is a chip off the old block, Mummy.’
Emma turned her head to look into her favourite daughter’s wide clear blue eyes. ‘Yes,’ Emma whispered back, ‘she’s always been the livelier of the two. Another maverick in the brood?’ She arched a silver brow most eloquently. Daisy simply nodded in answer, her fine eyes dancing with happiness and some amusement.
Within minutes the ceremony was over and they were slowly filing up the aisle. Emma, her arm tucked through Blackie’s, smiled and nodded graciously, but she did not pause to speak to anyone.
Before long the entire family, their friends and the villagers were assembled on the porch, congratulating the parents and chatting amongst themselves.
Several of the local residents came up to Emma, stood talking to her for a few minutes, but very shortly she excused herself and drew Blackie away from the crowd. She said, ‘I’ll slip away now and I’ll be back before anyone notices my absence. Then we can get off to Pennistone Royal.’
‘All right, Emma. Are you sure I can’t go with you?’
‘No. But thanks anyway, Blackie. I won’t be a minute.’
As Emma edged away from the busy porch, Milson, Blackie’s chauffeur, hurried towards her carrying a basket of flowers. She took it from him, smiled, and murmured her thanks.
She went through the lych-gate leading into the graveyard adjoining the church.
Her feet knew the way by heart, and they led her down the flagged path to the far corner, a bit secluded and bosky and shaded by an old elm tree growing by the side of the moss-covered stone wall. Lying in that corner, beneath the headstones she herself had chosen years before, were her parents, John and Elizabeth Harte. Next to them were her two brothers, Winston and Frank. She took bunches of flowers from the basket and placed one on each of the four graves. Straightening up, she rested her hand on her mother’s headstone and stared out towards the bleak moors, a smudged dark line against the periwinkle blue sky filled with scudding white clouds and intermittent sunshine. It was a lovely day, surprisingly warm, balmy even, after the thunderstorms of yesterday. A perfect day to go climbing to the Top of the World. She strained her eyes, but that spot was too far away in the distance to see, and obscured by the soaring fells. She sighed, remembering. Her eyes swept from headstone to headstone, name to name. I’ve carried each one of you in my heart all the days of my life, she said silently. I’ve never forgotten any of you. Then unexpectedly the queerest thought entered her mind – she would not be coming back here again to visit these graves.
Emma turned away at last.
Her steps carried her along the same flagged path that curved through the cemetery, and she did not stop until she reached a wide plot of ground at the other side, in the gloomy shadows of the church. This large private plot was encircled by iron railings which set it apart, told everyone that it was special and exclusive. She pushed open the small gate and found herself amongst generations of Fairleys. She glanced at the graves, and finally her eyes came to rest on Adam Fairley’s headstone made of white marble. On either side of him were his two wives – Adele, the first, and Olivia, the second. Those two beautiful sisters who had loved and married the same man, and who had, in their own ways, been good to her when she had been a young girl. She had never forgotten their kindness to her, but it was on the middle grave that her gaze lingered for a moment longer.
Well, Adam Fairley, she thought, I won. In the end it was I who triumphed. There is nothing left that your family owns in the village, except this plot of land where you are buried. Everything else belongs to me, and even the church operates mostly through my largesse. Your great-great-grandchildren have just been christened and they bear both of our names, but it is from me that they will inherit great wealth and power and position. These thoughts were not rancorous, ran through her mind in a matter-of-fact way, for she had lost all hatred for the Fairleys, and it was not in her nature to gloat, especially when standing next to a man’s last resting place.
Slowly she walked back to the church, and the smile on her serene face was one of gentleness and peace.
Coming through the lych-gate, Emma saw Blackie standing to one side, away from the large group of people, talking to her two youngest grandchildren, Amanda and Francesca.
Blackie chuckled as she came to a standstill by his side. ‘You might know these two would see you do your disappearing act! I had to forcibly restrain them from running after you. Well, almost.’
‘We wanted to look at the graves, too, Grandy,’ Amanda explained. ‘We love cemeteries.’
Emma gave her a look of mock horror. ‘How morbid.’
‘No, it isn’t, it’s interesting,’ Francesca chirped up. ‘We like to read the tombstones, and we try to guess what the people were like, what kind of lives they led. It’s like reading a book.’
‘Is it now.’ Emma laughed, and the look she gave the fifteen-year-old was affectionate. ‘I think we should go back to the house,’ Emma continued. ‘Did Emily tell you we’re having a champagne tea this afternoon?’
‘Yes, but she said we couldn’t have any champagne. We can, though, can’t we, Gran?’ Amanda asked.
‘Just one glass each, I don’t want you both getting tiddly.’
‘Oh thank you, Gran,’ Amanda said, and Francesca linked her arm in Emma’s, and announced, ‘We’ll come with you. Uncle Blackie’s car is much nicer than Emily’s old Jag.’
‘That’s not a very nice attitude, Francesca. You came with Emily, and you will drive back with her. Besides, Uncle Blackie and I have things to discuss.’
But they did not really have anything very special or important to talk about. Emma simply wanted to be alone with her dear old friend, to relax before the reception, to catch her breath before she was engulfed by her large and unorthodox clan.
At one point, as they were driving along, Blackie looked at her and said, ‘It was a grand christening, Emma. Very beautiful. But you had such a strange look on your face when the vicar was baptizing Lorne, I couldn’t help wondering what was going through your mind.’
Emma half turned to face him. ‘I was thinking about another christening … the one you performed when you baptized Edwina with Armley tap water in Laura’s kitchen sink.’ Her eyes held his for the longest moment. ‘I couldn’t help dwelling on the past. You know, Edwin Fairley wouldn’t have been permitted to marry me when I was pregnant, even if he had wanted to, and so Edwina could never have been christened here at Fairley. That really struck home today.’
‘Yes,’ he said in agreement, ‘it would have been denied her, no matter what.’
Emma nodded. ‘And so, as I thought of everything that has gone before in my long life, it suddenly occurred to me that this occasion today was a most compelling example of ironic reversal. And that Adam Fairley, more than anyone else, would have appreciated the poetic justice of it all.’
She paused, smiled faintly. ‘The wheel of fortune truly has come full circle.’
CHAPTER 11 (#ulink_0f06f349-776c-5732-9c03-66618a3c77a3)
Jim Fairley, orphaned at the age of ten and raised by his widowed grandfather, had always been lonely as a child.
In consequence, he thoroughly enjoyed being a part of Emma Harte’s huge family, one which had become his own when he married Paula in 1968. In a way, being flung head first into this extraordinary clan was something of a novelty to him; also, as yet, he remained unscathed by them and thus had kept an open mind about their individual characters, had not attempted to do a tally of their attributes or their faults. And he had held himself apart from the complex animosities and alliances, feuds and friendships that flourished around Emma.
