A Woman of Substance

FORTY-FOUR

‘Why are you angry, Frank?’ Emma asked, staring at her brother across the dinner table in the Ritz Hotel.

Consternation swept across Frank’s sensitive face and he reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘I’m not angry, love. Just worried about you, that’s all.’

‘But I’m feeling so much better, Frank. Truly I am, and I’ve quite recovered from the pneumonia,’ she reassured him with a vivid smile.

‘I know, and you look wonderful, Emma. But I do worry about you. Or rather, your life,’ he responded quietly.

‘My life! What do you mean? What’s wrong with my life?’ she exclaimed.

Frank shook his head regretfully. ‘What’s wrong with your life? you ask. Oh, Emma, don’t you ever stop to think? You’re on a treadmill, love. In fact, you’re as much a drudge now as you ever were at Fairley Hall-’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Emma interjected, her face clouding over.

‘You’re not scrubbing floors, I’ll grant you that,’ Frank countered quickly, ‘but you’re still a drudge, albeit in luxury. You’ve put yourself in bondage with your business, Emma.’ He sighed. ‘You’ll never break free.’

‘I don’t want to break free,’ Emma said, suddenly laughing. ‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I might enjoy my work?’

‘Work! That’s all you do, and that’s exactly what I’m getting at. Isn’t it about time you had a bit of fun in life? Now, while you’re still young.’ He threw her a wary look and his tone was cautious as he added, ‘Also, you’re going to be twenty-nine in a few months. I think you ought to consider remarrying.’

Laughter rippled through Emma. ‘Remarry! Frank, you’re absolutely crazy. Who would I marry? There are no men around. There’s still a war on, you know.’

‘Yes, but it’s bound to end later this year. When America got in, the situation started to change and the Allies are making great headway. I’m positive armistice will be declared within nine months or so, and men will be coming back.’

‘But it’s still only January,’ Emma gasped, still laughing, her eyes wide. ‘All the young men are noticeably absent. You’re a little premature, darling.’

‘What about Blackie O’Neill, for one thing?’ Frank suggested, watching for her reaction. ‘He’s always adored you. And you’re both free now. Not only that, you’ve been looking after Bryan as if he were one of your own for the past year.’ Noting she was not perturbed, he grinned and finished, ‘It’s not as if you are strangers.’

‘Oh, Frank, don’t be so silly,’ Emma said dismissively, with an airy wave of her hand. ‘Blackie is like a brother to me. Besides, I’m not sure I want to remarry. Apart from anything else, I don’t think I would like a man interfering with my business.’

‘That blasted business, Emma! I don’t understand you sometimes.’ His eyes were thoughtful when he glanced up at his sister. ‘Surely you must feel secure these days. You are a rich woman in your own right and Joe left you well provided for. How much is going to be enough money for you, our Em?’

A small smile flitted across her mouth on hearing this affectionate diminutive from their childhood, and she shrugged casually. ‘It’s not the money, really. I do enjoy business, Frank. Honestly, I get a lot of gratification out of it and I do have the children to think about as well. Their futures. And I can handle my life without any help from anyone, or advice, however well-intentioned.’

Frank held up his hand. ‘I simply think you ought to take it a bit easier and relax for once in your life.’

Emma leaned forward. ‘Look, Frank, do stop worrying or I shall get awfully cross and take the next train back to Leeds if-’ She broke off and dropped her eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Well, it’s the two men at the table directly opposite. They keep staring at us. I wondered if you knew them. But don’t look now, they’ll see you.’

‘I noticed them when they came in. The maître d’ was bowing and scraping all over the place. However, I don’t know them. But I do know that the younger one, the handsome major, is an Australian, from the insignia on his uniform. He’s with the 4th Brigade of the Australian Corps.’

‘A damned colonial! No wonder!’

Amused at the anger flaring in her eyes, Frank said, ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He’s been quite insufferable since he sat down. Every time I look up I find his eyes on me. And speculatively so,’ she said furiously.

‘Come on, Emma. What do you expect? I don’t think you realize how beautiful you really are, love.’ Frank took in the bottle-green velvet gown, the creamy pearls at her throat and ears, the sleek hair pulled back in a chignon. ‘You look about eighteen, Emma. And I’m glad you don’t wear all that muck on your face most women have taken to using lately.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, you’re undoubtedly the best-looking woman in this room.’

‘There’s not much to choose from,’ Emma replied pithily, but she smiled and asked in a curiously shy voice, ‘Am I really, Frank?’

‘You are indeed.’

The waiter approached the table and said deferentially, ‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re wanted on the telephone.’

Frank nodded and turned to Emma. ‘I won’t be a minute. Excuse me.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Why don’t you look at the menu and decide what you want for a pudding.’

‘Yes, all right, dear.’ Emma watched Frank cross the floor of the Ritz Hotel dining room. He looked so distinguished and well bred in his dinner jacket, and she was extremely proud of his achievements and the shape his life had taken. He was a dear, and always concerned about her happiness. Emma smiled, wondering what Frank would say if he knew about the Emeremm Company. He’d probably give me another lecture and say I was taking on too much, she mused. But that company’s going to be the making of my real fortune. The new business had been a brilliant concept, even if she did say so herself. It was an acquisition and holding company, which she had financed by selling Joe’s shoe factory and the tannery for exorbitant prices, and in the eleven months it had existed it was already in the black. The name Emeremm was her invention, a contraction of the words emerald and Emma. One day she intended to call it Harte Enterprises, but for the moment she did not want the world to know she was associated with it. For her own reasons she sought concealed ownership. Although she was the sole shareholder she did not appear on the board, nor was she an officer of the company. Ostensibly it was run by the managing director and the two other directors she had appointed. Men bought by her and therefore owned by her. Men of straw who would do her bidding.

Emma looked around the elegant dining room absently, her mind dwelling on the Emeremm Company and its endless financial possibilities. As her glance swept past the other tables her eyes inadvertently met those of the Australian major, and Emma found to her amazement she was momentarily unable to look away. He’s too handsome, too sure of himself, Emma thought with a stab of annoyance. The sleek hair, the thick brows, the clipped moustache above the sensual mouth were too glossily black against the deep tan of the rugged and arresting face. And those eyes were of a blue so deep they were almost violet. Even the cleft in his chin was more deeply indented than was normal. His wide mouth lifted in a tantalizing smile, brought dimples to his cheeks, and his gaze was now so bold and so provocative she flinched. Blushing, she turned away. Why, he’s positively indecent, she thought, her cheeks burning. She had the odd feeling he knew exactly what she looked like stark naked. Embarrassed, Emma reached for the glass of wine and in her nervousness she knocked it over. Further mortified, she began to dab at the cloth with her serviette.

The waiter promptly came to her rescue, murmuring that he could easily repair the damage, and quickly placed a clean serviette over the stain. He cleared away the dirty dishes and Emma thanked him as he moved away. The major was once again in her direct line of vision and she saw to her indignation that his audacious gaze still rested on her. There was an amused smile playing around his mouth and undisguised challenge in his eyes. Emma picked up the menu angrily and buried her flaming face behind it. She cursed the intolerable fool across the dining room who was so blatantly trying to flirt with her, and doubly cursed Frank and his interminable telephone call.

Bruce McGill’s tanned and weather-beaten face was a study in fond amusement and his clear blue eyes twinkled as he said, ‘If you can drag your gaze away from that fetching creature for a brief moment, perhaps we can have a little decent conversation with dinner, my boy.’

‘Oh, sorry, Dad,’ Paul McGill said. He shifted in his chair and gave his father his full attention. ‘But she is undoubtedly the most fascinating woman I’ve ever seen. Don’t you agree?’

Bruce nodded. ‘I do, my boy. You inherited my taste for the ladies, I’m afraid. Never could resist a beauty. However, I would like to talk to you, Paul. I don’t get to see you that often these days.’

‘You’ll be sick of the sight of me in a few weeks. This blasted wound is taking a hell of a long time to heal.’

Bruce looked concerned. ‘Not too painful, I hope.’

‘No, just aggravating and especially so in this lousy English weather.’ Paul smiled wryly. ‘I shouldn’t be grumbling, should I? Instead I ought to be thanking my lucky stars. It was a miracle I got through the Gallipoli campaign without a scratch. Then this had to happen in France.’

‘Yes, you were lucky.’ A sober expression crossed Bruce’s face. ‘I had hoped you would get out after this, so that you could come back to Coonamble with me. But I suppose there’s no chance of that. Will you be going back to France to join Colonel Monash?’

‘I expect so. But let’s not worry about that tonight. I intend to have a whale of a time while I’m in good old Blighty.’

‘Glad to hear that, son. You damn deserve it after the hell you’ve been through. But take it easy, laddie.’ Bruce laughed, his eyes merry again. ‘No more little scandals this time. Dolly hasn’t let me forget that last romantic encounter you had with her friend.’

‘Oh, Jesus, don’t remind me, Dad. I swear off women every time I think about that particular mess. When are we supposed to be at Dolly’s?’

‘Any time after dinner, my boy. You know Dolly and her theatrical friends. Those parties of hers usually last until dawn. Incidentally, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve decided not to go. You can pop along there alone. You’ll enjoy it. Give her my regrets. Afraid I’m not up to it tonight. Also, I would like to drop in at South Audley Street and see Adam Fairley.’

Paul’s dark head came up sharply. ‘How is he these days?’

‘Not well at all, poor chap. Very sad really-that whole business. He was never the same after Olivia’s death, and now the stroke. It’s hard for me to see him confined to a wheelchair. He was always so active. Olivia’s death was a tragedy and he’s taken it hard. Leukemia, you know. Such a vivacious, lovely woman. I remember the first night I met her, about fourteen years ago. Rather fancied her myself, to tell you the truth. I can still remember the way she looked. Ravishing. Wearing a kingfisher-blue dress and sapphires.’

At this moment Emma and Frank rose and left the dining room. Paul McGill’s eyes were riveted on Emma for every step she took. He observed the proud set of her head, her straight back, her total self-assurance, and her regal bearing as she glided out, and he was further intrigued.

Paul caught the headwaiter’s eye and motioned to him. To his father he said, ‘I’m going to find out who she is right now…Charles, who was the gentleman who just left with the lady in the green velvet?’

‘That was Frank Harte, sir. The Frank Harte of the Daily Chronicle. Fine young gentleman. Made quite a name for himself as a war correspondent.’

‘And the lady?’ Paul asked.

‘Forgive me, Major, but I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘So Mr Harte is well known, is he?’ Bruce interjected.

‘Oh yes, indeed, sir. He writes on politics now. I understand he was, and is, quite a favourite of Mr Lloyd George’s.’

‘Thank you, Charles,’ Bruce said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’ He leaned forward and fixed his thoughtful gaze on his son. ‘Look here, Paul, I don’t want you doing anything foolish. Just watch your step. I’m heavily involved with a number of politicians in this country. I would hate to have problems because of your romantic philanderings. That might easily be the chap’s wife, you know, and since he’s well connected it could be a dangerous game you’re contemplating.’

‘Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t embarrass you. However, I am going to find out who she is if it kills me.’ Paul sat back in his chair and took out a gold cigarette case. He lit a cigarette, his mind turning rapidly. His father’s immense fortune had opened every door for him, all the right doors, and he began to enumerate his friends, wondering who would be the most suitable candidate to arrange an introduction to Frank Harte.

There were a dozen or so people in Dolly Mosten’s drawing room when Emma and Frank entered it later that evening. Emma had only taken three small steps into the room when she halted abruptly and grabbed Frank’s arm. Startled, he turned to her quickly.

‘Frank, we’ve got to leave!’ she hissed.

Surprise flickered on to his face. ‘Leave! But we’ve only just arrived.’

Her fingers tightened on him and her eyes were pleading. ‘Please, Frank! We’ve got to leave. Immediately!’

‘Don’t be foolish, Emma. It would seem most odd and I don’t want to offend Dolly. That’s a fate worse than death. Anyway, apart from the fact that she’s London’s leading actress and not to be slighted, she’s been very helpful to me in the past. She would never forgive me. Why the sudden turnabout? You wanted to come earlier.’

‘I feel-sick,’ Emma improvised. ‘Faint.’

‘Sorry, but I’m afraid it’s too late, old girl,’ Frank muttered. Dolly Mosten was descending upon them, a cloud of yellow chiffon and canary diamonds, her flaming red hair a fiery nimbus around her superb but vacuous face. And in her wake was the Australian major they had seen at the Ritz. So that’s it! Frank thought. His eyes were teasing as he looked at Emma and said pointedly, ‘He won’t bite.’

Emma did not have a chance to reply. Dolly was greeting them warmly and making the introductions, her famous bubbling voice ringing with laughter, her theatrical vivaciousness enveloping them in an intimacy Emma found curiously distasteful. She averted her head to avoid the major, who loomed up in front of her, all too predatory. Emma felt cornered, and then she found her hand being tightly grasped by a much larger, stronger one. Emma was in a quandary and she stared down at the fine black hairs spreckling that hand, almost afraid to raise her head.

‘I’m most delighted to meet you, Mrs Lowther. It is an undeniable pleasure and one I did not anticipate experiencing quite so soon, although, to be frank, I had determined to make your acquaintance. How fortuitous for us both that I stopped by Dolly’s tonight,’ the resonant voice drawled, the faint Australian twang hardly discernible.

Why, the impertinent and conceited devil, Emma thought, embarrassment and discomfiture she had experienced at the Ritz flaring within her again. She had the overwhelming desire to slap his face, but her innate good manners prevented her. Instead, she lifted her head and finally looked up into that face staring with such intensity at hers. Her mouth parted. No words came out. She blinked, conscious of the roguish expression in those stunning eyes, the sardonic smile as he waited for her response.

Emma felt the insistent pressure of Frank’s hand on her back and then to her horror, and before she could stop herself, she said coldly, ‘I understand you are an Australian, Major McGill. I hope the deplorable manners you so patently displayed earlier this evening are not typical of your nationality, but merely spring from your own lack of upbringing. Otherwise your fellow countrymen will find a frosty reception in this country, where women are treated with respect. This is not the Outback, Major.’

Dolly gasped. Frank cried, ‘Emma, you are being ungracious!’

But Major McGill was apparently amused. He threw back his head and roared with laughter, and he held on to her hand all that more firmly, so that Emma winced.

Emma turned to Dolly. ‘Forgive me, Dolly. I don’t mean to be discourteous to you. Please excuse me. I must leave. I feel perfectly dreadful. Something definitely disagreed with me at dinner.’ She endeavoured to extract her hand, but the major had tightened his grip like a vice.

The major said, ‘Touché, Mrs Lowther. I deserved that, I do believe.’ Paul bent forward, lowered his head, and offered his right cheek to Emma. ‘Want to slap it and get it over with?’

Flushing, Emma took a step backwards. The major immediately pulled her forward into the group again. He said, ‘I think I had better take Mrs Lowther for a glass of champagne. And I hope I will be able to convince her that even colonials are civilized.’ He tucked Emma’s arm through his in a proprietary way. Emma tried to disentangle her arm, but he instantly clamped his free hand over it and shook his head slowly. ‘Come along, Mrs Lowther,’ he said commandingly. She saw that his eyes were irreverent and taunting, and she loathed him more than ever.

‘Do excuse us,’ Paul said to Dolly and Frank, obviously well pleased with himself as he swept her away.

‘A little champagne will cool you off,’ Paul said, bowing elaborately to a couple he knew but without slowing his pace.

‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink,’ Emma hissed, her blood boiling

‘Even the most stubborn and temperamental fillies eventually get thirsty, Mrs Lowther,’ he said in a low voice, his eyes roving over her boldly. ‘Depending, of course, when they last quenched their thirst. You look positively parched to me.’

His words, appearing innocent enough on the surface, were full of innuendo and the unconcealed desire flickering in his eyes was revealing of his thoughts and his intentions. Emma’s cheeks were scarlet as they walked across the floor, and to her considerable irritation she discovered she was acutely aware of Paul McGill’s physical proximity-of his fingers biting into hers, of his arm brushing so intimately against her bare shoulder. He was taller and broader than she had realized at the Ritz, and he seemed to overpower her. He exuded a sheathed strength, an earthy and domineering masculinity that disturbed her. The room swam before her eyes and she was overcome by faintness. A peculiar tingling sensation invaded her entire body and her heart quickened, beating so rapidly underneath the green velvet she thought it was about to burst. She was flustered and unnerved. It’s only anger, she told her self, and she truly believed this was the real cause of her sudden distress.

Dolly’s drawing room appeared to Emma to have tripled in size and she thought the long stretch of chartreuse carpet would never come to an end. ‘Please, I would like to sit down,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Over there. You can go and find a waiter-’

‘Oh no, not on your life! You’re not going to escape quite so easily,’ Paul cried.

‘Where are you taking me?’

Paul stopped in his tracks and swung her to face him. He peered down at her, his violet eyes filled with speculation. ‘Well now, I’m not quite sure. There are hundreds of interesting possibilities and alternatives-’ Observing the chilly expression on her face, he laughed that bantering laugh and remarked softly, ‘Don’t look so terrified. I’m not going to abscond with you. I merely wanted to get you away from your brother and Dolly.’ He scanned the room and inclined his head to the left. ‘Over there perhaps, near the potted palm. That seems a likely place for us. A quiet and secluded spot.’

Emma attempted to break free from him. ‘Please let me go.’

‘Never.’

He manoeuvred her into the corner with great adeptness. Emma realized, and with mounting dismay, that there was now no opportunity for immediate flight, and she also acknowledged that she owed it to Frank to stay at Dolly’s for a respectable interval. She sat down on the sofa, relieved to be released from the major’s grip, and grudgingly took the glass of champagne which he whisked off the tray as the waiter glided past.

But she had no intention of pandering to this arrogant devil of a man, nor would she spare his feelings, and so she said icily, ‘I suppose this rough and masterful technique you adopt is successful with most women, Major.’

Paul nodded and crossed his legs nonchalantly. ‘Generally speaking, I would say,’ he said lazily. He looked her over with an insolence that brought a deep flush to her chest and neck.

‘Let me assure you it won’t be with me!’ Emma exclaimed, her face haughty. ‘I am different from most women.’

‘I am aware of that,’ he admitted, the roguish glint still lingering in his eyes. ‘In fact, I do believe I detected that characteristic in you at once. I think that’s what attracted me to you, apart from your staggering looks.’ He grinned. ‘You are seemingly staggeringly blunt as well, Mrs Lowther. And strong-minded and sassy to boot. Yes, very different, I would say. Fire and ice perhaps?’

‘All ice, Major,’ Emma parried.

‘Ice can melt, you know.’

‘It can also be very dangerous. People have been known to have fatal accidents with ice,’ Emma snapped.

‘Danger has always attracted me, Mrs Lowther. I find it exciting. Challenging. It brings out all my masculine instincts.’

Emma threw him a scathing look, turned away contemptuously, and glanced around the room, her eyes seeking Frank. This man elicited an immediate and direct response from her, and one that both infuriated and baffled her. With his monumental egotism, his astonishing appearance, his swaggering self-assurance, and his flippant tongue, he was quite unlike any man she had ever met. And no man had ever had the temerity to be so brash with her or address her in such a suggestive manner. She detested the major and resented his assumption that she was about to fall swooning at his feet. There was also a ruthlessness about him that oddly enough did not trouble her and she was nonplussed, momentarily not understanding that ruthlessness was a trait she was familiar with and could easily handle.

Paul leaned back in the chair, his eyes reflective as he studied Emma’s exquisite profile, and he marvelled at his incredible luck in meeting her quite by accident this very night. He thought: She is very different. An original. She must belong to me. I won’t rest until I have her for myself. All of her. Not only her body but her heart and her mind as well. He was shaken to his very core, for no woman had evoked such a violent reaction in him before. Paul McGill, at thirty-six, was lusty, adventurous, worldly, and charismatic, with a down-to-earth sexuality that cut across class lines to awaken a fervent response in all women. Shopgirls and upper-class ladies equally found him irresistible and, consequently, his conquests had been all too easy, and so numerous he had long ago lost count of his romantic entanglements. His approach, until this precise moment in his life, had been based on a ‘take me or leave me’ attitude. Women fell over themselves to take him, and with an eagerness that was almost indecent, before he sauntered out of their lives, the rakish grin intact, his heart untouched.

For all that, and despite the debonair and hedonistic stance he struck, Paul McGill was intelligent and possessed shrewdness and psychological insight. Much smarter than he pretended to be, he now recognized, with a sudden flash of clarity, that Emma was a wholly different proposition. She was not going to succumb to his brash charm or his potent virility. This was a woman to be conquered only through understanding, honesty, and subtle strategy. Ruefully admitting he was antagonizing her unnecessarily with his raillery, he decided to change his tactics and cease his baiting of her at once.

He leaned forward and said, ‘Let’s stop this silly bantering. We’re spoiling it.’

‘Spoiling what?’ Emma asked snappishly.

‘Our first meeting. Our first evening together.’

‘And our last!’

Paul brought his face closer to hers. ‘I like a woman with spirit. Mrs Lowther. I presume Mr Lowther has the same preference.’

Taken by surprise, Emma gaped at him. What a blundering imbecile he is, she thought with irritation. Her stare was glacial. ‘I am a widow, Major McGill. My husband was killed eighteen months ago. In the Somme offensive.’

