A Woman of Substance

THIRTY-SIX

The boardroom of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, oak-panelled walls hung with antique engravings of renowned English authors, mahogany furniture polished to a ferocious glassy sheen, was smoke-filled and vibrating with tension. Adam Fairley and Lord Jocelyn Sydney sat opposite each other on either side of the immense conference table, their faces morose, their eyes grave as they chain-smoked in brooding silence, the crystal ashtrays in front of them littered with stubbed-out butts that bespoke hours of waiting and strain.

Adam, impeccably tailored in a dark blue suit, shifted restlessly in the black leather chair and ran his hand through his silver-streaked fair hair. His mouth, ringed with fatigue, suddenly tightened and his grey-blue eyes fixedly regarded the clock ticking with relentless precision in the leaden stillness.

‘Damn it all!’ he exclaimed, no longer able to control his temper. He swung to face Jocelyn. ‘It’s almost one o’clock. If Parker doesn’t hurry up we’ll miss the first edition. He’s been fiddling with that lead story for a good twenty minutes. What on earth can the fool be doing, for Christ’s sake!’

Jocelyn peered at Adam through the smoke. ‘Pondering every word, shouldn’t doubt! You ought to know that by now, old boy.’

‘I’ll give Parker five more minutes and then I’m going up to see him-’ Adam broke off as a copy boy burst in. The heavy oak door swung back on its hinges and the activity and noise of a newspaper in the heat of production rolled into the quiet boardroom.

‘Here’s the proof of the front page, sir. And the editor says ter tell yer he’s starting the presses in five minutes.’ The boy slapped the damp newsprint dripping with wet ink on to the table in front of Adam and disappeared. The door banged behind him and silence was fully restored. Jocelyn hurried across the room. Placing one hand on Adam’s broad shoulder, he bent down and looked at the proof. The banner headline, set in giant-sized type, was black and stark and it leapt across the page.

BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY

Two pairs of eyes quickly scanned the smaller crossheads on the broadsheet: The Great Conflict Begun. British Minelayer Sunk. Belgium Invaded. Two New Battleships for Our Navy. Government Takes Control of Railways. Securing Food Supply. State Guarantee War Risk at Sea.

Jocelyn tapped the lead story with one finger. ‘How has Parker handled this, Adam? In my haste to get here tonight I forgot my spectacles and I can’t read the small print.’

Adam read the proof quickly and said, ‘I think Parker covered everything of importance.’ He looked up at Jocelyn. ‘I’ve dreaded and feared this war for years. But we’re in the conflict now and there’s no turning back.’

Jocelyn fixed Adam with a glassy stare. ‘Did you really mean what you said earlier this evening-that it will be a prolonged war?’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Adam tersely. ‘Contrary to what some of the experts in London are saying, I believe it will last several years. Two at least.’

Jocelyn’s jaw sagged. ‘As long as that!’

Adam nodded, his face grim. ‘Yes. And it will be a war of attrition. A bloody holocaust the likes of which the world has never seen. Mark my words, Jocelyn.’

‘Oh God, Adam, I pray you are wrong! I sincerely do!’

Adam did not answer. He lit a cigarette and gazed reflectively into space, envisioning the terrible consequences of Britain’s entry into the war.

‘We both need a stiff drink,’ Jocelyn announced after a few moments. He hurried to the sideboard and his hands trembled as he prepared two brandy-and-sodas and carried them to the table. He handed one to Adam and sat down heavily in the next chair. Neither man bothered to toast the other on this sombre occasion, and they sipped their drinks in silence, preoccupied with their own thoughts.

Adam Fairley, newly appointed chairman of the board of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, had kept up a tireless vigil at the newspaper for the past four days, sifting through the stories pouring in from the London office and Reuters, studying the grave news, watching Britain being inexorably drawn into the European crisis. His old friend Jocelyn Sydney had been a constant visitor, prowling up and down the boardroom yet insisting that as long as peace lasted the folly of war could be avoided. Adam had met Jocelyn’s inherent optimism with an absolute pessimism that reflected his clarity of vision and an understanding of the facts, pronouncing that it was far too late to avert onrushing disaster.

That pessimism was apparent in Adam’s voice as he suddenly roused himself and said, ‘We’re not as well prepared for this war as the Government would have us believe, Jocelyn.’

Astonishment mingled with alarm spread across Jocelyn’s face. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak Adam said hurriedly, in an effort to assuage Jocelyn’s burgeoning fears, ‘Except for the navy, of course. Thank God Winston Churchill has been First Lord of the Admiralty for the past three years. Only he and a few other enlightened men saw the menace of approaching war and tried to make ready for it.’ Adam’s tone became guarded as he continued, ‘I know Churchill has never been a favourite of yours, Jocelyn, but you must admit he had the foresight to recognize the increasing threat of German sea power as early as 1911, when he set about reorganizing the Fleet. Good job, too. By withdrawing our ships from China and the Mediterranean and concentrating the Home Fleet and the Battle Fleet in the North Sea, he has increased our strength immeasurably.’

‘Yes, that’s quite true,’ Jocelyn conceded. ‘And Churchill has had one aim I’ve always found most worthy-reinforcing the invincibility of the Royal Navy.’

‘Yes, the navy is strong, but that’s the only service that is, Jocelyn. The army is not at all well organized and our air power is minimal, even though Churchill has endeavoured to boost it lately.’ Adam paused, drew on his cigarette, and concluded. ‘The War Office has always been grossly inefficient. Actually, what we need now is a new Secretary of State for War!’

‘Do you think Asquith will appoint one?’ Jocelyn asked.

‘I’m positive he will have to,’ Adam responded firmly. ‘He cannot function as Prime Minister and run the War Office as well, not in a time of crisis such as this. I’m certain, knowing Asquith the way I do, that he will have the good sense to recognize that. And I hope he will have the wisdom to pick Lord Kitchener for the job. That’s the man we need in our hour of peril. Not only for his tremendous ability but for the uplifting effect on public morale his appointment will have.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Jocelyn agreed. ‘After all, Kitchener is a national hero.’

‘He’s more than that, Jocelyn. He’s a national institution. He symbolizes success to the public. Every military engagement he undertakes comes off beautifully.’ Adam swirled his drink, pondering. ‘He will have to raise new armies, of course. The Territorial Army is not very large. In point of fact, whoever is appointed Secretary of State for War will have to embark on a campaign immediately to recruit single men to go to the front.’

Jocelyn’s pale face had greyed. ‘A campaign to recruit single men,’ he repeated shakily. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Since we don’t have a compulsory draft system, the country has to rely on volunteers-usually single men between the ages of eighteen and thirty.’ Adam stopped, aware of the sick expression on Jocelyn’s face. ‘Are you all right, old chap? You look positively ghastly.’

‘The boys,’ Jocelyn said in a whisper. ‘I’m not going to be able to restrain them, Adam. They’ll both volunteer immediately. You’re lucky, Adam. Gerald would never pass the physical and Edwin is married. Also, he has a sense of responsibility to you, and to Jane.’

‘I’m not so sure about Edwin, to be very honest with you. He’s also impulsive at times. Don’t think being a married man will stop him if he makes up his mind to go to war. Edwin will consider his responsibility is to his King and country and not the family, or even to Jane. I have a sneaking suspicion they will take precedence over everything else.’

Jocelyn bit his lip nervously. ‘This is a bloody foul messup, isn’t it? Who would have thought a few years ago that we would be plunged into this disastrous situation, Adam.’

‘Bruce McGill warned me ten years ago that there would be a great war,’ Adam said quietly, his eyes brooding. ‘He was right. That was in 1904-’

‘Was it, by Jove!’ Jocelyn interjected. ‘I didn’t know old Bruce was a political pundit.’

‘I’m not sure that he is,’ Adam remarked. ‘But he does happen to be a tremendously rich and powerful man, and he has friends in high places. When Bruce was in London last year with his son Paul he was full of foreboding, and I ignored him. I’m beginning to think I’m an ostrich like everyone else.’ Adam stood up. ‘I presume you’re cancelling the shoot, Jocelyn.’

‘Naturally. I don’t expect anyone will be interested in grouse at a time like this,’ Jocelyn replied with a weak smile. ‘Thanks for inviting me down to the newspaper. I really appreciate it, old chap.’

‘I’ve been glad to have your company, Jocelyn. Now let’s be off. This room is beginning to suffocate me.’

An hour and a half later Adam’s new Daimler motorcar was pulling into the driveway of Fairley Hall. Adam bade the chauffeur a crisp good-night and bounded up the steps.

Murgatroyd was hovering in the dimly lit entrance hall. He hurried forward when he saw Adam, as obsequious as always. ‘Mrs Fairley came down ter the kitchen ter tell me and Cook that we was at war. Aye, it’s horrible news.’

Adam cleared his throat. ‘Yes, indeed it is, Murgatroyd. The days ahead are going to be difficult for us all. But we must pull together and be strong in the country’s hour of need.’ He noticed the light streaming out from the library. ‘Has Mrs Fairley not retired yet, Murgatroyd?’

‘No, sir. She’s been waiting for yer. I built up the fire and made her some hot chocolate a bit ago, being as how it’s a right nippy night.’

‘I see.’ Adam strode across the hall.

Olivia had heard Adam’s voice and she was halfway across the floor when he entered the library. ‘Oh, Adam, this is all quite dreadful,’ she cried as she flew into his arms.

He held her close for a moment, stroking her hair. ‘Yes, it is, my dear. However, we’ve been expecting it and we must be courageous.’ He moved away from her and looked down into her face. ‘You shouldn’t have waited up for me. It’s awfully late, darling.’

She returned his smile. ‘I was terribly anxious to see you.’

‘I’m afraid I am a little done in.’

‘Perhaps a drink will help,’ she suggested.

‘It might indeed. I’ll have a nightcap before we go to bed. Brandy, please.’

Olivia gave him a soft loving look. Adam watched her gliding across the floor, his spirits lifting as they always did when he was with her, the war momentarily forgotten. She was wearing a deep blue crêpe de chine evening dress which flattered her lissome figure and reflected the colour of her eyes. Her face was still unlined and the white streak that shot through her dark luxuriant hair was most arresting. At fifty-four she was a striking woman, and in Adam’s opinion she grew more beautiful with age. They had been married for six years. In 1907 the Deceased Wife’s Sister Marriage Act, legalizing a man’s marriage to his sister-in-law, had been finally passed by Parliament after its defeat in 1901. Adam had convinced Olivia to become his wife in 1908, and they were so completely happy, so perfectly compatible no one else existed for them.

‘Incidentally, Edwin telephoned earlier. I told him about the grim developments,’ Olivia said, returning to the fireplace with the brandy.

Adam stiffened. ‘How did he react?’

‘With surprising mildness, I thought. He and Jane are driving over from Kirkby Malzeard tomorrow, to stay with us for a week as we had planned.’

‘Well, that is good news,’ Adam said. ‘Knowing Edwin, I had visions of him careering back to town to be in the thick of things. I’m glad they are coming. At least you will have some congenial company when I’m absent during the day.’

‘Do you think they are happy, Adam?’

‘I’m damned if I know. Why do you ask?’ It struck him then that perhaps Olivia had also noticed the curious lack of warmth between his son and daughter-in-law.

‘I can’t really put my finger on it,’ Olivia said thoughtfully. ‘There’s a distance between them. Oh, Edwin is outwardly charming and most considerate. But not very affectionate. They don’t seem like a couple to me. And sometimes I have noticed the most awful empty look in Edwin’s eyes.’ Olivia paused and stared at Adam. When he made no response, she pressed, ‘Haven’t you noticed it, darling?’

Wary though he was of embarking on this discussion, Adam admitted, ‘Well, yes, I have, to be truthful. If there is anything wrong there it’s definitely to do with Edwin. He’s changed radically in the past few years. He devotes twenty-four hours a day to the law, or so it seems to me. He has no other interests and appears to be determined to become the most outstanding young barrister in England before he’s reached thirty. And I feel he neglects Jane frightfully.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Olivia agreed.

‘And yet he has every reason to be happy with her. Jane is charming and pretty and comports herself in the most mature and dignified manner. Pity they haven’t had a child. I must say, I was rather looking forward to having a grandchild. Expected one by now. After all, they’ve been married three years.’

Olivia stared into the fire and after a long moment turned to Adam. ‘Did you believe that nasty story Gerald told you a few years ago? The story about Edwin and Emma Harte?’

‘Certainly not!’ Adam exclaimed, wishing he meant his words. Intensely protective of Olivia, he did not wish to upset her tonight by dragging out old skeletons. And so for once in his life he lied to her. ‘Gerald has no regard for the truth. His story was not only preposterous but quite unfounded. It was undoubtedly engendered by his desire to denigrate Edwin in my eyes. You know Gerald has always been inordinately jealous of his brother.’

Olivia was not entirely placated. ‘I remember you made discreet inquiries at the time, about Emma and the child, but are you sure your information was correct, Adam?’

‘Of course I am!’ He put down the brandy balloon and took Olivia’s hand. ‘Now, why are you suddenly worrying about that old story? It’s long forgotten.’

‘I really don’t know, darling. I suppose because we began to talk about Edwin’s marriage and his happiness. If you say the story is not true, then Edwin can’t have anything on his conscience.’ Her eyes roved over Adam’s face searchingly. ‘And yet it has often crossed my mind that he does. Perhaps it’s the peculiar look in his eyes that troubles me, Adam.’

Adam frowned. ‘Now, come, my darling,’ he said softly. ‘You are being imaginative. Gerald told a pack of lies. I’m absolutely convinced of that. As for that look in Edwin’s eyes, well, maybe it simply springs from his disappointment in his marriage. You should know as well as I do that not all marriages are as happy as ours.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ she murmured, and sighed. ‘Poor Edwin. How terrible for him if he does not love Jane. It must be painful for her, too.’

Adam wanted to terminate the discussion and so he said firmly, ‘It’s very late, my darling. Let us go up to bed.’

As they left the library Adam acknowledged to himself that the state of Edwin’s marriage did not particularly concern him at this precise moment. His consuming worry was that Edwin would volunteer for the army, for Adam knew that the boy no longer put much store in personal safety. Tragically, that most human of all instincts had died in Edwin the day Jack Harte had died. Adam believed that his younger son did not care whether he lived or not, and this attitude, coupled with his strong sense of patriotic duty, would propel Edwin into military service.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Emma clutched the telephone tighter, and her heart began to beat more rapidly than usual. ‘I don’t want you to do this, Frank! You’re putting yourself in danger needlessly. It’s foolish and-’

‘No, it’s not,’ Frank interrupted, his voice echoing hollowly over the long-distance wire. ‘Look, Emma, I’d even toyed with the idea of joining up, but I know the army would never take me. Not with my poor eyesight and weak chest. But somebody’s got to report the war over there. I must go, Emma.’

‘But not you, Frank. You’re only a boy!’ Emma cried heatedly.

‘No, I’m not. I’ll be twenty-three next month.’ His tone became intense. ‘I want to go. Please try to understand, Emma. Also, the editor wants me to go. In a way, it’s a kind of honour.’

‘An honour!’ she gasped incredulously. ‘Well, in my opinion it’s an honour you can easily do without! You’ll be in the trenches. In the thick of the fighting. The conditions will be terrible, and you said yourself you’re not strong physically. Please, Frank, reconsider this. Think more carefully before you make a final decision!’ Emma implored.

‘I’ve already made up my mind,’ her brother said firmly. ‘Anyway, it’s too late. That’s why I’m ringing you now. I’m leaving for the front at five this morning.’

‘Oh, Frank! I wish you hadn’t done this without talking to me first,’ she remonstrated.

‘I’ll be fine, Emma. Honestly, I will. Don’t make it harder for me,’ he pleaded. ‘Now, take care of yourself and give my love to everyone. I’ll be in touch, when and if I can. You’ll know where I am from my dispatches in the Chronicle. Keep them for me, Emma, and try not to worry about me. Goodbye, love.’

‘Oh, Frank! Frankie!’ Her voice broke and she had to swallow hard to regain her control. ‘Goodbye, Frank. And take a raincoat and strong boots-’ She stopped, unable to continue.

‘I will. Bye.’

The telephone went dead. Her mind froze at the idea of Frank hurtling across the battlefields of Flanders. This development was the last thing she had anticipated and she was stunned by her brother’s news, and afraid for him. It was bad enough that Winston was somewhere with the Battle Fleet without Frank flinging himself into the fray. For the past few weeks she had consistently reassured herself that if England did go to war at least her younger brother was in no danger because of his frail constitution. And that would have been so if he had not made such a name for himself as a journalist. Frank, already a rising star in the newspaper firmament, was the type of young reporter editors sought out. He had an enormous command of the English language, was incisive and perceptive, a master of the descriptive phrase and matchless at capturing mood and atmosphere. Not only that, by nature he was romantic, adventurous, and oblivious to danger. She might have guessed he would want to be a war correspondent and now, as she reflected, she realized he had actually sounded excited about going.

Suddenly and quite irrationally, Emma wished that Frank was not so talented and then he would have been a failure. And safe. Indirectly perhaps it was all her fault, and if Frank was killed she would never forgive herself. I should have left him where he was-working on that nothing of a weekly newspaper in Shipley, where he would have stagnated, she said to herself angrily. But I had to go and interfere, because I was impressed with his ability, and ambitious for him. Too ambitious by far, she decided. She chided herself, but after a moment her natural pragmatism rose to the surface, as it generally did, for at twenty-five Emma was nothing if not practical, a characteristic that had been magnified in her over the years. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, recognizing that Frank would have been just as successful without her help. His kind of incandescent talent could never be held back for long; furthermore, he had always been perfectly sure of his own destiny. She had merely propelled him to the top a little faster and that was all. Her role had been of minor importance. She had simply engineered a job for him as a junior reporter on the Leeds Mercury, through her friendship with the assistant editor, Archie Clegg. There had been no holding Frank back after that. He had risen with meteoric swiftness, astonishing her as much as Archie and his colleagues. Of course, there was the matter of the book. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she had been instrumental in bringing it to the attention of the right people. But if she had not, Frank would have done so himself eventually. When he was twenty he had shown her a novel he had been working on for two years, shyly requesting that she read it and mumbling that it was ‘not very good, really’.

As busy as she was, Emma had stayed up all night reading it and had swooped down on Frank at the newspaper the following morning. ‘Why do you say it’s no good?’ she had cried, barely able to contain her excitement. ‘It’s marvellous! And it’s going to be published. Leave it to me.’ She had swept Archie Clegg off to an expensive lunch at the Metropole in Leeds and thereafter had badgered him relentlessly, and on a daily basis, until he had undertaken to send the book to a publisher friend in London. It was accepted by Hollis and Blake immediately and she herself had negotiated a favourable contract for Frank. When they brought it out some months later it was received with critical acclaim. More importantly, to Emma at least, the novel was also a resounding success commercially. Frank had become a celebrity overnight and several months after the book’s publication he had been offered a position on the Daily Chronicle and had departed for Fleet Street with Emma’s blessing. Today he was considered one of the most brilliant young writers in English journalism and his future was assured. Or rather, it had been until tonight.

‘Damn this rotten war!’ Emma cried aloud, filled with a helpless fury. She viewed it as a terrible inconvenience, for it had disrupted her most carefully made plans. Yet in spite of her single-minded preoccupation with her business, she was wise enough to recognize that it had graver consequences. The war would throw the world into a turmoil and shatter thousands of lives, a prospect that filled her with dread.