Because Jim rarely thought ill of anyone, he was frequently startled when Paula came down hard on one of her aunts or uncles, and at times he even wondered if she exaggerated when she listed their imperfections, the terrible wrongs they had done her grandmother. But then she was fiercely protective of her beloved Grandy, whom she doted on. Jim was secretly amused by his wife’s attitude, since he believed no one was better equipped to take care of herself than Emma Harte.
A short while ago Jim had decided that Paula’s warnings about the Countess of Dunvale were written in water. So far this weekend Edwina had behaved impeccably – as he had fully expected she would. If she was somewhat reserved with Paula she was at least civil, and he had even managed to make Edwina laugh on their way back from church. She was still in an amiable mood, as he could now see.
His aunt was chatting with her son, Anthony, and Sally Harte, near the fireplace and her usually stiff, tight-lipped expression had all but vanished. For once she appeared to be relatively at ease. Poor old thing, she’s not so bad, he thought, as always charitable about others, and swung his eyes to the painting to Edwina’s left. This hung over the white marble fireplace and it was one of his favourites.
Jim stood at the entrance to the Peach Drawing Room. Pennistone Royal, that lovely mixture of Renaissance and Jacobean design, boasted two formal reception rooms. Paula had chosen this one for the christening party.
He was glad that she had.
He thought it was the loveliest spot in the entire house, with its cream and peach colour scheme and exquisite paintings. Although Emma had depleted her renowned collection of Impressionists by selling some of them off last year, she had retained the two Monets and the three Sisleys that graced these walls. In his opinion it was the works of art that gave the tranquil and elegant Regency room its great beauty.
Jim gazed at the Sisley for a second or two longer, admiring it from this vantage point. He had never coveted anything material in his whole life, but he longed to own this painting. Of course he never would. It would always hang in this house, as Emma had decreed in her will. One day it would be Paula’s property, and therefore he would never be deprived of it, could gaze at the landscape whenever he wished. That was why his intense desire for personal possession of it constantly startled him. He had never felt so strongly about anything, except perhaps his wife. His eyes sought Paula without success. The room had filled up during the ten minutes he had been absent with the photographer, who was setting up his equipment in the Grey Drawing Room. It was just possible she was hidden from view.
He went in rapidly.
At six foot one, well built but trim of figure and with long legs, James Arthur Fairley cut quite a swathe, especially since he was something of a clothes horse, was never anything but faultlessly dressed right down to his handmade shoes. Like his great-grandfather before him, he had a weakness for elegant clothes and a penchant for wearing them with a bit of a dash. Fair of colouring, with light brown hair, he had a pleasant rather sensitive face and soulful greyish-blue eyes. Born and bred a gentleman, he had a natural self-confidence and handled himself easily, and with aplomb, in any given situation. He had a certain quiet charm and a ready smile for everyone.
This flashed as he strode into the centre of the room, glanced about, looking for Paula.
Since he could not find her he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and made a move in his father-in-law’s direction. Edwina spotted him and hurried over, cutting him off before he reached David Amory. She at once launched into a rave about the church ceremony, and then engaged him in a conversation that centred on Fairley village. As he listened patiently, Jim realized yet again, and with a recurrence of his initial surprise, that being a Fairley was of tremendous importance to her. Ever since their first meeting, she had continued to ply him with questions about his grandfather, his grandmother and her father, the long-dead Earl of Carlesmoor, and was inquisitive about his own parents who had been tragically killed in a plane crash in 1948.
On the various occasions he had been with his half-great-aunt, for that was what she actually was, he had detected a sense of embarrassment in her because of her illegitimacy, and he had always felt slightly sorry for her. This was one of the reasons he tried to be kind, to include her in those family celebrations about which he had something to say. His mother-in-law had a nice way with Edwina, but apart from this, Jim recognized that Edwina was drawn to Daisy because they had both been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Emma’s first child strongly identified with her youngest because of this similarity in their births. But their illegitimacy was the only thing they had in common. The two women were the antithesis of each other. His mother-in-law had the sweetest nature, was a compassionate and considerate woman, and a lady in the truest sense of that word. There was no ‘side’ to Daisy Amory, and he liked her for her relaxed attitude towards life, her gaiety and her sense of humour. Sadly, his Aunt Edwina was inflexible and sour, tense and standoffish, a dyed-in-the-wool snob, whose basic values were quite alien to him. Yet there was something indefinable in her that touched him, filled him with a curious sympathy for her. Perhaps this was because they shared the same blood. Paula constantly said that blood was not thicker than water, but he tended to disagree. He was sure of one thing. His relationship with Edwina, slender and tenuous though it was, annoyed Paula to the point of anger. He found this to be most unreasonable on her part, and he fervently wished she could be less emotional about his aunt. In his opinion, Edwina was a harmless old lady.
‘I’m so sorry, Aunt Edwina, I missed that,’ Jim said with an apologetic smile, giving her his undivided attention again.
‘I was saying that it was a pity my mother had Fairley Hall torn down.’ Edwina gave him a long and careful look through her narrowed silvery eyes. ‘The house was very old, and by rights it really ought to have been preserved as a landmark in Yorkshire. And just think, if it were still standing, you could have lived there with Paula.’
Jim missed the inherent criticism of her mother in these words. He laughed and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t like the look of Fairley Hall from the photographs I’ve seen. According to Grandfather it was a hodgepodge of architectural styles and a bit of a monstrosity. He never liked it himself, and personally I think Grandy did the right thing.’
Daisy, who had been hovering close by, caught the tail end of their conversation, and exclaimed, ‘I second that, Jim. Besides, Mother put the land it stood on to very good use, by turning it into a park for the villagers. It’s a charming spot for them during the warm weather. It was very generous of her.’ She glanced across at the Vicar of Fairley who was talking to her husband, and explained, ‘And the reason Reverend Huntley is beaming right now is because Mother has just given him a large cheque for the church restoration fund. She keeps that village going in more ways than one.’ Having rebutted Edwina, squelched her in the pleasantest way, Daisy gave her half-sister a warm smile. ‘I haven’t complimented you, Edwina dear. You look lovely, and that’s a very smart suit you’re wearing.’
‘Oh,’ Edwina said, startled by these kind words. She hardly ever received compliments, and she preened a little, and a sparkle entered her pale eyes as she automatically reached up and patted her hair. Then remembering her manners, she rushed on, ‘Thank you very much, Daisy. You look beautiful yourself, but then you always do. As for my suit, it’s by Hardy Amies. I wasn’t sure it was right for me, but he persuaded me it was.’
The two women discussed clothes for a few seconds, then Daisy exclaimed, ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. I can see Mother trying to catch my eye.’
Left alone with Jim again, Edwina began to enumerate the delights of her home in Ireland. ‘I do wish you could see Clonloughlin at this time of year, Jim. It’s perfectly beautiful, everything’s so green. Why don’t you and Paula make plans to come over for a weekend soon? You’ve never seen it, and we’d love to have you. It’s only a hop, skip and a jump in that plane of yours.’
‘Thank you, Edwina, perhaps we will.’ As he spoke Jim knew Paula would never agree. He decided to cover himself, added, ‘However, I don’t think I’ll be able to drag her away from the babies for some time yet.’