Oh, my God, Paul thought. He said quickly, ‘Please forgive me. I am so terribly sorry. I had no idea. I am a thoughtless fool.’ He swore under his breath and sat very still. Emma was silent and unresponsive.

Paul now said, ‘It was very tactless of me. One should be more careful in wartime. I am truly sorry. I hope you will also accept my apologies for my appalling behaviour at the Ritz. It was quite unforgivable.’

Emma heard the sincerity in his voice, detected sympathy in his eyes, saw that the mocking expression had been wiped off his face, and she was amazed at the radical change in his manner.

‘Will you accept my apology?’

‘Yes,’ Emma murmured.

Frank joined them and handed a walking stick to Paul. ‘Dolly asked me to give you this.’ He turned to Emma. ‘How are you feeling? Better, I hope.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Emma said. ‘I am sorry, Frank, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

‘Look here, Frank, it was all my fault,’ Paul cut in. ‘Let’s forget the incident, shall we?’

‘Of course, Paul.’ He grinned at them and strolled off to join a well-known politician holding court at the far end of the room.

Emma was eyeing the walking stick. Paul said, ‘I’m wounded. But you probably didn’t notice the limp.’ There was a sheepish look in his eyes as he said, ‘I have to admit I was trying my hardest to conceal it when we walked across the room.’

‘You succeeded very well.’ Emma found herself smiling at him and she discovered this small admission of pride on his part induced her to revise her opinion of him. She knew all about self-esteem, and she softened a fraction. She leaned back against the sofa feeling more relaxed. With that grin he looked like the eternal little boy. ‘I hope your wound is not too painful, or serious,’ she remarked softly.

‘No, not at all. In fact, I’ll be going back to France shortly.’ Paul regarded her thoughtfully, his face serious. He was aware he had gained ground with her, but he hesitated before saying, ‘I’m on leave for a few more weeks. Would it be possible for us to meet again? I know you think I’m some sort of scoundrel, but I’m not, really. I have no excuse for my ghastly display at the Ritz, other than to confess I was bowled over by your beauty. Still, I should not have caused you discomfort. Can we lunch tomorrow so that I can make amends?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I promise I’ll behave-like an officer and a gentleman and not a scallywag from the Outback.’

‘I have a luncheon engagement,’ Emma said.

‘Is it terribly important? Couldn’t you break it?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s with Frank and I don’t see him very often. He would be disappointed.’

‘Yes, I understand.’ Paul’s face lit up. ‘I don’t want to seem forward, but could I join you? May I invite you both to be my guests?’ He smiled engagingly. ‘After all, you would be chaperoned with your brother present.’

Emma smiled. He was quite transparent. ‘I would have to ask Frank. I’m not sure how he would feel.’

To Paul’s annoyance Dolly sailed up to them and he stood up, offering her his chair. She declined and said, ‘I see you two have recovered from your little contretemps.’ Her eyes swept over Emma and settled on Paul. ‘How is the wounded warrior? I do hope you’re enjoying yourself, darling. We must keep our valiant soldiers happy, mustn’t we?’ She patted his arm playfully. ‘I can see you’re in good hands. I presume I shall see you at your father’s luncheon party tomorrow.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. I have a long-standing appointment. With destiny.’

‘Destiny?’ Dolly’s brow puckered in puzzlement. ‘I don’t think I know her.’

Paul kept his face absolutely straight. ‘I don’t believe you do, Dolly.’

Dolly shrugged. ‘One can’t be acquainted with everyone in London, I suppose. Do excuse me. I must circulate, my darlings.’

Paul leaned closer to Emma, his face sober. ‘I am, aren’t I?’

‘You are what?’

‘Lunching with destiny.’

She looked up at him and smiled, that unique smile that illuminated her face with incandescent radiance. ‘I thought you were lunching with Frank and me,’ she said.

Frank said, ‘Why are you doing this, Emma?’

‘Doing what, dear?’

‘You know exactly what I mean. Leaving London so unexpectedly.’

‘I only intended to stay in town for a few days. I’ve been here two weeks. I have to go back to Yorkshire.’

‘I never thought I would see my sister running away.’

‘I’m not running away.’

‘Yes, you are. It’s Paul McGill, isn’t it?’

Emma looked at him and bit her lip. She sighed. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘I guessed as much. But I still don’t understand why you are rushing off.’

‘Because he’s getting to be a nuisance and, anyway, I don’t particularly like him.’

‘Emma! How can you say that! If you don’t like him, why have you spent so much time with him? Every night, as far as I can gather. The theatre, dinners, parties, and luncheons, too. I’ve hardly seen you alone, and I must say you have certainly given the impression you are mesmerized by him.’

‘That’s not true, Frank Harte!’

Frank shook his head and looked out of the taxi window. He brought his eyes back to Emma. After a moment’s reflection he said, ‘He’s fallen for you like a ton of bricks.’

‘Oh, phooey!’

‘Yes, he has. I can tell. Everyone who sees the two of you together can tell. He positively devours you with his eyes. And I know you like him, Emma.’

‘Frank, will you please leave me alone.’

‘Give me a good reason why you don’t want to see him any more.’

‘Because he’s too charming, too handsome, too fascinating. And too much-for me to handle. Besides-’ She broke off, her voice faltering.

‘Besides what?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll get more involved if I stay.’

‘I knew it! But surely you mean fall in love with him, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was a whisper.

Frank took her hand. ‘Does he know you’re leaving?’

‘No. There’s a note for him at the Ritz. He’ll get it tonight when he comes to collect me.’

‘That wasn’t a very nice thing to do to the poor chap.’

‘It was the only thing to do. Now, darling, please shut up about Paul McGill. And tell the taxi driver to hurry. I’ll miss my train.’

FORTY-FIVE

Calculating of brain though she was, Emma could be impulsive of heart and especially when her deepest emotions were involved, and she had acted on impulse the day she had returned with such abruptness to Yorkshire. Recognizing that she was falling under the spell of the magnetic Paul McGill, she had fled, propelled by panic and fear.

Long ago, Emma had come to the conclusion that she was unlucky where men were concerned. They either hurt her or she hurt them. Her relationships had never been balanced. She doubted that she could ever inflict pain on the self-assured Paul McGill, but he was a terrible threat to her. Contentment with her life, such as it was at this moment, was at stake. She could not afford to risk emotional upheaval. Only in business was she prepared to gamble.

But now, after two days, she was beginning to feel perplexed by his total silence. Aren’t you also a little disappointed? a small voice nudged at the back of her mind, and she smiled wryly, her eyes straying to the telephone. Perhaps you are, but you’re also relieved, she said inwardly, and looked down at the latest report from the Emeremm Company. Almost immediately her attention wandered again, her thoughts returning to Paul.

He had danced attendance on her every day for two weeks. He had been charming, gallant, and amusing, and a gentleman, more or less. He had taken her in his arms and his kisses had been sensual and his passions had been fully inflamed. She knew that he was aware that he had aroused the same desire in her, but ultimately he held himself in check. He had made no untoward proposals or attempted to seduce her, and his constraint had baffled her, despite her profound relief at this display of chivalry.

She shivered, recalling his amorous embraces, and instantly crushed down the memory of him. He had apparently forgotten her immediately. Or perhaps he was stinging from the blow to his pride. For a proud devil he was and his self-esteem had more than likely been seriously damaged. She was positive no other woman had ever run out on him. So much for Major McGill, she thought. He’s dangerous and disturbing. Nevertheless, disappointment flared again and she shook her head, musing on her own inconsistencies, and then brought her eyes back to the papers. Her business needed her undivided attention.

Gladys knocked and came in quietly, looking pink and flustered. ‘You have a visitor, Mrs Harte,’ she said, hovering in front of the desk.

‘I don’t have any appointments this morning.’ Emma frowned. ‘What’s the matter, Gladys? You look very fluttery-’ Emma paused and her heart missed a beat. She guessed what Gladys would say. Only one person in this world could bring that special look to a woman’s eyes.

‘It’s a Major McGill, Mrs Harte. He said you weren’t expecting him but that you would see him anyway.’

Emma nodded, her face inscrutable. ‘Yes, of course I will see him, Gladys.’

He strode in, closed the door firmly behind him, and leaned against it. He was wearing a trench coat over his uniform and his cap was pushed rakishly to one side. He was carrying a picnic basket in one hand but he was no longer using the stick.

Paul gave Emma a hard look. ‘Coward,’ he said.

‘What are you doing in Yorkshire?’ Emma managed unsteadily. Her heart was pounding and her legs had turned to water.

‘I’ve come to have lunch with you.’ He held up his hand and wagged a finger at her. ‘I know, don’t say it. You always eat lunch in the office.’ He glanced down at the basket. ‘I anticipated that and brought a picnic. So you have no excuse. I can’t answer for the Metropole’s food, but the champagne is Dom Pérignon.’

‘That’s very enterprising of you,’ she said quietly, recovering some of her composure.

‘Yes, isn’t it just!’ He put the basket on the chair, threw his cap after it, and limped across the floor. He put both of his hands on the desk and leaned forward, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on her pale face. ‘You ran away. You were frightened,’ he said.

Unable to deny it, she did not respond.

‘Who were you afraid of? Me? Or yourself?’ he demanded, his voice unexpectedly harsh.

‘I don’t know.’ She looked down at the desk. ‘Of you, I suppose.’

‘You silly little fool! Don’t you know I’m in love with you!’

He came around the desk and pulled her into his arms, his grip powerful and crushing, his mouth hard and unrelenting on hers. Emma could not resist. Her arms went around him and she returned his kisses, the excitement he aroused in her manifest again, racing through her like fire. Her head swam and she was assailed by a weakness that trickled into her thighs. He pulled away suddenly, as he had done so often in the past, and gazed down at her. He tilted her face to his. His eyes, so darkly violet they looked as black as the brows curving above them, were filled with seriousness.

Paul shook his head. ‘Did you think a few hundred miles would discourage me?’ He laughed. ‘I’m an Australian. Distance means nothing to me. And you haven’t learned much else about me, Emma, have you? Or you would know I’m very tenacious.’ He put his arm around her, hugging her to him, and laughed again. ‘What am I going to do with you, my Emma? My stubborn, wilful, but adorable Emma. Tame you? But I wonder, would a bridle sit well on you, my sweet?’

Emma clung to his trench coat. She was speechless and her mind was chaotic. What had he said? That he was in love with her. Her heart was tight and her legs shook and she dare not open her mouth. If she did she knew she would tell him that she loved him, too.

Paul seemed unconcerned by her silence. He said, ‘First of all, we are going to have lunch. Then you are going to show me around your store. After that I want to see Layton’s mill.’ He grinned that engaging lopsided grin, and said, ‘Later I want to meet your children and I hope you will invite me to stay to dinner. You wouldn’t abandon a lonely soldier to an evening by himself in this godforsaken city, would you?’

Emma shook her head.

‘We’re in agreement, then?’

‘Yes, Paul,’ she whispered, and her voice was surprisingly meek.

Paul McGill stayed in Yorkshire for three days and during that time Emma came to know a very different side of him. In London she had felt there was a deep core of sincerity in him, and although he had often given the impression he lacked the inner conviction to remain serious for very long, she had suspected otherwise. She was not wrong. That thoughtful side was now revealed to her. He was also a gentle man, a characteristic that was displayed most obviously with her children. He listened attentively to Edwina, responding with kindness to her questions about Australia, and he treated Kit like an equal. Kit hung on his every word, and was thrilled when Paul took him sledging down the drive and played with his trains in the nursery.

It seemed to Emma that Paul brought out the very best in her children, and even Edwina, always so distant, emerged from her shell under his vivacious influence. Emma watched Paul closely, revelling in his genuine interest in her family, but she frequently noticed a curiously yearning look flickering in those violet eyes when he believed he was unobserved. She speculated on the reason for it and wondered about this extraordinary man who was so contradictory and compelling.

The day he departed he said, ‘I don’t have very much time left, Emma. I’ll be going back to France shortly. Will you come and visit me in London? Very soon?’

Emma did not think twice. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling up at him.

He touched her cheek lightly. ‘When?’

‘I have a meeting tomorrow morning. But I could come the day after. On Friday.’

‘Couldn’t you make it tomorrow afternoon? Time is running out.’

‘All right, then.’

He tilted her face to his. ‘Are you sure about this, Emma?’

‘Yes, I am.’ As she spoke she knew that she had made a commitment to him.

It was a bitterly cold February evening and drizzling when Emma stepped off the train at King’s Cross. She saw him before he saw her. He was standing at the ticket barrier, the cap pushed back at the same jaunty angle, the collar of his trench coat turned up. Her heart leapt and she began to run. It was undignified but she could not help herself. She did not stop until she was in his arms, breathless and laughing, her face resplendent with happiness.

He held her close, told her she looked beautiful, found the porter with her luggage, and bustled her into his father’s car, taking command in his usual way. As they drove through the evening traffic Emma became aware of a difference in Paul, and although he held her hand and chatted to her casually, his voice light, she sensed a disquiet under the surface. It was a controlled tension but, nonetheless, quite evident to her.

The Daimler came to a standstill before they reached the Ritz Hotel, where Emma was staying. Paul said, ‘I’m going to get out here and walk the rest of the way.’

She stared at him. ‘But why?

He grinned. ‘I know how circumspect you are. I would hate to compromise you the moment you arrive. Check in alone and I’ll join you for a drink in an hour. Anyway, you need a little privacy. Time to change and bathe.’

‘Very well. In an hour, then.’

He nodded, jumped out, and slammed the door. Emma sat back against the seat, touched by his thoughtfulness. And then she suffered such a sharp sense of loss, and acute loneliness, she was jolted. How silly she was being. She would see him very shortly.

The sitting room of the suite overlooked Green Park. A fire blazed in the grate, the lamps had been turned on, and there were masses of flowers everywhere, all of them from Paul, Emma discovered on reading the amusing messages on the white cards, reposing in each arrangement. She smiled with delight but did not pause long to admire. She hurriedly unpacked, hung up her clothes, and took a bath in the huge marble tub.

The bath dispelled the chill in her bones and revitalized her, and Emma slipped into a white silk robe and sat down at the dressing table, humming under her breath, feeling happier than she had in years. She brushed out her long hair until it gleamed in the lamplight and slowly began to coil it on top of her head. She was pushing the last hairpin into the coil when she tensed and remained perfectly still, experiencing the strange sensation that she was not alone. She swung her head slowly and jumped back in the chair. Paul was leaning casually against the door of the bedroom, his legs crossed, a glass in his hand, observing her with great concentration.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I should have knocked,’ he said. ‘You make a very pretty picture, my sweet.’

‘How did you get in?’ Emma gasped.

‘Why, through the door of course.’ He strolled over to the dressing table and placed a small jewel case in front of her. ‘These are for you,’ he said. ‘Put them on.’

Emma threw him a quick, puzzled glance and opened the case. The emerald earrings shimmered like pools of green fire against the black velvet and she drew in her breath. ‘Oh, Paul! They’re beautiful.’ She frowned. ‘But I can’t possibly accept them. They are far too valuable.’

‘Put them on,’ he ordered.

Emma’s hands trembled as she screwed the emeralds into her ears. She gazed at Paul through the mirror. ‘They are incredible. How did you know emeralds are my favourite stone?’

He smiled. ‘I didn’t. But with eyes your colour you should only wear emeralds. See how they echo the light in your eyes.’ He put down his drink and cupped his hands underneath her chin and, tilting her head back, he bent forward and kissed her forehead. ‘If you don’t accept them I’ll be terribly offended. I might never speak to you again.’

‘In that case I suppose I must. But it was very extravagant of you.’ She smiled at him tenderly. ‘Thank you, Paul.’

He moved away from her. ‘Come into the other room and have a drink,’ he said, pausing at the door.

‘I’ll just put my dress on.’

‘No, don’t bother. I want to talk to you. You’re decent enough.’

Emma pulled the white silk robe around her and followed him, feeling self-conscious, but concerned by his tone and unable to protest. He sounded grave and her heart sank. Was he leaving sooner than expected for France? Was that the reason for his tension? When she walked into the sitting room she saw immediately how he had managed to enter the suite so silently. The door at the far end was open and beyond she could see another identical suite. She faltered, unprepared for such an intimate arrangement and unnerved by the implication.

‘So that’s how you got in,’ she remarked, and there was a hint of anger in her voice.

He ignored the comment. ‘I’m drinking scotch, but I know you prefer wine. I’ll get you a glass of champagne.’

Her eyes followed him as he strode out, and her resentment spilled over into quiet rage. Paul had assumed too much. Assumed she would be an eager and willing partner in this-this-little game of his. She bit her lip. She was being inconsistent again. Had she not known when she stepped on to the train earlier in the day that there would be no going back. This scene now being enacted should not shock her. It was exactly what he had intended from the beginning, and anticipated once she had agreed to come back to London. And she had probably led him to believe it would be so.

Paul returned with the champagne, interrupting her racing thoughts. He handed her the glass and sat down opposite her, and as if he had read those thoughts, he said, ‘I don’t blame you for being angry, Emma. I know you’re also upset and uncomfortable as well, aren’t you?’

She did not answer him, but stared down at the glass and took a fast sip to hide her nervousness.

‘I’m a damn fool. It was presumptuous of me and now I apologize for that presumption. I feel quite certain you understood what my intentions were when you saw that open door and the other suite. Seduction, of course. I had planned it all very carefully for weeks.’ His mouth lifted in a small self-deprecatory smile. ‘I’m not too subtle, am I? However, I realized in the car that I had manoeuvred you into a situation which you would have great difficulty extracting yourself from. So, I am going to do that for you.’ Paul went on, ‘I am going to finish this drink and then I am going to walk through that door. You will lock it. When you are dressed I will come and fetch you. We will go out to dinner. No obligations. Now, or later. All right?’

Emma stared at him. ‘Yes, of course. But why have you changed your mind?’

He laughed ironically. ‘Yes, it is out of character, isn’t it? The reformed rake doing the honourable thing.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m amazed at myself.’

‘Why do you want to do the honourable thing?’

‘Because I love you, and too much to manipulate a situation to suit my own ends, my own advantage, without giving a thought to you and your feelings.’

‘I’m not sure I quite understand.’

‘You have to love me and want me as much as I love and want you, Emma. Otherwise there is no point to all this.’ He gulped down the drink and stood up. ‘Now run along and dress. I’ll be waiting for you and we’ll go out to dinner.’

He stopped at the door. ‘Lock this after me,’ he said without glancing back. Emma did as he said and turned the key, her face as grave as his. She sat down on the sofa. She did not know what to do. He loved her. She loved him. She had come to London knowing there was an unspoken commitment between them, and yet now she was acting resentful and outraged. Yes, and being a hypocrite, she reproached herself. Her behaviour did not make sense. She closed her eyes and pictured him behind that closed door, waiting to take her to dinner. But also waiting for her decision, one which would determine the outcome of their relationship. Had he passed the decision over to her to avoid responsibility? No, that was unfair. There was no duplicity in him. Why am I frightened of taking this step? she asked herself. And the answer struck her with such force her head spun. She was not afraid of Paul or of her own emotions. She was afraid of the final act of love, of consummation, because of her distasteful sexual experiences with Joe. And she was afraid of hurting Paul by recoiling from him, afraid of failing him as a woman. Perhaps if she explained…

Emma flew across the room, unlocked the door, and stood on the threshold. Paul was hunched over the fireplace, his head bent. He appeared to be in the grips of a terrible anguish.

‘Paul-’

His dark head swung around and he stared at her. She walked to him slowly. ‘I-I-would like to talk to you.’

He nodded, looking down at her soberly. ‘I know I put the burden of the decision on you. But only because I wanted to be absolutely sure of you. I also wanted you to be sure of yourself.’

Emma put out her hand and touched his lapel, her mouth quivering, her eyes darkly green. She had lost all power of speech and she had certainly lost the courage to discuss her feelings.

Paul took her hand in his and kissed the fingertips. ‘Such a small, dear hand,’ he said.

‘Oh, Paul!’

Her face, blazing with her love, told him everything he wanted to know. He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply and then he swept her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He kicked the door shut with his foot and walked over to the bed. He laid her down on it and sat on the edge. ‘Say it, darling,’ he commanded hoarsely. ‘Say it!’ His eyes burned into hers.

‘I love you, Paul.’

‘And?’

‘I want you.’

‘Oh, Emma, Emma, you always have, my darling. Don’t you understand? This was fated to happen from the first moment we set eyes on each other.’ He traced a line down her cheek. ‘I knew. But you had to recognize it, and that is why I would not force the issue tonight. I wanted and needed you to come to me of your own free will.’

He stood up and unbuckled his Sam Browne belt, throwing it to one side. His jacket followed and his tie and his shirt. As he undressed her eyes did not leave his face, and the fear was dissipating, and she thought: I have never seen a man completely naked before. Why, he has a beautiful body. It was tanned and firm with muscle. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his legs long, his stomach flat.

‘Take your robe off, my love,’ he said softly, as he came towards her.

He covered her body with his own and cradled her in his arms, smiling down into her expectant face. ‘It’s such a pity to ruin this exotic hairdo,’ he murmured as he began to pull the pins from her hair. The russet tresses spilled around her shoulders, porcelain fragile and pink in the warm glow of the lamp, and he gasped at her loveliness now so perfectly revealed to him. He ran his hand through the heavy lengths and held her by the nape of her neck, bringing her face up to his own. His lips met hers, savouring their warmth and their sweetness, and they were both engulfed by their longing and the emotions which had been denied release for weeks. He moved his mouth into the hollow of her neck, kissing her shoulders, her breasts, and the deep valley between, and his strong hands smoothed over her firm skin and he caressed every part of her until he knew her fervour matched his own.