Abruptly she stood up. Reflecting on the past and morbidly anticipating the future was a waste of time, the most deplorable of sins to Emma. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened or control impending events obviously beyond her control. She pulled her blue silk dressing gown around her, shivering slightly, although the night was warm, and walked across the hall, her slippers clicking with a metallic ring agair st the marble floor, the sounds fading as she mounted the carpeted staircase. The grandfather clock, positioned at the turn of the stairs, struck two, its musical chimes reverberating loudly in the stillness of the sleeping house. Emma tiptoed into the bedroom, shrugged out of her dressing gown, and slipped into the great four-poster bed.

Joe stirred. ‘Emma?’

‘I’m sorry, Joe. Did I wake you?’ she whispered, pulling the covers over her.

‘No, the telephone did. Who was it?’ he asked in a sleepfilled voice.

‘Frank. He’s going to the front as a war correspondent. He’s leaving in a few hours. I couldn’t persuade him not to go, Joe. I’m so afraid for him,’ Emma said in a low voice.

‘It’s a bit soon, isn’t it? We’ve only been at war a few days. Couldn’t he have waited?’

‘I begged him to change his mind but he wouldn’t listen. Now I have the two of them to worry about-’ She shivered and clutched the pillow, pressing back her incipient tears.

Joe became aware of her shivering. He moved closer to her. ‘Don’t worry, Emma,’ he murmured. ‘They’ll be all right. Anyhow, this mess will be over in a few months.’

Emma groaned, suppressing the anger that flared in her. Joe had no conception of the facts. She had been predicting the war for months. Her words had fallen on stony ground and she no longer bothered to argue with him. Joe touched her shoulder tentatively. His pressure increased and he pulled her over on her back. He raised himself on one elbow, peering into her face in the dim light. Emma felt his warm breath against her cheek and she instantly stiffened. He smelled faintly of onions, beer, and stale tobacco and she moved her head away from him, filled with distaste. Joe began to kiss her face and his free hand slid under the bedclothes to grasp her breast.

‘Joe, please. Not now!’

‘Don’t be cold to me, Emma,’ he muttered thickly.

‘I’m not being cold. I just don’t feel up to-’

‘You never do,’ he snapped.

‘That’s unfair and you know it,’ she said, bristling. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m upset about Frank. How can you be so inconsiderate? Anyway, you aren’t very careful these days. I don’t want to get pregnant again.’

‘I’ll be careful, Emma. I promise,’ he said in a wheedling tone. ‘Please, love. It’s been weeks.’

‘Ten days,’ Emma said flatly, infuriated by his insensitivity and selfishness.

‘But I want you,’ he moaned, and ignoring her protestations, he pulled her into his arms. ‘Please, Emma, don’t turn me away.’

Emma did not answer. Mistaking her silence for acquiescence, Joe fumbled with her silk nightgown, his breathing now rapid and belaboured. He began to explore her body, his hands roughly insistent as they roamed over her legs and thighs and breasts. Emma averted her head, avoiding his kisses. She closed her eyes, crushing down on the impulse to push him away. In the four years they had been married Emma had made a tremendous effort to accommodate Joe Lowther’s physical demands, and she knew she would yield yet again. It was easier than repulsing him and prevented violent quarrels later. Also, she had made a bargain with herself, to be a good wife to Joe, and she never reneged on a bargain. She had not reckoned with Joe’s unflagging sexual aggressiveness and his voracious appetite, which seemed to increase rather than lessen with time.

It was too late to pull away without creating an explosive scene and so Emma automatically let her body go limp. And then she detached her mind, thinking of other things, fleeing into her private world. She began to do complicated mathematical calculations pertaining to her latest financial ventures, seeking refuge in her business to block out the reality of the moment.

Joe rolled on top of her, panting, his pounding against her relentlessly sustained. Her body was his anvil. His momentum increased and rudely shattered her self-induced detachment, and just as she had known he would he lost all restraint, became utterly unconscious of her in his wild abandonment. He grasped her legs and roughly pushed them up against her chest and at that moment Emma thought her control would snap. She swallowed a scream of unexpected pain and rage and revulsion as he lunged at her time and time again, a charging bull mindlessly intent on its purpose.

He was still. Thank God he was finally still. Depleted, Joe fell against her, his breathing harsh but returning to normal slowly. Emma stretched out her cramped legs and moved her head wearily on the pillows, tears of humiliation seeping out of the corners, the taste of blood bitter in her mouth where she had bitten her inner lip. Unwanted sex was nauseating, was becoming unendurable, for Joe did not attract her physically and he aroused neither desire nor passion in her. Furthermore, he had never even tried to do so. Despite his own preoccupation with sex, or perhaps because of it, he was oblivious to her unresponsiveness. Perhaps if he had shown more consideration, had been sensitive and understanding of her female needs, the situation might have improved. As it was, Emma believed it was inexorably disintegrating. She did not truly know how long she could continue to tolerate his unremitting assaults on her body as she had done for so long. Joe seemed to be in a perpetual state of heightened potency and this frightened her.

Joe put his arms around her and buried his head against her bosom. ‘That was wonderful, love,’ he said quietly in a voice that was oddly shy. ‘You’re too much for any man. I can’t get enough of it with you.’

Don’t I know, she thought angrily but made no comment. Joe moved away from her, turned his back, and within minutes was fast asleep. Why, he didn’t even say good night, Emma thought with a flare of irritation and she was mortified. She slid carefully out of bed and glided across the floor to the bathroom, her bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the fine Wilton carpet. She locked the door firmly behind her, threw off her crumpled nightgown, pinned up her hair, and stepped into the bath. Crouching in front of the taps she ran the water until it was steaming hot, almost too hot to bear, soaping her body generously, scrubbing energetically at her delicate white skin until it was bright red. And then she lay back in the water, hoping to soothe her aching body and calm her jangled nerves. After a while she began to feel relaxed and she climbed out of the bath and towelled herself dry. Moving across the elegantly appointed bathroom, Emma caught sight of herself in the mirror. She paused and looked at her face. There was not a trace of anguish or despair on that pale oval, but then there never was. Blackie was for ever telling her she had the inscrutable face of an Oriental and she was beginning to believe him. But then my inscrutability serves my purpose most admirably, she said to herself. She took a clean nightgown out of a chest of drawers, slipped it over her head, picked up her slippers, and hurried downstairs.

Emma went immediately into the small study next to the drawing room, intending to work for an hour. She was wide awake and restless, and she always retreated into work when she wanted to avoid dwelling on unpleasant matters. But moonlight was pouring in through the french doors and she stood staring at the garden, admiring its beauty.

Impulsively Emma pushed open the doors and stepped out on to the long flagged terrace that ran the entire length of this side of the house. It was a lovely August night, so still and balmy the soft air seemed to enfold her. Emma breathed deeply, feeling a sudden sense of release, an easing of her worries. She looked up. The sky was soaring and hollow, a deep pavonian blue, clear and without cloud, and the new moon was a perfect sphere whose glassy surface was unmarred, and its sharp radiance cast a silvery sheen on the trees and shrubs, the rolling lawn and the glorious flower beds that punctuated the perimeters of the garden in the dusky shadows of old stone walls matted with ivy.

Emma swept along the terrace and stood poised at the top of the flight of stone steps that led down into the garden, her hand resting on one of the great urns positioned at their edge. Her eyes roved over her garden, so typically English, pastoral in its gentle beauty and filled with tranquillity. It was hard to believe there was a war raging on the other side of the Channel or to accept the fact that thousands of young Englishmen were preparing to enter that grim and bloody battle.

Emma proceeded slowly to the bottom of the garden, heading for her own special spot, the sheltered corner she loved the most. Here, near an old sundial, magnificent rhododendron bushes and great clutches of peonies spilled forth their translucent pinks and mauves and whites. Joe had wanted to grow roses in this area, but Emma had objected in the strongest possible terms, not permitting one single bush to be planted anywhere in the garden. She had never told Joe that she could not abide that particular flower or that its perfume sickened her to the point of violent nausea.

A splendid beech tree, huge and spreading with its branches dipping down to touch the ground, was a protective arch of interwoven greens above an old garden seat. ‘Mummy’s seat’, the children called it, for it was here that she always came when she wanted to escape the activities of her busy household, to think and to relax, and they had learned never to trespass on her solitude in this private place. Thoughts of Joe intruded into her mind, piercing her recently acquired composure. She stiffened as she recalled with dismay his arduous lovemaking. And then she found herself thinking: Poor Joe. He really can’t help himself. Her anger was evaporating so unexpectedly Emma was astonished at this change in her emotions.

Earlier, pinned under Joe and raging with resentment, Emma had contemplated leaving him. Now she reviewed this idea and faltered. A separation was unthinkable, not only because of the children and their loving attachment to Joe and his to them, but because she herself needed Joe for a number of good reasons. Furthermore, Joe would never let her go. He loved her to a point of distraction. Sometimes she wished Joe was a philanderer and that when she spurned him, on those rare occasions, he would seek solace in more responsive arms. She had come to realize this was perfectly ridiculous. Joe wanted only her. No other woman could satisfy his urgent needs because she was the sole object of his desire.

Emma sat back on the seat and considered her marriage with objectivity, finally admitting that she had no intentions of changing the circumstances of her life. The alternatives did not appeal to her, and whatever else Joe was, he was a buffer between her and those who might wish to hurt her or Edwina. Also, she had to acknowledge that despite her basic unhappiness in her marriage, she was fond of Joe. He was considerate most of the time and he had never interfered with her business enterprises. Of course, he was phlegmatic and opinionated, and often flew into tantrums if she thwarted him, or sulked for days about inconsequential things Yet despite these traits, which singularly irritated her, he was not a bad man.

Emma was too big a woman to harbour grudges and she acknowledged anew that Joe Lowther had been a good husband in a variety of other ways. She remembered some of his generous gestures now. He had bought her this house, for one thing, in December of 1910. That had been four months after her marriage, when she was carrying their child. In the preceding June, just before their wedding, Joe had come into another unexpected inheritance, one far more impressive than his mother’s legacy. His ancient great-aunt, on the maternal side of the family, had died at the age of ninety-one. Since she was childless and without any other relatives, Joe had been the sole beneficiary in her will. Apart from the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds in cash and her large house in Old Farnley, he had become the new owner of four commercial properties in the centre of Leeds. These were operating factory buildings permanently rented to a tanner, a shoe manufacturer, a printer, and a wholesaler of dry goods. The annual income from these properties so far exceeded Joe’s expectations he was astounded. He had weighed his financial situation and decided he could easily afford to buy the vacant house in the Towers, and maintain its upkeep on a comfortable scale.

The house stood in a private and secluded little park in Upper Armley that was surrounded by high walls and fronted by great iron gates. A circular driveway led up to the eight fine mansions situated within the park’s precincts, each one self-contained, encircled by low walls and boasting a lavish garden. The moment Emma had walked into the house on that cold December day she had wanted it, marvelling at its grandness and delighted with its charming outlook over the garden and the park itself. There were numerous airy and well-proportioned reception rooms on the main floor, including a formal drawing room, an impressive dining room, a parlour, and a small study. At the back of the house there was a huge kitchen, a butler’s pantry, servants’ quarters, and a washhouse. Upstairs eight bedrooms of various dimensions and three bathrooms provided ample space for Joe’s family, soon to be increased with the impending arrival of the baby. The third floor, under the eaves of the old grey stone house, was composed of two attics and a cedar-lined room for storage.

Because of its size, and Emma’s insistence that she continue to run her business after the child’s birth, Joe had eventually agreed to engage a small staff. Mrs Fenton, a local widow, had been installed as the housekeeper-cook, and Mrs Hewitt, Joe’s former charwoman, came daily to clean. Mrs Hewitt’s niece, Clara, originally engaged as nursemaid for Edwina, had remained with them to take care of Christopher, born in June of 1911.

The day Emma, Edwina, and Joe moved into the house Emma had experienced such a profound sense of security she had relaxed for the first time in years. In this fine mansion, so elegant and secluded, Emma was at last convinced she was absolutely protected from the Fairleys, and in particular Gerald Fairley. Emma shivered, recalling his unanticipated and violent intrusion into her life four years ago. That hideous April evening was still vividly etched on her mind and Emma knew she would never forget it. She had lived in a state of burgeoning anxiety for months after that visit.

It had taken Emma several weeks to convince David Kallinski that she would not reverse her decision. Eventually he accepted it with sorrow, and although they remained friends and partners, David wisely limited their association to business. Understanding his motives, whilst yearning for him, Emma had disguised her feelings, displaying no emotions, hoping this would help to ease his pain.

And then with calculation and consummate feminine wiles, she had set out to inveigle Joe Lowther into marriage. Already in love with her, overwhelmed by her beauty and impressed with her industriousness and business acumen, Joe had been an easy and willing target. As their friendship had developed he had grown bolder in his courtship. Receiving no rebuff, he had nervously proposed one month later and had been overjoyed when she accepted him, not recognizing that it was he who had been courted and manoeuvred.

The night he had proposed and after she had accepted him, Emma had told Joe that Edwina was illegitimate. She had done so with absolute candour, at the same time sagaciously omitting the identity of the father. She had simply repeated the story she had invented for Blackie O’Neill years before. Joe, impressed with her honesty, had been admiring of her stoicism at carrying such a burden alone. He had told her that her past did not interest him, and it truly did not. He was so besotted with Emma the only thing that mattered was her acceptance of him for a husband.

Emma, who had not wanted to start their marriage with deception about her circumstances or her child, was, nevertheless, aware that she had no choice but to tell Joe the truth. Joe believed she was the widow of a sailor called Winston Harte. How then could she conceivably explain her brother to him-also a sailor with the same name as her deceased nonexistent husband? For this reason, she had confided those same half-truths to Laura, and eventually to David, some weeks after her marriage. Neither one had appeared to be shocked and they accepted her explanation with understanding.

Emma’s worst moment had been her confrontation with Winston and Frank, for it was also necessary to explain to her brothers the existence of a three-year-old daughter, who was obviously not Joe’s offspring. Frank, still in awe of Emma, had not dared to offer one word of criticism. Winston, on the other hand, had placed Emma on a pedestal, and he had flown into a rage, disappointed in her and full of recriminations. After he had calmed down, he managed to convince himself she had been duped and unwilling, so that he could absolve Emma of all blame and keep her image untarnished. He had cursed the scoundrel who had violated his innocent sister in naval-barracks language so colourful both Emma and Joe had been flabbergasted.

Conscious of her brothers’ intelligence and perception, Emma had coloured her story for their benefit, inventing a nebulous gentleman of doubtful background as the father of her child, whom she said she had met in Leeds. She had alerted Joe in advance, saying that she dare not tell them a boy from Fairley had taken advantage of her. There would be reprisals in the village if she did so. Joe had agreed there was sense in this and was her ally. For her part, Emma was relieved that she no longer had to fabricate stories about her past, for by nature she was not a liar.

Yes, Joe has been decent, Emma said to herself. He had insisted on adopting Edwina after their marriage and he had given her his name. And he loved Edwina as much as he loved his own child, if not more, Emma sometimes suspected.

As these wandering thoughts sifted through Emma’s head she felt an unprecedented stab of guilt about her anger with Joe. He had behaved like a gentleman and had shown a degree of generosity towards her, and Emma reproached herself. The gift of her body and wifely devotion was a small price to pay when she considered everything dispassionately.

It would not be easy, Emma knew, when she thought of his wanton lust in the privacy of their bedroom. But she took hold of herself with cold determination, and resolved to be more understanding and warmly attentive to her husband in the future.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The following morning found Emma at her desk in her department store earlier than usual. Elegantly dressed in a severely tailored black silk dress and pearls-‘the Harte uniform’, Joe called it-she sat studying two fat ledgers. Her deep absorption in those minute black figures running in punctilious columns down the wide pages was so complete she was only dimly aware of the store coming to life and of the sounds of traffic outside.

Emma’s attention was riveted on the books for the department store, which she had bought in the latter part of 1912, renovated and modernized with Blackie O’Neill’s assistance, and opened with fanfare in January of 1913.

The store had been an instantaneous success. Brilliant advertising, personally conceived by Emma, attracted the public to its doors. They came in droves to scrutinize and criticize this lavish and exotic emporium that had flowered within the hallowed precincts of Lister’s, formerly the most conservative of stores, which had been taken over by some parvenu, an ambitious young woman with newfangled ideas. To their incredulity they were captivated by the glamorous ambiance and the air of exclusivity that pervaded every floor. Lulled into a state of euphoria by the elegant interiors with their glittering mirrors, plush carpeting, harmonious lighting effects, and the specially perfumed air, they remained to browse, to exclaim and admire, and were inevitably induced into buying, unaware that they had been cajoled by the tasteful and tranquil surroundings into spending money through a psychological approach far ahead of its time.

Emma’s skilful displays of all her products attracted marvelling eyes to its quality, its stylishness, and the reasonable prices. The merchandise was the dernier cri, so elegant that the ladies of Leeds and other nearby towns found themselves unable to resist temptation, dipping into their purses with enthusiasm, under the gentle encouragement of the charming and pleasant-mannered salesgirls, rigorously trained by Emma in what she termed ‘the art of the understated sell’, and which in later years she was to call ‘the soft sell’.

Another contributory factor to the store’s popularity was the cafe Emma had opened on the second floor. She had decorated it in the style of an English country garden, utilizing pastoral scenic wallpaper, white-painted trellises, artificial topiary, and birdcages housing exquisitely rendered copies of colourful birds. She named it the Elizabethan Gazebo and dressed the waitresses in simple pale green uniforms, frilled white organdy aprons and caps. The enchanting setting, a refreshing change from the overblown pomposity of Victorian décor, the serene atmosphere, superior service, and the simple but tasty dishes made the Elizabethan Gazebo all the rage. It became the chic gathering place for morning coffee, light luncheons, and afternoon tea. Smart women took to rendezvousing there and few left the store without making some kind of purchase, just as Emma had shrewdly anticipated. This innovation, a wholly unique departure for a department store, immediately started a trend in Leeds. It prompted her envious competitors to follow suit, but their rococo imitations were tasteless in comparison, and her stylish café was so well established its business was unaffected.

The gift wrapping of merchandise was another idea dreamed up by Emma, who remembered her own excitement at receiving that brightly wrapped gift from Blackie on her fifteenth birthday. This small service was not performed by other local stores and it gave her yet another sales advantage. With her unerring understanding of the public, Emma was convinced this token gesture, costing relatively little in time, effort, and money, would delight her customers, especially since she made no charge for it, and she was proven right. A gift wrapped in silver paper, tied with silver ribbon, and decorated with a tiny spray of silk violets became the cachet of Harte’s. So did the courtesy and helpfulness of the doorman who assisted with packages, opened carriage and motorcar doors, and performed other gallant little duties, and in his splendid gold-braided uniform of deep royal blue he added a touch of distinction to the main entrance. Finally, in an effort to persuade her customers to buy everything they needed from Harte’s, and in greater quantity, Emma offered door-to-door delivery of goods three times a week. Her customers came to rely on this service, and it boosted sales to such a staggering extent she had to revise her timetable and send out her royal-blue vans five and sometimes even six days a week to fulfil the orders.

On this Saturday morning, twenty months after the store had opened its doors, Emma Harte was in the black and profits were soaring. She had more than sufficient cash in hand to carry her for several years, she decided, as she reviewed the figures. Nonetheless, she was loath to pull fifty thousand pounds out of the store’s bank account at this moment, even though it was hefty with deposits. The country had only been at war for four days, but with her prescience Emma knew they could be in for a long siege, and she might suffer serious setbacks if trade fell off because of the public’s depressed mood, and their reluctance to buy in the grim days ahead. She recognized that she must not endanger the stability of the store by making rash moves or by over-extending herself.