‘Yes, I do understand,’ Edwina murmured, wondering if she had been rebuffed, and to cover her confusion, she went on talking nonstop.
Jim, listening politely and trying to be attentive, wished he could make his escape. Because of his height he towered above Edwina, who was quite small, and now he glanced over her silvery blonde head, looking around, wondering what had happened to Paula. Most of their guests had arrived. She was noticeably absent.
Sarah Lowther had just walked in on the arm of her cousin, Jonathan Ainsley. Bryan and Geraldine O’Neill were talking to Alexander Barkstone and his girlfriend. Blackie was standing by the window, engaged in an animated conversation with Randolph Harte, and he appeared to be excited about something, was beckoning to his granddaughter. Miranda floated over to join them, a vision in one of her crazy costumes, her freckled face brimming with laughter, her bright auburn hair gleaming like a copper helmet in the sunshine pouring through the tall windows.
Jim shifted slightly on his feet, surveying the room at large. Emma was perched on the arm of a sofa, being attentive to her brothers’ widows, Charlotte and Natalie. These two genteel-looking ladies gave the impression of frailty and great age in comparison to Emma, who exuded vitality and happiness this afternoon. He studied her face for a moment. He had revered and respected this remarkable woman all the years he had worked for her; since his marriage to her granddaughter he had come to know a different side of her, had grown to love her. Emma had such an understanding heart, was kind and generous, and the most fair minded person he had ever met. What a fool his grandfather had been to let her escape. But he supposed things were difficult in those days. Stupid class differences, he thought, and sighed under his breath. Then, quite suddenly, he wished that Edwin Fairley had lived long enough to witness this day … to see the Fairleys and the Hartes united at last through matrimony. Their blood was mingled now. He and Paula had started a new blood line.
He became aware that Edwina had stopped her ceaseless chattering and was staring up at him. He said quickly, ‘Let me give you a refill, Aunt Edwina, then I think I’d better go and look for Paula. I can’t imagine what’s happened to her.’
‘No more champagne at the moment, thank you, Jim,’ Edwina said with the faintest of smiles. She was determined to remain cool and collected and keep a clear head this afternoon. Too much wine would have an adverse effect on her, make her lose her self-possession. That she could not afford. She said, ‘Before you disappear, there is one thing I’d like to ask of you. I’ve been wondering if you would be kind enough to invite me to your house in Harrogate. I know it belonged to your grandfather.’ She hesitated, nervously cleared her throat, finished, ‘I’d love to see where he … where my father lived for so many years of his life.’
‘Of course, you must come over for drinks,’ Jim said, understanding this need in her. He hoped Paula would not fly into one of her tempers when he told her he had acquiesced to his aunt’s request. He began to edge away when Emily, with Amanda and Francesca in tow, breezed up to them, cutting off his escape route.
Smiling brightly, Emily grabbed his arm, glanced at Edwina and cried, ‘Hello, you two. Isn’t this the most amazing bun fight. I think it’s going to be a super party.’
Jim smiled at her indulgently. He was extremely fond of young Emily. ‘Have you seen my wife anywhere?’ he asked.
‘She went upstairs with the nursemaid and the babies, muttering something about changing them. I guess they wet themselves rather thoroughly.’ Emily giggled and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Just be glad they didn’t get that elegant Kilgour and French suit of yours drenched with their wee w–’
‘Really, Emily,’ Edwina sniffed reprovingly, ‘don’t be so vulgar.’ She gave her niece a cold and disapproving look.
Emily, blithely unconcerned, giggled again. ‘Babies do do that, you know. They’re like puppies. They can’t control their bladders. And I wasn’t being vulgar, Aunt Edwina, merely stating a fact of life.’
Jim could not resist laughing, recognizing that Emily was purposely being provocative. He threw her a warning frown, glanced at his aunt, praying she would not pounce on Emily.
Edwina was obviously annoyed. Fortunately, before she could think of a suitably chilly response, Winston hove in view, made a beeline for them, greeted everyone and positioned himself between Emily and Amanda.
He turned to Jim, and said, ‘Sorry to bring up business on such a festive occasion, but I’m afraid I have no alternative. I’d like to get together with you first thing on Monday, to discuss a couple of matters. Will you have time to see me?’
‘Of course,’ Jim said, giving Winston a puzzled look. Concern edged into his eyes and he frowned. ‘Anything serious?’
‘No, no, and the only reason I mentioned it now was to make sure you’d keep an hour free for me. I have to go to Doncaster and Sheffield that day, and the rest of the week is impossible. I’m really jammed.’
‘Then let’s make a definite date, Winston. Say about ten-thirty? I’ll have the first edition out on the streets by then.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Winston.
With this matter settled, Jim said, ‘Your father seems very pleased with himself, and so does Blackie. Look at them both. They’re behaving like a couple of kids with a new toy. What’s all the excitement about?’
Winston glanced over his shoulder and laughed. ‘My father wants to run Emerald Bow in the National next year, and Blackie’s tickled to death about it. I think Aunt Emma’s just as thrilled.’
‘So I can see,’ Jim said.
‘Gosh, what marvellous news, Winston,’ Emily exclaimed.
‘I hope Grandma invites us all to go to Aintree next March.’ The conversation now centred around the Grand National and the possibility of Emerald Bow winning the steeplechase. All kinds of opinions were voiced, and even the fifteen-year-old twins had something to say.
But not Edwina. She was silent.
She sipped the last drop of champagne in her glass, eyed Winston with an oblique surreptitiousness. She did not particularly like him. But then she had never had much time for the Hartes. All they had was pots and pots of money. And looks. She could not deny that they were a good looking family – each and every one of them. Suddenly, with a small start of surprise, she saw how closely Winston resembled her mother. She had always been aware they shared certain physical characteristics, yet had never realized how pointed and strong these were. Why, Winston Harte is a younger, male replica of her, Edwina muttered to herself. More so than any of her children or grandchildren. The same features, so clearly defined they might have been cut by a chisel; that red hair shot through with gold; those quick intelligent eyes of an unnatural green. Even his small hands holding the glass are like hers. My God, it’s uncanny, Edwina thought, and looked away quickly, wondering why this revelation disturbed her.
Jim, who had been listening with interest to Winston talking about Steve Lamer, the jockey, interrupted him when he exclaimed, ‘There’s Paula at last.’ His face filled with pleasure and he waved to her. ‘I’ll see you all a little later.’ He squeezed Edwina’s arm reassuringly and dashed across the room.
Paula watched him hurrying to her, a happy expectant smile playing around her mouth. Her heart tightened. She loved Jim very much and she was so lucky to have found him. He was the dearest, sweetest man, and fine and honourable and good. She would have to try harder with Edwina … she wanted so much to please her husband.
Jim caught Paula’s hands in his as he came to a standstill by her side. He smiled down into her face. ‘You were gone such a long time,’ he said. ‘I missed you.’