Emma was suffused with an unfamiliar warmth, a burning heat that flooded her being. Her whole body arched up, cleaved to him. She ached to be joined to him, to become one with him, and she marvelled at her pleasure in his body and in her own, was astonished at the ease with which her reluctance had fallen away as if it had never existed. And she willingly gave herself to him, receiving his kisses and responding wildly to his demands.

With a stab of surprise he was aware of her lack of sexual sophistication and this touched him, thrilled him further. It was as though he was the first man to possess her. But he also recognized the latent sensuality in her and he drew out that hidden voluptuousness, brought her along the fine edge of desire until she quivered under his touch and called his name, and pledged her love for him.

Paul finally took her to him with flaring passion, his ardour gentled but in no way muted by his tenderness. Silken arms and legs entwined him, fluid and weightless, yet they pulled him down…down…down. He was plunging headlong into a warm blue sea filled with slanting sunlight, carrying her with him. Down faster, into darker, greener depths, green the colour of her eyes. Down into a bottomless ocean. Waves crashed around him. His heart thundered in unison. He thought he was losing consciousness as he spiralled into infinity with her. He felt the warm enveloping softness of her flesh, the rise of her thighs and breasts thrusting against him, the velvet strands of her hair entwined in his fingers. His body locked to hers, spasmed, was submerged in hers. Oh, God! Oh, God! This was the only way it should ever be! A man and a woman joined together, the perfect communion of twin bodies, twin souls. His endless quest was over. That ultimate joy which had so long eluded him was surging through him and he was reborn in her. This was the secret of life, the ecstasy of life, so fleeting in that final moment of truth, but overpowering in its brief intensity. He was floating up, taking her with him to the surface. Up into that radiant light. She was that light. Pure golden light.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her and he saw the flush of unprecedented pleasure on her face, the pulse beating in her neck, the eyes so wide and green and spilling her adoration. And there was a vulnerability in that face, and perfect innocence, and his eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. He kissed her with tenderness and pulled her to him, vowing never to let her go.

Emma lay with her head on his shoulder, dazed, languorous with euphoria, basking in her love. She was filled with peace and the first fulfilment she had ever experienced, and there was wonderment in her eyes as she contemplated the mysterious transformation he had wrought in her, the joy he had given her, and her heart crested high with love for him. Her hand rested on his chest, fingers buried deep in the black hair covering it and she thought: He is a man just like any other man, but with him I am different.

Paul passed his hand over the crown of her head and kissed her hair. There had been so many other women before her, but just as he had believed he was the first man to take her, now he felt she was the only one who had ever truly possessed him. She was in his blood and he would never be free again. The light in his eyes changed, darkened, became anguished as he stared into space.

‘Emma, darling.’

‘Yes, Paul?’

‘I’m married.’

The hand on his chest did not move and she remained utterly motionless in his arms, but she felt as if she had been struck in the face and her stomach lurched. Finally she said in a small voice, ‘You certainly picked an inappropriate time to make your startling announcement.’

He tightened his embrace, resting his head against hers. ‘It’s not inappropriate. I purposely picked this time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted you in my arms when I told you. Intimately, like this. So that I could hold you closer and make you understand how unimportant my marriage is. So that I could love you again and tell you that you are the reality.’ Emma did not reply and he went on anxiously. ‘I wasn’t trying to hide the facts, Emma. It’s not a secret and it might easily have been mentioned in your presence by any one of my friends. I prayed it wouldn’t, of course, because I wanted you to hear it from me. I simply delayed telling you because I was afraid of losing you. I knew you would have disappeared if I’d told you sooner. That you would never have permitted our relationship to go this-’

‘You clever devious bastard!’

She struggled to get off the bed. He pulled her back and pinned her under him with roughness, gazing into her cold white face. Emma thought she was being swamped by the startling blueness of those eyes swimming above hers.

‘It’s not like that, Emma!’ Paul cried furiously, his face blazing. ‘Please believe me. I know what you’re thinking-that I wanted to accomplish my own ends before telling you. But all I wanted to do was make you love me, so that you would be bound to me irrevocably. Once loving me, I knew you would not let the circumstances get in the way. Stand between us. I love you, Emma. You’re the only thing of value in my life.’

‘And your wife!’ she whispered.

‘We have not lived together for six years. And we ceased being man and wife a year before that.’

‘How long have you been married?’ Her voice was almost inaudible.

‘Nine years. Emma, it is a meaningless marriage. It’s not even a marriage. But right now I am tied to her because of-Tied to her legally. After the war is over I’ll sort it out. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. You are my life now. Please, darling, you must believe me.’ His voice shook.

Emma stared at him, her turbulent thoughts clouding her judgement momentarily, and then her head cleared. She could feel the tension rippling through him. His haunted face was naked in its agony and his sincerity leapt from his eyes, stunning her. ‘I believe you,’ she said slowly, in a stronger tone, and ran one finger across his lips. ‘Yes, Paul, oddly enough I do believe you.’

FORTY-SIX

The weeks that followed were enchanted, endless hours filled with rapture so dreamlike in quality time might have been suspended. Days merged into nights, nights drifted into dawns, and every single moment was spun out, intertwined with desire and joy that bound Emma and Paul inexorably together.

They existed only for each other, wanted only each other, rejoiced in each other. They remained in the two adjoining suites at the Ritz Hotel, rarely venturing out except for walks in Green Park and an occasional quiet dinner in a secluded restaurant off the beaten track of fashionable society. They were so wildly, so passionately in love they could barely contain their feelings for each other, were reluctant to share even a minute with friends and jealously guarded their privacy. Plans were cancelled, invitations declined, Bruce McGill and Frank held at bay, and the world was well lost for them both.

They were so overwhelmed by their sexual attraction and their growing love they were unnerved, and they would stare at each other in wonderment that this miracle had occurred. A mere glance was as devouring as a kiss, a simple gesture as meaningful as an embrace, and every word they uttered to each other was cloaked with its own significance.

Emma was filled with incredulity and overpowered by the intensity of her compelling emotions. But for once she did not pause to analyse. She was ecstatic with happiness. Fulfilment and soaring joy now dislodged the grief and hurt and humiliation of years. Love ripped the mask of inscrutability from her face; love exposed her heart in all its vulnerability; she was brought to life by the touch of love. Paul’s adoration, and his deep understanding of her, made dust out of the suspicion and self-protectiveness which were inherent in her nature and which hitherto had ruled her life. She was her true self with him in a way she had never been with another soul. All the guards were finally lowered for the only man she had ever really loved and to whom she had given herself with no reservation.

Paul was a revelation to her. His rakish pose and sardonic manner had long been dropped, but now she was also permitted to know him as no other woman had been allowed before. The reflective and introspective side of him was disclosed and she discovered there was a fine mind behind that handsome and polished façade. She was impressed by his brain and his vast knowledge of the world. She was captivated by his sophistication, and admiring of his savoir-faire that unmistakably sprang from security engendered by old money, the privilege that accompanied great wealth, and an education at Wellington and Oxford. And she was constantly entertained by his swift wit. In short, she was spellbound.

Paul, in turn, was equally besotted, held in the grips of the only genuine love he had experienced in his years of romantic dallying. He believed her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his wanderings around the world; he also thought she was the most intelligent he had known, and her vividness of mind startled him. But the one thing he marvelled at continually was her incredible presence, that quality of personality that set her apart and made her so unique. It was as though an incandescent glow emanated from her innermost core. He could only compare it to that vitality and indefinable charisma that made an alluring actress a great star. For them both it had been a coup de foudre-as though struck by lightning, they had fallen blindingly in love instantaneously.

The days passed in a dreamy haze of passion flaring and assuaged and flaring again with a stronger brighter flame, of animated talk that continued far into the nights, of thoughts and emotions unveiled and shared. They discovered in each other all they had yearned for in a lover and a companion and their communication was a fusion of minds and souls as well as bodies.

One afternoon when they were lying in each other’s arms, exhausted by their passion, Paul said, ‘You won’t mind if I go out for a little while, will you, darling? I have a few things I must attend to.’

‘Not if you promise to hurry back,’ Emma replied, brushing her lips against his chest.

‘Nothing could keep me away from you for longer than an hour. I’ll be back by four,’ he said, kissing the strands of her hair. He released his hold of her and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later freshly shaven, his black hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around his waist. From her position on the bed Emma observed him stealthily like a cat, her intent green gaze riveted on him, and she discovered she derived enormous pleasure from watching him occupied in so simple a task as dressing. He picked up his shirt from the chair and the muscles on his wide back rippled and she had to suppress the impulse to run to him and enfold him in her arms. She thought: He has become my whole world.

He buckled the Sam Browne belt on over his army jacket and strode over to the bed. He bent down and kissed her and her arms went around his neck. He removed her arms gently after a moment. ‘I have to go, sweetheart.’

‘And I wonder just where you are going,’ Emma said, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. ‘Shaved and groomed and scented to high heaven. Why, Major McGill, if you have a rendezvous with another woman I’ll scratch your eyes out. I swear I will! And hers, too!’

He grinned and touched the tip of her nose playfully. ‘O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!’

‘Waxing poetic, Major?’ she teased.

‘Stolen from Shakespeare, I must confess. Henry VI.’ Paul kissed her fingertips, his hand tightening, his eyes penetrating. ‘And if you ever so much as look at another man I will kill you.’ He stood up. ‘Be a good girl. I won’t be long.’

After he had left, Emma busied herself with telephone calls to her secretary at the store and to her housekeeper, anxious to reassure herself that all was well in Yorkshire during her absence. Relieved that everything was still under control since yesterday’s calls, she then spoke to Frank at the Chronicle.

‘Good Lord! No wonder it’s snowing!’ Frank exclaimed on hearing her voice. ‘So he’s let you out of his clutches long enough for you to ring me.’ He laughed. ‘I’m only joking. I’m happy for you, Emma.’

‘Oh, Frank, I’m happy, too. So very happy I can’t believe it. And you’re wrong for once. I’m the one who’s let Paul out of my clutches for an hour.’

‘Mmmmm! I see! Well, I must say, he’s apparently very good for you. I’ve never heard you sound better. But why didn’t you tell me who he actually is?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That he is the only son, the only child, of the Bruce McGill. A millionaire and one of the most powerful men in Australia. I suppose you know Paul stands to inherit a fortune. A vast sheep ranch. Mineral rights and mining. Coal fields, and God knows what else.’

‘He’s mentioned the family’s various business interests, of course. But how do you know so much all of a sudden?’

‘I was with Dolly Mosten the other day and she was telling me a few things about Paul-’

‘What else did she tell you?’ Emma asked suspiciously, her heart sinking.

‘Nothing. That was all. She simply remarked that the McGill family was extremely rich and powerful. What’s wrong? You sound edgy.’

‘No, I don’t.’ She laughed. ‘How are you, Frank? Are you all right, dear?’ she inquired, quickly changing the subject.

‘Yes, everything is fine. But I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time, Emma. I can’t really talk right now. I have to go into an editorial conference. Can you call me tomorrow so we can chat longer, love?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Take care now. Give my best to Paul. Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Frank.’

Emma put the telephone down and stared at it, her face brooding, her thoughts weaving a tortuous web in her head as she contemplated the McGill family, or, more precisely, the mysterious Mrs Paul McGill. The wife he had never referred to again and about whom she had not dared to question him; had not wanted to know about. But now Emma was unexpecpectedly eaten up with curiosity. What did she look like? Was she beautiful? How old was she? Why had the marriage gone awry? Did they have children? Was that the reason Paul had never divorced, in spite of his long separation? Emma closed her eyes, crushing the questions flaring in her mind. She would not open Pandora’s box. He would tell her everything eventually, she was certain of that, and she did not want anything to mar the time they had left together. This very precious time.

She looked at the clock on the mantelshelf and to her surprise she realized Paul had been absent for over two hours. It was already five-thirty. For no logical reason she was seized by panic. This feeling was irrational, but none the less, her nervousness increased, and she had the sudden premonition that Paul would be leaving her imminently. He had carefully refrained from mentioning the date of his departure, but she was aware that two weeks had flown by. In Yorkshire he had told her time was running out. Has it now done so? she asked herself, dismay trickling through her.

To still her disquieting thoughts, Emma hurried into the bathroom and preoccupied herself with her toilet. She took a hot bath, towelled herself dry, sprayed her body with perfume, and went into the bedroom. She put on a long powder-blue panne velvet housecoat she had designed herself and which Paul admired on her. It was in the French Empire style with a high waist, tight bodice, long sleeves, and frogging from the low square neckline to the hem, and it gave her the air of an ingénue. She brushed her long hair and left it hanging loose the way he preferred it, and after she had added a little lip rouge and the emerald earrings she drifted through into the sitting room to wait. By seven o’clock agitation swamped her, and the panic began to disintegrate into real fear. Where was he? Had he had an accident? She clenched her hands in her lap, every muscle tense. And then instinctively she knew. Paul was at the War Office receiving his orders. He was leaving. She was positive this was so. The war! Forgotten for days whilst they had lived blindly in their ecstasy. He might be killed…he might never come back…She pressed her hands to her aching eyes.

‘Here I am, my sweet,’ he said, coming through the door that linked his suite to hers.

Emma dropped her hands, jumped up, and ran to him, her face taut. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’ she gasped, grabbing the lapels of his trench coat.

‘Nothing is going to happen to me,’ he reassured her. ‘I have a guardian angel. And anyway, my time’s not up yet. There are all those years earmarked for me. Years to be spent with you. You haven’t forgotten that you are my destiny, have you? It hasn’t been fulfilled, yet, my love.’

Her heart began to beat more normally. She looked up at him, smiled, and pulled away. ‘Your coat is wet through,’ she said. ‘You’d better take your clothes off before you catch your death.’

His eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter. ‘That’s the best proposition I’ve had in the last four hours, madame.’ He winked suggestively.

‘Oh, you know what I mean, you wretch!’

‘I hope I do,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ve already ordered dinner for nine o’clock, and there’s a bottle of champagne cooling in my suite. Excuse me, angel, I’ll be right back,’ he called over his shoulder.

When Paul returned he had changed into civilian clothes. He wore a white silk shirt, a pair of black worsted trousers, and a silk smoking jacket striped in burgundy and black. He looked casually elegant as he carried the champagne bucket to the console. ‘I think it’s cold enough,’ he said, opening the bottle of Dom Pérignon.

Once more Emma watched him alertly. Just as his eyes normally followed her every movement, now hers were concentrated on him, and she saw him afresh. When he had been gone for a period of time, however brief, she was always startled by the impact his looks had on her when he reappeared. It was no one thing in particular but the sum total of the man. And she was inevitably struck by his commanding manner, the panache with which he did everything.

He caught her staring at him and pursed his lips, grinning with fond amusement. He strode over and handed her the glass of champane. ‘I ‘aint bin wiv anover leidy, I swear I ’ain’t,’ he said, adopting a Cockney accent.

‘I ’opes yer ‘ain’t,’ she said, responding in kind. But her eyes were serious, searching his face, and she was afraid to ask where he had been. ‘You were gone so long, darling,’ she murmured softly.

‘I had to see my father about a few things. Business matters to discuss,’ Paul said, clinking her glass. ‘Here’s to you, my lovely Emma.’

‘To us.’

Paul leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ve neglected the old man these last few weeks-’

‘It’s all my fault!’

‘No, it’s not. It’s nobody’s fault,’ he countered swiftly, and flashed her his boyish grin. ‘He has an understanding heart-when it comes to matters of the heart.’

‘Nevertheless, I’ve deprived him of your company at a crucial time, and kept you away from all of your other friends.’

‘Ah, but you must think only of the happiness you have given me and not be concerned with them. I’m not. It was my choice. I do believe I made the rules, didn’t I? Anyway, we could have seen people if I had considered it important. I didn’t. There wasn’t a soul in the world I wanted to be with but you. Others would have profaned our private world. This special world we have created for ourselves, here in our little cocoon. I didn’t want anything to intrude, to shatter the illusion.’

‘You make it sound as if what we have exists only here!’

He stared at her and an eyebrow went up in a quirk. ‘No, I don’t! Good God, Emma, surely you know this is real wherever we are, and wherever we might be in the future. This is no illusion. This is reality. I’ve told you that before.’

Her heart lifted. ‘I’m glad it’s not an illusory world we have been living in. I would hate to wake up and discover it has all been a dream-’

Paul saw the smile slip, the cloud cross her face. Acutely in tune with her moods, he leaned forward and touched her knee and asked, ‘What is it, Em? Is something troubling you, darling?’

‘You were at the War Office. And then you went to see your father, to say goodbye, didn’t you? You’re going, aren’t you, Paul? And very soon.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted quietly.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Oh, my God!’

He crossed to the sofa and took the glass of champagne from her shaking hand and placed it on the table. He drew her close to him, looking into her anxious face. ‘I read something at Oxford years ago, about lovers who were about to be separated. It has always stayed in my mind. It went something like this: “This parting cannot be for long; for those who love as we do cannot be parted. We shall always be united in thought, and thought is a great magnet. I have often spoken to thee of reason, now I speak to thee of faith.” ‘ He saw that her eyes, so steadfastly fixed on his, were filled with tears. He tenderly brushed them away from her long lashes with his fingertips. ‘Don’t, my darling. Please don’t.’

‘I’m sorry, Paul. It was those words. They moved me so. Who said them?’ she asked tremulously.

‘Abélard to Héloïse. They were uttered centuries ago, but they are as true now as they ever were then. Don’t forget them, my Emma, and please have faith. And believe that we will always be united in thought and therefore as one. And know, too, that I will carry you in my heart for the rest of my life.’

‘Oh, Paul! I love you so much! I cannot bear to be without you!’

His clenched fist came up under her chin, moving against it lightly. ‘Come along, sweetheart. You must be brave. And we’re not going to talk about my leaving any more. We are going to think only of now. There is only now. At least until this mess is over.’ The roguish smile crossed his wide mouth and his eyes swept over her in the old appraising way. ‘And we do have hours of pleasure ahead of us yet. The whole night, in fact,’ he said. He leered at her theatrically, endeavouring to distract her, wanting to make her laugh. ‘And my dear, I must honestly confess that one might with you is worth-’

‘Why, you wicked letch! You-you-reprobate,’ she exclaimed, smiling lovingly through her tears.

‘A fairly accurate description of me, I would say, especially when it comes to you.’ He took her in his arms and moved his lips along the soft curve of her cheek and down the line of her neck. He began to speak in a low voice, using expressions of such love and intimacy the blush rose to her cheeks. She clutched at him, her fingers biting into his arm. Her heart raced as he pushed her back on the sofa, pressed his body against hers, and began to unfasten the buttons on her robe. His eyes were so brilliant she was blinded. She closed her eyes as he brought his lips to hers.

FORTY-SEVEN

‘Amputate!’ Emma cried, her face turning deathly white. ‘But he has been so well for the last few days.’

‘No, he hasn’t. Your brother has been hiding the facts from you, Mrs Lowther. He has also been refusing to have the operation. Despite our warnings he has been fighting us. But you can’t fight gangrene. It’s virulent, and ultimately deadly.’

Emma sat down abruptly, her eyes pinned on the doctor. ‘Isn’t there an alternative?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘No, there isn’t. Unless you want to call death an alternative.’ Seeing the fear registering on her face, the doctor seated himself next to her and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be brutal. But circumstances necessitate honesty, even bluntness, I’m afraid. Time is of the essence.’

‘What happened, Doctor? I thought you had been able to remove all the shrapnel from his foot and calf.’

‘We did, but the gangrene set in several days ago and it travels rapidly. It’s already above his knee. You must sign the papers giving us permission to operate. Otherwise-’ He lifted his hands helplessly, his face grave.

Emma swallowed. ‘But-but-Winston has to make that decision-’

‘Mrs Lowther, don’t you understand? Your brother is incapable of making the decision in his present state of mind. You must take the responsibility. Now. Today. Tomorrow will be too late.’

Emma bit her lip and nodded. Her heart was heavy as she said, ‘Give me the papers, please.’

The doctor stepped to his desk, returned with the documents, and handed them to her with the pen. ‘You are doing the right thing, Mrs Lowther. The only thing you can do. Your brother will be grateful to you for the rest of his life. Please believe that.’

Emma looked at him sombrely but made no comment. She signed, and although she was quivering inside, her hand was steady. ‘May I see my brother now?’ she asked dully.

‘Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him right away,’ the doctor said. His face was sympathetic as he led her out of the office.

Winston was in a ward with other sailors who had been wounded. Screens had been placed around him, and as Emma walked past them and approached the bed she saw that his eyes were glazed over with pain and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. She leaned down to kiss him and he let out a stifled scream, his eyes febrile. Emma pulled back in alarm. ‘Whatever is it, Winston, dear?’

‘You touched the bed,’ he moaned. ‘I can’t stand the slightest movement. The pain is excruciating.’ He drew in his breath sharply and closed his eyes.

Emma watched him with consternation. After a moment she said with the utmost quiet, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had gangrene, Winston?’

He opened his eyes and glared at her, the old bravado of childhood momentarily invading his face. ‘I’m not having it off, Emma!’ he cried vehemently. ‘I’m not going to be a cripple for the rest of my life!’