Emma turned to the ledger for the Gregson Warehouse, a wholesale supply company she owned. Her eyes swept over the figures and she did some swift mental arithmetic. Her cash reserves for this company were considerably higher than the store’s bank balance, chiefly because she had owned it for a longer period, was selling products in bulk to the mass market, and had virtually no overheads. Moreover, she was heavily stocked and she would not need to buy new merchandise from the manufacturers for a year, and so she did not anticipate heavy cash expenditures.

She turned the page. Her glance settled on the Accounts Receivable columns. A quick tabulation of the figures reminded Emma that she was owed almost one-hundred-and-eighty-thousand pounds by the various stores in London, Manchester, and Scotland who bought from the wholesale warehouse on a regular basis. She was not worried. The money would start trickling in within the next thirty days. However, she had been aware for some weeks that a number of stores were tardy in their payments. She jotted down the names of those customers whose accounts were overdue and running into the ninety-day period, determining that pressure must be exerted on the delinquent companies immediately. Her terms were thirty to sixty days, although she often extended credit for longer periods to old and valued customers. Now that practice will have to cease, she concluded with detachment. Emma, who could be understanding of problems on a personal level, was hardheaded and without sentiment when it came to business. Joe had once accused her of having ice water in her veins and she had responded, ‘Yes, that’s true. Just like a banker.’

Emma sat back in her chair, tapping her teeth with the end of the pencil, lost in thought, and then she leaned forward and picked up the clipping from the Financial Times, which had been on her desk for the past week. The story in question detailed the closing of the London Stock Exchange and the raising of the bank rate from 4 per cent to 8 per cent on Friday, July 31. Both measures had been sensational, and to Emma they were indicative of the grave view of the crisis taken in financial circles. Emma had realized that the first action was simply intended to avoid panic in the City, by giving dealers time to steady themselves before being called upon to settle their disorganized Stock Exchange accounts. But she was aware that the raising of the bank rate was meant to hinder the drain of gold out of the country. To Emma, watchful and weighing all the odds, this had been the most ominous sign of all. Whatever the politicians said, war was imminent.

These developments had prompted her to take action regarding a business venture she had been contemplating. Rather than intimidating her into abandoning this new enterprise, it had actually encouraged her to plunge ahead with it. At the same time, the rise in the bank rate had induced her to reject the idea of borrowing from the bank to finance the project, as she had originally intended, and despite the fact that she had never been reluctant to use the bank’s money in the past.

In point of fact, when Emma began to extend her business in 1910, she had entered the arena of high finance with many powerful psychological advantages. By nature she was an optimist and totally unafraid of taking chances, believing she could make her own luck in business. Her risks were calculated risks and in a sense she was a guided gambler, as she was to be all of her life. David Kallinski understood her, being cast from the same mould himself.

Emma also had nerves of steel, and these characteristics set her apart from many of her male contemporaries and competitors who were unimaginative and fearful of losing what they had patiently accumulated. Emma was not at all inhibited by these fears, for she was dauntless, and responsive to all manner of business opportunities, which she seized with tenacious hands. Neither was she bothered by paper transactions or long-term borrowing. She had used all to her advantage in the past four years and would do so again if necessary.

But not at this moment, she said to herself, thinking of that 8 per cent bank rate. It was outrageous interest to pay. She had all that cash in the Gregson account and was owed a vast amount from the stores. She could easily take the fifty thousand pounds she needed without endangering the warehouse business. Removing the chequebook for the Gregson Warehouse from the drawer of her desk, she wrote out a cheque, put it in an envelope, addressed it to Frederick Ainsley, and returned the chequebook to the drawer. She looked at her watch, picked up the telephone, and dialled the warehouse.

Her manager, Vince Hartley, answered, as she had known he would. ‘Good morning, Vince. I’ve been going over the ledger and I notice that a number of our customers are behind in payment,’ she said.

‘Morning, Mrs Harte. Yes, I know. I was going to talk to you about them-’

‘I want you to start pulling that money in, Vince. First thing on Monday morning,’ Emma interrupted. ‘And don’t write the usual dunning letters. Telephone and follow up with telegrams. I want immediate results. If they can’t pay in full, insist on part payments. And you might point out to the stores whose accounts are outstanding for sixty days or longer that I intend to start charging interest. At once. Bank rates of 8 per cent.’

Vince Hartley sucked in his breath. ‘Mrs Harte, that’s a bit stiff, isn’t it? I don’t think they’ll like it. They might not buy from us again-’

‘I don’t give a damn whether they like it or not. And I certainly couldn’t care less if they don’t buy from us.’

‘But we’re bursting at the seams with stocks. We’ll have it on our hands if we’re not careful.’

‘No, we won’t,’ Emma said firmly. ‘There’s a war on now. Merchandise is going to be in short supply and hard to come by. I can use up those stocks in the store if necessary. In fact, I’ll probably need them. Many of the manufacturers we buy from will be turning their factories over to the production of government supplies. Uniforms and such, and so I’m not at all concerned about the stocks in the warehouse. In a sense, they’re a godsend.’

‘Yes, I see your point,’ Hartley conceded, wishing he had thought of that himself. But Emma Harte was always three jumps ahead of everyone else. Now he said, ‘There’s another problem I wanted to mention. Two of our commercial travellers, the ones covering Scotland, have given notice. They’re joining up today. That leaves us short-staffed. Shall I take on some new men to replace them?’

‘No, don’t bother. The two working Manchester and London will be sufficient. As I said, I may well need that merchandise for the store and I don’t want the warehouse to be completely depleted. Get on to those overdue accounts on Monday and let me know the results at the end of the day. I expect you to be tough about this, Vince. I don’t have time to deal with it myself, but I will if necessary.’

‘Please, Mrs Harte, don’t worry. You can rely on me,’ Hartley said nervously, knowing she meant every word.

‘Until Monday, Vince. Goodbye.’ Emma sat back in the chair, wondering if she should let the two remaining travellers go and cease all selling to other retailers, to reserve the stocks for herself in case of shortages. A knock on the door interrupted her musings. Emma looked up as Gladys Barnes, her young secretary, poked her head around the door.

‘Mr Ainsley has arrived, Mrs Harte.’

‘Show him in, Gladys, please.’

‘Yes, Mrs Harte.’

Emma stood up, smoothed her skirt, and automatically patted her hair, walking across the floor to welcome her solicitor, whom she had been expecting. She was therefore taken aback, and also irritated, when Ainsley’s son, Arthur, appeared on the threshold.

Arthur Ainsley, tall, slender, and with the blond good looks of a juvenile lead, was conscious of his physical attributes and the effect they had on most women. Elegantly dressed in a somewhat dandified manner, he played the part of the dashing young buck to the hilt and now he sauntered in with debonair aplomb.

He’s forgotten his tennis racquet, Emma thought disparagingly, but she proffered him a charming smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Ainsley.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Harte. You look as splendid as always.’ Ainsley flashed his perfect teeth and took her outstretched hand, his clasp lingering too long for Emma’s comfort.

‘Why, thank you, Mr Ainsley. Please, do sit down.’ She glided to her desk and sat behind it, still smiling, sheathing her annoyance. In her opinion, Arthur Ainsley was a fop and she regarded him as his father’s errand boy, even though he was a junior partner with the law firm. ‘Is your father joining us?’ she asked in an even tone.

‘No, I’m afraid he can’t. He came down with a frightful cold last night. Hence my presence instead of his,’ Arthur replied, suavely apologetic.

‘I am sorry,’ Emma murmured.

‘However,’ Arthur went on quickly, ‘he did ask me to tell you that you may telephone him at home, if you consider it necessary after our meeting. That is, if you feel I am not able to help you with your-er-er-problem.’

‘I don’t have a problem, Mr Ainsley,’ Emma said coolly. ‘I merely wished to bring to conclusion a certain matter I have been discussing with your father. I think you will be able to handle it quite adequately, since all the major work has been done already.’

Arthur Ainsley ignored her patronizing tone, although he winced. He had been trying to ingratiate himself with Emma Harte for the past year without success, and this infuriated him. Nevertheless, he responded with studied charm. ‘I sincerely hope I can, Mrs Harte. I always aim to please, you know.’

‘Indeed,’ Emma said dismissively. ‘When I spoke to your father yesterday morning I did not explain why I wished to see him today, so obviously he was unable to brief you. Let me fill you in. Several weeks ago I started negotiations with Mr William Layton, of Layton’s woollen mill in Armley. Mr Layton has wanted to sell for some time. He’s getting too old to run the mill efficiently and his business has fallen off drastically. Mostly due to the poor quality of the cloth he has been producing and indifferent selling. In fact, it’s my opinion he’s only a few steps away from bankruptcy. Mr Layton agreed to sell the mill to me for fifty thousand pounds. I considered this a fairly reasonable figure, although the mill is small, there’s virtually no good will to speak of, and his customers are few. He’s also stuck with an enormous quantity of shoddy cloth which I will have to practically give away, simply to get rid of it-’

‘It doesn’t sound like a good proposition to me,’ Arthur cut in, hoping to impress her.

Emma frowned and held up her hand. ‘Please, Mr Ainsley, let me finish!’ Her voice was chilly. ‘The machinery is good and the building is sound, if in need of a few renovations. Also, Layton’s is carrying huge stocks of raw wool, of major importance to me. Anyway, to come to the point, Mr Layton agreed to my terms, which were fifteen thousand on signing of the purchase agreements, ten thousand after three months, and the final payment of twenty-five thousand pounds at the end of six months. That is approximately the length of time I require to turn the mill around. We were about to go to contract when Mr Layton backed down. His excuse was that he no longer wanted to sell. I found this hard to swallow, but naturally I had to respect his decision.’

‘You probably could have held him to that agreement, you know, even though it was verbal,’ Arthur interjected. ‘I’m sure my father told you that, didn’t he?’

‘He did indeed,’ Emma said. ‘However, I decided at the time not to do so. Mr Layton is an old man and I didn’t want to back him into a corner. After all, it was his prerogative to change his mind. I told your father I would look around for another suitable mill, since I was anxious to acquire one. Then a few days ago I discovered, through a reliable source of my own, that Mr Layton had received another offer,’ Emma explained. ‘This offer was not higher than mine, but the terms were seemingly more appealing to Mr Layton. My competitor was prepared to make two payments instead of three, each one of twenty-five thousand pounds. The first on signing, the second after six months. I am not an unreasonable woman, Mr Ainsley, but Mr Layton’s duplicity appalled me. After all, we had shaken hands on the deal and then he turned around and reneged. Moreover, he did not have the integrity to inform me of that bid, and so give me the opportunity to match it.’

‘I appreciate your feelings, Mrs Harte,’ Arthur said with a fawning smile. ‘I suppose you want to match this new bid?’

‘No, better it, in a sense. I have decided to pay the purchase price in full. On Monday.’

Arthur Ainsley sat up smartly, rubbing his chin nervously. ‘But that’s not bettering it, is it? You’re simply changing the payment schedule, that’s all. What makes you think the other party won’t do the same thing? Then you’d be faced with an impasse, and Layton still might not sell to you. Also, how do you know they haven’t concluded the transaction?’

Emma smiled confidently. ‘They haven’t, and I happen to know that the party in question does not have the ready cash to make payment in full at this moment. He has just modernized the mill he owns and has put in costly machinery. I realize, of course, that he could borrow from the bank to purchase Layton’s. That would have been very good business practice a week ago, but today, with the bank rate up to 8 per cent, I think the rival buyer may well have second thoughts about doing that. I’ve been informed that he’s over-extended and well into the bank already. They may not wish to oblige him with further credit. It is my belief that if I move swiftly I can knock him out of the picture completely.’

‘Yes, perhaps you can,’ Arthur agreed cautiously.

‘It is also my understanding that Mr Layton does not want protracted negotiations. His creditors are on his back and he wants a fast sale. And so I am dealing from strength, wouldn’t you say?

Arthur nodded, obviously impressed. She was constantly surprising both him and his father. Then another thought struck him. ‘Look here, let’s think about this for a second. Are you sure you want to invest fifty thousand in a new business at a time like this? Since we are at war. I’m not so sure this is a moment for taking risks.’

‘I’m not taking any risks and, furthermore, this is exactly the right time to buy Layton’s, because I intend to obtain government contracts to produce cloth for the armed forces. Cloth for uniforms, Mr Ainsley. With those contracts I can have that mill on its feet and in profit overnight!’

‘Well, I must say, you certainly think of everything!’ He had no doubts she would get the contracts, yet he felt compelled to say, ‘Are you sure? Really sure you can get them? It occurs to me the established cloth manufacturers in Yorkshire will be after the same contracts. They could beat you to it.’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Ainsley,’ Emma said softly, and with a self-assured smile. ‘Naturally they will go after them, but I have connections in London. And, in any event, the government is going to need plenty of cloth for uniforms, believe me. There will be enough business to go around.’

Dazzled, Arthur said, ‘My father has always considered you to have remarkable vision and certainly you seem confident. What would you like me to do, in regard to the Layton mill?’

‘Telephone Mr Layton and tender my offer as soon as you get into your office on Monday. Arrange an appointment with him for Monday afternoon. I will go with you and we can sign immediately. And make sure he has his solicitor there. I don’t want any procrastination.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Arthur said, echoing her businesslike tone.

Emma picked up the papers on her desk and handed them to him. ‘These are the original contracts. I have made various changes, those I considered necessary. However, I am sure they are in order. In fact, the changes are so minor you should be able to redraw the contracts by noon.’

She certainly knows how to give her orders, Arthur thought with a stab of resentment, but nodded. ‘That’s no problem,’ he asserted

‘And here is my cheque for the full purchase price.’ Emma gave him the envelope and went on, ‘I want you to take it today so that you can tell Mr Layton, in all truthfulness, that you have it in your hands when you speak with him.’ Emma’s green eyes, now brilliant, rested on Arthur. To her amusement he appeared to be dumbfounded. ‘I don’t think you will have any problems with Mr Layton. I am making him an offer he will find extremely difficult to refuse under the circumstances,’ she said. ‘I know my rival will not be able to move as rapidly as I can.’

‘Oh, I endorse that wholeheartedly!’ Arthur then said, with a disarming smile, ‘May I invite you to lunch on Monday, before we go to Layton’s? It would be my pleasure.’

Emma feigned dismay. ‘Oh dear, I can’t. It’s very kind of you to ask me, but I already have an appointment for lunch that day. I will meet you at your office at two o’clock, if that is convenient, and we can go over the contracts before our appointment with Mr Layton.’

Arthur concealed his disappointment, aware that his charm had no effect on her. ‘Yes, that’s fine. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?’ he asked, anxious to prolong his visit.

Invariably pressed for time and having no use for idle chatter, Emma said, ‘No, that’s about it.’ She rose abruptly. Arthur jumped up, reaching for his briefcase. Emma accompanied him to the door. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Ainsley. And do give my best to your father. I hope he feels better soon.’ She stretched out her hand, shook Arthur’s quickly, and opened the door. He found himself whisked out of her office with such speed he barely had a chance to take his leave of her courteously.

Emma smiled when she was alone. Arthur Ainsley fancies himself, she thought, and then forgot all about him, turning her attention to the store’s business. A few minutes after Ainsley had left the office Joe marched in unexpectedly. Having determined, the night before, to be her most affectionate with him in every way, Emma greeted him warmly, only to be rebuffed by a gruff response. Despite her irritation at this intrusion on her busiest morning, and her bafflement at his obnoxious manner, the smile on Emma’s face did not falter. She opened her mouth to ask him why he was upset when he saved her the trouble.

‘What the hell was Arthur Ainsley doing here?’ he growled, flinging himself into the chair recently vacated by the young man.

‘Because he’s our solicitor. Don’t tell me that has slipped your mind, Joe.’

‘His father is our solicitor,’ Joe snapped.

‘Frederick Ainsley is ill. I had some urgent business to be dealt with and he sent Arthur in his place.’

‘I don’t like that chap!’ Joe announced.

Joe’s tone was so harsh Emma was further startled. ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t be so snappy, dear. Arthur Ainsley is pleasant and also able, I think.’

‘He’s charming to you, Emma. You wear skirts. That chap’s a real womanizer. He’s a rake!’

Emma laughed. ‘Oh, Joe, don’t be so silly. Anyway, his private life is his own affair, I think.’

‘Well, I don’t like the way he behaves around you, Emma. I’ve noticed how young Ainsley dances attendance on you, and he positively leers at you. He’s too bloody cocksure of his so-called fatal charms, if you ask me.’

Emma bit back a smile. Joe was jealous, an emotion he had not hitherto displayed before. But then she never gave him any reason to be jealous, nor did she have any inclination to do so. Men were the last thing on her mind.

‘Look here, Joe, you’re getting excited about nothing. I don’t encourage Arthur Ainsley’s attentions. In fact, I’ve never noticed them, to tell you the truth. It’s hardly my fault that Mr Ainsley sends him here on business matters. Come along, love, don’t be childish,’ she said cajolingly.

Joe felt suddenly foolish and he grinned, looking shamefaced. ‘Yes, you’re right, but what was so urgent that you had to deal with it on Saturday?’

Emma told him about her decision to buy Layton’s mill, explaining some of the ramifications and the necessity for moving with a degree of swiftness. ‘Surprise is often the best weapon,’ she pointed out. ‘Percy Lomax thinks he’s got Layton’s mill. He thinks he’s outsmarted me, but he’s wrong. Nobody outsmarts me. Ever!’

Joe was staring at her askance. ‘Don’t you think you’re biting off more than you can chew?’ he cried.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Between the store, the Gregson Warehouse, and Lady Hamilton Clothes it seems to me that you have enough to keep you busy twenty-four hours a day, without that blasted mill.’

She laughed. ‘I’m not going to be running the mill, Joe.’

‘Knowing you, Emma, you’ll want to take an active interest in the administration. You never leave anything to chance, and you’d have to be involved out of necessity. From what I hear, Layton’s needs reorganizing, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it does. But I’ve thought everything out well in advance. I’ll get a good manager.’

‘Who? They’re hard to come by, you know.’

‘Ben Andrews. I’ve-’

‘Ben Andrews! Good God, Emma, he’s been at Thompson’s mill for donkey’s years. You’ll never get him to leave.’

‘That’s where you’re mistaken, Joe. I’ve had several meetings with Ben and he wants to leave Thompson’s. I only have to say the word. He hasn’t been too happy there since the new owners took over four years ago. He’s itching to get out, if you want to know the truth.’

Joe grinned. ‘I’ve got to take my hat off to you, Emma. You certainly know how to pick ‘em. Ben is a hell of a good man. The best in the woollen business. He’s made Thompson’s, that’s a certainty.’

Emma nodded. ‘I know. And that’s the secret of my success. Finding the right people and being willing to delegate authority to those who are capable of handling it. I’m also very generous. I made Ben an offer Thompson’s would never match, even if he wanted to stay with them!’

Observing her with grudging approbation, Joe saw her delighted smile turn into one of triumph. He could not help laughing. Shaking his head, he said, ‘I suppose it tickles you to death to be in a position to employ Ben Andrews, considering he was your boss when you worked at Thompson’s. I can’t say I blame you.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Emma said softly and in all truthfulness. It was the idea of luring Ben Andrews, three top foremen, and twenty of the best weavers away from Thompson’s that intoxicated her. Without Ben’s superior management and those experienced workers, Thompson’s output would be crippled and the mill would be in disastrous trouble. A thrill of pure elation ran through her. She had just made her first move against the Fairleys, owners of J. P. Thompson and Son.

‘Congratulations, Emma. You’re a millowner at last.’

‘Don’t congratulate me yet, Joe!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘I’m superstitious about celebrating before a transaction is final.’