‘The babies, darling, they needed me.’ Her sparkling bright eyes rested on him lovingly. ‘I hope you’re not going to turn out to be one of those jealous fathers I keep hearing about.’
‘Not on your life. I adore those little moppets.’ He leaned into her, pulled her closer and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘But I also adore you. Listen, darling, let’s sneak away tonight and have a quiet dinner. Just the two of us. Your parents won’t mind. They can have dinner with Emma.’
‘Well …’
‘I won’t take no for an answer, my pet.’ He bent over her and whispered in her ear, gripped her hands all that more tightly as he did so.
Paula blushed at his words, then laughed a light sweet laugh. ‘You’re positively wicked. A regular devil.’ Looking at him archly, she teased flirtatiously, ‘I’ll have you know I’m a married woman, sir. What you propose is most indecent. Quite improper, I’d say.’
‘Do you really think so?’ He laughed, and then he winked, ‘I think my ideas are very exciting.’
‘Mummy’s heading this way,’ Paula said laughing and adroitly changing the subject. ‘And she’s looking very determined about something.’
‘Say yes,’ Jim demanded. ‘To everything.’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
Daisy looked from one to the other fondly and shook her head. ‘Sorry to break up you two lovebirds, but Mother is champing at the bit. She wants to get the photography out of the way as soon as possible now. I’m rounding everyone up. So come along, let’s start assembling in the Grey Drawing Room. Oh, and by the way, Jim dear, I’ve suggested that Edwina be included in one of the family group portraits, and my mother has agreed.’
‘How very nice of you, Daisy,’ Jim exclaimed with warmth and sincerity, thinking how typical it was of her to be thoughtful, and caring about another person’s feelings. That Daisy had shown such consideration for Edwina was doubly commendable.
Emma Harte had never missed a trick in her entire life.
This afternoon was no exception. Her eyes were everywhere, and from her position near the fireplace she had an overall view of the room, and everyone in it. In much the same way that Jim Fairley held himself apart and took in everything, so Emma herself played the observer much of the time these days.
However, unlike Jim, who only saw things on the surface and, moreover, believed exactly what he saw, Emma had an almost frightening perception, one that pierced any façade to comprehend what actually lay behind it. She understood that nothing was ever the way it seemed, and so she was acutely conscious of the undercurrents in the room – the rivalries, the conflicts, the bad blood that existed between some of those present.
A sardonic smile touched her lips. As usual, cliques had formed. It was easy to see who was allied to whom. And she could read them all like an open book.
Edwina was the one who had surprised her the most, in that she had obviously had the intelligence to accept the inevitable. Her eldest daughter was giving off an aura of cordiality, sitting on the sofa near the window, chatting with Sally. On the other hand, Emma had noticed that she was assiduously avoiding any real contact with the other Hartes in the drawing room.
Randolph, Sally’s father, and his two other children, Vivienne and Winston, were most decidedly persona non grata with Edwina, and her intense dislike of them was barely concealed behind the stiff and chilly smiles she had given them earlier. Edwina was also cold-shouldering Blackie, although there was nothing new about that. Once, last year, Edwina had referred to him as the grand seigneur, meaning it disparagingly, her voice ringing with sarcasm.
Emma smiled inwardly. She had rather liked the description then: she did so now. It was apt.
Blackie was indeed behaving like the grand patrician gentleman, strolling around as if he had territorial rights, his manner distinctly proprietary, being gracious and charming, playing the genial host to the limit. And why not? He was her greatest friend, and her escort after all, and this was her house, and she was the hostess at this gathering. He had stood at her side during the toasts and the cutting of the christening cake, and after Randolph had finished speaking he had made a toast himself. To her. He had called her the youngest and most beautiful great-grandmother in the world. Now he had paused, was hovering over Paula, who in turn hovered over her babies. Daisy joined them, her serenity and sincerity and goodness a beacon in this room.
Emma shifted her eyes to the far corner, where they settled on her grandson, Alexander.
Always reserved, Alexander seemed particularly so with Jonathan and Sarah, whom he had briefly acknowledged when he had arrived. Since then he had consistently and carefully ignored them. He had attached himself to Bryan and Geraldine O’Neill at the commencement of the reception, returned to sit with them after the photographs had been taken. She did not understand why he was being cool and distant with Sarah and Jonathan. Could they have had a disagreement? Even a falling out? Or was he simply bored by the company of his cousins, with whom he worked at Harte Enterprises? She turned these possibilities over and then let them go. She would know soon enough if there were any real problems between these three. She wished Alexander would make up his mind about that nice Marguerite Reynolds. He had kept that poor girl dangling for too long. Now where was she hiding herself?
Emma scanned the room. Ah yes, there she was, near the door, laughing with Merry O’Neill and Amanda. Good God, was that child drinking another glass of champagne. Her third? Emily is supposed to be looking after those sisters of hers, and she’s not even in the room, Emma thought, and took a step forward, making for Amanda, then stopped in her tracks. Emily had just returned with Winston and Shane, had spotted Amanda and was about to chastise her little sister, who wore a guilty expression. Emma nodded to herself, amused at the little scene being enacted. Emily, for all her youth and gay disposition, could be very tough when she wanted to be.
Shane had detached himself from Winston and Emily, and was prowling across the floor. Her eyes followed him. He came to a stop next to David, drew Paula’s father to one side, began speaking to him intently. Shane is not himself today, Emma decided. He has a remote air. It occurred to her he might be suffering from ennui at this family function of hers, not to mention preoccupation with his impending trip to New York.
As for Sarah, her auburn-haired granddaughter appeared to be patently uninterested in Shane. Did Emily exaggerate? No, definitely not. Sarah, clinging to Jonathan like a barnacle to a hull, was, by her very actions, proving to Emma that she did indeed care greatly. If Shane no longer mattered to her she would not be huddled in a corner staying out of his way. Was Jonathan a handy convenience? Or had he and Sarah formed some kind of special alliance lately? If so, why? They had never been particularly close in the past.
Emma gave Jonathan a long hard stare, studying that bland and smiling face, noting his insouciant manner. How disarming he could be. He’s clever, she thought, but not quite as clever as he believes he is. He has acquired the knack of dissembling, most likely from me. And because I’m better at dissimulation than he is, he doesn’t deceive me one little bit. I have no hard evidence of his treachery, nothing concrete with which I can nail him, and yet I know he’s up to no good.
When Emma had first arrived at Fairley Church, Jonathan had rushed over to her, and told her he would see her on Monday morning, would bring her his new evaluation of the Aire Communications building. She had merely nodded, kept her face inscrutable. But she had immediately wondered why he suddenly thought the evaluation of the building’s worth was no longer urgent, that it could now wait until Monday. She had been stressing its urgency to him for some time. Emma had not had to think very hard to come up with the answer. Jonathan knew the evaluation was no longer pressing because he was aware that the Aire deal had collapsed. Neither she nor Paula had mentioned the failure of those negotiations, so he could only have acquired his information from Sebastian Cross, and in the last twenty-four hours.