Emma sat down on the chair near the bed and nodded, her heart aching for him. ‘I know how you must feel, dear. It’s a terrible thing to have to face. But if they don’t amputate you’ll-you’ll die.’

‘Then I’ll die!’ he shouted, defiance now supplanting the feverishness in his blue eyes. ‘I might just as well be dead with only one leg! I’m a young man, Emma, and my life will be over. Finished.’

‘No, it won’t, darling. You will be incapacitated to a certain extent, I realize that. And the prospects must seem terrifying to you right now. But isn’t amputation preferable to not being here at all?’

‘I’m not having my leg off,’ he mumbled in a tired voice.

Emma’s tone was pleading as she continued, ‘Winston, listen to me. You must have the operation. You must, dear. And immediately. If you delay any longer your whole system will be poisoned.’ Her voice broke at this thought. ‘If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Please! Please, Winston!’ she begged. ‘I love you very much. Apart from the children, you and Frank are the only family I have-’ She groped in her bag for a handkerchief, pulled it out, and blew her nose, attempting to control herself. ‘I’ve had too many losses in the last few years, Winston. Mam, Dad, Joe, and Laura. And then Aunt Lily only last week. I don’t think I could endure the loss of another loved one. I just couldn’t. It would kill me.’ Tears filled her eyes, and she finished tremulously, ‘I just couldn’t stand it if you died, too, love.’

‘Don’t cry, Emma. Please don’t cry, pet.’ A spasm of pain streaked through him like a ripping knife and he flinched, his face ashen and sweating more profusely now. He sighed. ‘All right, then, let them cut it off. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I can take the pain much longer.’ A faint smile touched his white lips. ‘Half a loaf is better than no bread at all, I suppose. You’d better sign the papers and get it over with, Emma.’

‘I already did.’

He mustered a grin. ‘I might have known. Old Miss Bossy Knickers.’

Emma smiled weakly. ‘It’s going to be fine, Winston. I know it is. The doctor is preparing the operating theatre now. In a few minutes the nurses will be coming in to get you ready.’ She stood up. ‘I have to go. The doctor said I must make it brief. Every minute counts now.’

‘Emma-’

‘Yes, love?’

‘Will you-can you wait?’

‘Of course I’ll wait, dear. I wouldn’t dream of leaving until it’s all over.’ She blew him a kiss, not daring to approach the bed again.

Emma gazed out of the window of the waiting room of Chapel Allerton Naval Hospital, her thoughts with Winston, now undergoing surgery. How frightening for him to lose a leg. He who had taken such pride in his good looks, and his virility, who had loved sports and dancing and was so physical by nature. She acknowledged that he would indeed have a number of major readjustments to make, and in many ways he would have to start a new life. But, despite the restrictions the amputation of his right leg would impose, she was thankful he was alive. He had been wounded during a naval battle in the North Sea. His battleship had staggered into Hull half crippled, and it was nothing short of a miracle that the ship had made it to that great Humber port, so fortuitously close to Leeds and the naval hospital. Otherwise he might be dead by now.

Emma leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. In a few weeks she would be twenty-nine. Only twenty-nine and yet she felt like an old woman, weary and worn out from her responsibilities these days. A nurse thoughtfully brought her a cup of tea and Emma sat down to drink it-and to wait. That seemed to have become one of her chief occupations of late: waiting. Mostly she waited for letters from Paul, feeling crushed and apprehensive when she did not receive one, filled with soaring relief when there was a note, however brief and hastily written.

She took Paul’s last letter out of her handbag and read it again. It was worn from too much handling and some of the words had blurred from her tears. He had returned to France to rejoin Colonel Monash and the Australian Corps in the middle of February. Now it was the beginning of April. But he was still safe and well. When Paul had left he had taken an essential part of her with him and she felt incomplete, only half alive without him.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Almost two hours had passed since Winston had been wheeled down to the operating room. Had something gone wrong? Had they been too late? Quite unexpectedly, just when she thought she was going to scream from frustration, the doctor strode in. He was nodding and smiling. ‘He’s fine, Mrs Lowther.’

Emma closed her eyes and exhaled with relief. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely! He’s a little woozy from the anaesthetic, but he’s young, healthy, and strong. He’ll mend well.’ The doctor’s eyes clouded. ‘There is just one thing-’

‘What?’

‘We had to amputate very high. The gangrene was well above the knee and we had to cut a good four inches above that, to be certain we got it all.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’

‘It means there’s the possibility he might not be able to wear an artificial limb.’

‘My brother’s not going to spend the rest of his life on crutches,’ Emma cried. ‘Or in a wheelchair. He’s going to wear an artificial leg if-if I have to damn well design a special one myself! My brother is going to walk, Doctor!’

And walk he did. But it was a gruelling period for Emma. Winston’s mood swings were erratic and, not unnaturally, highly emotional. He plunged from relief in being alive to depression, from depression to rage, frustration, and self-pity, and then unexpectedly the euphoria returned, but soon to be replaced by foul black moods. Emma cajoled, threatened, screamed, implored, and challenged, using every ruse she knew to shatter the melancholia that engulfed him and lift him out of it, her only tools her stubborn belief in the indomitability of the human spirit and her conviction that anything was possible in life, if the will was strong enough. Slowly she made progress with Winston, badgering him relentlessly, and after several weeks she managed to instil in him the determination to lead a normal life. She gave him strength, and her optimism bolstered his own natural courage.

The Limb Fitting Centre at Chapel Allerton Hospital in Leeds was already renowned throughout England for the remarkable feats of rehabilitation accomplished there since the outset of the Great War. The doctors worked painstakingly with the men, especially those who had lost legs, endeavouring to get them ambulatory in the shortest possible time. Winston was no exception. His flesh healed quickly and within two months the doctors had him moving about on crutches. He was fitted for a leg, released from the hospital, and went to live with Emma during his recuperation period. To Emma’s relief, when the leg arrived he was able to wear it, in spite of the shortness of the stump. All that was required were two extra stump socks to cushion the stump against the metal. Three times a week he was driven to Chapel Allerton Hospital in one of the Harte vans, where he underwent physical therapy and wore the leg for half an hour at a stretch. And so he commenced the long and difficult task of adjustment to the artificial leg and learning to walk with it correctly.

One day in October, eight months after the amputation, Winston literally strolled into Emma’s office, self-confident, smiling, steady on his feet, and in absolute control of the leg, and it was one of the most gratifying moments of her life. His limp was negligible and he had taken her advice, proffered months before, to make the leg an integral part of him.

‘I can’t dance, but there’s not much else I can’t do,’ he informed her proudly. He placed his walking stick on a chair, moved across the room without it, and sat down. ‘I can certainly move with great speed if I have to and I can climb and descend stairs easily. Belive it or not, I can also swim. And now that I have the final release from the hospital I am going to look for a job.’

‘But Winston, I told you months ago you could come and work for me. Why don’t you?’

Winston frowned. ‘Here at the store? But what would I do?’

‘You’ve always liked figures. I could put you in bookkeeping until you get used to things, and then I would like you to become my assistant. I need somebody I can trust implicitly. Don’t forget, I have other businesses, Winston, as well as the store.’ Emma paused, eyeing him carefully, and finished, ‘For instance, there’s the Emeremm Company.’

‘What’s that? You’ve never mentioned it before.’ Winston looked at her with alertness.

‘It’s a holding and acquisition company, which I formed in 1917.’ Emma leaned forward. ‘I financed it myself and I own one hundred per cent of the shares, but it’s run for me by a man called Ted Jones. Apart from Ted, and the other directors, no one else knows I’m behind it. Except for you, now. I want to keep it that way, Winston. Not even Frank knows, so don’t ever discuss it with him.’

‘I would never talk about your business to anyone,’ he said quickly. ‘But why all the secrecy?’

‘Mostly because men don’t like doing business with a woman, especially in areas of high finance. There are other reasons, personal reasons, but they are not important for the moment.’

Winston grinned. ‘You are a dark horse!’ he exclaimed. ‘And even more successful than I realized. You know, I think I’d like to work for you, Emma. It sounds challenging.’

‘I’m delighted. You can start on Monday if you like. It’s up to you. However, there are a few things you should know about me, Winston, if you are going to work here. First of all, I don’t like surprises, especially nasty ones. So you must always tell me everything. And if you make any mistakes, don’t hide them. As long as I’m informed they can be corrected. Secondly, I want you to understand something else and this is imperative. I never deal from a position of fear. Only from strength, and if I don’t have that strength I make damned sure the world thinks I do. You will have to learn to do the same if you’re going to act on my behalf. Do you think you can?’

‘Yes, Emma.’

‘Good.’ Her eyes focused on him intently. ‘I believe the key to success in business is discipline, dedication, concentration, and patience. And I won’t tolerate temperament in business. It is immature. I am not suggesting you are temperamental, but I want you to comprehend that you must always keep a cool head and you must never let emotions get in the way.’ She smiled. ‘Any questions, Winston?’

‘Yes, quite a lot.’ He grinned engagingly. ‘But they can wait until later. Until I start working for you on Monday. Right now I have an appointment.’

‘Who with?’ she asked in surprise.

‘With one of the nurses from the hospital. That pretty brunette-Charlotte. I’m taking her out to tea.’

Emma laughed gaily. ‘You don’t waste much time, do you? But I’m glad to hear it. Now I know you’re really your old self.’

Emma had told Winston only half the truth about her attitude towards business. Over the years she had embraced a merciless philosophy-never show weakness, never lose face, never confide. She had also mastered the art of compromise and this instinct towards accommodation had served her well, permitting her to negotiate and manoeuvre with more flexibility than many of her competitors, who were rigid. Since she had a particular aversion to conflict and confrontation, she preferred always to move in roundabout ways and if necessary with stealth, and she was to acquire much of her power by stealth.

Later that afternoon, when Winston had left, she moved covertly in the direction of the Fairleys and struck a deadly blow at their business enterprises. Her strategy was simple: she manipulated a weak and foolish man, who blithely, if unwittingly, put Gerald Fairley exactly where Emma wanted him-in her clutches.

This development had not occurred by accident. One of the first purchases the Emeremm Company had made in 1917 was Procter and Procter, a wholesale cloth warehouse in Bradford. Emma bought it for several reasons. It was a sound investment, even though it had been mismanaged over the years. Also, the sprawling warehouse sat on a prime piece of land in the centre of Bradford, and Emma knew this land could only increase in value over the years. But aside from the company’s potential, Alan Procter, the owner, was a crony of Gerald Fairley’s and Emma had recognized that here was a conduit to her sworn enemy, a source of vital information about the latter’s activities.

At first Alan Procter had been reluctant to sell, despite the fact that he had run the company into the ground, had innumerable creditors and personal debts, many of them due to his inveterate gambling. However, the Emeremm Company’s terms were so appealing they inevitably won Procter. Emma had made the terms irresistible. The purchase price was fair without being so excessive as to create suspicion. More importantly to Procter, he was offered a contract to remain as chairman of the board at a salary he could not afford to dismiss. There was one clause-Procter must not reveal the change of ownership of his company. If he did his contract would be instantly terminated.

Seeing his problems miraculously disappearing before his eyes, the venal and exigent Procter had not bothered to question the necessity for this secrecy. In fact, he had rather welcomed it, envisioning a means of continuing to run his company, at the same time solving his personal and business debts and saving face in Bradford. He sold, signed the employment contract with its secrecy-of-ownership clause, and in so doing became the property of Emma Harte. Emma had instructed Ted Jones to put an Emeremm man inside Procter and Procter. ‘Procter is merely a front. I want his hands tied so that he cannot do any further damage to the business. And whoever you put in must ingratiate himself with Procter. Become his confidant.’

Her scheme worked. Procter had a loose tongue, especially after it had been well oiled over splendid luncheons with the new managing director-the Emeremm man. All manner of useful information came filtering in to Emma about Procter’s associates in Leeds and Bradford, many of them her competititors, and prominent amongst it was a great deal about the Fairleys.

Through Procter Emma learned early in 1918 that Gerald Fairley was in dire straits with Thompson’s mill and wanted to sell. ‘Buy it for as little as possible,’ she coldly told Ted Jones. Using Procter and Procter as the purchaser, the Emeremm Company acquired Thompson’s. Believing he was selling to Alan Procter, an old and trusted friend, and because of his strained financial situation, Gerald Fairley had accepted a quarter of the mill’s true value, to Emma’s immense satisfaction.

Now a piece of new information had landed on Emma’s desk that very morning, and it had brought her head up with a jolt. Gerald Fairley had lost heavily at cards and had gone running to Alan Procter. He wanted to borrow two hundred thousand pounds. Procter had blabbed to the Emeremm man and had inquired about the possibility of making a corporate loan to Gerald Fairley.

Emma’s vivid eyes rested on the memorandum again and a curious glint entered them. She recognized that here was the opportunity she had been waiting for and she seized it, moving with her usual swiftness. She picked up the telephone and spoke to Ted Jones at the Emeremm Company in London. ‘You can inform Alan Procter he can make that corporate loan to Fairley.’

‘What are the terms, Mrs Harte?’

‘I want a noncontestable one-hundred-eighty-day note. But I want the note collateralized.’

‘What kind of collateral, Mrs Harte?’

‘The deeds to the Fairley mills in Armley and Stanningley Bottom.’

Ted Jones sucked in his breath. ‘Rather steep terms, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Those are my terms,’ Emma said icily. ‘Gerald Fairley can take them or leave them. It’s no skin off my nose either way. He won’t be able to raise the money anywhere else. He’s in too deep with the banks. I also happen to know he has borrowed heavily from some of his father’s old business associates. He owes Procter money personally as well.’ She laughed dryly. ‘Where is Mr Gerald Fairley going to go, Ted?’

‘You have a point there. I’ll pass on the terms to our man at Procter and Procter and he can relay them to Alan. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.’

‘I’m in no hurry, Ted. I’m not in trouble. It’s Fairley who is sinking.’

‘Yes, he is. The damned fool. It takes some sort of genius for ineptness to suffer losses in wartime when every other cloth manufacturer has made a fortune from government contracts.’

That’s very true. Goodbye, Ted,’ She hung up.

Emma leaned back in her chair and a gloating smile settled on that beautiful face. It’s all happening sooner than I expected, she thought. It struck her then that she did not have to make a serious effort to destroy the Fairleys. Gerald was doing it for her. Ever since Adam Fairley had been felled by a stroke Gerald had been in total control of the mills and without his father’s guidance he was floundering. All I have to do now is sit back and watch him dig a pit so deep he will never climb out, Emma said to herself.

Later she acknowledged that Gerald would undoubtedly fight the Procter and Procter terms, but he would have to accept them eventually out of the necessity to save his skin. And he would never be able to raise the money to pay off the note on its due date. But she could afford to be generous. She would extend the note for a few months and thus lull Gerald Fairley into a greater sense of false security. When she was ready she would foreclose on the note and take over the Fairley mills. Emma laughed. She had Gerald Fairley cornered and he was in complete ignorance of the fact.

As she had suspected, Gerald Fairley at first balked at the terms and backed off from the proposition for longer than she had anticipated. To her considerable amusement she heard he was running around endeavouring to raise the money he required. He was miserably unsuccessful. After four days, panic-stricken and dealing from a position of increasing desperation, he finally slunk back to Alan Procter and signed the noncontestable corporate note to which he had been forced to attach the deeds of the two Fairley mills. He did so because, once again, he thought he was dealing with a friend whom he believed would never make a move to endanger the ownership of his mills.

One week later, when Emma placed the note and the deeds in her safe, her triumph was unalloyed.

FORTY-EIGHT

David Kallinski pulled the car to a standstill outside Emma’s house, and turned to her. ‘Thanks for working this morning, Emma. It was good of you to give up part of your Sunday with the children.’

Emma smiled. ‘I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t, David. Actually I was glad to get the summer sketches for the Lady Hamilton line out of my hair, and I knew you were anxious to put them into work immediately.’ She opened the car door. ‘Are you sure you won’t come in for a drink?’

‘No. Thanks anyway, but I’ve got to be going. I promised my father I’d stop in to see him.’ He caught her arm abruptly. ‘Emma, there’s something I want to tell you.’

So intense was his voice Emma was alarmed. ‘Is there something wrong, David?’

‘I’m thinking of geting a divorce.’

Thunderstruck, Emma gaped at him in disbelief. ‘A divorce! My God, David!’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘Aren’t things quite right between you and Rebecca?’

‘No better than before the war.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m finding life intolerable since I came home. I might as well be honest with you-’ He broke off, staring at her closely. ‘I’m still in love with you, Emma. I thought if I was free-Well, I had hoped you would marry me.’

Emma stiffened, taken unawares, and shaken by his proposal. ‘Oh, David, David.’ She touched his hand clenched on the car wheel and said, ‘My dear, you know that’s not possible. I didn’t make that sacrifice nine years ago, when you were single, in order to create a catastrophe now that you are married. It would kill your mother. Besides, you have two young sons and I have two children. There are other people to think about, as well as Rebecca and yourself. I told you years ago that it’s not possible to build happiness on other people’s misery, and I know I’m right.’

‘But what about you and me, Emma?’ he asked, his eyes filling with pain.

‘There is no you and me, David.’ Sharply conscious of his disappointment, she said softly, ‘I hope I haven’t done anything to encourage you, David. Surely I haven’t built up your hopes, have I?’

He grinned ruefully. ‘No, of course you haven’t. And I haven’t spoken out before now because I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. Finally, last week, I knew I had to tell you how I felt. Being silent was accomplishing nothing. You see, I always thought you loved me, even after you married Joe. All through the war I believed that. It kept me going, kept me alive, in a sense. My feelings are exactly the same as they were and so I assumed yours were, too. But you don’t love me anymore, do you?’

‘Oh, David, darling, of course I do. As a dear friend. To be truthful, I was still in love with you when I married Joe. Now I have a different kind of love for you, and I am different. The vicissitudes of life do intrude and ultimately feelings change as well. I’ve come to understand that the only thing that is permanent is change.’

‘You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you?’ he exclaimed with a flash of intuition.

Emma did not answer. She dropped her eyes and clutched her handbag tightly and her mouth slipped into a thin line.

David said, ‘I know the answer to that, although you are silent. You don’t have to spare my feelings,’ he announced crisply but without rancour. ‘I ought to have guessed. Nine years is a long time. Are you going to marry him?’

‘No. He’s gone away. He doesn’t live in this country. I don’t think he will ever come back.’ Her voice was muffled.

David detected the sorrow and defeat in her, and despite his own hurt, sympathy surged up in him, for he truly loved her and had her welfare at heart. He put his hand on hers and squeezed it. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Emma.’

Emma looked at him through dulled eyes. ‘It’s all right. My wound is almost healed-I hope.’

‘There’s no chance for me, is there, Emma? Even with him out of the picture.’

‘That’s true, David. And I will always tell you the truth, although it is often distressing to hear. I would not intentionally hurt you for the world, and there’s very little I can say to comfort you, I suppose. Please forgive me, David.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, Emma. I can’t condemn you for not being in love with me anymore.’ His eyes were soft. ‘I hope you find peace yourself, Emma darling.’

‘I hope so, too.’ She opened the door. ‘No, please don’t get out.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Think carefully before you do anything rash about Rebecca and your marriage. She is a good person and she does love you. And remember that you are very special to me, David. I’m your friend and I’m always here if you need me.’

‘Thank you for that. And I’m your devoted friend, too, Emma, and if there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you, now or later, you know I will.’ He smiled. ‘It seems we’re both crossed in love. If you need a strong shoulder-well, it’s here.’

‘Thank you for being so kind and understanding.’ She attempted to smile. ‘I’ll see you at the factory as usual next week. Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Emma darling.’

Emma walked up the garden path without looking back, her feet crunching on the hard snow, her head bent. She was filled with compassion for David, conscious of his dejection, and his suffering was her own. Her face was stark in the bleak winter light as her thoughts swung abruptly to Paul. She stopped at the front door, and took a deep breath before going inside. She took off her coat and hat in the hall, looked in on Mrs Fenton, who was preparing Sunday lunch in the kitchen, and then wearily climbed the staircase to the nursery.

It was the week before Christmas in the year 1919. Exactly twelve months ago Paul McGill had been in this house with her and the children and her brothers. The Great War had finally ended in November, and Paul had come to stay with them before returning to Australia to be demobilized. It had been a joyous Christmas, full of gaiety and love. Emma had been giddy with happiness, and more deeply in love with Paul than she had believed possible. She had felt as if everything she had always yearned for and desired was hers at last. Hers for ever. But now she had nothing…a broken heart and loneliness and despair. How foolish she had been to have believed it could be otherwise. Personal happiness always eluded her. And how different this Christmas would be. Her hand rested on the doorknob of the nursery. She thought: I must make an effort and be cheerful for the children’s sake.

Kit was seated at the table painting. His eyes lit up and he jumped down and skittered across the floor. He flung himself at Emma. ‘Mummy! Mummy! I’m so glad you’re home,’ he shouted, hugging Emma’s legs.

She kissed the top of his head. ‘Good gracious, Kit, whatever have you been doing? You seem to have more paint on yourself than there is on the paper. And what are you painting, sweetheart?’

‘You can’t see it! Not yet. It’s a picture. For you, Mummy. A Christmas present.’ Kit, who was now eight years old, looked up at Emma, wrinkling his nose and grinning. ‘You can have a peek if you want.’