‘Oh, it will be, Emma. I don’t doubt that for one minute,’ he said with an odd smile. ‘You always get what you want, don’t you? There’s no stopping you once you’ve made up your mind. You rush in, sweeping everybody to one side, so intent on your purpose you don’t care who gets trampled underfoot.’

Emma looked at Joe, surprised at his harsh words and the sarcastic edge to his voice. Normally she disregarded his taunts, but now she could not help saying angrily, ‘You make me sound ruthless and hard. And I’m not. I’m simply a good businesswoman. Furthermore, nobody has ever handed me anything on a plate. I’ve had to work like a dog for everything I own, Joe.’

‘I can’t deny that. Work is your consuming passion, though, isn’t it?’ His eyes were as hard as pebbles, and condemning.

Emma sighed. She began to shuffle her papers, impatient for him to leave and in no mood to joust. ‘Why are you in town so early this morning?’ she asked gently, changing the subject.

‘I’m going to the office. I’m behind with some of the ledgers for the properties,’ he said offhandedly, and stood up. ‘Then I’m meeting Blackie for lunch at the Metropole. I want to talk to him about putting new roofing on the tannery and reinforcing the top floor. He’s been too overwhelmed with building contracts to attend to the work before now, but both jobs are long overdue.’

‘Give him my love and tell him I’ll come to see Laura on Sunday.’ Emma’s face changed, softening as she spoke of her friend. ‘I’m worried about Laura, Joe. She hasn’t seemed at all strong since the last miscarriage. She needs building up. I wish there was something I could do to-’

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Joe exclaimed. ‘That’s Blackie’s problem. He should exercise a little self-control and stop getting her-’ He bit off his sentence, flushing.

‘In the family way,’ Emma finished for him with chilly disdain. ‘Look who’s talking!’

Joe dismissed this dig with a wave of his hand, although his flush deepened. ‘Besides, you do enough for Laura as it is, Emma. Why, the way you dote on that woman anybody would think she’s a member of the family.’

‘She is!’ Emma snapped. ‘She’s like my sister, my dearest friend. I would do anything for Laura. Anything in this world.’

‘That I know!’ He strode to the door. ‘I’ll see you at home, Emma. Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Joe.’

After he had left, Emma stared at the door he had so harshly banged behind him, shaking her head. He’s got a bee in his bonnet this morning, she thought wearily. She did not have time to worry about Joe and his infantile bursts of petulance. She picked up the ledgers and carried them to the safe where she always kept them and locked them away securely. She walked back to her desk, a spring in her step, her head held high. She was about to become a millowner and stick a knife in Gerald Fairley’s back at the same time. She laughed aloud. The idea of being able to enhance her business enterprises whilst damaging the Fairleys appealed to her sense of irony. She looked at the photograph of her eight-year-old daughter reposing in a silver frame on her desk. ‘That’s called poetic justice, Edwina,’ she said to the photograph. ‘Justice for both of us. And it’s just the beginning.’

Emma rested her head against the chair. Once again she contemplated the war, endeavouring to gauge the effect it would have on commerce and industry. Her considered reflections prompted her to make a sudden decision. She would definitely discontinue selling certain types of merchandise to other retailers. She was undoubtedly going to need most of the warehouse stock for Harte’s in time, and she had no alternative but curtail the activities of the two remaining commercial travellers to a degree, and enforce limitations on their supplies. She began to selectively tick off the goods she could readily dispose of in her own store. Good old Gregson’s, she muttered under her breath. It’s the best investment I ever made.

And indeed it was. In 1910, a few months after her marriage to Joe, Emma had learned that the Gregson Warehouse, a wholesale company acting as the middleman between the manufacturers and the retailers was in in trouble and up for sale for a song.

Emma wanted it. More accurately, she craved it passionately. And she determined to have it, recognizing its enormous potential as a moneymaker of no mean proportions. It was also the vehicle she had been seeking, one that would enable her to implement two of her most potent schemes-rapid expansion for a small investment and volume buying from the manufacturers to obtain quality merchandise at low prices. She purchased Gregson’s for two thousand pounds and, with her own brand of initiative and expediency, smartly divested herself of its dated and second-rate goods with lightning speed. Her technique was simple but foolproof. She slashed prices drastically and sold everything to local stores that were in constant need of bargains for their semi-annual sales.

As she had shrewdly suspected, she actually made money from the stocks. With this money, and by persuading the manufacturers to give her extended credit, she bought in bulk. Some of the smaller clothing manufacturers even began to produce solely for her; consequently much of her merchandise was exclusive as well as reasonably priced. Utilizing the services of four veteran commercial travellers, who worked on a commission basis, she then became a wholesale vendor to retailers in London, Scotland, and Lancashire. Emma was also now in the enviable position of being able to stock her own three shops at no cost to herself, and by cannily supplying stores located in distant areas she kept her wares select and suffered no competition.

Early in 1911, when Gregson’s was operating smoothly, Emma had asked Joe to sell her the three shops she rented from him and the other five he owned. He had not wanted to sell to her, even though she had offered him five thousand pounds. Since he received a trifling annual income of fifty pounds from each shop, she had pointedly remarked he was making an immediate profit, and from his own wife.

‘I don’t want to make a profit at all,’ Joe had rejoined defensively, going on to grouse that he was disinclined to sell, preferring the income.

‘But I’m willing to give you the equivalent of ten years’ rent for each shop, plus an extra thousand pounds,’ Emma had cried, on the verge of losing her temper.

Joe was adamant, being reluctant to diminish his property holdings. But as a compromise, and in order to restore tranquillity to their home life and appease her, he had suggested she could rent the five other shops, leaving ownership in his hands. This was a lacklustre alternative to Emma, who had her own motives for wanting the shops, and she flatly refused to consider the proposition.

The deadlock was broken by Frederick Ainsley, who, to Emma’s surprise, became her champion and backed her unstintingly. His remarkably persuasive talents and smooth tongue were fortunately not altogether lost on the recalcitrant Joe. ‘It is only because of Emma’s unflagging work that the three shops are such a success. They were failures and vacant half the time before she rented them from you, Joe,’ Ainsley had adroitly pointed out. ‘Under the circumstances, don’t you think she deserves to own what she has so assiduously built up? It’s her investment for the future. And what do you have to lose, Joe, my boy? She’s prepared to pay an excellent price, one that more than recompenses you for the income you would receive, whilst relieving you of the burden of maintenance and repairs. Do be a good chap and at least consider selling her the eight shops, Joe. It’s to your advantage. That five thousand could easily be invested in something more lucrative.’

Privately, Frederick Ainsley had expressed surprise that Joe had not offered to give her the deeds to the shops. ‘As a wedding present, perhaps,’ the courtly solicitor had gallantly murmured. He was much taken with Emma, being aware of her superior brain and her business acumen. Skill with finances and nerve to gamble were a redoubtable combination in his eyes. They added up to business genius.

Emma had shaken her head vigorously. ‘No! I want to buy them from him. Then I know they’re really mine and no one can ever dispute the fact!’ she had cried.

Frederick Ainsley, appreciating the sagacity of her comments, and accurately guessing her ultimate goal, had readily concurred. The solicitor had resorted to another tactic to help Emma attain her wish. He had simply presented Joe with several potential investments guaranteed to pay high dividends. ‘Think about selling to Emma. It’s an opportunity that doesn’t present itself every day,’ Ainsley had casually remarked. ‘And you could have that five thousand working for you most profitably.’

Joe thought and eventually sold, if somewhat reluctantly, feeling vaguely uneasy about the whole affair.

Emma had known she would have to mortgage Gregson’s to raise the money for the shops, but this did not deter her. And she wanted to pay Joe the total amount immediately. Six months later she had repaid the mortgage on the warehouse and within another twelve months she was ready to put the second and most ambitious part of her well-conceived plan into operation-the acquisition of a department store in Leeds.

To finance this venture Emma sold her eight shops in Armley for a total price of twenty thousand pounds. Joe, dumbstruck, implied she was guilty of sharp business practice, insisting she had wilfully inflated the price of the shops above their real market value to suit her own ends. He warned of repercussions.

‘Nonsense!’ Emma had countered icily, infuriated by his accusatory tone. ‘I’m not selling the buildings only, as you did, Joe. I’m also selling large stocks of quality merchandise and enormous goodwill. And what about all the renovations I’ve made? Which I paid for.’

Joe had shrugged, disguising his disapproval behind a façade of studied indifference, and had announced he was washing his hands of the whole questionable business.

With the nerve and monumental self-assurance of a seasoned entrepreneur, Emma had taken out a new and far higher mortgage on the warehouse, borrowed from the bank by pledging the new store as collateral, thrown the twenty thousand into the kitty, and purchased Lister’s. She had redeemed her promissory notes from the bank in a relatively short space of time, anxious to have the title of the department store free and clear, and the mortgage on the warehouse had been paid off within a year.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted Emma’s careful examination of the inventory of Gregson’s current stock. She looked up.

Gladys came in. ‘It’s only me with a cup of nice hot tea. I thought you’d like one before you go down on the floor, Mrs Harte.’

‘That was thoughtful of you, Gladys. Thank you.’ Emma pushed her chair back, propped her elegantly shod feet on the desk, and sipped her tea, reviewing the Gregson inventory in her head. She could easily keep Harte’s well supplied for the duration of the war, she concluded, and with a little of her gambler’s luck she would survive without too many losses.

She recommenced her perusal of the last page of the inventory, wanting to complete her assessment before going down into the store. But thoughts of the mill intruded. She could not wait to get her hands on Layton’s. It was a potential gold mine. Then she pictured Gerald Fairley’s face when his manager, three foremen, and his best weavers walked out.

That bastard’s in for a real surprise, she thought, and with not a little vindictiveness.

THIRTY-NINE

Edwin Fairley loitered outside Harte’s department store, gazing into one of the windows, trying to summon up enough courage to go inside. It was always like this when he arrived on the doorstep. His nerve inevitably failed him for ten minutes or so, and sometimes altogether.

He pretended to be studying the chic evening gowns in the window, thinking of the first time he had walked past the store on Commercial Street. That had been over a year ago and he had stopped dead in his tracks, instantly struck by the name, staring in astonishment at the silvery metal letters which spelled out E. HARTE against the royal-blue woodwork over the door. Concluding that it was a coincidence, he had proceeded down the street and then suddenly retraced his steps, his curiosity whetted.

Edwin had approached the doorman and inquired about the ownership of this fine new establishment. The doorman had politely informed him that a Mrs Harte was the proprietor. A few more probing questions had supplied some startling answers, and he had hastened off, considerably shaken. There was no question in his mind, from the glowing description of Mrs Harte he had wrung out of the doorman, that this was indeed Emma’s store. Within a few hours he had received confirmation from Gerald, who had been unable to resist adding a vulgar warning to keep his trousers buttoned. Edwin had turned away in disgust, concealing his anger and repressing the violent urge to punch his brother on the nose.

And the store had attracted him like a magnet ever since. Whenever he visited Yorkshire he made an excuse to Jane to go into Leeds alone, automatically gravitating to Harte’s, propelled by a mixture of emotions. Eventually he had found the nerve to enter the store, and had been overwhelmed by the elegance of the interior and staggered at Emma’s singular achievement, which he considered awesome. And he had experienced a curious sense of pride in her. He had returned on several occasions afterwards, nervously walking around, wondering if he would catch sight of Emma. But he never had, and he cursed himself for his juvenile behaviour, always vowing never to torture himself in such a ridiculous manner again.

Still, here he was on this warm August Saturday, a day he should have been at Fairley with Jane and the family, longing to go inside, hoping for a brief glimpse of Emma Harte, yet, conversely, afraid he might bump into her. Fool, he muttered, filled with angry frustration at his own indecisiveness.

After several moments of window gazing Edwin took a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and pushed open the doors. Feeling ill at ease amongst the women shoppers thronging the main floor, he immediately headed for the men’s haberdashery.

In his haste and preoccupation he was unconscious of the admiring glances bestowed upon him by some of the ladies who stepped aside to let him pass. At twenty-six Edwin Fairley was a good-looking young man. Tall and firmly built, he had a dashing air and, since he had inherited his father’s penchant for elegant clothes, he was always impeccably dressed. But it was his face that caused many women to look twice and speculate. Finely drawn and ascetic, there was, nevertheless, a marked sensuality about his mouth, and his eyes held an indefinable expression that hinted of passion.

Arriving at the haberdashery, Edwin asked to see some silk cravats, examining them whilst surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, anxiously seeking that one incomparable woman in the crowd. He finally bought a grey silk tie he did not want, because he was embarrassed to walk away after the salesgirl had been so obliging. Declining to have it gift-wrapped, he paid, picked up the package, and moved on.

After making this initial purchase Edwin discovered he was beginning to relax, and he strolled through other departments with a degree of self-assurance, browsing to waste time. He halted at the perfumery counter and bought two bottles of expensive French scent for his wife and his aunt. In order to linger in Harte’s he asked to have them individually giftwrapped. The young woman nodded, smiled, and busied herself with this task. Edwin leaned nonchalantly against the counter, his light grey eyes scanning the main floor. He swung around and looked up at the main staircase.

And it was then that he saw her.

Emma was coming down the stairs. Edwin sucked in his breath. She was more beautiful than ever, fashionably dressed in black silk that fell in fluid lines around her shapely figure. He recognized at once that she had poise and distinction, and in young womanhood her loveliness was in full bloom. She paused at the turn of the stairs to speak to a customer, her face lighting up, full of vivacity. Edwin gazed at her with intensity, mesmerized by that exquisite oval face, unable to pull his eyes away, and his heart twisted inside him.

He had not set eyes on Emma Harte for nine years, but now, to Edwin, it might have only been yesterday that he had held her in his arms in the cave on the moors. He longed to rush over to her, to beg her forgiveness, to ask about their child. He dare not. He knew, with a sickening sense of despair, that she would repudiate him just as surely as he had repudiated her so long ago on that ghastly morning in the rose garden.

Emma continued to the bottom of the stairs and glided across the floor with infinite grace and aplomb, obviously in command of herself and her store. And then, to his immense horror, Edwin realized she was walking directly towards him. He was rooted to the spot, incapable of moving or even turning his head, and his heart was thundering in his chest. To his supreme relief she paused at another counter and became engaged in conversation with a sales assistant. At one moment she looked over her shoulder and stared right at him, or so it seemed. He stiffened. There was an engrossed expression on her face and her eyes swivelled to the jewellery department. She shook her head, leaned forward, and continued her discussion. Had she seen him or not? Or had she simply not recognized him? He dismissed this idea instantly. That was inconceivable. He had not changed very much and, in any case, his resemblance to his father was now so pronounced it was difficult for anyone to mistake his identity.

The salesgirl spoke to him. Startled, he pulled himself together and gave her his attention. She handed him the packages and the bill, all the while chatting to him pleasantly. He heard her voice faintly through the crashing noises reverberating in his head. It required all of his self-control to keep his hands from shaking as he reached for his wallet. From the corner of his eye he saw Emma approaching and he dropped his head, his heart in his mouth.

Emma brushed so close to him he could have touched her. He heard the soft swishing of the silk of her dress and caught the faint whiff of her perfume, something light and fresh like lily of the valley. His anguish was acute, and he had to suppress the urgent desire to reach out and take her arm.

And then she was gone. He watched her disappearing into another department, smiling and nodding graciously to customers.

He completed his business and stumbled out of the store without looking back, feeling sick and undone. He stood in the street experiencing that awful sense of loss again, and the gnawing hollowness in his heart, which never left him, was more chilling than ever.

Edwin walked towards City Square, moving blindly through the crowds, unaware of the traffic or the bustle, seeing nothing but her face. The face he would never forget as long as he lived. It was burned on his brain like a brand stamped on steel. By taking deep breaths Edwin managed at last to steady himself and he struck out determinedly towards the main post office, suddenly intent in his purpose. He had just made a decision and nothing would induce him to reverse it.

Within a short while his business in the post office was completed. He made another stop, attended to the matter at hand with remarkable swiftness, and left. He found the Daimler, parked near the railway station, told the chauffeur to take him home, and fell on to the back seat feeling wretched and depleted.

On the drive back to Fairley, Edwin thought of Emma. The impact of seeing her had been so tremendous he knew at last why he had dreaded it whilst striving towards that goal. She had awakened old longings and also made him painfully conscious of the emptiness of his life. She had rekindled his guilt and shame, never far from the surface anyway.

The memory of her tortured him. Why could he find no satisfaction in the arms of other women? And there had been plenty in the last five years. Why, oh God, why did he persistently seek out women that resembled her if only vaguely? Searching, always searching for another Emma. Irresistibly drawn to green eyes, russet-brown hair, silken white skin, only to be disappointed, dissatisfied, and torn apart in the end. Awake or alseep, Emma haunted him.

He contemplated their child. He had a compelling yearning to see it. It must be eight years old now, if it had lived. Of course it has lived, he told himself firmly, wanting to believe that part of Emma and himself existed in another human being. Was it a girl or a boy? Did it favour Emma or himself? Or was it a mixture of them both?

A bitter smile slid on to his pale face, gaunt in the dim light of the car. How ironic that Emma had borne him a child out of wedlock, a child forbidden to him, whilst Jane had never conceived and given him the son or daughter he craved. Had she presented him with a child their union might have been more bearable. He pictured Emma, and then Jane. He should never have married her. He should have resisted all that family pressure. His barren, dull, insipid wife. She was the cross he had to bear in life. No, that was a dishonourable thought and unfair. He could not condemn poor Jane. She was lovely, and adoring, and it was hardly her fault that he had nothing of himself to give her. He belonged to Emma Harte; that was unalterable and would never change except in death.

Edwin’s bleak mood engulfed him all afternoon and well into the evening. He struggled through the family dinner, which seemed more interminable than usual to him, making polite but strained conversion. He was glad when his father suggested they retire to the library. Edwin was also vastly relieved Gerald was absent, for he had been seeking an opportunity to speak to his father alone since his return from Leeds.

Adam poured the drinks and they settled themselves in front of the fire. His father chatted amiably about inconsequential things until finally Edwin could no longer contain himself. ‘Father, there’s something I must speak to you about,’ he announced abruptly.

Adam looked at him closely, frowning. ‘You sound serious, Edwin. In fact, you have been very morose all evening. Nothing wrong, I hope.’

‘No, Father, everything is fine.’ Edwin hesitated and cleared his throat. ‘I wanted you to know that I made a decision today. A decision about joining the army. Immediately.’

Adam’s face changed radically and he placed the brandy and soda on the table with the utmost care. ‘Edwin, I think you are being hasty. These are early days yet. I don’t want you rushing off to war until we have more news, see what the developments are. I beg you to reconsider, my boy.’

‘I can’t, Father. I don’t want to upset you, or worry you, but I must go. Please, do try to understand my point of view.’

‘Edwin, you don’t have to volunteer. Only single men have been asked to go to the front.’

‘Yes, I know that, Father. Nevertheless, I have made the decision.’ Edwin stood up, reached for the Yorkshire Morning Gazette on the library table, and said, ‘I don’t have to read this government bulletin to you, Father. You must be familiar with it. The paper has been running it for several days now. But I am going to read it to you.’

‘Look here, Edwin-’ Adam began.

Edwin held up his hand and looked at the newspaper, reading from it carefully and slowly.

‘Your King and Country Need You! Will you answer your country’s call? Each day is fraught with the gravest possibilities and at this very moment the Empire is on the brink of the greatest war in the history of the world. In this crisis your country calls on all of her young men to rally round the Flag and enlist in the ranks of the army. If every patriotic young man answers her call, England and Empire will emerge stronger and more united than ever. If you are unmarried and between eighteen and thirty years old, will you answer your country’s call and go to the nearest recruiting office, whose address you can get at any post office. AND JOIN THE ARMY TODAY!’