This conversation at the church, coupled with Emily’s revelation of the night before, had convinced Emma that Jonathan was somehow involved with the Crosses, in cahoots with them. But to what purpose?
She did not know. But she would soon find out. She had no intention of confronting Jonathan on Monday morning. It was not her way to show her hand when that hand could be doling out rope, forming a noose. Instead she would go to London next week and start digging. Discreetly. Jonathan’s behaviour today had only served to underscore the nagging suspicion that he was not trustworthy, a feeling that she had harboured for weeks. Without realizing it, he had alerted her further. If he were really smart he would have acted as though the Aire deal were still alive. He had made a small slip – but it was a fatal one in her eyes.
Jonathan happened to turn around at this moment. His glance met hers. He smiled broadly and loped across the room to her.
‘Goodness, Grandy, why are you standing here all alone?’ he asked showing concern for her. Not waiting for a reply he went on, ‘Do you want anything? A glass of champagne, or a cup of tea maybe? And do come and sit down. You must be tired.’ He took hold of her arm affectionately, and his posture was loving.
‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ Emma said. ‘And I’m not a bit tired. In fact, I never felt better.’ She gave him a smile as fraudulently sweet as his had been. Extracting her arm ever so gently, she remarked, ‘I’ve been enjoying myself, standing here watching everyone. You’d be surprised what people reveal about themselves when they believe they’re unobserved.’ Her eyes were riveted to his face.
She waited.
He squirmed under her unflinching gaze, returned it, managed to keep his expression open and candid. But he laughed too quickly and too loudly as he said, ‘You are a card, Grandy.’
And possibly you’re the joker in the pack, Emma thought coldly. She said, ‘What’s wrong with Sarah? She’s being rather aloof with everyone, apart from you, of course.’
‘She’s not feeling well,’ he answered with swiftness. ‘Fighting a bad cold.’
‘She looks as fit as a fiddle to me,’ Emma observed dryly, throwing a rapid glance in Sarah’s direction.
Emma suddenly stepped back, moved away from Jonathan, and levelled her direct stare on him again. ‘Did you come up here together? And when did you arrive in Yorkshire?’
‘No, we came separately. Sarah by train last night. I drove up this morning.’ This was said steadily enough, and he smiled down at her.
Emma saw the faintest flicker of deceit in his light eyes. She studied his face briefly. Arthur Ainsley’s weak mouth, she thought. She said, ‘I’m glad Sarah has you to look after her today, Jonathan. It’s most kind of you.’
He said nothing, changed the subject by remarking, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to sit down, Grandmother?’
‘I suppose I might as well.’
He steered her across the room towards Charlotte and Natalie, and Emma smothered a laugh. So that’s where he thinks I belong, with the old ladies, she thought with some acerbity.
He saw her settled on the sofa, spoke briefly to his great-aunts, and disappeared, heading back to Sarah.
Emma watched him go, filled with sadness and disappointment. Too bad about Jonathan, she thought with resignation. He surely doesn’t realize it, but he’s as transparent as water. Just like his father. She had always seen right through Robin, and had been several jumps ahead of him all of his life, usually to his perpetual irritation and discomfort. Sighing, Emma pushed herself into the cushions and accepted a cup of tea offered by one of the waiters, then turned to her sisters-in-law. Natalie, Frank’s widow, was unusually garrulous this afternoon, and she soon dominated the conversation, caught up in an endless recital about her only child, Rosamund, who lived in Italy with her diplomat husband. Charlotte and Emma listened, eyeing each other with amusement from time to time, but Emma’s interest rapidly waned. She soon fell into her myriad thoughts.
Emma would never know what prompted her to suddenly put down her cup of tea, stand up, and swing around at the precise moment that she did. And later, when she thought about it in private, she was to wish she had remained seated.
But she did go through these motions, and found Shane O’Neill in her direct line of vision. He did not see her. He stood alone, leaning against the wall in the shadow of a tall Regency cabinet. There was an expression of such unadulterated love and aching yearning on his handsome face Emma had to stifle a gasp of surprise. His face was naked, utterly vulnerable, and it revealed the strongest and most powerful emotions a man could feel for a woman.
And it was Paula whom Shane was staring at with such concentrated intensity and longing.
Oh my God, Emma thought, dismay flooding through her. Her heart missed a beat. How well she knew that look on a man’s face. It signified passion and desire, the overwhelming urgency to possess absolutely. And forever.
But her granddaughter was oblivious to him. She was bending over the nursemaid who sat cradling Tessa, adjusting the child’s christening robe, cooing to her. Paula’s face was tender with a mother’s love and she was completely absorbed in the baby.
Emma was so shocked by what she saw she could not move. She was rooted to the spot, staring at him transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away from Shane, who undoubtedly believed he was safe from prying eyes. Emma reached out blindly and gripped the back of the sofa, filled with a terrible shaking sensation.
To her immense relief the expression on Shane’s face was fleeting. In a flash it vanished, was replaced by a studied expression of assumed nonchalance, one she knew so well. He moved out of the shadows without noticing her, and mingled with the crowd again. Distantly she heard his vibrant, throaty laugh, and then Randolph’s voice in response to something he had said.
Endeavouring to marshal her thoughts, Emma shifted her stance, turned to face the room. Had anyone else witnessed this intensely private moment of Shane’s when his guard was down? Where was Jim? Emma’s quick alert eyes darted from side to side, came to rest on Emily, who stood motionless a few yards away, staring back at her appalled, anxiety clouding her pretty young face.
Emma frowned. She pinned Emily with a knowing look, then motioned to the door with a brief nod of her head. Emma went out of the drawing room slowly. She was filled with sorrow, and her heart ached for Shane O’Neill. And as she crossed the Stone Hall everything became crystal clear to her, and her sorrow deepened immeasurably.
Upon entering the library, Emma sat down heavily on the nearest chair. She was surprised her legs had carried her this far. She felt weak at the knees.
Emily came in a split second later, closed the door firmly behind her, and leaned against it speechlessly.
To Emma she looked as if she had seen a ghost. She was unnaturally pale and her face was tight, very strained.
Emma said, ‘You saw it then? The way Shane was gazing at Paula?’
‘Yes,’ Emily whispered.
‘He’s very much in love with her,’ Emma said, her voice husky. Her throat tightened. She paused, got a grip on herself, ‘But then you knew that before today, Emily. In fact, you almost let it slip out yesterday. But you managed to stop yourself just in time. That is correct, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Gran.’
‘Don’t look so scared, Emily. And come here and sit with me. I must talk to you about this. It’s most disturbing.’
Emily ran across the room and took the adjoining chair. She gazed deeply into Emma’s troubled face, which looked oddly fatigued and weary all of a sudden. She said, ‘I’m truly sorry you had to find out. I never wanted you to know, Grandma. I knew it would pain you.’
‘Yes, that’s true, it does. But now that I do know, I’ve a couple of questions. First of all, how did you find out that Shane was in love with Paula in the first place?’