‘Not if it’s meant to be a surprise.’

‘You might not like it, Mumsie. If you don’t, I can paint another one. It’s bestest you have a look, just in case. Come on.’ Kit grabbed Emma’s hand and dragged her across the room.

‘Best, not bestest, darling,’ Emma corrected, and looked down at the painting. It was childlike, awkwardly composed, out of perspective and splashed haphazardly with gaudy colours. It depicted a man in a uniform. Emma held her breath. There was no doubt in her mind who it was meant to be. Not with that thick black smudge across the upper lip and the bright blue eyes. ‘It’s very good, darling,’ Emma said, her face pensive.

‘It’s Uncle Paul. Can you tell? Does it look like him? Do you really like it, Mummy?’

‘I do indeed. Where’s your sister?’ Emma asked, changing the subject.

‘Oh, stuffy old Edwina’s in her room, reading or something. She wouldn’t play with me this morning. Oh well, who cares! I want to finish this painting, Mummy.’ Kit climbed back on to the chair, picked up the brush, and attacked the painting with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. A look of concentration settled on his freckled face. ‘I must get it just right for you, Mums. I think I’ll put a kangaroo in it. And a polar bear.’

‘Don’t you mean koala bear, Kit?’

‘Well, a bear, Mummy. Uncle Paul told me there were bears in Australia.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Emma said absently. ‘Lunch in half an hour, Kit. And don’t forget to tidy up before coming down.’ She rumpled his hair and hurried out to her own room, feeling the need to be alone to collect her scattered thoughts.

Winter sun was pouring in through the tall windows and the room was awash with rafts of pristine light. The deep peach walls and the matching carpet had taken on a golden hue and the pale green watered silk covering the bed, the sofa, and several small chairs held a faint shimmer as though shot through with silvery grey. Georgian antiques, their patinas mellow, punctuated the room with dark colour and the crystal lamps with their cream silk shades cast a warm glow against the rosy walls. A fire blazed in the white marble fireplace and the ambiance was cheerful. Emma hardly noticed her surroundings. She stood in front of the fire warming her hands, the old iciness of childhood trickling through her limbs. Her head throbbed and she felt more depressed than usual.

David’s declaration of his love for her and her subsequent rejection of him had served to underscore the searing torment Paul McGill had caused her. Always prominent in her mind, this feeling was now more rampant than ever, and she felt utterly defeated. After a moment she crossed to the chest of drawers and opened the bottom drawer. She pushed her hands under the silk nightgowns and lifted out the photograph of Paul. She had placed it there weeks ago, no longer able to bear the sight of it on her dressing table. Her eyes rested on that well-loved face, took in the direct gaze of the eyes underneath the thick brows, the smile on the wide mouth, and her lacerated heart ached. Unexpectedly, a furious anger invaded her and she hurled the photograph across the room with great force, her eyes blazing.

The moment it left her hand she regretted her immature action and ran to pick it up. The silver frame had been dented and the glass had shattered, but to her relief the photograph was undamaged. She knelt on the floor, gathering up the broken glass and placing it in the wastepaper basket. She sat down in the chair by the fire, hugging the photograph to her, thinking about Paul. The photograph had been taken the preceding January, just prior to his leaving England, when they were staying at the Ritz together. He was wearing his major’s uniform and looked incredibly handsome. She saw him then, in her mind’s eye, standing on the platform at Euston, before he boarded the boat train. He had tilted her face to his and looked deeply into her eyes, his own spilling with love. ‘I’ll come back, my dearest darling. I promise I will be back before you know I’m even gone,’ he had said. And she, imbecile that she was, had believed him.

She looked down at the picture. ‘Why didn’t you come back, Paul? You promised! You vowed nothing could keep you from me!’ Her question echoed hollowly around the room, and she had no answer for herself, once more baffled and racked with despair. Paul had written to her twice and she had replied immdiately. To her surprise he had never responded to her second letter. At the time, wondering if it had gone astray, she had written again. This letter had also remained unanswered. Finally, swallowing her immense pride, she had penned a circumspect note, and then had waited for word from him. The weeks had turned into months, and the silence had been absolute. In a state of bewilderment and shock, she had done nothing. She had lost her nerve. By October, Emma had miserably resigned herself to the fact that Paul was not man enough to write and tell her that he no longer loved her. That it was over. It was the only conceivable conclusion she could draw in her heartsick state. He simply has no further use for me, she thought. I served a purpose when he was alone in England. He has resumed his old life in Australia. He is a married man.

Emma leaned back, staring into space abstractedly, her face cold and set, her eyes wide and tearless. She had cried all the tears she would ever cry for Paul McGill, night after night for months past. Paul McGill did not want her and that was that. There was nothing she could do about it…

‘Mother, may I come in?’ Edwina asked, poking her head around the door.

‘Yes, darling,’ Emma said, slipping the photograph under the chair and forcing a smile. ‘Did you have a nice morning? I’m sorry I had to go to the factory on your day. It was an emergency.’

‘You work too hard, Mother,’ Edwina said reprovingly. She sat down in the opposite chair and smoothed her tartan kilt.

Emma disregarded the remark and the offensive tone and said cheerfully, ‘You haven’t told me yet what you would like for Christmas. Perhaps you would like to come to the store with me next week and look around, darling.’

‘I don’t know what I want for Christmas,’ Edwina said, her silvery eyes observing Emma. ‘But I would like to have my birth certificate, please, Mother.’

Emma froze in the chair. She kept her face bland. ‘Why do you want your birth certificate, Edwina?’ she asked, adopting a mild voice.

‘Because I need it to get a passport.’

‘Good heavens, why do you need a passport?’

‘Miss Matthews is taking the class to Switzerland next spring and I am going, too.’

Emma’s sweeping brows puckered together. ‘I notice you have simply assumed you are going. You haven’t asked my permission. I find that quite dismaying, Edwina.’

‘May I go, Mother?’

‘No, Edwina, you may not,’ Emma said firmly. ‘You are only thirteen. In my opinion that’s far too young for you to be travelling to the Continent without me.’

‘But we will be chaperoned. Most of the girls are going. Why can’t I?’

‘I have told you why, dear. You are too young. Furthermore, I find it hard to believe that most of the girls are going. How many exactly will there be in the group?’

‘Eight.’

‘That’s more like it! Eight girls out of a class of twenty-four is merely a third. You are prone to exaggerate sometimes, Edwina.’

‘So I can’t go?’

‘Not this coming year. Perhaps in a couple of years. I will have to give it some careful thought. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you should have discussed it with me first. And my decision is quite final, Edwina.’

Knowing that it was useless to argue with her iron-willed mother, Edwina sighed theatrically and stood up. She hated her. If her father were alive he would have let her go abroad. She smiled at Emma, craftily concealing her dislike. ‘It’s not that important,’ she said, and glided across the room to Emma’s dressing table. Picking up the brush, she began to brush her waist-length silver-blonde hair, staring with total absorption in the mirror. Emma watched her with mounting annoyance, her eyes narrowing as she saw the self-gratified smile on her daughter’s face revealed in the glass.

‘You know, Edwina, for a little girl you are terribly vain. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone gaze into a mirror as often as you do.’

‘Now you’re exaggerating, Mother,’ Edwina countered haughtily.

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Emma said crossly. Her patience was worn thin this morning and her nerves were on edge. But regretting her flash of temper, she said in a lighter tone, ‘Your Uncle Winston is coming to tea today. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you, darling?’

‘Not particularly. He’s not the same since that woman got him.’

Emma suppressed a smile. ‘Your Aunt Charlotte hasn’t got him, Edwina, as you so curiously put it. She’s married to him. And she’s awfully nice. You know, too, that she is very fond of you.’

‘He’s still not the same,’ Edwina said stubbornly. She stood up. ‘I have to finish my homework, Mother. Please excuse me.’

‘Yes, dear.’

When Emma was alone she returned Paul’s photograph to the drawer, her mind preoccupied with Edwina’s request for her birth certificate, a disastrous development she had not anticipated. She ran downstairs to the study, closed the door firmly behind her, and telephoned Blackie in Harrogate.

‘Hello, me darlin’,’ Blackie said.

‘Blackie, something perfectly dreadful has happened!’

He heard the fear in her voice. ‘What’s wrong, Emma?’

‘Edwina just asked me for her birth certificate.’

‘Jaysus!’ He recovered himself swiftly. ‘Why does she suddenly want her birth certificate?’

‘To get a passport for a school trip to the Continent next year.’

‘You refused, I presume.’

‘Of course. But the day will come when I can’t stall her, Blackie. What am I going to do?’

‘You’ll have to give it to her. But not until she’s old enough to handle the situation, Emma.’ He sighed. ‘This was bound to happen one day.’

‘But how will I explain your name on the certificate? She thinks Joe was her father.’

‘You could let her think that I really am her father.’

‘But that’s such a responsibility for you, Blackie.’

He laughed. ‘I have a broad back, me darlin’. You should know that by now.’ His voice changed perceptibly, and he went on, ‘Of course, you could tell her who her real father is. But I don’t suppose you want to do that, do you, Emma?’

‘No, I definitely do not!’ Emma made a decision, drew in her breath, and plunged. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’

Blackie sighed softly into the phone. ‘I can hazard a guess. She looks too much like Adele Fairley for me to be in doubt any longer. It was Edwin, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Blackie,’ Emma responded quietly, and felt a sudden rush of relief that she had finally told him the truth. ‘But Edwina will never know. Must never know. I have to protect her from the Fairleys all of her life.’

‘Then you will just have to let her believe that I am her true father. I don’t object, Emma.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘Come on, me darlin’, relax. I can feel your tension coming over the wire. Forget this little problem for the moment. Delay as long as you can. You’re a clever woman. You can skirt the issue for several years. At least until she’s seventeen or eighteen.’

‘I suppose I can,’ Emma said slowly. ‘We’re never free of the past, are we, darling?’

‘No, mavourneen, that’s the sad truth, I’m afraid. But let’s not dwell on the past. It’s fruitless. Now you haven’t forgotten me party on Boxing Day, have you?’ Blackie went on in an effort to distract her. ‘The party for me new house. It’s a beauty, Emma, even though I do say so meself.’

‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frank is coming to Yorkshire for Christmas and he’s promised to bring me. And I’m longing to see the house. You’ve been so secretive about it.’

‘Ah, but you’ll be recognizing it the minute you see it, Emma. It’s exactly the way I described it to you all those years ago on the moors. Me fine Georgian mansion right down to the last detail.’

‘I’m so thrilled for you, Blackie. It was always one of your dearest dreams.’

‘Aye, that’s so. Emma, I must hang up. I can see me beautiful Bryan coming up the drive with Nanny. Now don’t you worry about that birth certificate. Forget it for the next year or so. We’ll deal with it only when it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘I’ll try. And thank you, Blackie. You’re always such a comfort to me.’

‘Sure and it’s nothing, mavourneen.’

Emma hung up the telephone and sat lost in introspection, her mind dwelling on her daughter. There was something so unapproachable about her, an innate coldness in her nature, and Emma was aware at all times of a curious disapproval in Edwina’s manner, and she was often at a loss to deal with it effectively.

How will I ever find the courage to face that child with the truth? she asked herself. How can I tell her without losing the little affection she has for me? She flinched at the thought of a confrontation, however far off it was, and for the first time in months Emma momentarily forgot about Paul McGill and her own misery.

Blackie O’Neill strolled across the magnificent entrance hall of his Georgian mansion in Harrogate, his arm around Winston’s shoulders. He ushered him into the library and locked the great double doors behind them.

‘Why are you doing that?’ Winston asked, looking puzzled. ‘I thought we came in here for a quiet brandy.’

‘True. True. But I want to talk to you privately and I don’t want any interruptions.’

‘Who would interrupt us? Everyone’s too busy enjoying the party.’

‘Emma, for one.’

‘Aha! You want to talk about my sister. Is that it?’

‘It is indeed.’ Blackie busied himself at the console, pouring generous amounts of the Courvoisier into two brandy balloons.

From his stance by the Adam fireplace, Winston watched Blackie, wondering what he had on his mind. He shook his head in bafflement and glanced around with admiration, appreciating the elegance of the furnishings and the beauty of the setting. The bleached pine walls, interspersed with bookshelves, were balanced by forest-green velvet draperies, and a carpet of the same colour covered the centre of the mahogany parquet floor. A number of deep sofas and armchairs were upholstered in lighter green velvet and rose damask and this warm colour highlighted the cool greenness. Tables, consoles, and a fine desk in the mingled designs of Sheraton and Hepplewhite graced the room, and a spectacular Waterford crystal chandelier dropped down from the soaring ceiling. The library, like the rest of the new house, was a splendid tribute to Blackie’s sense of perspective and colour and his knowledge of the decorative style of the Georgian period.

Looking exceptionally handsome and prosperous in his dinner jacket, Blackie handed Winston a balloon of the cognac. ‘Cheers, Winston,’ he said.

‘Cheers, Blackie.’

Blackie selected a cigar, clipped off the end, lit it slowly. He puffed on it for a few seconds and finally fixed his bright black eyes on Winston. ‘When is she going to stop all this foolishness?’

‘What foolishness?’ Winston demanded with a frown.

‘Throwing money around. She’s gone crazy in the past six months. At least so it seems to me.’

‘Emma’s not throwing money around. In fact, she’s not very extravagant with herself at all.’

Blackie raised a black eyebrow quizzically and a faint smile flitted across his mouth. ‘Now, Winston, don’t play the innocent with me. You know damn well what I mean. I’m talking about the way she’s been plunging into the commodities market. Recklessly so, I might add.’

Winston grinned. ‘Not recklessly at all. She’s made a fortune, Blackie.’

‘Aye, and she can easily lose it! Overnight! Speculating in commodities is the most dangerous game there is, and you know it.’

‘Yes, I do. And for that matter, so does Emma. She is something of a gambler in business, Blackie. We’re both aware of that. However, she’s also astute and she knows what she’s doing-’

‘It’s all much too chancy for my liking! She could easily be ruined!’

Winston laughed. ‘Not my sister. You’ve got to admit it takes real genius to start out with nothing and build what she has so brilliantly built. Only an idiot would be stupid enough to risk throwing it all away. Emma’s nobody’s fool and, anyway, she stopped buying and selling commodities several weeks ago.’

‘Thank God for that!’ Blackie looked relieved, but his tone was worried as he continued, ‘Still, I am concerned about all this rapid expansion she’s undertaken. The new stores in Bradford and Harrogate were admittedly good buys, but the renovations she insists I make are going to be very costly. And I couldn’t believe my ears tonight when she told me she’s thinking of building a store in London. As usual, her ideas are pretty grandiose. To be honest, Winston, I was dumbfounded. How the hell is she going to pay for it all? That’s what I want to know. It’s my opinion she’s over-extending herself.’

Winston shook his head adamantly. ‘No she’s not! She’s as smart as a whip and never does anything rashly. How is she going to pay for it? I just told you she made a hell of a lot of money in commodities. And she has been selling off Joe’s remaining properties for very high prices. In fact, she’s gradually divested herself of all the real estate he left her, except for that plot of land in the centre of Leeds. She’s hanging on to that, because she thinks it will increase in worth, and you know she’s right. The store in Leeds is in profit and, also, this boom in the cloth trade since the end of the war has turned Layton’s into a bigger money-maker than it ever was. Orders are pouring in from all over the world and Ben Andrews has had to put most of the workers on overtime to meet them. The Gregson Warehouse is fully operating again, and don’t forget, Emma is David Kallinski’s partner-’

Pausing, Winston eyed Blackie with amusement. ‘Does that answer your questions about how she intends to pay for everything?’

Blackie had the good grace to laugh. ‘Aye, me boyo, it does.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘She’s obviously become a very rich woman-richer than I had imagined, from what you tell me.’

Winston nodded, a proud look on his face. ‘How much do you think she’s worth?’ he said with a spontaneity he instantly regretted, since he could not tell the truth.

‘I couldn’t even hazard a guess.’

Winston took a sip of brandy to hide his hesitation. He could not admit Emma’s true worth, because he dare not reveal the existence of the Emeremm Company and her ownership of it. Therefore he selected a conservatively low figure and said, ‘A million pounds. That’s on paper, of course.’

‘Jaysus!’ Blackie exclaimed. He knew Winston was not lying or exaggerating and he was immensely impressed. Blackie lifted his glass. ‘That deserves a toast. Here’s to Emma. She has surpassed us all, I do believe!’

‘To Emma.’ Winston eyed Blackie thoughtfully. ‘Yes, she has. Do you know why? Do you know the secret of my sister’s great success?’

‘Sure and I do. I attribute it to a number of qualities. Shrewdness, courage, ambition, and drive, to name only a few.’

‘Abnormal ambition. Abnormal drive, Blackie. That’s the difference between Emma and most people. She won’t allow anything to stop her and she will go for the jugular with a business adversary, especially if her back is against the wall. But those are not the only reasons for her success. Emma has the killer instinct to get to the top.’

‘Killer instinct! That’s a hell of a thing to say about her. You make her sound ruthless.’

‘She is in some ways.’ Winston could not help laughing at Blackie’s startled expression, and said, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never recognized that trait in her!’

Blackie pondered, recalling incidents from the past. ‘At times I have thought her capable of ruthlessness,’ he murmured slowly.

‘Look, Blackie, enough of all this. I hope I’ve alleviated your worries about her.’

‘Yes, you have. I’m glad we had this talk, Winston. I’ve been concerned about that commodity lark ever since she mentioned it. Scared the hell out of me, if you really want to know. Well, now we’ve got that out of the way, shall we go back to the party?’

‘Whenever you wish. Incidentally, talking of killers, I notice the lady killer is on the prowl tonight. He can’t take his eyes off Emma and he’s certainly fawning all over her.’

Blackie was alert and interested. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Why, Arthur Ainsley, of course. The great hero of the war-according to him. Conceited bastard.’

‘I always thought Emma didn’t like him.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I wasn’t around, remember? But she did tell me that he’d changed and she seems unperturbed by his attentions tonight.’

‘I hadn’t really noticed,’ Blackie said curtly, and stood up with abruptness. He was preoccupied as they returned to the drawing room. Immediately upon entering, Winston drifted off to join Charlotte and Frank, and Blackie ambled over to the piano. He leaned against it nonchalantly, but his full attention was focused with intensity on Emma, who was engaged in conversation with Frederick Ainsley and his son Arthur.

Blackie thought Emma looked particularly lovely tonight, if a little paler and wistful. Her hair was worked into a coronet of plaits atop her head and the upswept style made her face seem more delicate than ever. She wore a white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulder, and pinned on to one of the small sleeves was the emerald pin he had given her for her thirtieth birthday. It was the exact replica of the cheap little green-glass bow he had bought for her when she was fifteen, but larger and more exquisitely worked. He had been gratified at her obvious surprise that he had remembered a promise made so long ago, and thrilled at her delight in the costly gift. Now, to him, it looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to the magnificent emerald earrings that sparkled with such brilliance at her ears.

Automatically his hand went into his pocket, his fingers curling around the jewellery box that reposed there. It contained the diamond ring he had purchased last week. He had intended to ask Emma to marry him tonight. After their recent conversation about Edwina’s birth certificate and the dilemma it posed, he had finally made the decision he had been toying with for months. Lately he had come to understand that if he did not love Emma in quite the same worshipful and spiritual way he had loved his Laura, love Emma he did. He had always loved her, ever since she had been an innocent child, his starveling creature of those bleak and misty moors. Her happiness was important to him. He found her physically alluring, she amused him, and he valued her friendship. Apart from his own deep attachment to her, Bryan adored her and his darling Bryan needed a mother. Also, Blackie had concluded, if he married Emma perhaps the sting would be taken out of the blow Edwina would receive when she discovered her illegitimacy. He would be like a father to the child, would try to replace Joe in her affections. If she learned to love him in return, then she might not be so resentful when she saw his name on the birth certificate, and he would willingly give her his name legally.

All in all, he had thought his idea foolproof-until Winston’s revelations a few minutes before. Suddenly Blackie saw Emma in a wholly different light, saw her now as a woman of undeniable power and enormous wealth. He had never underestimated her, for he was too intelligent by far for that. He had simply not realized or, in fact, recognized exactly what she had become, being too subjective to focus on her as a woman of the world and a successful tycoon. He himself had done well, but she had more than outstripped him, and David Kallinski, and in the most staggering manner. Furthermore, he now admitted that she would never be like a normal woman, dedicated to a husband, a family, and a home. She could never be wrested from her business. In many ways it was her.

Blackie was no longer sure she would accept him as a husband and, perhaps more cogently, he was uncertain of his ability to handle her. And so Blackie O’Neill, thirty-three years old, charming, rich, and hitherto a man of self-assurance and élan, lost a fraction of his confidence because of Emma’s incredible achievements. And he faltered in his determination to propose.

He caught Emma’s attention and she excused herself from the Ainsleys and glided over to him. ‘It’s a lovely party, Blackie, and I can’t get over the house. It’s superb. ‘She looked up at him, her eyes glittering vividly in that pale oval. ‘And it is exactly as you said it would be, with your light greens and blues and fine Georgian furnishings.’ She laughed. ‘Do you remember when I asked you who Hepplewhite, Chippendale, and Sheraton were?’

‘I do. I also remember I told you then that you would be a grand lady one day. My prediction came true.’

She smiled.