Edwin dropped the newspaper on the chesterfield and sat down, his eyes resting on his father.

Adam shook his head wearily. ‘Oh, Edwin, Edwin, don’t try to appeal to my own sense of patriotism. I know the country is in grave danger, but I am concerned about you. That governmental bulletin asks for single men. I beg of you, Edwin-’

‘It’s too late, Father. I joined up this afternoon when I was in Leeds. I have to report on Monday.’

‘Oh, my God! Edwin!’

‘I’m sorry, Father. Please don’t be angry, and please give me your blessing. I don’t want to leave here with your disapproval-’

‘Good heavens, Edwin, I wouldn’t let that happen for the world.’ Adam sprang up and joined his son on the sofa. He put his arm around Edwin’s shoulder and for a horrible moment he thought he was going to cry. ‘Now, my boy, enough of that nonsense. I do wish you had waited, of course. But naturally you have my blessing.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

Adam rose and fixed himself another drink. He propped himself against the mantelshelf and gazed down at Edwin, filled with anguish. I’ve known for days he would do this; nonetheless, it doesn’t make it any easier to bear. ‘I imagine I would do the same, if I were your age, and I’m quite certain my father would have felt the way I feel.’ Adam shook his head. ‘But you’re so young, Edwin. So young.’

‘So is every other Englishman who’s going, Father.’

Adam glanced at Edwin. ‘Have you told Jane about this, my boy?’

Edwin nodded. ‘I told her when we were dressing for dinner. She was upset, but she understands. There has been a long line of soldiers in her family, you know. Her brother told us that he intends to volunteer this coming week.’

‘I see.’ Adam said, looking thoughtful. ‘Will Jane come and live with us in South Audley Street? We’d like that, you know, and I don’t think she should be on her own in Eaton Square. She will be awfully lonely in that big house by herself, with only the servants.’

‘Thank you, Father. I appreciate your kindness. However, Jane told me she wants to go to London next week, close up the house, and return to Yorkshire. She would like to be with her father, since her brother will be going. She likes the country and I think that would be the wisest thing, under the circumstances. Don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, Edwin. Well, it seems it’s all settled,’ Adam finished, staring gloomily into the fire.

After a small silence, Edwin said, ‘Father, there’s something I want to give you. I’ve had it for years.’ He reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket and removed a silk handkerchief. He handed it to Adam, who took it absently.

As his father unwrapped the object in it, Edwin went on, ‘I found it years ago. Now I’d like you to have it. I know you painted it, and also that it bears a striking likeness to Aunt Olivia.’

Adam was staring at the round pebble in the silk handkerchief, his eyes resting on that sweet face. The oils were remarkably well preserved. He smoothed one finger over it. ‘Did you varnish this again, Edwin?’

‘Indeed I did, Father. To protect the paint.’

Adam continued to gaze at the pebble, faded memories returning. He had painted this stone when he had been seventeen or thereabouts. The decades dropped away. He saw her standing under the crags at the Top of the World, her dark hair blowing in the breeze, her eyes as blue as speedwells and radiant with light, and he heard her voice echoing faintly across the years. ‘Adam, I’m going to have a baby.’

Edwin was looking up at his father, puzzled by the expression on his face. ‘It is Aunt Olivia, isn’t it?’ he said insistently, shattering Adam’s memories.

Adam did not respond. He smiled, remembering. But then he had never really forgotten. He wrapped the stone in the handkerchief, almost with tenderness. He returned it to Edwin. ‘You keep it, my boy. You found it. I want you to have it. One day I will tell you the story behind that stone, but not now. This is not the time.’ He flashed Edwin a curious look. ‘I presume you came across it in that old cave up on the moors by Ramsden Crags.’

Edwin was watching his father intently. ‘Yes, I did.’ He swallowed and said, ‘There’s something else, Father. Something I have wanted to tell you for years. Unfortunately my courage has always failed me. It’s been on my conscience for so long. I must unburden myself to you before I go off to war.’

Adam sat down in the wing chair, nursing his drink. ‘Then unburden yourself, Edwin,’ he said gently. ‘Perhaps you will feel easier after you have spoken to me. Certainly I shall give you all of my understanding.’

‘Well, you see, it was like this,’ Edwin began nervously. ‘Oh God, I need another drink,’ he cried, and leapt up, hurrying across the room.

He not only resembles me in appearance but in every other way as well, Adam said to himself, staring after Edwin. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair, waiting. He’s going to tell me about Emma Harte and the child, Adam thought, and his heart went out to his son.

FORTY

Lord Kitchener had been appointed Secretary of State for War and had raised an army of one hundred thousand volunteers with his first appeal. Winston Churchill already had the Fleet on standby and between August 6 and August 20 the first four divisions of the British Expeditionary Force had crossed the Channel and the fifth and sixth divisions followed early in September. Not a ship was sunk, not a life was lost, and it was a triumph for Churchill, militant trustee of the British Royal Navy. The rest of Great Britain mobilized for war with ferocious speed and not one of its citizens was unaffected as the grim days rolled by.

The guns of August roared on through September, October, November, and December of 1914, and into 1915. They wrought slaughter, ruin, and misery. Hundreds of thousands of young men, the hope of a new generation, were felled on the bloody battlefields of France and Belgium.

The stakes were terrifying to the British and their allies: annihilation or survival. They understood this was not a war for the possession of a fortress or a country, but for the inalienable right of any nation to live and develop as it wished.

Like every other intelligent person, Emma Harte Lowther often contemplated the aftermath of the war, the conditions they would be facing, and the future of business, but she did not dwell unduly on the years stretching ahead. Her priorities were all immediate, leaving no room for speculation. She was not blind to the commercial opportunities now presenting themselves, nor was she adverse to accumulating money, and whenever she felt a prick of conscience about making a profit from war she dispelled her discomfiture with logical reasoning: Somebody had to produce the uniforms for the fighting men, and if she did not do it, others would. In fact, were doing it. The majority of the cloth manufacturers of the West Riding were making khaki and navy and air force blue for Great Britain and the Allies, and millions of yards were coming off the looms of Yorkshire to clothe the forces.

Lately it struck Emma that she devoted herself entirely to work these days and shamefully neglected her family. But guilty feelings were swept away by the pressure of her business and the knowledge that she had no choice but to steer the same course. She raced between Harte’s, the Gregson Warehouse, Layton’s mill, and the clothing factory at breakneck speed, handling everything with her own brand of efficiency, charm, and assertiveness. And yet somehow the days were never long enough for her.

To her relief, Harte’s was steady and holding its own. Although business had fallen off to a degree, she did not envision any serious setbacks. The stock housed in Gregson’s Warehouse was lasting because she allocated it sparingly and she had also found several new sources of supplies. Layton’s, under the skilful management of Ben Andrews, was running smoothly and the mill was meeting the huge government contracts with apparent ease and more promptly than many of her competitors. David and she had temporarily discontinued the line of Lady Hamilton Clothes at the outset of the war, and the factory’s entire production had been turned over to the manufacture of uniforms. All in all, everything was under control, her business enterprises were stable, and, in particular, the mill and the factory were operating at a high level of super-efficiency and were flourishing money-makers.

But now, on this cold afternoon in December of 1915, Emma’s mind was not preoccupied with business. Sitting next to the driver in one of Harte’s vans, on her way to a meeting with David, her mind dwelt on the Christmas holidays. She was determined to make it as festive an occasion as possible, despite shortages and the depressed mood that engulfed every-one.

Frank was coming to stay for several weeks and she was looking forward to it with the excitement of a child, thrilled at the prospect of seeing her brother again. He had been wounded in November, but his injuries were fortunately not serious. He had been hit by a bullet in the right shoulder and had been shipped back to England to recuperate. If only Winston could get home on leave the family would be complete, but she acknowledged realistically that there was not the remotest possibility of that. The navy was in the thick of the fighting and the news was grim on all fronts. Nevertheless, there would be a Christmas tree, and a turkey dinner with a plum pudding and all the traditional trimmings, mulled wine, and presents for everyone. Most importantly, Frank would receive the love and rest he needed so badly, and all the comforts of home she could provide.

The van arrived at the clothing factory in York Road within minutes. Emma told the driver to wait and hurried inside. As she entered David’s office she was surprised to see Abraham Kallinski ensconced with David.

Her old friend stood up and embraced her warmly, his bright dark eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. He scrutinized her appraisingly and said, ‘Well, Emma, you look wonderful. And it is a pleasure to see you. So long it has been.’

Emma smiled. ‘How are you? And how is Mrs Kallinski?’

‘She is well. I am well. Janessa is always asking for you. She misses you, Emma. I miss you.’

‘I am sorry I have neglected you both lately,’ Emma said. A rueful smile touched her lips. ‘But business does seem to take up all my time these days.’

‘Ah, yes! My little Emma has become the lady tycoon,’ Abraham exclaimed, regarding her with affection and pride. She continued to amaze him with her success, which he considered remarkable, and especially since she was a woman.

David was standing behind his desk, obviously in the throes of a mountain of paper work. He laughed. ‘Don’t sound so surprised, Dad. I always predicted she would go far.’ He came around the desk, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek. Her arms automatically went around him. She felt the strength of his hands gripping her tightly as the pressure of her own fingers increased gently. They pulled away without releasing their hold on each other and exchanged a long gaze.

Abraham Kallinski, observing them paternally, thought with an unexpected flash of dismay: My son. My son. He holds her too long. Ach and I know that look in a man’s eyes! I pray to God that his wife Rebecca and Joe never notice it. Clearing his throat, Abraham said, ‘Come, Emma. Come, sit here next to me.’ He indicated the other chair in front of David’s desk.

She sat down and said, ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? Why did you want to see me so urgently, David?’

David leaned back in his chair, his vivid blue eyes focusing on hers. ‘I have a proposal to make and I hope you will approve. And go along with it.’

Emma laughed lightly. ‘You know I trust your judgement implicitly. What is it?’

‘Dad has been harassed of late. He’d like to ease up a little. Not work so hard.’ David lit a cigarette. ‘We’ve been discussing his problems and I think I have a solution that would be beneficial to everyone concerned. It occurred to me that we could merge his company with ours, take over his factory and its management with relatively no problems at all. That would relieve him of running it entirely on his own. He would continue there, of course, but he wouldn’t have to work such long hours.’ David looked at her expectantly. ‘Well, what do you say?’

Instantly recognizing the enormous potential inherent in this proposition and visualizing a means of simple but swift expansion, Emma did not have to think twice. ‘It’s an excellent suggestion.’ She turned to Abraham. ‘Would you be happy if we did that, Mr Kallinski?’

‘I would, Emma. And so would Janessa. She worries about me. Worries so much I worry about her worrying,’ he responded with a wry laugh.

‘Then let’s combine the two companies, David,’ Emma said. ‘I’m all for it. And now is certainly the right time to do it.’

‘There are a number of details to be worked out, Emma. But before we get into those I would like you to know my personal feelings about the proposed idea,’ David said. ‘If you’re agreeable, I think we ought to purchase Dad’s business outright, for a fair price that would give him a decent profit. After all, he has devoted years to building it up. We would make him a director of the parent company and pay him director’s fees. I also think he ought to share in the profits, as we do. In addition, he would receive a salary for running his factory. How do you feel about these terms, Emma?’

‘I’m in accordance with you, David. Your father should have something to show for all the years he’s been in business. Why don’t the two of you settle on an equitable price. Whatever you decide will be acceptable to me, I’m quite certain.’ She laughed and shook her head, giving David a fond look. ‘I can’t imagine why you thought I would object. This is basically your business, David. You run it and you’re the majority shareholder.’

‘You pull your weight and you are my partner.’ He smiled, looking relieved. ‘Good. Dad and I will thrash it out. You and I can go over the final details later. Then I’ll talk to Frederick Ainsley and have him draw up the agreements in a week or so.’

‘That’s perfect,’ Emma said. She shifted in her chair and gave her attention to Abraham, asking him questions about his government contracts, his cloth supplies, his work force, and his output. Whilst they were engaged in this protracted conversation, David sat back, regarding Emma with intensity.

Winter sun was pouring in through the windows, bathing her in its bright light. She really has that special kind of English beauty that looks its best in the daytime, David thought. That inimitable beauty that Gainsborough and Romney immortalized. And yet curiously Emma was unaware that she was a great beauty. Certainly she was devoid of personal vanity and that was also part of her charm. She was so fresh and radiant and filled with a vitality that was almost sensual in nature. No wonder she is irresistible to all men of all ages, David reflected. Funny, but she was not conscious of this either.

‘Don’t you agree, David?’

Startled, David sat up abruptly. ‘Sorry, I was wool gathering.’

‘I said I thought we ought to take over immediately. By consolidating our work forces we could probably increase production and operate both places even more efficiently. Your father is willing.’

‘That’s an excellent thought! I’ll have Victor move in there tomorrow.’ He looked at his father. ‘Is that all right with you, Dad?’

‘I shall be glad to have him back,’ Abraham said. ‘It will put my mind to rest, and your mother’s.’

Emma stood up. The men also rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should be going,’ she said. ‘I promised Edwina I would be home early today, to help her dress the Christmas tree. She has been looking forward to it. I don’t want to disappoint her.’

‘No, you must not do that,’ Abraham said. ‘It is wrong to break a promise to a child.’ He gave David a pointed stare. ‘Which you so often do to my grandsons,’ he said, sighing heavily.

‘But only because of the business, Dad,’ David rejoined defensively.

‘Ah, yes. The business. Always the business. Well, you be off, Emma. Give my best to Joe.’

‘And mine to Mrs Kallinski. Tell her I’ll stop by soon.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ David said, helping Emma into her coat and taking her arm possessively.

The Christmas tree was just the right size, Emma decided. She had purposely chosen this particular tree, even though grander specimens were available, in order to avoid ostentatious display, which she felt would be inappropriate in wartime. The housekeeper had potted it the previous evening, and now it reposed on a skirted table in a corner of the drawing room, next to the fireplace. Emma stepped back, her head on one side, viewing it with a critical eye. It was a healthy young fir, a rich dark green, and its branches were thick and luxuriant.

‘Hello, Emma. You’re home early.’

Emma swung around as Joe entered the drawing room and strode to the fire, rubbing his hands together.

‘Hello, Joe. Yes, I promised Edwina I would help her to dress the tree.’

‘Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten.’

Continuing to unwrap the decorations, Emma told him about her meeting with the Kallinskis. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea to join forces, don’t you?’ she finished, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Joe was frowning. ‘I’m not so sure. Won’t it mean a lot of extra work and worry for you?’

‘Why me? David bears the brunt of that business.’

‘It strikes me you both have enough on your plates as it is. Particularly you.’ Joe sounded grouchy, and as always he was opposed to innovation.

‘Don’t be so negative, Joe. I don’t understand you sometimes,’ Emma said quietly. ‘And anyway, there’s Mr Kallinski to think about. He’s not been well lately. The merger is the best solution for him.’

‘The old man could have sold his business to someone else,’ Joe suggested.

‘Yes, he could. But why should he? It was only natural that he would come to David,’ Emma explained. ‘Besides, Abraham Kallinski has always been good to me. I’m delighted to make his life a little easier.’

‘I’m only thinking of you, Emma. However, if you believe it’s such a wonderful idea, who am I to criticize? You and David always do what you want with the factory anyhow.’

‘We always tell you our plans,’ she countered swiftly, detecting that disgruntled tone in his voice.

‘Yes, I know. After the fact.’

‘Oh, Joe, please don’t be sour. It’s almost Christmas. Let’s not bicker now!’

‘Bicker! Who’s bickering!’ Joe retorted. ‘Really, Emma, I can’t open my mouth without you accusing me of-’ He stopped short and his voice changed, became tender, as he said, ‘Hello, sweetheart. Come in. Don’t stand there.’

Emma turned around. Edwina was hovering in the doorway. She skipped across the floor. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ she cried, flinging herself at Joe. He picked her up and swung her around. Her blue velvet dress billowed out and her waist-length hair, of a blonde so pale it was almost silver, flew out behind her, gleaming in the lamplight. She laughed delightedly and after a few more whirls Joe put her down on the floor, holding her arms to steady her.

‘You’re not dizzy, are you, angel?’

‘No, Daddy.’ She smiled up at him, her exquisite little face dimpling prettily.

‘Well, there you are, darling,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve unpacked all the ornaments and we can start.’

‘Hello, Mother,’ Edwina said without looking at Emma. She grabbed Joe’s hand. ‘Daddy, will you help me to dress the tree. Please. Please. Oh, do say yes, Daddy.’ She fixed her luminous silvery eyes on him appealingly.

Joe laughed and patted her head. ‘Of course I will, love.’ Edwina dragged him to the tree. She climbed on to the stool Emma had placed next to the table, still clutching Joe’s arm.

Emma was holding a silver bell in her hand. ‘Where shall I put this, dear?’ she asked, smiling at her nine-year-old daughter.

Edwina made no response. She looked up at Joe and flashed him a radiant smile. ‘Where do you think it should hang, Daddy?’

‘Well, I’m not such an expert at these things. Perhaps here.’ He indicated a branch.

‘May I have the bell please, Mother.’

Emma handed it to her silently. Edwina immediately gave the bell to Joe. ‘You put the bell on the tree, Daddy. Anywhere you want. I think you should be first.’

This little ritual continued for several minutes. Whenever Emma picked up an ornament and suggested a spot for it, Edwina took it from her quickly, ignoring her suggestions, deferring always to Joe. Stunned, Emma stepped away from the tree uncertainly, acutely aware of the slight. She was the interloper, and unwanted. She retreated to the fireplace, watching them laughing happily together. She experienced a small stab of dismay and pushed it away quickly. She should not be envious of their relationship. She should be happy they were so adoring of each other.

Joe and Edwina were so engrossed with each other and the tree they did not notice Emma glide quietly out of the room. She closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it. She swallowed hard, conscious of the prick of tears behind her eyes, the ache in her throat. After a moment she was in control of herself and her step was firm as she walked across the marble-floored hall. She took her coat from the closet, picked up the two baskets standing on the floor, and slipped out of the house quickly.

It was a cold night, dark and without a moon, and snow was falling in light flurries. Fortunately the lamps on the iron gates of each house were burning, and their dim glow lighted her way as she turned up the flagged walk that fronted the mansions in the Towers. The snow was beginning to settle. It would be a white Christmas after all, just as Edwina had so fervently wished. Emma bit her lip. Christmas had suddenly lost its appeal for her. She reflected on Edwina’s snubs, filled with regret, her mind fogged by the hurt she was still experiencing.

A few seconds later Emma was pushing open the gate of the last mansion in the row, where the O’Neills lived. Blackie had bought it in 1913, two years after his marriage to Laura. If it was not the fine Georgian edifice he had talked about building years before, it was rather imposing, and he had made many grand improvements.

The little Irish maid greeted her cheerfully. She took Emma’s coat and scarf along with the baskets, inquiring politely after her health. Emma was just about to ask her where Mrs O’Neill was when Blackie appeared at the top of the red-carpeted staircase.

At twenty-nine Blackie O’Neill was a commanding figure and the years had treated him generously. He and his Uncle Pat had done well and the building firm had grown into one of the largest in Leeds. Success sat well on him. Not yet the millionaire he had bragged of becoming, he was, however, a rich man and he had certainly turned himself into the ‘toff’ he had always yearned to be. He dressed elegantly and expensively. After his marriage to Laura she had tactfully persuaded him to curb his predilection for flashy ties, colourful brocade waistcoats, and gaudy jewellery. Most of his rough edges had been smoothed away and he was even sophisticated to a degree. His thick Irish brogue had all but disappeared, except for an almost indiscernible lilting burr. Laura had had a refining and gentling influence on him, yet without destroying his natural ebullience. And there was still quite a lot of the actor in him, a trait he had discovered was an asset in business.