‘Because I’ve seen that look on his face before. It was at Paula’s wedding in London last year … when he thought no one was watching him. Much the same kind of situation as today. He was tucked away in a corner, at the reception at Claridge’s, and his eyes never left her. And then there’s his behaviour … let’s face it, Grandy, he’s been distant and peculiar with her for the longest time. Actually, to be honest, he’s dropped her like a ton of bricks. Obviously he can’t bear to be around her, knowing she’s married to someone else.’
Emily bit her lip nervously. ‘I suspect that’s also one of the reasons he spends so much time abroad. I know he has to travel because of their hotel chain, but Merry recently said something to me about Shane constantly jumping on planes at the slightest excuse. She said he seemed to have ants in his pants these days.’
‘I see,’ Emma said. ‘So Shane has never confided in you?’
‘God no! He wouldn’t. He’s too proud.’
‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘I know what you mean.’ She was reflective for a moment, then said almost to herself, ‘That seems to be a family characteristic. And it’s false pride, too. What a waste of time that is. So very foolish in the long run. It serves no good purpose.’ She looked away, staring into the distance absently, seeing so much, understanding.
Emily patted her hand in her old-fashioned, motherly way, and urged, ‘Try not to worry, Gran. I know you love Shane like one of your own grandchildren, but there’s nothing you can do about this.’
‘I’m aware of that, darling. But getting back to the incident in the drawing room, do you think anyone else saw what we saw? Jim, for instance?’
‘Jim had gone outside a few minutes before, Gran. I spoke to him as he followed Anthony and Sally out on to the terrace. Then Miranda joined them, and the twins.’ Emily chewed her inner Up again. ‘Sarah. She has been sneaking looks at Shane all afternoon. She might have caught it, I’m just not sure.’
‘I certainly hope she didn’t!’ Emma exclaimed worriedly.
‘So do I.’ Emily took a deep breath, volunteered in a low voice, ‘There was one person who noticed …’
‘Who?’ Emma demanded, looking at her swiftly.
‘Winston.’
‘Well, thank God for small mercies. I’m glad it wasn’t anyone else. Go and fetch him to me, Emily, and don’t discuss a thing. Not in there. Too many nosy parkers around.’
‘Yes, Grandmother.’ Emily flew out of the room.
Emma rose and went to the windows, staring out at her beautiful gardens. How peaceful they look in the radiant sunlight … next door in the drawing room there is a young man who has everything except the woman he loves and who may never know genuine peace in his whole life because of that. Unless his love for Paula ceases to exist. Emma doubted this would happen. The kind of love she had seen etched on his face was everlasting. Its depth and intensity chilled her to the bone. She was absolutely convinced that a man like Shane O’Neill would not be content to worship from afar. His emotions could easily propel him to take more overt action in time. He might try to fight for Paula one day, in the future. And even if Paula was not interested in Shane, the situation still spelled trouble, in Emma’s opinion. Triangles were not only uncomfortable, they were explosive.
Emma let out a tiny sigh. She had no answers, no solutions, and speculating was surely a big waste of time.
Her thoughts settled on Paula. She prayed her granddaughter would be happy with Jim Fairley for the rest of her life. If she was not, Shane might indeed make headway with her. Yet this first year of the marriage had been idyllic. On the other hand, there were things she herself had noticed, and which had given her food for thought and cause to wonder about Jim. Instinctively, she knew that he was no match for Paula when it came to inherent strength of character. Paula was inordinately stubborn, and she had a will of iron. And she was so much cleverer than Jim – on every level.
Emma admired Jim professionally – he was a brilliant newspaperman. Also, she was fond of him personally. It was difficult not to be. On the other hand, Emma had recognized for some time that his judgement was flawed in many areas, and most especially when it came to his assessment of people. He was not terribly discriminating He liked everyone; furthermore, he wanted everyone to be happy, and all of the time, no less. He hated controversy and upset, bent over backward to keep the peace – and very often that was to his own detriment. In Emma’s mind, one of Jim’s main problems was his overwhelming need to be liked in return, to be popular with every member of the family, his friends, and those in his employment. This trait in him both dismayed and irritated Emma. It was lonely at the top. And it was generally not very wise to be overly familiar with employees. That quickly led to trouble. Loath though she was to admit it, Jim was simply not of the same calibre as Paula. Would he hold up over the years? Every marriage had its problems, its stresses, its emotional upheavals. If Jim caved in because of his lack of stamina and endurance under pressure, what would happen to that marriage? To Paula? To their children? She hated to contemplate the future in this dismal way, and instantly pushed all negative thoughts out of her mind. They did love each other very much, and perhaps their love would overcome any differences they may have.
Winston said, ‘You wanted to see me Aunt Emma?’ He sounded both nervous and concerned.
‘Yes,’ Emma said, pivoting. She walked over to a grouping of chairs, motioned Winston and Emily to join her.
They sat down opposite her, waiting.
Winston had been mystified when Emily had dragged him out of the drawing room, whispering that Emma had sent her to get him. He knew at once, from the girl’s anxious demeanour, that something was wrong. Now his worried air intensified as he puffed rapidly on his cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Emily’s face was stark above her yellow suit, its bony pallor more pronounced.
Getting right to the point, Emma said, ‘A few minutes ago I saw Shane looking at Paula in such a way that it left no doubt in my mind about his feelings for her. Emily tells me you also noticed.’
‘Yes, I did,’ Winston said, at once, realizing there was no point in denying it, or lying. He braced himself, wondering what she would say next. He studied her face which was severe and grave.
‘Shane is in love with Paula,’ Emma announced in a clipped tone.
‘Yes. And desperately so,’ Winston replied, shaking his head. He had wondered for a long time when this would come out in the open, and now that it had he decided it was wisest to be completely candid with Emma. In a way, he felt relieved that she finally knew. It had been a heavy burden for him to carry alone.
Desperately, Emma repeated under her breath. And her heart sank. Winston was underscoring her own suspicions, confirming her conclusions. She said slowly, ‘Has Shane discussed his feelings for her with you, Winston?’
‘No, Aunt Emma, he hasn’t. He’s a very private man, and discreet. But I’ve picked up a few things lately, and I’ve known about his emotional involvement with Paula for a while now … through my own observations. After all, we do share the same house at weekends. To be honest, I have a feeling Shane thinks I know, but he’s never brought the matter tip. As I said, he’s extremely discreet.’
Emma sat back, pursing her lips, her eyes more reflective than before. After a short silence, she said, ‘They’ve been as close as two peas in a pod all of their lives, Winston. How could he have let her slip through his fingers?’
‘I can only hazard a guess,’ Winston muttered, eyeing her closely. He stubbed out his cigarette, the gesture filled with sudden anger. ‘It’s because they grew up together … I mean, I don’t think he could see the wood for the trees, see what was under his nose. I’m positive Shane only realized the depth of his feelings for her when she became engaged to Jim. And they got married so quickly after their engagement was announced, Shane hardly had time to catch his breath. Or act. It all went very fast, as you know.’