Blackie became aware of Arthur Ainsley’s eyes on them and he said with a frown, ‘I always thought you couldn’t stand young Ainsley, but tonight you appear to be quite kindly disposed towards the fellow.’

‘Oh, he’s not so bad. He’s much more intelligent than I thought and amusing. Actually, I find him rather charming as well.’

Blackie’s eyes flared. ‘Aye, he is. If he weren’t a Sassenach I’d swear he’d kissed the Blarney stone,’ he pronounced.

Emma laughed at Blackie’s sarcastic retort and admitted, ‘Yes, I suppose he is a bit too smooth sometimes. But at least he’s entertaining and easy to be with.’

‘Have you been spending a lot of time with him?’ Blackie asked evenly enough, although he experienced a twinge of jealousy.

‘No, not at all. I only see Arthur on business matters. Why?’ She gave him a puzzled look.

‘No particular reason. I just wondered. Incidentally, talking of business, where do you intend to build your store in London?’

‘I’ve found a large piece of land in Knightsbridge and I can get it for a good price. I would like you to see it.’ She touched his arm. ‘Could you come to London with me next week, darling?’

‘Sure and I’d be delighted. If you go ahead with the purchase I can start the plans immediately. I’ll build you a magnificent store, Emma. The best in London.’

They talked for a while about the intended department store. Emma expounded her ideas, which were grandiose, but her enthusiasm was so infectious Blackie found himself growing unexpectedly excited about the challenge she was presenting to him and his talents. After a little further discourse, Blackie seated himself at the piano and began to play. He sang a number of amusing Irish jigs and Emma sat back, as always enjoying his marvellous voice. Many of the guests thronged around the piano, just as they had done in the Mucky Duck, and Emma remembered the old days, and smiled to herself. And then she froze as Blackie’s rich baritone rang out again, pure and clear, in the opening strains of ‘Danny Boy’. Familiar words invoked in her a terrible yearning and a sadness that was overwhelming.

His voice swelled and filled the room as he commenced the second verse: ‘But when ye come, and all the flow’rs are dying-’

Emma could not bear to listen any more. She slipped out of the room, her heart tearing inside her, and her throat was choked as she thought of Paul, and only of him: gone from her for ever.

Frank and Winston exchanged alarmed glances and Frank shook his head as Winston rose. ‘I’ll go. You stay here with Charlotte.’ Frank followed quickly on Emma’s heels and caught up with her in the entrance hall. He took her arm and propelled her into the library without saying a word. He closed the door, put his arm around her shoulders, and then said, ‘He’s not coming back, Emma. You might as well face the facts.’

‘I have, Frank,’ she responded in a low resigned voice.

‘You know I would never interfere in your life, but I can’t stand to see your heartbreak any longer, Emma. There are certain things I must tell you. That you must know. I can’t hold them back.’

Emma looked at him warily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Paul McGill is married.’

‘I know, Frank dear. I’ve always known.’

‘I see.’ His sensitive mouth settled into a grim line.

‘I suppose Dolly Mosten told you,’ Emma ventured.

‘Yes, she did.’

‘Dolly’s a gossip! She had no right to-’

‘I asked her, Emma. Forced her to tell me, in point of fact. Only out of concern for you, though.’

‘Oh,’ Emma said, and stared down at her hands miserably.

‘So Paul told you he was married. I suppose he also promised to get a divorce.’

‘He said he’d sort it all out after the war,’ Emma whispered, conscious of the venom in Frank’s voice.

She fell silent and Frank went on furiously, ‘Did he tell you he’s married to the daughter of one of the most prominent men in Australian politics and that her mother is from one of Sydney’s first families?’

‘No, he never discussed his wife.’

‘I bet he didn’t! I bet he didn’t tell you he had a child either.’

Emma gaped at Frank, her lip trembling. ‘A child!’

‘Yes. A boy. I gather he refrained from passing on that piece of vital information.’

‘He did,’ Emma confessed, her heart sinking. A wife he was estranged from she might have been able to compete with, but she could not fight a child. A son. Men as wealthy as Paul McGill pinned all of their hopes on the new generation, on the heir to the dynasty. He would never give up his son for her.

‘I need a drink,’ Frank said, standing up. ‘And so do you, by the looks of you.’ He poured a glass of champagne for Emma and a brandy for himself, observing his sister closely. By God, she is a strong woman, he thought admiringly. He knew she was shocked and distressed, but she was in full control of herself. He said, ‘I’m so sorry I had to hurt you, love, but you had to know.’

‘I’m glad you told me, Frank.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You certainly gave Dolly a grilling, didn’t you?’

‘You’d be surprised what a woman will confide in her lover, especially in the intimacy of the bedroom.’

‘You and Dolly! Frank, I don’t believe it!’ she cried incredulously.

‘Yes, for the moment anyhow.’

‘But she’s years older than you.’

‘Ten to be exact. However, I don’t think my relationship with Dolly is the issue right now, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’ Emma leaned forward intently. ‘How does she know so much about the McGills?’

‘She used to be Bruce McGill’s mistress several years ago.’

‘Philandering seems to be a family characteristic!’ Emma exclaimed contemptuously. ‘What else did she tell you? I might as well know all the details.’

‘Not much, really. Mostly Dolly talked about their wealth and their power. Actually, she didn’t seem to have much information about Paul’s wife or his son. In fact, I rather got the impression there was a bit of mystery about the wife. Dolly said something about Paul always appearing alone in public, even in Sydney before the war, and she indicated that he is a-’ Frank stopped short, and looked down at his drink.

‘A what?’

Frank cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you must know, Dolly implied he is a womanizer.’

‘I’m not surprised, Frank. Don’t be upset you told me.’

Frank tossed down the brandy. ‘I’m not upset. I’m just angry that you have been hurt.’ He rose and crossed to the console, returning with the bottles of cognac and champagne. He filled Emma’s empty glass and said, ‘I always liked Paul. I didn’t think he was such a bastard. Just goes to show you how wrong one can be in life. Why don’t you tell me about it, Emma? It sometimes helps to unburden yourself.’

Emma smiled grimly. ‘I doubt it. But I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Frank. Perhaps you can explain his behaviour to me.’

As Emma confided in Frank she slowly drank the whole bottle of champagne and for the first time in her life she deliberately got drunk. When Winston appeared in the doorway an hour later he stared at her in surprise. ‘You’re three sheets to the wind, Emma!’ he cried, moving with unusual swiftness across the floor.

Emma lifted the glass and waved it in the air, spilling half of the champagne. ‘Splishe the brashemain. I mean splishe the mainbrashe,’ she slurred, and hiccuped.

‘How could you let her get so pie-eyed, Frank!’ Winston exploded in an accusatory tone. He regarded Emma reclining languorously on the sofa, her eyes half closed, her mouth twitching with silent laughter. ‘She’ll have some head tomorrow,’ he muttered crossly.

‘So what? Don’t be so harsh, Winston,’ Frank said quietly. ‘For once in her life I think she really needed to let her hair down.’

FORTY-NINE

Edwin Fairley’s face was grim and there was a cold anger in his eyes as he said, ‘You put the noose around your neck all by yourself, Gerald. There is absolutely nothing I can do to help you.’

Gerald gaped at his brother in stupefaction. His sly black eyes, narrowing in the bloated face, appeared smaller and more evil than ever. ‘Are you telling me that Procter and Procter are really within their legal rights? That they can take over the mills just like that?’ he asked fearfully.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I am, Gerald. A noncontestable note is just that-noncontestable. And since you attached the deeds as collateral you don’t have a leg to stand on if you can’t pay off the note. That was most foolhardy. Why did you do it?’

‘I needed the money,’ Gerald muttered, unable to meet Edwin’s direct stare.

‘To pay off your blasted gambling debts! I know that. I mean, why did you hand over the deeds to the mills without seeking legal advice first? If not from me, at least from the family solicitor.’

‘There would have been no point to that. I needed the money desperately. I had nowhere else to go and those were the only terms acceptable to Proctor and Procter. My talking to the family solicitor wouldn’t have changed their minds. I had no option, and anyway I thought Alan would be reasonable. Give me time to repay the loan.’ A bitter look slid on to Gerald’s face. ‘As it is, Alan Procter has turned on me. He’s a bloody thief! He’s stolen my mills!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Gerald,’ Edwin countered impatiently, staggered at his brother’s lack of business acumen. ‘Alan hasn’t stolen the mills. You handed them to him on a plate. I’m appalled by your lack of foresight. Furthermore, from what you have just told me, Alan has been very understanding. The note was for six months. It’s been extended three times, for an additional period of eight months all together. I would say he has been exceptionally considerate under the circumstances. After all, it was a company loan. Alan has a board of directors to answer to.’

Gerald dropped his head in his hands, overcome as always by self-pity. After a few minutes he looked up and said in a demanding voice, ‘You have to lend me the money, Edwin.’

Edwin sat bolt upright on the Chesterfield and stared at Gerald in amazement. ‘Are you joking! I don’t have two hundred thousand pounds, plus the interest due. You must be mad to think I do.’

‘Father left you a trust, Edwin. You must have it. You don’t want to help me out of a jam,’ Gerald whined.

‘The income from my trust is meagre and you know it!’ Edwin cried, infuriated. ‘Father lived lavishly all of his life and spent lavishly, particularly after he married Aunt Olivia. What he left me was negligible compared to what you received, and you’ve thrown most of it down the drain.’ Edwin glared at Gerald with disdain. He then said, ‘Besides, as little as it is, I need the income from the trust. I have a wife and son to provide for and a household to maintain.’

‘But you’re doing well in your law practice-’

‘Yes, but not well enough to support your bad habits!’ Edwin snapped peremptorily.

‘Father left you the majority of his shares in the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. You could borrow against them,’ Gerald said, scowling at his brother.

‘I could, but I have no intentions of doing so. I promised Father I would hold on to them and take an active interest in the newspaper and I will not renege on my promise,’ Edwin responded with firmness. ‘I can’t understand how you could get yourself into such a predicament-’

‘Don’t start giving me another bloody lecture!’ Gerald shouted, lumbering out of the chair. He began to pace up and down the library, his cringing fear palpable.

He is a coward and a fool, Edwin thought, scrutinizing his brother. Gerald’s gluttony had only increased over the years and he was now elephantine and gross in his ugliness, and the dissipation of his life was revealed on his ravaged face. To Edwin, Gerald appeared obscene and he looked away in revulsion.

Gerald plodded over to the black-walnut chest and poured himself a large neat whiskey. ‘I don’t suppose you want a drink, do you?’ he mumbled without looking around.

‘No, thank you,’ Edwin snapped. ‘I have to be going.’

Seating himself opposite Edwin, Gerald pinned his crafty eyes on him. ‘You believe yourself to be the brain in the family, so you tell me what to do, brother,’ he said scornfully.

‘Listen to me, Gerald. Things could be worse for you. After all, you still own the mill here in Fairley and the brickyard. I suggest you tighten your belt, cut down on personal expenditures, stop gambling, and retrench in every way. Devote your attention to the one mill you still have. I don’t know much about the woollen business, but only a fool could fail to realize the cloth trade is booming. Actually, I don’t understand why the Fairley mill isn’t going better. Surely you can turn it around.’

Always full of self-justification, Gerald countered in a defensive tone, ‘Things are different than they were in Father’s day. You don’t know the burdens I have to carry. There’s a hell of a lot more competition now, Edwin. Thompson’s makes the same cloth as us and they’ve swiped many of my customers of late. So has your bloody Emma Harte. She owns Layton’s mill, in case you didn’t know, and she’s giving me a run for my money as well. If the truth be known, she helped to ruin me. My problems started when she stole Ben Andrews and some of the best workers away from Thompson’s in 1914.’ Gerald’s voice echoed with invective as he declared, ‘Yes, your bloody whore has been a thorn in my side for a long time. The bloody little whoring bitch. She’s-’

‘Don’t let me hear you call Emma a whore ever again! Do you hear me, you filthy bastard!’ Edwin cried, clenching his hands and leaning forward threateningly. His face had whitened and his eyes blazed.

Gerald grinned derisively. ‘Still carrying the torch for the servant girl, eh, Edwin? Whatever would the Lady Jane say if she knew you had an itch in your crotch for that bit of working-class-’

‘That’s enough, you rotten swine!’ Edwin shouted, springing up. It took all of his self-control to restrain himself from hitting Gerald in the face. ‘I drove over to Fairley with the best of intentions, hoping to help you with legal advice. I did not come to listen to your obscenities about Emma,’ he said furiously. He glowered at Gerald and his contempt was so clearly written on his face Gerald shrank back in the chair. Edwin went on, ‘I happen to be very proud of Emma. She’s made something of herself and she’s a damned sight better than you. You-you-piece of scum!’ Edwin stepped away from his brother abruptly, conscious that he was prepared to inflict bodily damage on him if further provoked. ‘Goodbye. You won’t be seeing me for a long time.’

Gerald taunted, ‘You’re too transparent, Edwin. So Emma Harte’s in your blood, is she? My, my my! She must have something sweet between her legs to hold your interest all these years. Tried to make it with her myself once when I found her living in Armley-’

‘You did what!’ Edwin, who was halfway to the door, spun around and shot across the library. He lept at Gerald, clutched his lapels, and shook him fiercely, his rage exploding. ‘If you so much as rest your eyes on Emma I will kill you! Kill you! I swear to God I will!’ Edwin’s face, so close to his brother’s, was twisted with a mixture of loathing and deadly intent, and this registered forcibly with Gerald, who flinched, suddenly afraid.

Edwin let go of Gerald’s lapels and wiped his hands on his trouser legs with the utmost distaste, his lip curling. ‘I don’t want to soil myself by touching you,’ he hissed. ‘You are a foul specimen of humanity! You are contemptible!’ He turned on his heel and walked out, his limbs shaking, his head spinning with unbridled hatred and disgust.

FIFTY

Emma stepped out of her shoes, took off the tailored black dress she always wore at the store, removed her jewellery, and placed it all on the dressing table. Discarding her underwear, she slipped into the silk robe the maid had put out for her and hurried into her bathroom.

As she stood in front of the oval gilt-framed mirror tying a chiffon scarf around her recently bobbed hair, she smiled as she always did when she entered this particular room in her new mansion. It was too opulent by far, and when Blackie had shown her the original plans for its remodelling she had told him it looked like a cross between the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles and a courtesan’s boudoir. Not that she had ever seen anything like the latter-only the former, when she and Arthur Ainsley had gone to Paris on their honeymoon three years before. Over her mild protestations that it was excessively grand, Blackie had insisted on executing the design intact, exhorting her to trust his judgement. To her amazement, she had actually liked the bathroom when he had finally completed the overall décor, deriving a certain sensuous satisfaction from its luxurious appointments.

The walls were lined with shell-pink marble, intersected with wide panels of mirror running from the floor to the ceiling for an infinity of endless reflections. The domed ceiling was a pale turquoise blue across which cavorted pink dolphins and sea urchins intertwined with delicate green tendrils of seaweed and vivid pink and mauve sea anemones. The turquoise oval tub was sunk into the pink marble floor and two leaping silver dolphins, each one foot in height, stood sentinel at the top and bottom, and the taps were miniature silver dolphins. On a narrow mirrored console table reposed innumerable bottles of French perfumes and Floris bath oils and silver-topped crystal pots for her creams and lotions. Blackie had also included a chaise-longue upholstered in rose silk at one end, along with a mirror-and-glass Art Deco coffee table. At the other side of the chaise a huge garden basket painted pink overflowed with all the latest fashion and illustrated magazines and financial journals. The ambiance was feminine, and this one room in the house had become Emma’s haven, a place of repose where she could retreat to unwind after her busy days at the store.

Emma poured Floris gardenia bath oil into the water the maid had already drawn and, removing her robe, she stepped into the tub. She stretched out her long legs, luxuriating in the heavily scented water, her thoughts turning to the supper dance she was giving that evening. Since her marriage to Arthur they had entertained on an increasingly lavish scale, yet this was undoubtedly the most elaborate social event she had planned to date and she was looking forward to it. The dance was to celebrate Frank’s engagement to Natalie Stewart, the daughter of a prominent London politician, a match Emma had approved of from the beginning and which she had enthusiastically helped to foster. Apart from the fact that Natalie was a lovely young woman, Emma had been relieved to see her brother released from Dolly Mosten’s clutches. Natalie was a lady to the manner born, and if her exquisite blonde beauty seemed somewhat delicate, Emma knew it belied a stalwart heart and a backbone of steel. Increasingly she reminded Emma of her beloved Laura.

Emma had spared no expense on the dance, determined to do justice to Frank’s engagement. The house looked magnificent, each one of the spacious reception rooms resplendent with fine antiques and paintings, filled with colour and banked with masses of spring flowers. Since the elegant mansion was three times as large as the house she had formerly owned in Armley, it lent itself to entertaining in the grand manner and Emma had become a charming hostess whose spontaneous grace put her guests at ease.

The catering department of Harte’s had provided a superb supper and the dishes had been arranged on a long buffet table in the formal dining room. Emma considered the menu she had chosen. These were two soups, jellied consommé and cream of watercress served in cups, salmon mousse, smoked salmon with capers and lemon wedges, lobster patties, mayonnaise of turbot, beef Wellington, turban of chicken and tongue, quenelles of pheasant, roasted spring lamb with mint sauce, tomatoesà la tartare, French beans, and pomme soufflé. The desserts were baba au rhum, compôte of fruit, trifle, parfait, apricot snow, and almond cake, and there was an assortment of drinks, including champagne, claret cup, white and red wines, cider, fruit juices, coffee, and tea. The selection was wide enough to appeal to the most discerning or pernickety of palates, Emma decided, and made a mental note to congratulate the chefs at Harte’s, who had surpassed themselves for the occasion.

The one hundred guests would dine at small tables covered with pink cloths and partnered with gold chairs, which had been arranged in the dining room, the library, and the morning room. After supper there would be dancing in the long marble gallery overlooking the gardens, and those who did not wish to dance could enjoy conversation in the two lovely drawing rooms. The band engaged for the evening had already arrived and when she left the gallery the musicians were setting out their instruments. Faintly, wafting up on the night air, came the strains of a popular song as the band warmed up. Everything was in hand. Nothing had escaped her, and there was a small army of waiters and maids, plus her own staff, to look after the guests. Arthur had told her earlier that she had organized everything with the efficiency of a general planning war manoeuvres. Emma closed her eyes, feeling languorous as the tensions of the day slipped away.

Meanwhile, in the adjoining suite of rooms, Arthur Ainsley dressed for the evening, as preoccupied with the details of his appearance as Emma was with the plans for the dance. He stepped back from the cheval mirror and regarded his reflection with immense concentration, well pleased with what he saw.

At thirty-two Arthur still carried the air of a juvenile lead, this impression further emphasized by his dandified dress and elegant mannerisms that often bordered on the effeminate. He shot his cuffs below his jacket sleeves, adjusted the black-onyx-and-diamond dress studs on his shirt, and reached for the comb on the nearby commode. For the fourth time he ran it through his soft blond hair, patted the waves precisely into place, and smoothed one manicured finger over the neat blond moustache he favoured. He then put down the comb and drew himself up to his full height, raptly absorbed with his image.

Regrettably, Arthur Ainsley did not have much to recommend him in his character. All of his life he had been so concerned about his exterior beauty he had made no effort to acquire any inner resources. Consequently, he was a shell of a man, and his very shallowness caused him to put store only on what was readily visible. Not unintelligent, educated at the best schools, Arthur was, however, so indolent and self-involved he was utterly unable to retain any serious thoughts for very long. He was cursed with a single-minded concern for pleasure, and his perpetual need for instant gratification was infantile in nature. Thus, although he loved the outward manifestations of wealth and success, he did not have the ability to acquire them for himself, being averse to hard work, lacking in diligence, and without the power of concentration.

Arthur moved away from the mirror, glancing at his platinum-and-diamond pocket watch. He had dressed too early and now he had an hour to waste before the guests were due to arrive at ten o’clock. He reached into one of the drawers of the commode and took out a bottle of brandy. He started to pour himself a drink and then hesitated, grimacing at the thought of Emma’s disapproval.

Arthur Ainsley had been seeking refuge in the bottle for the past eighteen months, ever since he had discovered he was impotent with Emma. He believed he drank because of his impotency but, in point of fact, he drank to excuse it. It was so much easier to blame the liquor than face the real reasons for his inadequacy, which were highly complicated. Critical self-examination was alien to Arthur’s vainglorious nature and so he was uncomprehending of the causes. In truth, he had become impotent with Emma because he was a latent homosexual and also because his wife was everything he was not.

Emma had done nothing at all to emasculate him. Simply by being herself she had caused him to suffer damage to his self-esteem. Thus, he now sought out women who bolstered his male pride. Chiefly his targets were shopgirls, waitresses, and barmaids, who, flattered by his attentions, fawned over him.

Arthur’s feelings about Emma were continually vacillating. He frequently desired her, yet his constant fear of sexual failure isolated him from her; he needed her strength and her wisdom, whilst resenting these attributes; he boasted of her achievements but was envious and insecure because he did not measure up in his own career. In his way, Arthur loved Emma. Unhappily, he also harboured many grudges against her, at the root of which was his terrible sense of powerlessness. This manifested itself in repressed rage, and sometimes he actually experienced a real hatred for her.