He waved to Emma and ran lightly down the stairs, his face merry. ‘Emma, me love. You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he cried, sweeping her into his arms so forcefully her feet left the floor. He swung her around, planted her firmly in front of him, and, as was his way, tilted her chin and looked down at her. ‘And what kind of a face is this to be making? You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence.’

Emma laughed in spite of herself, as always infected by Blackie’s good humour. ‘I’m all right, Blackie. Just a bit under the weather, that’s all.’

‘You under the weather! That’s hard for me to believe.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Are you sure nothing is upsetting you?’ he asked, his eyes surveying her perceptively.

‘No, truly not. Where’s Laura?’

‘In the parlour waiting for you.’ He hurried her across the hall. ‘She thought you might drop in.’

Laura was sitting by the fire knitting a khaki scarf and she threw it down and flew to Emma, embracing her lovingly. ‘Emma, darling. I hoped you would have time to visit us tonight. Do you realize it’s been almost a whole week!’

The dismal look on Emma’s face lifted at the sight of her dearest friend. ‘I know. I’ve really been up to my neck.’ She smiled. ‘I brought you the things you wanted from the store. For the Sunday-school Christmas party. The maid took them. Incidentally, I put in a few extra things I’m sure you can use for the needy children.’

‘Oh, Emma, you’re so good. Thank you.’ Laura linked her arm through Emma’s and they walked back to the fireplace chatting.

‘I can see when a fellow’s not wanted,’ Blackie teased. ‘I’ll be leaving the two of you to your female gossipings. But make it brief, me darlin’s. I’ll be back shortly to have a Christmas drink with you.’

Sitting in the charmingly decorated parlour, listening to Laura’s light tinkling voice, Emma discovered that her tension was beginning to slip away. Emma knew these feelings of warmth and ease now enveloping her did not come from the heat of the roaring fire, but from Laura’s comforting presence. This gentle woman, so dear to her heart, always managed to soothe her. Laura was talking about the party she had arranged for the children who attended her Sunday-school classes and as Emma listened she observed her friend with mounting pleasure. Laura looked remarkably lovely this night. Since her last miscarriage, two years ago, she had completely regained her strength and was blooming and full of life. In her dark blue dress, with her honey-blonde hair bound in a chignon to reveal that calm and tender face, Emma thought she looked more Madonna-like than ever. Laura was happy with Blackie, and the only thing that marred her joy was her disappointment that she had not given him a child.

‘The party seems to have taken up most of my time these past few weeks,’ Laura explained. ‘Blackie found me a beautiful tree for the church hall. I’m going to decorate it tomorrow.’

Emma stiffened and she knew her face was tightening.

Laura looked up from her knitting. She stopped, staring at Emma. ‘Goodness, darling, you look awful. Whatever’s the matter?’

Emma shook her head. ‘Nothing. Really,’ she managed, and glanced quickly at her hands.

‘Yes, there is. I know you too well. Please, dear, if you are fretting about something, do confide in me. It might help.’

Emma cleared her throat. ‘Well, Edwina was so cutting with me tonight. It really upset me.’ Taking a deep breath, Emma recounted the incident with the Christmas tree.

Laura frowned and then said, ‘Girls always gravitate to their fathers, Emma. You know that. It’s nothing unusual. She’ll grow out of it. I’m sure it’s just a stage she’s going through.’

‘She’s always seemed to prefer Joe to me,’ Emma countered softly. ‘Not that I mind. I’m happy they’re so devoted. It’s these occasional displays of coldness which disturb me. I do try so hard to win her affection.’

‘I know you do.’ Laura sighed and reached out, squeezing Emma’s arm. ‘Children can be so unkind. They don’t mean to be cruel. They’re simply thoughtless, that’s all.’

‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’

‘And she is a very good child, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, almost too good in a sense. I’ve often thought that Edwina was born an adult.’ Emma pondered, and continued, ‘Sometimes I feel Edwina lives within herself, Laura. She can be very distant. And she always has a faraway look in her eyes.’

Laura laughed, trying to dispel Emma’s obvious anxiety. ‘Oh, darling, that’s only natural. Girls are always daydreaming.’

‘I suppose so,’ Emma said, wanting to believe this.

‘As for being distant, I think she’s simply rather reserved by nature. Why, Blackie was saying the other day-’

‘What was I saying?’ Blackie boomed from the doorway, strolling into the room. He hovered over Laura and Emma, puffing on a cigar.

‘I was about to tell Emma that you think Edwina is refined and quite the little lady with charming manners,’ Laura told him.

‘She is that. And a beauty!’ He turned away, moving to the sideboard. ‘What can I offer you, ladies?’ he asked gaily, pouring himself an Irish whiskey.

‘What would you like, Emma? Please do have a little something for once,’ Laura urged gently.

‘I believe I will!’ Emma laughed. ‘I think I need a drink tonight. I’ll have a sherry, Blackie. Thank you.’

‘And the same for you, Laura, me darlin’, I presume.’

‘Yes, please, Blackie. But only a small one.’

‘A Merry Christmas to my best-loved ladies,’ Blackie said with his typical show of exaggerated gallantry, lifting his glass.

‘Merry Christmas,’ they said in unison, and Emma added tartly but in a teasing tone, ‘I should hope we are your best-loved ladies. We’d be very angry if there were any others.’

Blackie grinned. ‘Laura tells me we are joining you on Christmas Day. I’m looking forward to it. We must make the most of this one and have a bit of festivity.’

They both stared at him. ‘What do you mean by that, Blackie?’ Laura asked.

‘Oh, nothing, love,’ he responded smoothly, regretting the remark.

‘Blackie, please don’t hedge. Answer me, dear. Do you know something-something about the war that we don’t know?’ Laura persisted.

‘Not at all, at all,’ he said, reverting to a thick brogue. ‘Come along, no talk of the war tonight, darlin’.’ He joined Laura on the sofa and took her hand in his. Glancing carefully at Emma, he said, ‘I hear Thompson’s mill is in a bad way. Producing poor cloth and falling down on their government orders as well.’

‘So I believe,’ Emma said dispassionately. Her face was inscrutable and she adroitly changed the subject.

The New Year brought more disastrous news for Britain and her allies. Men were dying in thousands in the trenches, and the overall losses were so monumental the world was horror-struck. On January 4, 1916, Prime Minister Henry Asquith stood up on the floor of the House of Commons and introduced a bill for the compulsory military service of all single men deemed fit for enlistment in the army. The bill met enormous opposition, especially from the diehards and defenders of the old voluntary system of military duty. But on Monday, January 24, the bill passed its third reading by a majority of 347 votes, the opposition having fallen to a mere 36. And so the first Compulsory Service Act came into force on March 2.

Although this measure at first applied only to single men, Emma began to experience a feeling of rising alarm as the days passed. She read the newspapers carefully, analysing the developments in the war, aware that more soldiers were needed, and on a continuing daily basis, because of the toll of Britain’s manhood. And she recognized that it was only a question of weeks before married men were called. And she was right.

Reading The Times one morning at the beginning of May, she saw that her fears were indeed becoming realities. She quickly scanned the story which reported that the Prime Minister had asked leave to introduce into the House a new Military Service Bill.

‘Joe, I think married men are going to be forced to enlist,’ she said quietly.

He looked at her across the breakfast table, his eyes grave. ‘It was bound to come, Emma. Kitchener’s been shouting for more men for weeks.’

Emma nodded. ‘The new bill lays down the rule that every male British subject between eighteen and forty years of age is to be deemed duly enlisted in the regular forces for general service, unless he’s exempt for some reason.’ She proffered him a weak smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’re exempt, are you?’

‘No, love, I’m not.’

A few days later she read with gloomy resignation that although the House divided on the bill, the majority of Members were in favour. Finally, on May 27, the new Military Service Act received royal assent.

That evening Emma sat in the drawing room with Frank, who was staying with them again, discussing the news. ‘What exactly does that mean-royal assent?’ she asked.

‘It means that in the great crisis of its destiny the British nation has reverted to the method of Norman and Saxon times, when the King had the right to take in men, ships, and every available chattel in his dominion for the purpose of defending the nation,’ Frank told her solemnly.

She understood. But understanding did not necessarily ease her troubled thoughts.

Emma, having previously always complained, and in the most vociferous voice, of the procrastination and red tape of bureaucracy, now cursed its deadly efficiency. The three men most prominent in her life went with the hordes. First David, with the infantry, and then Joe and Blackie, who left together. At the end of May they had both joined the Seaforth Highlanders, her father’s old regiment, and one that was particularly favoured by Yorkshiremen.

‘Except that I’m not a Yorkshireman,’ Blackie had declared. ‘An Irishman living in England, married to a Sassenach, lapsed from the Church, serving in a Scottish regiment and wearing a skirt to boot. Unique, eh?’ Laura and Emma had joined in his laughter but their hearts were heavy.

Joe and Blackie had been immediately dispatched to Ripon for field training. This picturesque and ancient garrison town was a place of old memories for Emma. Two weeks later they came home on leave for twenty-four hours, en route to Tilbury for embarkation to France. On a damp June morning Emma accompanied them to the railway station. Laura, who was now pregnant, begged to go along, but Blackie was adamant.

‘Not in your condition, darlin’,’ he said gently, stroking her hair. ‘I don’t want you getting distraught and upsetting yourself and the baby.’

At the last minute Blackie almost had to forcibly restrain Laura, who clung to his arm fiercely, endeavouring to hold back the tears without success. But her strained white face was filled with immense courage as they took their leave of her. She stood at the window, a pale image against the glass, waving to the three of them as they walked down the garden path and disappeared from view.

It was a silent journey into Leeds. Emma was staggered when they arrived at City Station. Crowds of troops, from many other regiments as well as the Seaforth Highlanders, were filing through the gates. The gloomy grime-coated platforms were jammed with hundreds more, and women and girls of all ages and classes, wives and mothers and sweethearts saying farewell to their men. Blackie took their kit bags on to the train and Emma and Joe stood on the platform holding hands.

‘You’ll be fine, love,’ Joe said, tightening his grip on her fingers. ‘Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself and the children.’

Emma bit her lip, striving for composure. Joe had been surprisingly tender and considerate over the past few months, obviously realizing the time for separation was drawing near, and they had become much closer in many ways. ‘It’s you who must take care, Joe,’ she said softly.

Blackie rejoined them after a few seconds. Emma reached for his hand, pulling him to her. ‘And you, too, Blackie.’ She attempted to laugh. ‘Don’t either of you get into any scrapes-’ She stopped, her lips shaking.

Joe lifted her face to his gently. ‘Now, where’s that famous smile of yours, love?’

‘I’m sorry.’

The whistles began to hoot and clouds of steam and smoke enveloped them as the trains revved up to roll on their journey south. Blackie put his arm around her. ‘Goodbye, mavourneen. Stay well and look after me darlin’ Laura for me. See she takes it easy and don’t let her fret.’ He kissed her cheek, his eyes wet.

Emma swallowed, looking up at Blackie. ‘I will. I promise I won’t let anything happen to her or the baby.’

Blackie leaped on to the train steps and stood hanging on to the bar, turning away to give them a moment of privacy.

Joe took Emma in his arms. ‘You’ve been the best wife, sweetheart.’ Seeing the look of fear cross her face, he added hastily, ‘And that’s why you can be damned sure I’m coming back to you!’

‘I know you will, love. And you’ve been a good husband, Joe. Be careful over there.’

He nodded, choked and unable to reply. He kissed her again and she felt his tears mingling with her own on her cheeks. Joe released her abruptly and sprang on to the steps to join Blackie. The wheels started to grind with a high-pitched screech against the rails and the train began to pull out. It was moving so slowly Emma was able to walk alongside it, holding on to Joe’s hand.

Unexpectedly a lone soldier’s voice rang out, sweet yet melancholy. ‘Keep the home fires burning, though your hearts are yearning…’ Another voice joined in and another and another, until the immense station hall reverberated with the song as troops in other trains and many of the women picked up the refrain, and Blackie’s baritone rose above them all, as rich and magnificent as always.

The train gathered speed. Joe dropped Emma’s hand and she halted on the spot, waving to them. And her luminous valedictory smile was courageous despite her moist eyes. She watched the train until it was lost from sight and then she turned and left, jostled by the crowds, blinded by tears and wondering despairingly if she would ever see either of them again.

FORTY-ONE

They marched through a curtain of shrapnel, ankle-deep in mud, their kilts swinging in the breeze, the skirl of the bagpipes a mournful dirge below the roar of the cannonade. The tornado blasts from the British guns now rose to a fearful and deafening crescendo and the pipes ceased abruptly.

Behind this moving barrage of gunfire came the 51st Division of the Seaforth Highlanders. They had slowly advanced from the Somme Canal, tramping across the sodden and bloody fields ripped apart by shelling, cut deep with trenches and intersected with wire entanglements. Hardecourt was behind them. To the right, Combles and Guillemont. To the left, Mametz. Ahead, Bazentin and Longueval. And the bull’s-eye centre of this triangle composed of the six towns was Trônes Wood-their objective.

General von Arnim was entrenched in that wood. Having suffered heavy defeats in Mametz he had tried to redress his losses on his left by a furious drive to his right into Trônes Wood. The wood stretched across a narrow valley along which a stream ran to Fricourt, and the Germans had two railway lines running through it, connecting it with Guillemont and Combles. Trenches extended across the centre of the wood and down the northern and southern sides; wire entanglements reinforced by machine guns protected the western edge against assault. In essence, it was a long, wide wedge of ground, 1,400 yards from north to south, and 400 yards along its base, driven against the enemy’s second line at Guillemont and Longueval.

The British had already moved into the wood and the Lancashires had gained a partial grip on this dense green tract. But there was a terrible disadvantage to this new British salient. It was covered on all sides by German infantry. General von Arnim was exerting all his available strength in men and shell to hold and cut off this long strip of woodland. Four times the British had advanced further and been repulsed by von Arnim, who was spending his men’s lives in tens of thousands to recover the whole of Trônes Wood, a vital and strategic position in the great Somme Offensive. At night, unperturbed by his incredible losses, von Arnim flung out more divisions to repeat the enveloping assault. For the fifth time, his men utterly failed under a hurricane of shell fire from British guns west of the wood and French guns near Hardecourt. But a sixth desperate attack by the British enabled the German general to regain the greater part of the wood. Meanwhile, Sir Henry Rawlinson’s orders had come down to the British field commanders operating below the Bazentin ridges: Smash through Trônes Wood, destroy the German bulwark and press on and upward to Longueval and Bazentin.

Now on the afternoon of 13 July the wood was again swept by Allied artillery as the Seaforth Highlanders approached to reinforce the Lancashires. It was a grey day, the overcast sky fiercely illuminated by great arcs of vivid red gunfire and exploding shells, and filled with British aeroplanes strafing German observation balloons.

‘Fix bayonets!’ came the terse command.

Metal hit metal with deadly precision.

‘Forward march!’

Rifles drawn and ready, they moved ahead, in perfect step, as though they were one giant body of tartan and khaki, backs straight, eyes sharp, heads held proudly high. They were tall and strapping men, these Seaforth Highlanders, whose fierce indomitable courage and their dark green-and-navy regimental kilts had induced the enemy to name them ‘the ladies from hell’.

Into the wood they moved, stalwart and determined in their deadly purpose, seeking a terrible vengeance for their fallen comrades. The battle was atrocious in its ferocity and men were mercilessly cut down in increasing numbers on both sides. After several hours of general ploughing fire, the British guns massed in a single gigantic machine-like effect, tearing up the ground, hurtling mud and rocks, trees and men wantonly into the air. But this massive effort, as terrible and as destructive as it was, enabled the Seaforth Highlanders to drive the enemy back. The British penetrated deeper and deeper into the wooded area, now so smashed and riven apart it looked as if it had been cracked open by an earthquake.

After swaying, hand-to-hand fighting of the most relentless kind, a group of the Seaforths won a small but satisfying victory when they managed to capture the upper portion of the wood. A young captain, who was the only senior officer in the group, set up temporary battalion headquarters with a couple of lieutenants and instructed the men to seek cover in the trenches running on the southern edge of the forest. Their orders: Holdfast to the last man.

Blackie O’Neill wearily wiped the mud from his face and glanced around swiftly at the men in his trench, his bloodshot eyes seeking out Joe Lowther. He was not amongst the handful crowded together and Blackie wondered, with numbing dread and the most awful sinking feeling, if he was alive or dead? Had Joe made it to this sector? Or was he out there with the other corpses? Blackie crushed down on this fearful thought, refusing to contemplate such a chilling idea. Perhaps Joe was with the rest of the regiment who had been thrown back with the Lancashires. He prayed to God he was.

Spotting a particular pal, a Yorkshireman called Harry Metcalfe, Blackie edged down past the other men to join him, his boots sinking into the slime which squelched and sucked around his calves and seeped through his gaiters. His nose curled with distaste. The mire had a peculiar putrid smell of its own and intermingled with it was the gagging stench of urine, vomit and excrement, strong reminders of the previous occupants.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! There’s so much bleeding mud we’re going to drown in it before we get out of here,’ Blackie said when he reached Harry.

‘Aye, there’s summat to that, lad.’

‘Have you seen Joe Lowther? We got separated out there.’

‘Last I saw of him he was going arse over tit into a trench back yonder. He’s safe, mate.’

‘Thank God for that. I thought he’d bought it.’

‘No, he didn’t, but a lot of our lads did. I saw MacDonald and Clarke both go down like ninepins. Poor bloody sods. Mac got blown to smithereens by a shell and Clarkey was shot in the face and chest. Mashed to a pulp he was.’

‘Oh sweet Jesus! Clarkey has a young wife and couple of bairns back home. Just babies.’ Blackie’s eyes closed, his face grim. ‘Oh God! This lousy rotten war! This stinking filthy lousy rotten war!’

‘Here, take it easy, Irish,’ Harry said, throwing him a sympathetic look.

Blackie leaned back against the wall of the trench, resting his head against a sandbag. He was suddenly drained of all strength and filled with a rising nausea caused by the feculent trench, the stink of smoke and explosives polluting the air, and the gamy effluvium of the men. All were fouling his nostrils. The pounding of the cannons still reverberated in his ears and for a moment a dizziness enveloped him.

‘You badly, Blackie lad?’

‘No, just catching me breath,’ Blackie said, opening his eyes. He looked more closely at Harry. His khaki jacket was covered in blood. ‘How about you? You didn’t get hit, did you, Harry?’

‘No, not me. I’m just caked with this pissing mud. And a Jerry’s guts.’ Harry glanced down at the khaki apron covering his kilt, which all Highland troops were issued with for battle, and made a face. ‘And when this muck hardens I’ll be as stiff as a board. You too, by the looks of you, me old cock.’

‘Don’t tempt providence,’ Blackie protested, his Celtic hackles rising. And then he laughed, grimly amused by his ridiculous comment. Here they were, engaged in violent warfare, their lives on the line, and he was being superstitious.

Harry gave him a lopsided grin. ‘Got a fag-end, mate?’

‘Sure an’ I do, Harry.’ Blackie fumbled for his cigarettes and they each lit one.

‘It’s no bloody wonder our lads call this Hell Hole Wood. It was a sodding inferno out there. We’ve had a lucky escape, Irish. Aye, we have that.’ Harry pushed back his helmet and rubbed his muddy face with his equally muddy hands. ‘I’ll tell you this, Blackie, I never thought I’d be hankering to get back to Huddersfield to me nagging old woman, but by bleeding hell I wish I was there right at this minute, listening to her nag. And supping a nice warm pint of bitter. I do that. She suddenly seems like Lady Godiva to me-and with bells on!’