Winston now lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug, and glanced away, thinking of Shane’s abject misery. It had grown more intense and acute – and more noticeable – lately. He was glad Shane was going to the States – for Shane’s own sake. He turned back to Emma, finished, ‘That’s my analysis of what happened, for what it’s worth, Aunt Emma. I truly believe that it took another man in the picture to make Shane understand how much he loved Paula.’
‘Yes, I think you’re correct, Winston,’ Emma said.
‘Do you think Paula ever knew, or knows, that he cares about her in that way?’ Emily asked Winston in a hushed voice, touching his arm lightly, looking up at him.
‘I honestly can’t answer that, Emily. But I – ’
Emma interrupted with great firmness, ‘I’m sure she didn’t and doesn’t have an inkling, dear.’ She cleared her throat, continued in that same clear strong voice, ‘This is a most tragic state of affairs for Shane, but there’s nothing anyone can do, least of all me. Not any more. Also, it’s really none of my business. Nor is it anyone else’s, for that matter. The last thing I want is for Shane or Paula to become topics for the gossip mongers in this family, and we all know there are a few who would love to tittle-tattle, perhaps blow this matter out of proportion. I have implicit faith in the both of you, and in your discretion and loyalty. However, I must ask you both to promise me faithfully that you will never mention what you saw this afternoon to anyone, ever. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Of course I promise, Grandma,’ Emily cried in a shocked voice, looking at Emma aghast. ‘You must know I would never talk about Paula, or do anything to hurt her. I feel the same way about Shane.’
‘I wasn’t doubting you, Emily. I simply felt compelled to stress the importance of your absolute silence on this matter.’ She directed her attention at Winston.
He said, ‘I promise, Aunt Emma. I care about Paula and Shane as much as Emily does. And I tend to agree with you about the gossips in our family. There’s also a lot of free-floating jealousy about Paula. Shane too, in many ways. They’re very special people, so obviously they’ll always be targets. My lips are sealed, Aunt Emma. Please don’t worry about me.’
‘Thank you,’ Emma said, and made a mental note of Winston’s astute comments. She smiled thinly. ‘I would prefer it if we ourselves never referred to this matter again. I believe it would be best forgotten by the three of us. Shane is going away for six months. Let’s hope he will forget Paula – ’
‘He’ll never let go of her!’ Winston cut in fiercely, heatedly. ‘It’s not in his nature to – ’ Angrily he clamped his mouth shut, regretting that he had opened it in the first place.
But he had said enough for Emma to get a clear picture. Yes, she thought, that’s what I’m afraid of, too. She said, as steadily as possible, ‘Perhaps he will always care for her, Winston. But he’s a young man, and virile. He has normal appetites and desires, I’ve no doubt. Let us hope that he’ll eventually find someone who’ll meet his needs, and come up to his standards, a woman who can help him to forget Paula. I sincerely hope he makes a rewarding life for himself, finds fulfilment and happiness.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Winston muttered, changing his mind yet again. He ought to be truthful with Emma. He owed her that, after all. He threw his aunt a gloom-filled glance. And then, because he had always been able to say anything to her without a shred of embarrassment, he added, in a blunt fashion, ‘I’m sure he’ll continue to have his brief, hit-and-run affairs, his sexual entanglements. He couldn’t avoid them, not the way women throw themselves at him. Shane’s no saint, you know. And he’s hardly the type to lead a celibate life. After all, Aunt Emma, you don’t have to be in love with a woman to sleep with her.’
‘Quite,’ Emma said, lifting a brow, glancing at Emily.
Winston noticed this, but Emily was a big girl. She knew what was what. Undeterred, he plunged on, ‘I suppose you won’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway. In my opinion, Shane O’Neill will never love anyone but Paula. You said a few minutes ago that this was a tragic thing for Shane. And it is. But it’s also tragic for Paula, I think. She’d have been far better off and happier with a man like Shane than with Jim Fairley.’
Winston’s harsh tone, not to mention his condemning words, brought Emma up with a start. She looked at him swiftly, in astonishment, noticing the grim expression ringing his mouth, the angry glint in his eyes. Why, he bears a grudge against Jim, she thought, that’s what his suppressed rage and resentment are all about. Winston is against Jim Fairley because he won Paula, cut Shane out.
Emma nodded, made no comment whatsoever.
Emily, her face puckering up, said quietly, ‘Poor Shane. Life’s so unfair.’
‘Come now, darling, you’re only seeing Shane’s side of this situation.’ Emma clucked gently, reprovingly. ‘Perhaps Paula doesn’t think life is unfair. I’m sure she’s happy with Jim. I know she loves him. And besides, Emily, whoever told you life is fair? It’s most unfair, and it has always been damned hard, in my experience. How we cope with life, react to our hardships and suffering, and overcome them, that’s what really counts in the end. We must all be strong, learn from our troubles, grow in stature and character. We can’t ever let adversity get us down, Emily. Now, let us end this discussion. Run along, the two of you. I want to be alone for a few minutes.’
Winston went over and kissed her. So did Emily. They left together in silence.
Emma sat by herself for a while.
She felt weary, bone tired. It seemed to her that she solved one problem only to encounter another. But then her life had never been any different. Dear, dear Shane, she murmured under her breath. My heart goes out to you. Life has dealt you a bad hand in this particular instance. But you’ll survive. We all do.
Quite unexpectedly tears came into her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She searched her pockets for a handkerchief and dabbed at her wrinkled old face. She felt like weeping buckets of tears. But that was not her way, giving in like that. And tears solved nothing. She blew her nose, pocketed her handkerchief, and stood up, smoothing down her dress as she did.
Emma walked over to the windows again, taking a few deep breaths, drawing on her great strength, her will power. And slowly she pulled herself together. Her thoughts came back to Shane. Perhaps Winston was right in his assessment. Maybe Shane hadn’t realized how he truly felt about Paula until it was too late. Then again, maybe he had believed he had all the time in the world to claim her for his own. We all think that time is endless when we’re young, she sighed to herself. The years ahead seem to stretch out forever and indefinitely. But they don’t … they disappear in a flash, in the wink of an eye. Blackie edged into her mind. She wondered what he would have to say about this situation. She decided, at once, not to tell him. It would upset him, cause him too much grief.
Last night Blackie had said that life was too damned short for dilly-dallying. There was a great deal of truth and wisdom in his words. Especially when it came to a couple of old warriors like themselves. Emma made another sudden decision. She was going to accept Blackie’s invitation to go on that trip around the world after all. No more dilly-dallying for her.
Turning away from the window, Emma walked briskly across the floor and left the library. She went into the drawing room purposefully, seeking Blackie, picturing his expression when she told him to put his Plan with a capital P into operation immediately. And this she fully intended to do the minute she found him in the crowded room.
CHAPTER 12 (#ulink_fc88df85-ba22-55c7-8aa7-53ed95f41eed)
‘Do you think all families are like ours?’