Always drawn to Emma during her marriage to Joe Lowther, he had pursued her unavailingly for months after his return from the war. Then unexpectedly, at Blackie O’Neill’s on Boxing Day night of 1919, she had seemed to thaw towards him and, being exceedingly opportunistic, Arthur had pressed his suit with a rare show of determination in the new year, egged on by his ambitious parents. After a whirlwind courtship of three months they had been married in the spring of 1920.

Arthur had believed that Emma was as smitten with him as he was with her, his vanity not permitting him to think otherwise. In all truth, Emma had married him for wholly different reasons. The terrible implications of Paul McGill’s silence and continuing absence from England had devastated her and her anguish had become too painful to bear. Her increasing loneliness had prompted her to reassess her life. Plain common sense had led her to conclude that there was no future for her with Paul, and she acknowledged that to yearn for him was not only foolish but inevitably self-destructive. She tried to put Paul out of her mind completely, deciding that she must lead a more normal life for her children’s sake as well as her own. Convinced that she would never again experience the same kind of sublime love she had had with Paul, she sought instead a companion, a man who was easy to be with. She also wanted a father for her children and a suitable male head for her household. In short, she was prepared to compromise, to settle for less out of necessity and in the belief that great love was not always a prerequisite for a happy marriage.

At first amused by Arthur’s most transparent and eager overtures, Emma had come to view him as the perfect solution to her problems. He was a gentleman and came from a good family. He also had charm and handled himself with a degree of elegance in all situations. He was amusing, attentive to her needs, and enamoured with her. Furthermore, Emma liked beauty and had strong aesthetic instincts, and she found Arthur attractive. If he aroused no great passion in her, he likewise did not repulse her, and she had decided she could easily tolerate the physical aspects married love entailed, concluding that other factors in their relationship were of more vital consideration to her. Emma knew Arthur was weak, yet curiously she turned a blind eye to faults in his character for several fundamental reasons: Arthur did not threaten her; she recognized that he would never interfere with her business or the manner in which she led her life; she instinctively knew that she would always retain the upper hand. These reasons aside, he had a winning way with her children and treated them with a naturalness she appreciated.

Emma wanted to obliterate Paul McGill by involving herself in a new relationship. She was determined to marry quickly, and Arthur appeared to be the most suitable candidate on the horizon. Expedient by nature, she plunged ahead, seeking action and commitment in preference to waiting. Her unprecedented imprudence stunned her brothers and Blackie, who met such icy imperiousness when they tried to interfere they immediately retreated, recognizing it was fruitless to offer advice once she had made up her stubborn mind.

Ruefully Emma acknowledged her error after only a few weeks of marriage, but by then it was too late. She had conceived on their honeymoon. It had not taken her long to discover that Arthur’s charm was meretricious, and his wit often as cruel as it was entertaining. He was captious, and his shallowness and indolence appalled her. Also, his sexual appetite was as voracious as Joe Lowther’s had been although Arthur displayed more finesse and he did not induce physical revulsion in her. Nonetheless, Emma soon found their lovemaking burdensome because it was only Paul she loved and desired.

But she was honest enough to admit that she had made the mistake, and because she took her obligations seriously, Emma endeavoured to maintain a civilized front and simulated passion whenever necessary. In the beginning the union was relatively tranquil, mostly due to Emma’s expert dissembling. Arthur, unaware of her feelings, was euphoric at his good fortune in winning this beautiful, accomplished young woman, and he basked in Emma’s prestige and enjoyed the privileges that came with her money. He was, for the most part, considerate and acquiescent. Unhappily, after the twins, Robin and Elizabeth, were born in 1921 he grew careless and offhand with Emma, confident that his marriage was secure now that he had fathered two children by her, and convinced of her devotion to him.

During Emma’s confinement, Arthur had taken to amorous adventuring, and having acquired a taste of the excitement inherent in illicit relationships, he found them increasingly impossible to forgo. Then when he and Emma resumed their marital intimacy, he was unable to fire up his ardour sufficiently for effective consummation. After several disastrous experiences Arthur had retreated into his own room. To his relief Emma never questioned his absence from her bed. In his vanity he ascribed this to her preoccupation with her business, the children, the demands of a large household, and her nervousness about becoming pregnant again so soon after the birth of the twins. It never occurred to him that she loved another man, and as the months passed his complacency increased, as did his arrogance.

As Arthur contemplated his appearance, Emma climbed out of the bath and dried herself briskly. She stood for a moment in front of one of the mirrored panels, gazing at her body with detached interest. Her full breasts were high and firm, her thighs gently rounded, her stomach flat. She had kept her figure; considering she would be thirty-four next month, and had borne four children, she looked amazingly youthful. There was nothing matronly about her shape, thanks to her busy schedule and her singular distaste for rich foods that sprang from the deprivations of her spartan childhood. Turning away, she put on the silk robe and padded into the bedroom.

Seating herself at the dressing table, Emma picked up a silver monogrammed hairbrush, her head held on one side. She was delighted she had decided to cut off all her hair last week. She liked this new bob that was all the rage. The style suited her and was absolutely perfect with her new haute couture clothes from Vionnet and Chanel. There was a sudden loud knock and Emma swung around as Arthur strode in. Emma stared at her husband, surprised by his unexpected appearance. She pulled the robe around her swiftly and suppressed a stab of impatience, resenting the intrusion. She was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a cordial front with him these days.

‘Really, Arthur, you quite startled me.’

‘Did I just!’

Emma’s eyes lighted on the drink in his hand. ‘You’re starting a bit early, aren’t you?’ she said, striving to hide her annoyance.

‘For God’s sake, don’t start that again!’ he cried, walking over to the yellow velvet sofa. He draped himself on it and threw her a scathing look. ‘You can be such a crashing bore, my dear. A real killjoy, as a matter of fact.’

Emma sighed, recognizing his mood. ‘We are facing a long evening, Arthur. I don’t want you to-’

‘Get drunk and disgrace you, my pet,’ Arthur interjected. ‘Emma must never be upset. God forbid that should happen,’ he snapped with a flash of arrogance. ‘What am I supposed to do all evening? Tread in the Queen’s shadow?’

Ignoring the jibe, Emma turned to the dressing table and picked up a bottle of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleu. She dabbed the crystal stopper behind her ears and, not wanting to provoke a quarrel, she changed the subject. ‘I had a sweet letter from Kit today. He sends his love. He’s enjoying school. I’m so glad I sent him to Rugby. He’s in his element.’

‘Yes, that was a good idea of mine, wasn’t it?’ Arthur smirked. ‘I do have quite a lot of them, you know, if only you would give me half a chance. Instead you treat me like an idiot.’

After a moment’s silence, Emma said, ‘I have to finish dressing. Did you come in for something in particular, Arthur?’

‘Oh yes, I did, by Jove!’ Arthur answered, looking up. ‘I thought I had better glance at the guest list. Refresh my memory.’

‘It’s on my desk.’ Emma shifted in the chair and took a pair of superb teardrop diamond earrings out of a jewel case and screwed them on absently.

‘Rather a distinguished crowd we’re having,’ Arthur remarked, scanning the list and noting the names of a number of beautiful and possibly acquiescent ladies amongst the guests. Wanting suddenly to make his escape, he threw the list on the desk and edged to the door. ‘I think I’ll go downstairs and take a look around.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘It’s nine-thirty. I’ll leave you now so that you can dress.’

‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’ Emma watched him saunter out. She shook her head, pondering on Arthur. If he was a fool, then she was surely a monumental fool. This mess was all her fault. How curious it was that she never made the same mistake twice in business, yet continually repeated them in her personal life. Loving David Kallinski, she had deliberately married Joe…loving Paul McGill, she had plunged into matrimony with Arthur. But the circumstances were different, she told herself. David had been forbidden to her because of the Orthdoxy of his mother. Paul had abandoned her because he did not want her. Still, it seemed that she had a penchant for picking the wrong men as husbands. Joe was decent, though, she mused, whereas Arthur is worthless. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’ she said, remembering her brother’s words of warning. Damn my stubbornness, she muttered.

Emma stood up purposefully. She could not dwell on this disastrous marriage tonight. She would think about it later. Tomorrow. She hurried to finish dressing and stood staring at herself in the mirror of the armoire. Her gown was a long slender sheath of turquoise silk encrusted with thousands of tiny bugle beads in shades of pale blue and emerald green. When she moved, however slightly, it undulated and changed colour in the way a summer sea ripples from blue to green to aquamarine. The gown emphasized her svelte figure and brought out the colour of her incomparable eyes. With her diamonds and pearls she was the epitome of elegance. If outward appearances counted for aught, then apparently she had everything. A handsome husband, lovely children, good looks, wealth and power. The world envied her.

The carriage clock on the mantelshelf chimed ten and roused Emma from her reflections. She left her bedroom and stood poised at the top of the curving staircase for a brief moment. And then she picked up one side of her skirt and swept down to greet the first of her guests, who were just arriving. Her famous smile was intact, but her heart was covered with a layer of frost.

FIFTY-ONE

The butler who opened the door of Fairley Hall was a middleaged man they did not know.

Blackie said, ‘Good afternoon. My name is O’Neill. I have an appointment with Mr Gerald Fairley.’

‘The Squire’s expecting you, sir,’ the butler replied, opening the door wider. ‘Please come this way.’ He led them across the huge gloomy entrance hall and showed them into the library. ‘He will be with you in a moment. Please make yourselves comfortable.’ He bowed and retreated.

When the door had closed Blackie said, ‘Murgatroyd must have retired.’

‘He’s dead,’ Emma said. ‘He died two years ago.’

‘And Cook?’ Blackie asked, remembering Elsie Turner with fondness.

‘She’s still alive. But she doesn’t work here anymore. She’s too old. She lives in the village.’

Blackie strolled over to the fireplace and stood with his back to the flames, warming himself. ‘Well, how does it feel-being back in this house after all these years?’

Emma threw him a swift glance. ‘Rather strange, I must admit.’ Her cool green gaze swept around the room and she laughed mirthlessly. ‘Do you know how many times I dusted this panelling, beat these carpets, and polished this furniture?’ She shook her head wonderingly, and her mouth unconsciously tightened into a grim line.

‘So many times I expect you’ve forgotten by now,’ Blackie said.

‘I never forget anything,’ Emma replied crisply.

She walked slowly around the library, regarding the furnishings with interest. She had once thought this room so impressive, but in comparison to the library in her house in Roundhay it looked dreary and there was an unmistakable air of dejection about it. April sunshine was flooding in through the tall windows and the bright light focused attention on the overall shabbiness. The Persian carpets were threadbare, their once vibrant red-and-blue jewel tones dimmed by time, and the velvet draperies at the windows were faded, the upholstery on the wing chairs badly worn. Even the ruby-coloured chesterfield was dark and muddy, and the leather was cracked. Emma recognized that the antiques were fine and obviously of value, as were the many leather-bound books and hunting prints, but withal the room’s dreadful neglect was patently obvious.

Emma shrugged and glided over to a window to look out. In the distance the wild implacable moors soared up before her eyes, a grim black line undulating beneath a clear spring sky, a sky the colour of her mother’s eyes. She had a sudden longing to go up to the moors, to climb that familiar path through the Baptist Field that led to Ramsden Crags and the Top of the World. The place her mother had loved the most, up there where the air was cool and bracing and filled with pale lavender tints and misty pinks and greys. That was not possible today. Innumerable memories assailed her, dragging her back into the past. She closed her eyes, and heard the sweet trilling of the larks, could almost smell the scent of the heather after rain, could feel the bracken brushing against her bare legs and the cool wind caressing her face…

From his position at the fireplace Blackie scrutinized Emma, held in the grips of his own memories. He thought of the day he had first met her, so long ago now. This imperious and distinguished woman standing before him bore no resemblance to his poverty-stricken colleen of the moors. He shook his head, marvelling at her and all she had become. At thirty-four, Emma Harte Ainsley was undoubtedly at the height of her beauty, a beauty so staggering it startled and bewitched everyone. Today she wore an expensive and fashionable silvergrey wool-crepe suit trimmed with sable and a smart sable hat. His emerald brooch gleamed on the collar of her grey silk blouse, matchless pearls cascaded from her slender neck, and the magnificent emerald earrings were just visible below her stylishly bobbed hair. She was not only elegant but cultivated and self-assured and she exuded an aura that bespoke undeniable power.

Emma swung around unexpectedly and was immediately aware of Blackie’s eyes resting on her with such intensity. She laughed lightly. ‘Why are you staring at me? Is my slip showing?’

Blackie grinned. ‘No, I’m just admiring you, me darlin’. Just admiring you. And also remembering-so many things.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said slowly, a thoughtful look drifting on to her face. ‘This place does evoke all kinds of memories, doesn’t it?’ She smiled faintly, stepped to the desk in the corner, and placed her suede bag on it.

‘Aye, it does.’ Blackie lit a cigarette, drew on it, and shifted his stance. ‘Fairley’s taking his sweet time. I wonder what he’s trying to prove.’

‘Oh, who cares.’ Emma shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’re not in a hurry.’ She sat down at the desk, the desk which had once been Adam Fairley’s, and leaned back in the chair. She pulled off her grey suede gloves slowly, smiling to herself. She examined her hands. Small strong hands and certainly not the most beautiful in the world. But they were white and soft and the nails were polished to a soft pink sheen. They were no longer red and chapped from scrubbing and scouring and polishing…no longer the hands of the skivvy who had been in bondage in this grim house.

The door flew open and Gerald Fairley entered, dragging his great weight, his steps lumbering. He did not see Emma, who was in the shadows, and he hurried over to Blackie, his hand outstretched.

‘Good afternoon, Mr O’Neill.’ He looked Blackie over with unconcealed interest. ‘I thought your name was familiar when you made the appointment. Now I remember you. Surely you used to do repairs here when I was a boy.’

‘That’s correct,’ Blackie said, stepping forward and shaking Gerald’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you again, Mr Fairley.’ Not having set eyes on Gerald for many years, Blackie was astounded at the man’s hippopotamic body, his ruined face, and his apparent dissipation. Gerald was so physically repugnant Blackie shuddered with distaste.

‘Never forget a face,’ Gerald went on. ‘Now, may I offer you a drink before we get down to business?’

‘No, thank you,’ Blackie declined politely.

‘I need a brandy myself. Always do after lunch.’ Gerald plodded over to the black-walnut chest and poured himself a generous measure of cognac. As he turned around, glass in hand, he spotted Emma seated at the desk. His porcine eyes opened wide and a look of disbelief spread itself across his blubbery face. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he bellowed.

‘I am with Mr O’Neill,’ Emma responded softly. Her face was without expression.

‘You bloody well know how to make yourself at home, don’t you!’ Gerald exploded, still incredulous. ‘How dare you take such a liberty! Sitting at my desk!’

‘I believe it is my desk now,’ Emma said in the softest voice, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Gerald.

‘Your desk! What the hell are you talking about?’ Gerald stamped into the middle of the room and swung to face Blackie, his manner bellicose. ‘What does she mean, O’Neill? What is the explanation for all this! I sold Fairley Hall to Deerfield Estates. You yourself told me on the telephone that you represented them, and had been engaged to do the renovations. So why in God’s name is that woman in my house? You had no right to bring her here.’ He did not wait for Blackie’s answer, but heaved his monstrous body to face Emma. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out, do you hear me! I will not tolerate your presence at this private meeting.’

Emma remained perfectly still. Not even an eyelash flickered. She smiled darkly. ‘I have no intentions of leaving. And I do have every right to be here, Mr Fairley,’ she pronounced with cold disdain. ‘You see, I am Deerfield Estates.’

For a moment Emma’s words did not sink into Gerald’s befuddled mind. He continued to glare at her uncomprehendingly, and then, as if a veil had been miraculously lifted, he stuttered, ‘Y-y-y-you are Deerfield Estates-’

‘I am indeed.’ Emma opened her purse and took out a piece of paper. She gave it a cursory glance and looked across at Gerald. ‘Yes, this desk is listed on the inventory, just as I thought. I purchased it along with some of the other contents. And, since you have already cashed the cheque from Deerfield Estates, this is my desk, as this is undoubtedly my house. I have paid for them.’

Reeling, Gerald fell into one of the wing chairs. What had she said? That she was the owner of Fairley Hall? Emma Harte, the servant girl they had once employed! Never, not in a thousand years! The idea was unthinkable, outrageous. Gerald’s eyes swivelled to Blackie, standing calmly at the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, a faint amused smile playing on his mouth.

‘Is it true?’ Gerald asked, his voice unsure. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Blackie replied, endeavouring to keep his face straight. By God, he would not have missed this scene for the world.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she was coming with you when you made the appointment?’ Gerald now demanded in an accusatory tone.

‘It was not my prerogative to do so,’ Blackie said, taking out his cigarette case.

Gerald stared at the drink in his hand, all manner of vindictive thoughts flashing through his addled brain. Good Christ, if he had known this little tramp was connected with Deerfield Estates he would not have sold the house to them. He must cancel the sale at once. Yes, that was undoubtedly the right thing to do. And then sickeningly he recalled her words of a moment ago. He had cashed the cheque and spent all the money. He had used it to pay off some of his gambling debts. He was trapped. He lifted his shaking hand and tossed down the drink in one gulp.

Emma flashed a glance at Blackie and her green eyes below the curving golden brows sparkled. She rose and walked sedately over to the chesterfield. She sat down, gracefully crossed her legs, and studied Gerald. ‘Under the terms of the sales contract you should have vacated this house by now,’ she said in a light, clear voice. ‘I will give you one more week to do so.’

Gerald blinked and shook his head so vigorously his chins wobbled. ‘That’s not long enough,’ he whined. ‘You’ve got to give me more time.’

‘One week,’ Emma repeated. She paused and her gleaming eyes narrowed. ‘Furthermore, I must insist you remove all of your personal belongings from your office at the Fairley mill immediately. Today. By five o’clock, in fact. Otherwise they will be packed in cardboard boxes and deposited in the mill yard to be retrieved by you at your convenience. By five o’clock today.’

Gerald was jolted upright in the wing chair, and he stared at Emma thunderstruck. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, so undone was he. He sat gaping stupidly, paralysed by his spiralling fear.

Emma continued icily, ‘I am not wrong in thinking you sold the Fairley mill two weeks ago, am I? To the General Retail Trading Company.’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’ Gerald spluttered, rousing himself. He was obviously perplexed as he added, ‘General Retail Trading is a division of Procter and Procter, which is owned by my friend Alan Procter.’

‘I am well aware of General Retail Trading’s connection with Procter and Procter,’ Emma said. ‘However, you are slightly misinformed. Procter and Procter is, in turn, a subsidiary of the Emeremm Company. It does not belong to Alan Procter. It has not belonged to him for some years. He is merely an employee of the parent company.’ She sat back, watching him.

‘Alan Procter never mentioned that to me,’ Gerald muttered. A most terrible and unacceptable thought now entered his swimming head. He asked haltingly, ‘Who owns the Emeremm Company?’

‘I do,’ Emma said, smiling thinly and enjoying the expression on Gerald’s face. ‘Consequently, I control Procter and Procter and the General Retail Trading Company, as well as Deerfield Estates.’ She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. ‘Therefore, I now own all of your mills, as well as Fairley Hall.’

‘You!’ Gerald screamed, half rising. ‘It was you!’ He fell back into the chair, seized by an uncontrollable shaking, and then he experienced a stab of pain in his chest, one so acute it knocked the breath out of him. He clutched his chest and the shaking increased. He thought he might be having a seizure. Suddenly the reality of her revelations overwhelmed him and with dawning horror he recognized the ghastly truth. Emma Harte now possessed all that had been his. Most of the Fairley enterprises were in her hands. And so was his family home. His ancestral home. She had smashed his life. All he had left were a few shares in the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the brickyard, neither of which he gave a damn about. He shuddered and dropped his head into his hands.

Blackie gazed dispassionately at Gerald. He saw a devastated and broken man and yet Blackie felt no sympathy for him. He turned and glanced at Emma, who sat poised and calm on the sofa, in command of herself and the situation, and then he sucked in his breath. Her beautiful face was a bronze mask, her eyes as deadly as steel, and his hackles rose. There was power and stealth in this room, and a ruthlessness so tangible the air seemed to vibrate with it. And it emanated solely from Emma. Blackie swallowed and looked away, finally truly understanding what a force she was to be reckoned with.

Gerald lifted his head slowly and glared at Emma venomously. ‘You conniving bloody bitch!’ he hissed from between clenched teeth. ‘You have been behind all the dreadful things that have happened to me. Why, you deliberately set out to steal my mills. You ruined me!’

Emma laughed sardonically and for the first time that day her virulent loathing for Gerald was fully revealed. ‘Did you think I made an idle threat that day, thirteen years ago, when you tried to rape me? I will never forget that day. And now, neither will you. It will haunt you as long as you live, Gerald Fairley.’ She gave him a curious icy smile. ‘Yes, I set out to ruin you, as I vowed I would when you forced your way into my house and attacked me. But you were my willing ally. You made it very easy for me. If the truth be known, you really ruined yourself. I simply helped you along the way.’

Gerald’s monumental fury and humiliation pushed aside all reason. He stood up unsteadily. He wanted to put his hands around her neck and squeeze and squeeze until she had no life left in her. He must destroy her. He stepped towards Emma, his hatred blazing, his eyes bulging in his twisted face. He raised his hand as if to strike her.