Blackie grinned but said nothing. He was thinking of his own sweet Laura. He closed his eyes, drawing on the soothing memory of her loveliness, of her shining immaculate face, to obliterate the visions of death and bloodshed that engulfed his mind.

‘Here, mate, don’t start copping forty winks!’ Harry nudged Blackie in the ribs. ‘Got to keep our bleeding wits about us, you knows, at a time like this. We ain’t on a flaming day trip to Blackpool, lad.’

Blackie blinked, straightened up to his full height and drew on his cigarette. He and Harry exchanged full and knowing glances and hunched further together, settling in to wait. They did not know what was in store for them or what their inevitable fate would be, and neither of them dwelt on it. For the moment they were relieved to have this small respite from the horrendous fighting. Splattered with slime and blood, their faces ringed with fatigue, their bodies exhausted from the raging battle they had endured, they looked like a couple of defeated, battle-scarred veterans with no fighting spirit left. But this was not the case. Their courage was boundless and their stamina illimitable.

Suddenly Harry grabbed Blackie’s arm. ‘Do you notice summat right bleeding queer, Irish?’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘The sodding guns have stopped, Blackie.’

‘Christ, you’re right, Harry.’

They stared at each other, and to Blackie and Harry the overwhelming silence was so stunning it seemed more sinister and deadly than the tumult.

‘The lull before the next storm?’ Blackie suggested, his eyebrows puckering together in a jagged line.

‘No,’ Harry muttered, shaking his head. ‘It’ll be dark soon. The Jerries won’t waste shells trying to hit what they can’t see. You knows what I mean, mate?’

‘Sure an’ I do.’

Darkness was beginning to fall quickly. Blackie turned and peered over the top of the trench, scanning the landscape. In the dim twilight he saw a half-bent figure running towards their trench. He reacted instantly, reached for his rifle. ‘Stand to!’ he bellowed. All of the men in the trench scrambled for their guns, immediately alert and ready to defend themselves.

‘That you, O’Neill?’

Blackie’s tensed muscles relaxed as he recognized the voice. ‘Yes, lieutenant, it’s me,’ he said, staring out into the greying dusk.

‘Good lad.’ The lieutenant leaned into the trench, his eyes swiftly scanning the men, his face grave. ‘Now listen, boys. A piece of bad news. We’ve been cut off from the rest of our chaps. We’re alone up here. About a hundred of us. The captain’s orders are simple. We’re to bloody well hold this bit of forest, come hell or high water. So dig in, lads. Keep your eyes and ears open, and set up a watch. At once.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Blackie said. ‘Do you think they’ll attack in the dark?’

‘No way of knowing, laddie. But we’ve got some Lewis guns and plenty of grenades. We’ll have to manage the best way we can.’

‘Lieutenant, I’d like to join me mate, Joe Lowther. Metcalfe here says he saw him make it into one of the rear trenches,’ Blackie said.

‘Right, O’Neill. But make it snappy. And pass the news on to the lads holed up back there.’ The lieutenant disappeared into the gloom.

‘Mind if I come with you, Irish?’

‘No, I don’t, Harry. But let’s skedaddle,’ Blackie replied, clambering up and out over the sandbags.

Blackie and Harry made it to the far trench without incident. ‘It’s O’Neill, Seaforth Highlanders,’ Blackie cried in a low voice as rifles appeared menacingly over the edge.

‘Jump in, lads, before you get your friggin’ heads blown off by one of me trigger-happy mates,’ a gruff voice called back.

Blackie and Harry leaped simultaneously, mud flying as they landed with some force. They struggled up to be greeted by a chorus of highly-descriptive but friendly-voiced curses from the men they had just covered in mire. Cigarettes glowed in the darkness, and Blackie squinted at those tired, drawn and grimy faces, hoping to find Joe’s amongst them. ‘Anybody seen Joe Lowther?’ he asked.

‘Aye, he’s down at the other end,’ a voice responded.

Blackie came across Joe sitting smoking nonchalantly, his helmet pushed back, his rifle across his knee, a photograph of Emma in his hand.

‘All the comforts of home, I see,’ Blackie exclaimed, grabbing Joe’s shoulder and punching it with affection.

A look of relief spread across Joe’s face. He slipped the photograph back into his tunic pocket, then his hand encircled Blackie’s arm tightly. ‘Christ, Blackie, have I been worried about you! No damage done, I hope.’

‘No. And I can see you’re in bloomin’ bloody health. And what the hell are you sitting on?’

Joe grinned. ‘Cases of corned beef!’ He began to laugh at the expression on Blackie’s face. ‘We found a dugout over there, filled with supplies. The Lancashires were holed up there for a week or so, and they left a load of stuff behind when they retreated. We’re lucky it wasn’t blown to bits. We don’t have time to eat the flaming stuff, but at least we can sit on it. Keep our arses dry, courtesy of Fray Bentos.’ Joe edged over to make room for Blackie.

Harry ploughed up to them. ‘By bloody hell, some of us have it right cushy,’ he remarked, staring at the cases. Another soldier laughed and offered to share his makeshift seat with Harry.

Blackie passed the word down that they were cut off, and repeated the captain’s orders. The dozen men in the trench drew around him and Blackie said, ‘We’ll set up a watch now. One man at each end and two on the look-out on both sides. We’ll keep relieving each other every hour. I’ll take this end for a start. The rest of you relax while you can. And you lads on guard better keep your bleeding eyes peeled,’ he ordered in a firm voice. The men scattered to their posts.

Blackie had only been on watch duty for half an hour when he thought he discerned movement at the edge of a clump of saplings not felled in the onslaught. He narrowed his eyes, straining to see in the gloom, instinctively raising his rifle, every one of his reflexes coming into play. A formation of dark clouds obscuring the moon drifted away from its silvery surface and the dark sky was instantly filled with brilliant light.

‘Holy Mother of Jesus!’ Blackie exclaimed quietly.

Joe heard him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, jumping up.

‘Look! Over there! Do you see what I see?’

Joe stiffened. ‘Holy Christ.’

‘Over the top, boys!’ Blackie screamed. ‘The bleeding German infantry’s right up our backsides!’

Men were scrambling out of the other trenches and milling around on the muddy ground which had been levelled by the shelling. And all eyes were riveted on the grey column advancing. Each man fixed his bayonet automatically. The captain was hastily drawing up formations, and even orderlies and signallers were instructed to arm themselves with rifles and grenades.

Again, it was hand-to-hand fighting of the most bloody kind. Rushing forward into the fray, Blackie prayed silently: Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. His face was harshly set and frightening in its terrible ferocity. He killed and killed and went on killing, his rifle spewing forth bullets, his bayonet slashing until it dripped with the blood of the enemy as though it were some horrible living organ. He did not know how many men he killed and he no longer cared. All he knew was that it was his life or a German’s, and he was going to live. And in the end he simply stopped thinking and charged.

After two hours, the enemy unexpectedly fell back, retreating for cover in the lower part of the wood, and the Seaforths crawled into the trenches, weary but unvanquished. Blackie had lost sight of Joe and Harry during the horrifying slaughter and there was no way of finding them now. He prayed, with all the fervency of his heart and soul, that his friends were safe.

For the next twenty-four hours the Germans attacked this little band of brave men-heroes all. They tried to rush the Lewis gun positions by bombings delivered under the fire of massed machineguns; they attempted to creep from shell-hole to shell-hole in the darkness, hoping to wear out the Seaforth Highlanders by lobbing grenades at them. But the captain had arranged such lines of fire with his Lewis guns and rifles that each attack was repulsed.

The Seaforth Highlanders went through indescribable strain during these skirmishes, which lasted all night and were in full force when dawn broke. And worse was yet to come. By noon of the next day, Sir Henry Rawlinson was pouring every ounce of power he had on Trônes Wood, believing it had been totally lost and that the British troops holding it had all been struck down. His bombardment was one of unparalleled intensity, for the general was planning to storm the enemy’s Bazentin line.

Although much of this heavy bombardment fell on the Seaforth Highlanders, they grimly endured the pounding they were taking, realizing that it was an absolute necessity. It also had its useful side, since it served to interfere with the enemy’s movements and crippled their infantry attacks.

At one point, the Germans parleyed and asked the British to surrender to avoid total annihilation. But those fearless Seaforth Highlanders refused, and dug in with relentless determination to hold this part of the wood. The Germans, recognizing their stubbornness and indomitability, began to place more field guns in position, readying themselves for another raid.

At the same time, Rawlinson’s guns thundered on without cease, and Trônes Wood was slowly but decisively conquered in a brilliant infantry operation, conducted under the double crashing of shell from British and German artillery. It was a pulverizing action stupendous in its magnitude.

And through this awesome hurricane of fire tramped the Sussex and other English county regiments intent on finally destroying the enemy and capturing this strategic zone.

‘Hello, lads,’ went up the unanimous cry from the glorious Seaforth Highlanders as they were rescued and hobbled out of the trenches to embrace their fellow countrymen, each one of them grinning from ear to ear.

The ground was ripped asunder and stained with the blood of men from both sides. British and German troops lay dead or dying on the crippled earth and in the shell-shocked trenches. The carnage all around them was so terrible it brought tears to the eyes of many of the tommies.

Red Cross ambulances rumbled in and medical officers leaped out, hastening to the wounded. The doctors tried to ease their suffering as best they could in conditions so appalling to behold that one young doctor turned away, vomiting at the sight of such needless butchery. And the dead were slowly carried off and laid at the far end of the wood.

Blackie, dripping with sweat, filthy and blood-stained, his uniform ripped at the shoulder, his helmet dangling around his neck, began his search for Joe and Harry.

A Seaforth Highlander, thrown against a tree like a crumpled rag doll, a jagged wound ripping open his chest, was obviously in the throes of dying. ‘Help me, for God’s sake, help me,’ he moaned through parched lips.

Blackie knelt down and took him in his arms. The boy tried to speak again. ‘Don’t talk,’ Blackie murmured, cradling him like a baby, his eyes urgently seeking a medical officer to no avail.

The boy sighed deeply and shuddered and went limp in his arms. Blackie looked down at him. He was dead, his eyes wide and staring. Blackie closed the lids, gazing at that young face, so tender, so innocent in death. No more than nineteen, Blackie thought, and tears of compassion and hopeless anger dimmed his vision. Blackie released the dead boy and with great gentleness laid him down under the tree, the only one standing for miles.

Filled with a searing pain that seemed to split his chest in half, Blackie flung himself onto a patch of grass miraculously not torn up by the shelling. He pressed his face into the earth and closed his eyes. The last two days had passed in a haze of blood and killing and pain. He knew he would never forget the screams of the men as they were mowed down with such relentless efficiency, or ever cleanse himself of the stench that clung to his body like another skin. It was compounded of every kind of foul thing on this earth.

How will it end? he asked himself, this war of senseless murder and destruction precipitated by evil men seeking dominion over the world and the enslavement of mankind to satisfy their own greed for power. He did not know the answer. His mind reeled with furious rage, indignation and despair; his sorrow over-whelmed him. He pressed his face deeper into the grass and felt the cool clean sensation of the dew against his skin. And he did not know that the grass was dry or realize that his face was wet with his own tears.

Reality in the shape of a strong arm on his shoulder roused Blackie. He lifted his head. Harry was standing over him. ‘Come on, me old cock. We’re not at a bleeding Sunday school picnic,’ Harry joked. He pulled Blackie to his feet.

‘Have you seen Joe?’

Harry shook his head and a dismal look wiped the cheery grin off his face. ‘No, I haven’t, lad. And I wouldn’t know where to begin to look, not in this bloody mess I wouldn’t.’

‘Help me to find him, Harry. Please,’ Blackie begged, his voice suddenly cracking.

‘Aye, I will that, lad. Don’t worry, he must be somewhere hereabouts. Come on then, mate, let’s start with that group of wounded tommies over yonder.’ Growing increasingly aware of the worried expression on Blackie’s face, Harry grinned and punched his arm. ‘Joe can’t have gone for a bloody hike, now can he!’ he asserted, endeavouring to be jocular. ‘I bet we’ll find the old cocker puffing away on a fag-end, Blackie, and looking as if he don’t have a bleeding care in the world.’

FORTY-TWO

Emma sat on the edge of Christopher’s bed, the storybook in her hand, the lamp infusing her face with roseate tints and casting an aureole of light around her head. She closed the book and smiled at her son. ‘Now, come along, Kit. It’s time to go to sleep.’

Kit’s wide-set hazel eyes regarded her steadfastly and his small round face, covered with a dusting of light freckles, was very intense for a five-year-old. ‘Please, Mummy, just one more story,’ he begged. ‘Please, Mummy. You promised to read to me a bit longer tonight and you never break a promise, do you? At least that’s what you’re always saying.’

Amused at his unsubtle brand of persuasion but unswayed by it, she laughed and rumpled his hair playfully. ‘I have read longer to you, Kit. You must go to sleep now. It’s well past your bedtime.’ She put the book on the table and, leaning forward, kissed his cheek.

His sturdy little arms went around her neck and he nuzzled closer to her. ‘You smell so nice, Mummy. Just like a flower. Like a whole bunch of flowers,’ he murmured in her ear.

Smiling, Emma drew away and smoothed back his hair. ‘Snuggle down, Kit. Good night and sweet dreams.’

‘Good night, Mummy.’

Emma turned out the light and closed the door quietly behind her. She paused at Edwina’s door, hesitating uncertainly before tapping lightly and entering. Edwina was sitting up in bed reading, her pale blonde hair tumbling in luxuriant waves around her thin shoulders visible through the light cotton nightgown. She lifted her head and focused her cool silver-grey eyes on Emma, looking as if she resented this intrusion on her privacy.

‘I just came to kiss you good night,’ Emma said carefully, crossing the floor. ‘And don’t burn the midnight oil for too long, will you, dear?’

‘No, Mother,’ Edwina said. She placed the book on one side and continued to gaze at Emma, a patient expression on her face.

Emma hovered near the bed. ‘Our little nursery dinner was fun tonight, wasn’t it?’ she gaily remarked, wishing to reinforce the rapport, tentative though it was, which had recently sprung up between them.

Edwina nodded. ‘Yes.’ The child studied her for a moment and then said, ‘When is Uncle Winston coming to stay with us, Mother?’

‘I’m not quite certain, dear. Very soon, I hope. He said in his last letter he expected to get leave imminently.’

‘I’m glad he’s coming. I like Uncle Winston,’ Edwina volunteered.

Surprised at this unexpected confidence and encouraged by it, Emma lowered herself on to the bed gingerly, always acutely conscious of Edwina’s abhorrence of close physical contact. ‘I am happy that you do, Edwina. He loves you very much and so does your Uncle Frank.’

‘Will Uncle Frank be coming, too? I mean, when Uncle Winston gets his leave?’

‘Yes, that was the plan, Edwina. We’ll have some jolly evenings together. We’ll play charades and have singsongs. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, it will be nice.’ Edwina proffered Emma a rare smile, a deliquescent smile that softened her cold young face and brought a hint of warmth to those enormous argent eyes.

Emma, observing Edwina intently, felt her heart miss a beat. There it was again. That smile. That melting smile she remembered only too well. She dropped her eyes, aware that a flicker of fear had entered them, and nervously straightened the coverlet. ‘We’ll make plans for your Uncle Winston’s visit tomorrow,’ she said in a low voice, and stood up abruptly. Bending down, she kissed Edwina fleetingly, afraid of being repulsed, and went on, ‘Good night, darling. Sleep tight.’

‘Good night, Mother,’ Edwina responded dutifully in a stiff tone, and returned to her book without giving Emma a second glance or a second thought. Her mother, this woman whom everyone claimed was beautiful and charming and clever, hardly existed for the ten-year-old girl. Edwina lived in a world entirely of her own making and she did not permit anything or anyone to penetrate it, and the only two people she loved were Joe and her Cousin Freda in Ripon.

The child was an enigma to Emma. She ran lightly down the stairs, Edwina’s smile lingering in her mind as she entered the study. She grows to look more like her every day, Emma thought with a stab of acute discomfort. But it’s only a physical resemblance, she reassured herself, hurriedly dismissing those characteristics which were becoming more pronounced in her daughter and which disturbed her from time to time. The desk was covered with a pile of papers that needed Emma’s immediate attention and she sat down, determined to wade through them that evening. After half an hour she realized her powers of concentration had fled and she put down her pen in irritation and leaned back in the chair, wondering what ailed her. Strain? Tiredness? She had felt distracted and restless that morning, feelings unprecedented for her. But they had persisted throughout the day and she had left the store earlier than usual, conscious of needing to break loose from the fetters of her business and assailed by a desperate longing to be at home with her children.

It was the housekeeper’s day off and Emma had shooed Clara, the devoted nursemaid, out of the kitchen and prepared the dinner herself. Emma had enjoyed the simple pleasure of working with the food and using her hands instead of her brain for once, and this brief domestic sojourn had refreshed her. Later she had joined Clara and the children for their evening meal in the nursery, and she had experienced such a profound sense of serenity in their untroubled world her own cares had disappeared.

It was a lovely interlude, Emma said to herself, and vowed she would stop depriving herself of her children’s company as she had done so often lately. She was not going to allow business to interfere so relentlessly with her hours with them. This time in their lives was precious and she wanted to share it. Even Edwina was warmer in disposition and more outgoing than usual during supper, Emma reflected with genuine pleasure, and the child’s sudden declaration of her liking for Winston was quite remarkable in view of her dismaying lack of feeling for most people. It had been a revelation to Emma, and she was hopeful that it signalled a change for the better.

Emma’s drifting thoughts settled on her daughter. She’s a Fairley through and through and there’s no mistaking that. Emma had long recognized the striking likeness Edwina bore to her grandmother on the paternal side. She was a faithful reproduction-a mirror image-of Adele. Have Winston and Frank ever detected it? she wondered. They had never passed one comment. Blackie, on the other hand, was a wholly different matter. Emma suspected he had arrived at the truth years ago, although he, too, had been discreetly silent on the subject and had never displayed even the slightest hint of his suspicions, either by a knowing look or by a careless reference.

Emma thought then of Edwin Fairley. Her hatred for him remained constant, yet it had changed in nature and now sprang from her intellect and not from her heart. Consequently, it was deadlier than before, for it had objectivity and thus direction.

Even if she wanted to forget the Fairley family, Emma would have found that virtually impossible, since the Yorkshire Morning Gazette consistently reported their activities, social or otherwise. She knew a great deal about Edwin. He was a captain in the army and had been awarded the Victoria Cross ‘for bravery above and beyond the call of duty’. Bravery indeed, she thought, her lip curling with contempt. She had also seen the announcement of his son’s birth in the paper only yesterday. His wife, the Lady Jane Fairley, daughter of the Earl of Carlesmoor, had been delivered of a seven-pound boy, to be baptized Roderick Adam in honour of his two grandfathers.

But Edwin Fairley’s life was of no concern to her-at the present time. Adam and Gerald Fairley were her primary targets and for a simple reason: they controlled the Fairley mills and therefore the Fairley fortune. The family’s destiny was in their hands. Over the years Emma had come to understand that the most potent way to strike back at them was through business. She had already created immense problems for them at Thompson’s mill, because they found it practically impossible to replace the work force she had stolen. There was nothing she did not know about their holdings and the general state of their commercial affairs. Her information had been acquired with limitless patience, incalculable diligence, and in the ut-most secrecy, and she was already formulating her plans for the future.