‘What do you mean – exactly?’ Winston asked, turning to face Emily.
‘We’ve always got a drama of one kind or another erupting. It seems to me there’s never been a minute’s peace for as long as I can remember. If it’s not the awful aunts and uncles being beastly and scratching everyone’s eyes out, it’s our generation quarrelling and creating the most dreadful upsets. To tell you the truth, I feel as though I’m on a battlefield half the time, and I don’t think I’m a very good combatant.’
Winston chuckled at her mournful tone, which reflected her dire expression. ‘You manage all right, Emily. You’re a good little scrapper – so I’ve noticed.’
The two of them sat together on an old stone garden seat at the bottom on the rolling lawns that sloped away from the wide terrace which fronted the Peach Drawing Room. Behind them, Pennistone Royal soared up into a sky of deepening blue, awesome in its grandeur and majestic beauty, the many windows glittering in the sunshine of late afternoon.
Now Winston said more thoughtfully, ‘But to answer your question, I don’t suppose other families are quite like ours. After all, how many have an Emma Harte as the matriarch?’
Emily drew away, looking up at him, a small frown puckering her smooth brow. Her eyes held his gravely as she said, ‘Don’t blame Grandma for the dramatics that are being endlessly enacted. I think she’s an innocent bystander, poor thing. I really get angry when I think of the heartache some members of this family cause her.’
Winston exclaimed, ‘I wasn’t being critical of her, if that’s what you think. Or suggesting for one minute that she’s responsible for these situations, Emily. I agree with you – she’s not at fault. I was merely pointing out that as the most remarkable woman of our time, and an original, there’s bound to be controversy surrounding her. Look, she’s had a very complex and complicated life, and one she’s certainly lived to the fullest. She has shoals of children and grandchildren, and if you include all of us Hartes, which you must, her family is huge. Bigger than most. And don’t forget her other close attachments – the O’Neill and Kallinski clans. Add up the numbers – and you’ve got an army, more or less.’
‘Everything you say is true, Winston. Still, I do get awfully fed up with the infighting and bickering. I just wish we could all live peacefully together, and get on with it, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes … but there’s another thing you must take into consideration, Emily. Immense wealth and power are vested in her, and in this family, so obviously there are going to be jealousies and competitiveness and all kinds of machinations. It strikes me that intrigues are inescapable, given the nature of people … they can be rotten, Emily. Selfish, greedy, self-serving and ruthless. I’ve discovered that some people will stop at nothing when their own interests are at stake.’
‘Don’t I know it!’ Emily stared down into the murky depths of the pond, looking troubled. Finally she lifted her head, swung her eyes to Winston. ‘When I mentioned dramas a few minutes ago, naturally I was referring to Shane. But, I must admit, I sensed things this afternoon, you know, undercurrents. As usual, the room was divided into camps. There was a lot of manoeuvring going on.’
‘And who was doing what to whom?’ Winston asked with some alertness, his curiosity aroused.
‘Jonathan and Sarah are as thick as thieves, for one thing. That’s very strange, because I know she never used to like him. I can’t put my finger on it, yet I can’t help feeling they’re concocting something. Alexander is probably suspicious of that new liaison. Didn’t you notice how he’s steered clear of them today?’
‘Now that you mention it, yes. Personally, I’ve never had much time for Jonathan Ainsley. He was a bully as a child, and like all bullies he’s basically a coward. He projects a lot of charm these days, but I don’t expect he’s changed much over the years, not inside. I haven’t forgotten the time he hit me over the head with a cricket bat. The nasty little bugger. He could have done me real damage.’
‘I know he could, and he was always horrid to me when we were growing up. I still believe it was Master Jonathan who cut the tyres on that bicycle Grandy gave me when I was ten, even though he denied it when she challenged him. He came up with some sort of plausible alibi about his whereabouts that day, but I just know it was a total fib.’ Emily scowled. ‘As for Sarah, well, she’s been a loner, and secretive, all of her life.’
‘You know what they say – still waters run deep and the devil’s at the bottom,’ Winston remarked.
He bent down, picked up a pebble and idly threw it into the pond, watching the ripples eddying out from the pool’s centre. ‘There have been occasions when I’ve thought that Sarah has the hots for Shane.’
Emily started in surprise. ‘You’re not the only one,’ she admitted quietly. ‘Well, fat chance she’s got …’ She stopped, added swiftly, ‘That sounded mean, and I didn’t intend to be catty, Winston. I don’t dislike Sarah. She can be very sweet, and I feel sorry for her really. Carrying a torch for a man like Shane O’Neill must be positively awful. Even heartbreaking, perhaps. She and I have never been all that close, but … well, I always thought she was true blue – until today. Now I’m not sure any more.’
‘She might have been using Jonathan as a shield, and that’s all. It was pretty obvious she was trying to disappear into the woodwork, because of Shane’s presence, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Changing the subject, Emily remarked, ‘Jim’s very taken with Edwina and with Anthony, by the look of it. He’s been glued to our young earl for the last hour or so. Maybe titles impress him. Anyway, what do you think about Anthony and Sally getting together?’
‘Anthony’s decent enough, but my father’s not so happy about Sally’s involvement with him, mostly because of Edwina. If Sally does marry him, we’re going to have that old battleaxe slap bang in our midst. Not a very pleasing prospect. She hates the Hartes for some reason.’
‘It’s because Grandma is a Harte!’ Emily exclaimed. ‘Edwina has always looked down her nose at her mother. What a stupid woman she is, I really can’t bear her.’ Emily looked away, pondering. After a short silence, she said in a casual tone, ‘You don’t like Jim Fairley, do you?’
Winston shook his head vehemently. ‘No, no, you’re wrong there. I do like him, and I certainly have a high regard for his professional abilities. It’s just that – ’ Winston shrugged, made a face, ‘ – well, I know Paula better than most people. Despite that quiet façade, she’s very strong, as you know. She’s also ambitious, driven, a work horse, and a brilliant businesswoman to boot. She’s quite extraordinary for her age, and the older she gets the more like Emma she’ll become, you mark my words. Actually she’s been brought up and groomed to be exactly that – the next Emma Harte. By Emma Harte herself. So, because of this, and the differences in their personalities, I can’t help thinking she and Jim are ill suited. But then I’m prejudiced I suppose … in Shane’s favour. He’s my best friend, and one hell of a man. But then – ’
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Barbara Taylor Bradford
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: From the internationally bestselling author of A Woman of Substance comes the continuing story of indomitable heroine, Emma HarteEmma Harte was the heroine of Barbara Taylor Bradford’s multi-million copy bestseller, A Woman of Substance.Now she is eighty years old and ready to hand over the reins of the vast business empire she has created.To her favourite grandchild, Paula McGill Fairley, Emma bequeaths her mighty retailing empire with these heartfelt words: ‘I charge you to hold my dream.’A towering international success, this is the powerfully moving tale of one woman’s determination to ‘hold the dream’ which was entrusted to her, and in so doing find the happiness and passion which is her legacy.