They were exposed and vulnerable to her and they did not know it! Adam Fairley, always negligent about business, had become excessively so of late. Olivia Wainright Fairley had recently been struck down by some strange illness and he rarely, if ever, came to Yorkshire. The reins were in Gerald Fairley’s hands, and he was a bumbling fool. He was the weak link in the iron chain which she intended to dismantle and cast to one side, just as her father and her daughter and she herself had been cast aside by them. And it was mainly on Gerald Fairley that her vivid green eyes rested with virulent loathing. No woman ever expunged the terrifying memory of the man who had attempted rape on her and Emma was no exception. Yes, Gerald was the key to their downfall. All she had to do was stick out her foot and trip him and the others would come tumbling behind. There were no doubts in her mind about the final outcome. Once she had set herself a goal nothing could deter her from achieving it.

The doorbell rang, echoing through the silent house. It brought Emma up with a start and pulled her away from her contemplation of the Fairleys. She rose and went into the hall, her silk dress swishing as she moved with her usual rapidity. She opened the front door, wondering who could be calling at this hour, to be confronted by a telegraph boy.

‘Evening, missis,’ he said, deferentially touching his cap. He handed her the telegram, touched his cap again, and ran down the steps. Emma closed the door and glanced at the yellow envelope. It was undoubtedly from Winston, announcing his arrival.

Emma glided into the centre of the hall and stood under the crystal chandelier where the light was brighter and ripped it open. Her eyes travelled quickly across the top line and they widened and widened, and the smile on her face faded as she read:

‘It is with deep regret and the greatest sympathy that the War Office must inform you that your husband Private Joseph Daniel Lowther of the 1st Battalion of the Seaforth Highlanders was killed in action on July 14 in France…’

The remaining words blurred and ran together and, recoiling, Emma sat down on the hall chair with a thud, stunned and for a moment disbelieving. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, the light in her eyes dulled, her mouth trembling. Eventually she brought her reluctant gaze back to the telegram crumpled in a ball between her clenched fingers. She straightened it out and read it again. The devastating words slowly sank in and her heart plunged.

It can’t be true! There has been a mistake! A ghastly error! Emma cried inwardly, moving her head from side to side, denying the words. Joe could not be dead. Her throat thickened as reality struck at her, and she sat frozen in the chair, as rigid as stone, held in the grips of the most paralysing shock.

After what seemed like an eternity to Emma she pushed herself up out of the chair, forcing her shaking legs to move forward, blindly making her way to the stairs. She held on to the banister to steady herself, a sensation of fainting weakness trickling through her entire body. She manoeuvred herself up the staircase, dragging one leaden foot after the other, moving with laborious care like an old woman crippled by arthritic pain. She stumbled into her bedroom, collapsed on to the bed, and lay motionless, staring at the ceiling in a trance-like state, her eyes dark pools of sorrow.

Poor Joe. Poor Joe. Struck down after only a brief few weeks at the front. He was too young to die. It was unfair. Unfair. Emma began to weep, the tears streaming down her face unchecked. She would never see Joe again. The children would never see him again. Her mind floundered at the thought of Kit and Edwina sleeping so peacefully in their beds. She could not tell them the news. Not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Her anguished mind began to race. How had Joe died? And where was his body? She wanted Joe’s body. Irrational as the idea was under the present circumstances, she wanted to give him a proper burial. The thought of Joe’s body lying smashed and neglected somewhere in France haunted her. It was a horrendous image that wobbled in the very centre of her brain.

Emma lay in the bedroom, unaware of the hour, watching the night descend, abandoned and lonely in her misery. And she grieved inconsolably for Joe. He had been honourable, and kind in an infinite number of ways, and now she dismissed all the traits that had irritated her, forgot the revulsion she had experienced in their marital bed. She carefully obliterated everything that had been distressing, remembered only the good and the best.

And she wept all night for the loss of a decent man, for all that he had been and had represented, and for the life they had shared together.

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon in late October, one of those unexpected Indian-summer days, radiant with crystalline light that flooded the periwinkle-blue sky. The garden was bathed in a golden haze and the trees and the shrubs were already turning colour, the autumnal foliage a glowing mixture of yellows and orange running to scarlet and burnt sienna.

Laura O’Neill sat on the garden seat lost in contemplation. Her thoughts as always were with Blackie in France. She had not received a letter for several weeks. On the other hand, that dreaded telegram had not arrived either. Despite the lack of news of any sort, Laura held the deep conviction that Blackie was safe and would continue to be safe and that he would come home to her when the war was over. Her unwavering faith in Almighty God was the rock upon which her life was built, and she knew with absolute certainty that Blackie was under His divine protection. Laura, always devout, now went every day to mass, disregarding Emma’s advice that she stay in bed and rest. She lit innumerable candles for Blackie and Winston and for all of the other fighting men. And her gentle heart overflowed with grief for those who had lost sons and husbands and sweethearts, and most especially for Emma, widowed four months before.

Emma was working at the other end of the garden, filling a basket with magnificent gold and copper winter chrysanthemums. Laura’s hazel eyes rested on her dearest friend and her heart tightened with love and sympathy. She’s painfully thin, Laura thought. And she’s exhausted. She works like a Trojan and her responsibilities would crush anyone else. Even the strongest and most determined of men would stagger under the burden.

It seemed to Laura that Emma had been imbued with an almost inhuman strength since Joe’s death. She not only ran her own businesses and managed Joe’s properties as well, but played a major administrative role at the Kallinski factories. Yet withal she still found time to devote hours to the children, trying to surround them with love and security. That is Emma’s way of coping with her sorrow, Laura decided. The only way she knows how to go on. Her work and the children have become her citadel.

Laura sighed deeply. Death was never final. The person loved was gone but there were always the others, the ones left behind to mourn. The sadness of life is ever present, Laura thought, and yet there is joy in life, too. Joy like the child she was carrying. The child she yearned to give Blackie. She placed her hands across her stomach protectively and with love, and she thanked God she had not miscarried this time. Yes, there was death, but there was also birth. A continual renewal…the endless cycle that was eternal, that was man’s inexorable fate.

Emma having completed her tasks, pulled off her gardening gloves and joined Laura on the seat. ‘You’re not feeling chilly, are you?’ she asked. ‘I think we ought to go in shortly. I don’t want you to catch a cold. Not now when you’ve been so well.’ Emma eyed Laura lovingly. ‘You only have two more months to wait and then you’ll be presenting Blackie with that son and heir.’

Laura nodded, her happiness overflowing in her eyes. ‘This pregnancy has been so easy, Emma. A miracle. I offer thanks for that every day.’

‘So do I, love.’

Laura took Emma’s hand in hers and said softly, ‘I haven’t wanted to upset you by bringing it up before, but is Edwina any better?’

‘A little.’ Emma’s voice was low. ‘If only she would cry then perhaps her grief for Joe would be alleviated. As it is, it’s all pent up and her self-control frightens me. It’s not natural.’

A look of sympathy crossed Laura’s face. ‘No, it’s not healthy to repress that kind of anguish and pain. Poor Edwina, she did adore Joe so much.’

‘I’ve talked to her for hours, tried to give her comfort and understanding, without much success. It’s as if she wants to bear it alone. Stoically. I don’t know what to do anymore-’ Emma stopped. After a moment she added in a dim voice, ‘Sometimes I think I misjudged Joe.’

‘What do you mean?’ Laura asked in puzzlement.

‘Well, now when I look back, I realize how kind he was, and so generous in a variety of ways. His will, for instance. I was thunderstruck when Mr Ainsley read it to me and I learned Joe had left all the properties to me. I expected him to make Kit the sole beneficiary, willing him the business and everything. I haven’t been able to get over that gesture. After all, Kit is the only son.’

‘Joe left all of his money to Kit, dear,’ Laura cut in swiftly. ‘Except for the annuity for Edwina. Look, Emma, Joe always appreciated your business acumen. He wasn’t cheating Kit. He was simply being wise, knowing you would handle everything with efficiency and in doing so provide for the children’s future. He trusted you, Emma. He knew you would do the right thing.’

‘I suppose so. But I still feel I did Joe many injustices when he was alive.’

Laura squeezed Emma’s arm affectionately. ‘You were a good wife. Don’t start chastising yourself now for things that happened in the past. And don’t forget, human relationships are never static. They change from day to day, because they are highly complex and also because people are changeable. And life intrudes. Problems intrude and create tensions. You gave Joe a great deal, even if you did have disagreements occasionally. I know you made him happy. Please, Emma, you must believe that.’

‘I hope I did,’ Emma murmured.

Noting the sad echo in Emma’s voice and wishing to distract her, Laura said briskly, ‘Shall we go in, dear? I’m getting cold and I would like some tea.’ As she spoke she stood up, pulling the yellow shawl closer around her shoulders.

Emma took Laura’s arm as they walked across the lawn. ‘What would I do without you, my sweet Laura? You’re so wise, and you always make me feel better.’

‘I can say the same thing about you, Emma. Why, you’re the best friend I ever had.’

FORTY-THREE

‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Lowther,’ Dr Stalkley said, hurrying through the swinging doors of the waiting room. ‘Mrs O’Neill has been asking for you.’

Emma stood up, clutching her handbag tightly. ‘Please,’ she said anxiously, ‘is everything all right? I don’t understand what happened so suddenly.’

The doctor gave her an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘It was a question of operating or going through with the natural childbirth. Because of her religion, Mrs O’Neill was quite adamant about the operation-’

‘What do you mean? I’m not following you, Doctor,’ Emma interrupted peremptorily.

‘Mrs O’Neill would not permit us to operate because there was the possibility-in fact, the great probability-that she would have lost the child. The operation would have been wiser, safer, of course. However, she would not take any chances with the child’s life.’

‘But is she all right?’ Emma demanded.

‘Weak,’ the doctor responded quietly, avoiding Emma’s eyes.

‘And the baby?’

‘A fine boy, Mrs Lowther.’

Emma’s stare became more penetrating. ‘Mrs O’Neill isn’t in any danger, is she?’

‘She’s tired, naturally. It was a difficult birth,’ the doctor said. ‘But let’s not stand here chattering. She’s waiting to see you. Please come this way.’

Emma followed him down the corridor, her mind racing as she tried to assess the gravity of the situation. Instinct told her Dr Stalkley was hedging and this frightened her. When they reached the door of Laura’s room the doctor paused and turned to Emma. His face was unreadable as he said, ‘We’ve sent for the priest.’

‘Priest! Why?’

‘Mrs O’Neill asked for him.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘She is very weak. Worn out. Please don’t excite her.’

Emma clutched his arm. ‘She’s not-’

The doctor opened the door for her. ‘Please, Mrs Lowther, let’s not waste time.’ He ushered her in and closed the door softly behind him.

Emma hurried to the bed, her eyes sweeping over Laura, who lay propped against the pillows. She was at once aware of Laura’s terrible exhaustion. Her lovely face, so wan in the cold light, was etched with lines of extreme fatigue and there were dark smudges under her huge eyes, which lit up at the sight of her friend. Emma’s heart sank, for she recognized all the distressing telltale signs, but the smile on her face did not falter for an instant. She bent over Laura and kissed her cheek. Smoothing back the honey-blonde hair that tumbled over the pillows, she said softly, ‘How are you feeling, darling?’

Laura smiled. ‘So happy. And grateful. It’s a boy, Emma.’

Emma sat down on the chair next to the bed. Swallowing hard, she adopted her most cheerful tone. ‘Yes, it’s wonderful. Blackie will be thrilled.’

Laura nodded, her eyes shining. She reached for Emma’s small hand, took it in hers, and squeezed it. ‘Have you been waiting long, dear?’

‘No,’ Emma lied. ‘And you mustn’t worry about me. You’re the one who needs all the care and attention now. I expect you’ll be discharged in a week and then you’re coming to stay with me and the children. I’m going to look after you like you looked after me when Edwina was born. You will come, won’t you, darling?’

A faint smile flickered on Laura’s white lips. She said, ‘I want him to be called Bryan.’

‘That’s a lovely name, Laura.’

‘And Shane Patrick, after Blackie and Uncle Pat.’

‘They will be pleased, love.’

‘Come closer to me, Emma,’ Laura murmured, ‘so that I can see you better. The light seems to have dimmed, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is getting dark outside,’ Emma said, even though the light was still very bright.

Laura’s fine eyes searched her face. ‘I want Bryan to be brought up as a good Roman Catholic. You know what Blackie is like. So careless about some things. You’ll see to it for me, Emma, won’t you?’

Emma’s fear flared again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I want you to promise me that you’ll make sure Uncle Pat does the right thing while Blackie is away, and that you’ll take care of Bryan for me until his father comes back from the war.’

‘But you’ll be doing that, love.’

Laura’s brilliant eyes remained unwavering. ‘I’m dying, Emma.’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘Emma, listen to me. Please listen. I have so little time left,’ Laura whispered, her faint voice now vibrating with urgency. ‘Promise me that you’ll make certain Uncle Pat has Bryan christened in the Roman Catholic Church and that he attends to his religious training as long as Blackie is gone. And promise you’ll look after Blackie for me.’

Emma was unable to speak for a moment. ‘I promise,’ she finally said, her voice thick with emotion and quavering.

Laura lifted her hand weakly and touched Emma’s face. She smiled at her. ‘I love you, Emma.’

‘Oh, Laura, I love you, too.’ Emma could no longer suppress the tears and they spilled down her cheeks and splashed on to Laura’s hand.

‘Don’t cry, dear. There’s nothing to cry about.’

‘Oh, Laura-Laura-’

‘Hush, darling. Don’t cry.’

Emma took a deep breath and endeavoured to pull herself together. ‘Laura, listen to me now. You must fight. Try harder, love. Please fight to live,’ she implored with great intensity. She gathered Laura’s frail body into her strong arms and cradled her close, pressing Laura harder against herself, as if trying to infuse her dying friend with some of her own enormous strength, her own stubborn will, as she had done so long ago with her mother.

A small sigh escaped Laura’s lips, a soft fluttering sigh that was hardly audible. ‘It’s too late,’ she said in a fading voice.

Emma placed her back on the pillows, her lips shaking, her face white and strained. ‘Please try, love. Try for Blackie. For the baby. For me.’

There was a rustling noise as the priest came in carrying a black bag. He touched Emma on the shoulder lightly. ‘She must receive Extreme Unction, Mrs Lowther,’ he said.

Emma stood up and moved away with a degree of self-containment, although her knees were buckling. Tears rolled unchecked down her face and then it darkened as she watched the priest bending over Laura. She wanted him to leave. He was a harbinger of death. If he left, then Laura would live. There is no God! No God, do you hear me! Emma shouted at him, but the shouts reverberated in her head unuttered.

Emma thought her heart was surely breaking. The room was very quiet; the only sounds were the faint swishing of the priest’s cassock as he moved nearer to the bed, the low murmur of his voice and Laura’s as she confessed and he absolved her of her sins. Sins, Emma thought bitterly. She has never sinned. Laura never did anything to hurt anybody. She’s only given love to everyone she knows. She’s never sinned against God. Never sinned against the world. Never. Ever.

The priest administered Holy Communion, made the sign of the cross, and put the wafer in Laura’s mouth. He was anointing her. Emma turned away and looked out of the window. It was all so wasteful. Yes, even sinful. The operation would probably have killed the baby, but Laura would have been alive. This dogma of the Catholic Church was barbaric. Insane. Who cared about the baby? It was Laura they knew and loved.

When the priest had finished the last rites he came to Emma. ‘Mrs O’Neill wishes to speak with you,’ he said dolorously.

Emma brushed past him rudely and flew to the bed. She brought her face close to Laura’s. ‘I’m here, my darling. What is it?’

Laura’s eyelids lifted slowly. ‘I’m sorry to keep asking you to promise me things. Just one more favour. Be brave for Uncle Pat. He’s so old now and he’s going to need your courage, Emma.’

‘Oh, Laura, Laura, don’t slip away from me!’

Laura smiled and her face was glorious, incandescent, and her eyes, so large they seemed to engulf her face, were steady and full of peace.

‘There is no such thing as death in my lexicon, Emma. As long as you live, and Blackie lives, I will live, too, for you will both carry the memory of me in your hearts always. And there will be Bryan for Blackie.’

Emma had no words. She pressed her hands to her mouth, her shoulders heaving.

Laura said, ‘Tell Blackie that I love him.’

‘Yes, darling.’ Emma bit her lip and blinked back the blinding tears. ‘Oh, Laura, what will I do without you?’ she gasped, choked and grief-stricken.

‘You’ll be fine, Emma. I’m very sure of you. You’re so good; so brave. And remember, God never gives us a burden that is too heavy to bear.’

‘Oh, Laura, I can’t-’

‘And don’t forget my Christmas presents for the children, will you? The dog is at the kennel for Kit and the jasmine scent for Edwina is all wrapped. In my bedroom. You’ll find it. There’s something for you, too, my dearest Emma-’ Laura closed her eyes and the smile, so radiant a moment before, was a mere fleeting shadow on her face.

‘No, I won’t forget, darling.’

Emma felt Laura’s hand go slack in hers. ‘Laura! Laura!’ she cried, pressing the cold hand to her lips.

Dr Stalkley had to forcibly uncurl Emma’s fingers from Laura’s hand, so tightly was she grasping it. The priest led her out of the room, murmuring words of condolence. Emma closed her ears, drained and numb in her terrible sorrow.

After a few minutes the doctor joined them. ‘I think we will be able to discharge the baby in a few days, Mrs Lowther. We’ll let you know when you can come and fetch him. That was Mrs O’Neill’s wish.’

Emma hardly heard him. ‘Yes, I understand,’ she responded automatically in a low voice. ‘You have my address and telephone number.’ She left them abruptly and without saying goodbye.

Emma pushed open the door of St Mary’s Hospital and walked along the drive and out through the iron gates, moving like a somnambulist. She turned and headed up over Hill Top, climbing steadily, gazing ahead yet seeing nothing. It was a cold December afternoon and the empty sky was bloated with snow and sunless, and the harsh wind blew hard over the hill and dried the tears coursing down her cheeks.

Emma trod the path of her grief in measured steps-steps that sometimes faltered and often slowed but which never failed completely. She buried her pain deep and the world saw only that face of inscrutability, and as the weeks and months passed she learned to live with her heartbreak and the crushing loneliness of her life.

The baby, Bryan, lived with her and the children. Blackie, who had come home briefly on compassionate leave, had agreed this was the most sensible course to take under the circumstances, recognizing that his son would be in a more normal atmosphere with her than if he was put in charge of a nurse at his Uncle Pat’s house. Blackie, unconsolable, and burdened down by his grief, had returned almost at once to the front, and Emma was alone again.

At first Emma had resented the baby, seeing it as the instrument of Laura’s death, but one day it struck her, and most powerfully, that she was being unjust and bitter. She came then to understand that she was betraying Laura’s love and trust in her and was also negating her own abiding love for Laura with her attitude. This was Laura’s son, the child she had yearned for and had died for so that he might live. Emma was seized by remorse and became ashamed of herself and she took the child to her compassionate heart as if he were her own. Bryan had Blackie’s dark colouring and jet-black hair, yet his eyes were Laura’s, large and limpid and of the same soft hazel. He was a good baby, with Laura’s sweet disposition, and when he smiled it was Laura’s smile that Emma saw and she would pick Bryan up out of the crib and hold him fiercely to her breast, overcome with love, and she determined to cherish him always.

Sometimes Emma forgot that Laura was dead, and her hand would automatically reach for the telephone whenever she had a special confidence to impart, and then it would fall away and she would sit for a while, lost in memories of the past ten years, her eyes moist, her heart aching. But there were always the children to help dispel her sadness and pain. Emma devoted all of her free time to them, aware that they needed her more than ever now, with Joe gone and in their most formative years, and she gave of herself unstintingly. Winston came home on leave and Frank visited her regularly and she found solace in her family.