Blackie, astonished and enraged by what he had just heard, moved with swiftness, catching Gerald’s arm as it came down, neatly deflecting the blow. Although Gerald was huge, he was weak and his weight was cumbersome, and so he was no match for Blackie’s strength and speed. Blackie spun Gerald around roughly and grabbed him with both hands, pinning his arms to his sides. He increased his vice-like grip and forced Gerald down into the chair.

‘Don’t try that again, Fairley!’ Blackie cried, anger suffusing his face with dark colour. ‘If you so much as breathe on her I will give you the worst thrashing of your life!’

Foolishly disregarding Blackie’s warning, Gerald struggled upright mumbling foul imprecations. He heaved himself to his feet, sweating profusely, and glowered at Emma. He seemed about to attack her and then suddenly he changed his mind and lurched at Blackie. Blackie was prepared and stepped aside adroitly, swung his right fist, and caught Gerald a glancing blow on the jaw. A look of stunned surprise crossed Gerald’s purple face before he crumpled and collapsed in a heap at their feet, overturning a small mahogany table as he fell.

‘Oh my God!’ Emma exclaimed, rising.

‘That bastard asked for it!’ Blackie muttered, and gave her a sharp, puzzled glance. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he tried to rape you when it happened? I would have knocked the living daylights out of him! He would have been crippled for life, after I’d finished with him!’

‘I know. That’s why I never mentioned it, Blackie,’ Emma said quietly. ‘I thought it advisable to keep it to myself. I didn’t need any more trouble in those days. My life was difficult enough as it was.’ Emma righted the table and smiled wanly. ‘But thank you for interceding now. I really think he meant to hit me.’

Blackie looked at her askance, as always surprised at her fearlessness. ‘What do you mean, think he did? I know he intended you bodily harm. The nasty piece of work.’

Emma gestured at Gerald. ‘What are we going to do with him? We can’t just leave him lying there.’

A malicious gleam entered Blackie’s eyes. ‘I can think of a lot of things I’d like to do with him. But he’s not worth going to jail for, I can tell you that.’ Blackie spotted a jug of water on the walnut chest. He brought it over to Gerald and threw the contents on him unceremoniously. ‘There, that should do it!’ he exclaimed, and stood regarding Gerald coldly.

After a moment Gerald struggled into a sitting position, spluttering and wiping the water from his face. Blackie pulled him to his feet. ‘No more violence, Fairley. Do you understand me? Otherwise I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ Blackie said harshly, his manner threatening. He manoeuvred Gerald into the chair with a degree of roughness and hovered over him. ‘Now, let’s get down to the business at hand. You know why I came. Presumably you are going to permit us to make a tour of inspection. I don’t think you have any alternative under the circumstances, do you?’

Gerald ignored Blackie and snarled viciously at Emma, his enmity for her more palpable than ever. ‘I’ll get you for this!’ he shouted, shaking his fist at her. ‘You’re not going to get off scot-free,’ he blustered. ‘Or as easily as you think, Emma.’

‘Mrs Ainsley to you,’ Blackie said as Emma walked over to the desk.

Emma picked up her gloves and handbag and said, ‘Please leave us now. I believe you have something to attend to-removing your personal belongings from your office at the mill.’

Gerald stood up uncertainly. He held on to the back of the chair and his tone was venomous as he said, ‘I give you fair warning-’ His voice broke and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I am going to-’

‘You can do nothing,’ Emma said, and she turned away in disgust.

Blackie said firmly, ‘You heard the lady, Fairley. You had better do as she says and be quick about it. I think it would be rather embarrassing to find your stuff dumped in the mill yard.’

Gerald stumbled out of the library, his shoulders hunched in defeat. He slammed the door behind him and the wall sconces rattled in their sockets.

Emma, who abhorred violence, had been alarmed by the altercation, as brief as it was, but she had not lost her composure. She glanced across at Blackie and said dismissively, ‘So much for fools. Shall we look around the house?’

‘Why not? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

‘One of the reasons,’ Emma said.

Blackie’s eyes rested reflectively on Emma. Revenge generally came at a high price and, whilst he understood her motivations, he wondered, abstractly, if the price had been worth it to her. Superstitious Celt that he was, Blackie shivered unexpectedly. The desire for revenge was not unnatural, but it could curdle and embitter the soul, and it often destroyed the avenger. Was it not perhaps infinitely wiser to abjure the wicked and abandon them to the fates, and trust in God to make retribution in His own good time? He found himself saying, almost inaudibly, ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.’

Emma gave him a peculiar look, and then she laughed. There was a hint of irony in her voice as she retorted, ‘Don’t start getting mystical with me. You know I don’t believe in God. Besides, even if I did, I would still have taken matters into my own hands. You see, Blackie, I didn’t have time to wait for the Lord.’

‘And you also wanted the satisfaction of seeing Gerald Fairley’s face when he discovered you had been his adversary all these years,’ Blackie asserted.

‘Do you blame me?’ Emma asked, one eyebrow raised.

‘I don’t suppose I do,’ Blackie admitted, and regarded her for a long moment. ‘And tell me, Emma, how do you feel, now that you have accomplished what you set out to do?’

‘Why, I feel wonderful. Why shouldn’t I? I have waited twenty years to see the tables turned on the Fairleys. Twenty years, Blackie! And let me tell you something. Revenge is sweet. Very sweet indeed.’

Blackie did not reply. He put his arm around her shoulders and gazed down at her. To his relief that cold and implacable mask had been discarded, had been replaced by the sweetest of expressions, and the hard glint in her emerald eyes had disappeared. A thought struck him. ‘And what of Edwin Fairley?’ Blackie asked curiously. ‘Do you have something special in store for him?’

‘You will have to wait and see,’ Emma said cryptically, and smiled. ‘Anyway, don’t think Edwin won’t be upset by all this, because he will. For one thing, he will be mortified by the scandal, the terrible disgrace. Gerald is practically bankrupt and the whole of Yorkshire’s business community knows it. Furthermore, Edwin’s income is going to be most seriously affected. He had an interest in the Fairley mills, under his father’s will. Now that’s gone up in a puff of smoke,’ she finished triumphantly and with an eloquent wave of her hand.

Blackie said softly, ‘Is there anything you don’t know about their affairs?’

‘Nothing.’

Blackie shook his head. ‘You’re an amazing woman, Emma.’

‘Aren’t I, just. I amaze myself sometimes.’ Emma laughed. ‘Well, let’s do what we came here to do and make our grand tour of Fairley Hall.’

They went out into the entrance hall and slowly mounted the great staircase washed in the eerie light sifting in through the huge stained-glass window that soared high above the central landing. They walked down the endless dusky corridors that reeked faintly of wax and gas and dust and that peculiar mustiness that seeped out of the walls, and the wood creaked and the wind moaned in the eaves and the light dimmed, and it seemed to Emma that the ancient house was expiring all around them. They looked in on various rooms where grimy dust sheets draped the furniture and then moved on into the main corridor of bedrooms.

Emma paused at the door of the Blue Suite and glanced back at Blackie standing behind her. ‘These were Adele Fairley’s rooms,’ she remarked, and hesitated, her hand resting on the knob. And then she braced herself, flung open the door, and went in purposefully. Motes of dust rose up from the carpet in eddying whirls and danced in the sunlit air as they disturbed the room, which had obviously been unused for years and held an aura of neglect more pronounced than the library. Although Emma had never liked this room as a child, she had been awed by the quality of the antiques and some of the other furnishings. Now she saw it through the eyes of the connoisseur she had become, and she grimaced. Here poor Adele Fairley had lived out her life in her introverted world, isolated from her family and escaping reality by fleeing down the neck of a bottle. Emma had long ago acknowledged that Adele had been an alcoholic. But was she also mad? She pushed aside the troubling thought of inherited insanity and drifted through into the adjoining bedroom, pausing by the huge four-poster bed swathed in faded green silk. The silence was overwhelming and, in the way the imagination can play queer tricks, Emma heard Adele’s tinkling laughter and the rustling of her peignoir, caught a faint whiff of her Jasmine perfume. She blinked rapidly and gooseflesh spreckled her arms. She laughed at herself and then swung around and hurriedly returned to the sitting room.

Blackie followed her, assessing everything as he did. ‘These are fine rooms, Emma,’ he said, peering about. ‘Beautifully proportioned. They have a lot of potential. Of course, you’ll have to get rid of most of this junk Adele Fairley collected.’

‘Yes, I will,’ Emma said, and thought: What a pathetic memorial to Adele Fairley. She who was so beautiful.

Emma inspected the other bedrooms perfunctorily yet with a degree of curiosity. She hovered in front of the dressing table in the Grey Room, once occupied by Olivia Wainright Fairley, musing on her. Unexpectedly, a wave of reluctant affection surfaced in her. Olivia had been kind; had eased her burdens in this terrible house. She wondered if her empathy for Olivia had been unconsciously engendered by that woman’s marked resemblance to her mother. Perhaps. Emma’s face softened and she turned and left the Grey Room. But her expression changed radically when she pushed open the door of the Master’s Room. Her eyes were stony as she surveyed the austere furnishings, thinking of Adam Fairley. And Emma remembered anew all that had happened to her at Fairley Hall and she felt no compunction about what she had done. Her revenge had had a long gestation period, but it had been surely worth it.

Fifteen minutes later Emma and Blackie descended the main staircase and quickly traversed the reception rooms on the ground floor. All the while Blackie chatted enthusiastically about the renovations he would make, and outlined his plans for transforming Fairley Hall into an elegant home for her. Emma listened and nodded but said little. At one moment, when they were viewing the drawing room, she touched Blackie’s arm and asked, ‘Why was I so frightened of this house when I was a child?’

Blackie squeezed her hand lovingly. ‘You weren’t afraid of the house, Emma. You were afraid of the people in it.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she replied softly. ‘And now those people are just ghosts.’

‘Yes, me darlin’, just ghosts. And this is only a house, after all. I once told you it could never harm you.’

‘I know you did.’ Emma took Blackie’s arm. ‘Let’s go outside and look at the grounds. It’s chilly in here, and rather depressing.’

Emma blinked when they stepped out into the bright sunlight. ‘Do you know, it’s warmer out here than it is in there,’ she remarked, and stared up at the grim edifice soaring in front of her. Emma’s face became introspective as she walked along the flagged terrace, regarding Fairley Hall from time to time. This daunting house was enduring-and inescapable; a bastion of wealth and privilege, a monument to a society long outmoded, to a cruel class system she detested, and it sorely offended her.

Inclining her head towards the house, she murmured, ‘My father used to call this Fairley’s Folly.’

‘And so it is.’

‘Tear it down,’ Emma said with cool deliberation.

‘Tear it down!’ Blackie echoed, gazing at her incredulously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. I want you to tear it down. Brick by brick by brick, until there is nothing left standing.’

‘But I thought you were going to live in it,’ Blackie exclaimed, still flabbergasted.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever really intended to do that. You once said it was a monstrosity and that’s a decided understatement. There is no place in this world for monstrosities. I want it wiped off the face of the earth as if it never existed.’

‘And the furniture?’

‘Sell it. Give it away. Do as you wish. I know I don’t want one piece of it. You can take anything you like, Blackie.’ She smiled. ‘You might consider keeping Adam Fairley’s desk. It is quite valuable, you know.’

‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll think about it.’ Blackie rubbed his chin. ‘Are you sure about this decision? You did pay a lot for the house.’

‘I am very sure.’ Emma swivelled and tripped lightly down the terrace steps until she stood at the entrance to the rose garden. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a young and desperate girl, and she recalled the day she had told Edwin she was pregnant, and remembered his repudiation of her as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

‘And destroy this garden,’ she said icily. ‘Demolish it completely. I don’t want one rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’

The villagers were agog at the news that Emma Harte, Big Jack’s daughter, was now the owner of Fairley Hall and the mill. It was a reversal of circumstances so unlikely it staggered the imagination, and, in turn, they were stunned, astonished, and finally wryly amused at the ironic justice so inherent in the turn of events, which were quite unexpected. Hidebound as they were by tradition and prejudice, and trapped in a rigid caste system that kept the workers in their place, they nevertheless marvelled at her audacity in daring to defy that system and break all the rules set down by the Establishment for centuries.

The following morning women stood on doorsteps and leaned over garden gates, arms akimbo, shaking their heads and exclaiming about the remarkable success story of one of their own. That night in the White Horse, the men at the bar, most of whom worked at the mill, crowded together, speculating about the future of the mill and chuckling at the demise of the Fairleys’ power. Although Adam Fairley had not been particularly liked, because he was not of the same ilk as his bluff and hearty father, being too ‘fancy’ for their north-country tastes, he had been respected since the men recognized his basic integrity and fairness. However, Gerald, who was a tyrant and a fool, was loathed, and no one was unhappy to see his downfall, nor did they have a shred of pity for him. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’ was the phrase most often heard in the ensuing days as the villagers waited eagerly for the arrival of their new employer and the future mistress of Fairley Hall.

But Emma did not come to the village-at least not until Gerald Fairley had vacated Fairley Hall. Two days after his departure her silver-grey Rolls-Royce pulled up into the mill yard and she went into the mill to hold a meeting with the workers. The manager, Josh Wilson, son of Ernest, who had served Adam so well, assembled the men and women in the weaving shed. Emma, wearing a navy-blue tailored dress, a navy cloche, and pearls, cordially greeted some of the men she remembered from her childhood and then addressed the gathering.

She was direct: ‘As you are only too well aware, there has been a slump in the cloth business for almost eighteen months, ever since the price of wool hit??ock bottom, to be followed by the price of cloth. Due to?? inferior management of the previous owner, Fairley mil?? h?? been limping along and I know that many men were laid off over the past few months.’ Emma paused and cleared her throat. ‘I am afraid I cannot reinstate those men.’ She held up her hand as loud groans and mutterings rippled through the audience. ‘However, I am going to give a small pension to the men who have been laid off and who have not found work in the nearby towns. I would also like to say now, and most definitely, that I have no intention of closing the mill, as I believe many of you thought I would. But under the present circumstances, I must retrench, economize, reorganize, and decrease the staff. Therefore, all men of retiring age and close to it will be retired immediately. Each man will receive a pension. Younger men, especially those who are single, will be offered jobs in my other companies, if they are willing to leave Fairley and carve out a niche for themselves in the cities of Leeds and Bradford. Those who do not wish to take advantage of this offer may remain. Of course, I hope some of you will consider it, so that I can reduce the work force here in order to operate more economically. As I told Josh, I am going to sell the quality cloth we produce to the three Kallinski tailoring factories in Leeds, but even their orders will not be sufficient to keep the mill in full production. I have a solution to that problem. I am going to start making a lower-quality cloth immediately, to be sold at cheaper prices abroad, and I hope there will be a demand for it here, too.’

Emma smiled confidently. ‘I am fortunate in that I can afford to ride out this slump, and with a little luck, and your cooperation, I know we can turn this mill around and put it on a paying basis quickly. Let me say again, I am not going to close the mill, so I don’t want any of you to worry about your jobs. I don’t intend to let this village starve.’

They cheered her rousingly, and one by one, clutching their cloth caps, the men came to shake her hand, to thank her, and to welcome her back to Fairley. ‘I knew yer dad, love,’ one man told her, and another added, ‘By gum, Big Jack’d be right proud of yer, lass.’

After a meeting with Josh Wilson, Emma stepped into her Rolls and told the chauffeur to drive her to Fairley Hall. Blackie O’Neill’s workmen were already swarming all over the house, scrambling up ladders and across the roof. Windows were being removed, chimneys dismantled, and slates ripped off. Emma smiled to herself, and returned to Leeds.

At first the villagers believed the Hall was being renovated and they were excited about this development and looked forward to welcoming Emma Harte as the lady of the manor. But within the space of a week, they realized, to their shock, that the house was being slowly demolished, and they were baffled.

In the middle of May, Emma made a second trip to Fairley Hall. She walked along the terrace, which still remained intact, and regarded the great tract of rough bare ground where the house and stables had formerly stood. Not one brick was left and the rose garden, too, had disappeared. Emma felt an enormous surge of relief and an unexpected sense of liberation. Fairley Hall, that house where she had suffered such humiliation and heartache, might never have existed. It could no longer hurt her with the painful memories it evoked. She had exorcized all the ghosts of her childhood. She was free at last of the Fairleys.

Blackie, who arrived a few moments later, put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I followed your instructions down to the letter and removed the monstrosity, mavourneen. But like the whole of the village, I am eaten up with curiosity, Emma. Tell me, darlin’, what are you going to do with this land?’

Emma looked up at him and smiled. ‘I am going to turn it into a park. A beautiful park for the villagers of Fairley, and I am going to name it after my mother.’

FIFTY-TWO

A week later, on a lovely evening at the end of May, Emma stepped out of a taxi at the Savoy Hotel in London and hurried through the lobby to the American Bar. She saw Frank before her saw her. He was seated at a table facing the lobby, and as she mounted the short flight of steps into the bar she noticed that he looked reflective and brooding as he nursed his drink.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said, coming to a standstill in front of him.

Momentarily startled, Frank raised his head quickly and his eyes lit up. ‘There you are!’ He rose and pulled out a chair for her. ‘And don’t you look lovely, our Em.’

‘Why, thank you, darling.’ She smoothed the skirt of her lime-green silk dress and took off her white kid gloves. ‘It is a scorcher, isn’t it? I think I’ll have a gin fizz, Frank, please. It will refresh me. I had quite a hectic day at the store.’

Frank ordered the drink and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way down to the Strand, but it is closer to Fleet Street and I’ve got to be back at the paper in a short while.’

‘I didn’t mind coming here. I rather like this bar. Anyway, why did you want to see me? You sounded urgent when you phoned me at the store. I was a little worried, to tell you the truth.’

‘I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to do that. Actually, it’s not all that urgent, but I did want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Arthur Ainsley.’

Emma’s shapely brows shot up. ‘Arthur. Good heavens, why do you want to talk about him?’

‘Winston and I have been worried about you lately. You’re sitting in a hopeless marriage and it disturbs us both. In fact, we think you should divorce Arthur. I promised Winston I would broach the idea to you.’

‘A divorce!’ Emma laughed gaily. ‘Whatever for? Arthur doesn’t bother me.’

‘He’s not right for you, Emma, and you know it. There’s his terrible drinking, for one thing, and the way he carries on with-’Frank swallowed and drew on his cigarette.

‘Other women,’ Emma finished for him. She looked amused. ‘I realize the wife is always supposed to be the last to know. However, I’ve been aware of Arthur’s activities for a long time. You don’t have to spare my feelings.’

‘And it doesn’t upset you?’ Frank asked.

‘My monumental lack of interest in Arthur Ainsley and the way he conducts his life must surely negate the idea that I care for him. Actually, I have no feelings for Arthur whatsoever.’

‘Then why not get a divorce, Emma?’

‘Because of the children, mainly.’

‘Fiddlesticks! You’re using them as an excuse. Edwina and Kit are away at boarding school. They wouldn’t be affected-’

‘I was thinking of the twins, Frank. They are Arthur’s children and they need a father.’

‘What kind of father is Arthur?’ Frank snorted.

Emma picked up the drink the waiter had placed before her. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers. Now, come on, give me an answer.’

‘Well, he is a presence in their lives. He’s very fond of them, and quite good with them, really.’

‘When he’s sober,’ Frank pointed out with a degree of acerbity.

Emma sighed. ‘There’s a grain of truth in what you say, of course. But look here, Frank, I honestly don’t want to divorce Arthur, even though I have grounds. At least, not right now. You know I hate upheaval and I really do think it’s the wrong time. Perhaps when the children are older I’ll consider it.’ Her voice trailed off and she looked pensive. She cheered. ‘I’m reasonably content. Arthur doesn’t interfere with me, or the business, and you know how much I love that.’

‘You can’t take ledgers to bed with you, our Em. They don’t keep you warm on a cold night, and they certainly can’t cherish and love you as you should be cherished and loved.’

Emma laughed. ‘Why is it you men are always thinking of sex?’

‘I did say “cherished” and “loved”. You’re a young woman. You should have some companionship, a relationship with a decent man. My God, you must be bloody lonely!’

A cloud passed over Emma’s face and her eyes were briefly sad. She shook her head slowly, ‘I don’t have time to be lonely. I’m very busy these days, as you well know, constantly travelling between here and Leeds. And I am adamant about the divorce, Frank. Now, let’s not waste any more time talking about Arthur. Tell me about the house you found in Hampstead. Does Natalie like it?’

Frank groaned, acknowledging it was useless to pursue the conversation, and said, ‘Yes, she does. So do I. It’s ideal for us. But I would like you to take a look at it, and give me your opinion. It’s quite expensive, you know.’

‘I’d be delighted. And don’t worry about the price, Frank. If it’s more than you can afford, I’ll give you the difference.’

‘Oh, Emma, I couldn’t take it,’ Frank protested.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Years ago Blackie told me that money was meant to be spent and he was correct. I want you to have a nice house, to start this marriage off on the right foot. I want you to be happy, Frank.’ She laughed. ‘Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness was misinformed, in my opinion. It buys a lot of happiness, for a lot of people. And frankly, I’d rather be miserable with money than without it.’ She squeezed Frank’s arm. ‘You know anything I have is yours and Winston’s. It will be part of my wedding present to you and Natalie.’

‘You’re so generous, Emma. I really appreciate it. And what can I say but thank you very much.’ Frank sipped his drink and continued, ‘Can you spare an hour to view it tomorrow?’

‘Indeed I can. How is dear Natalie?’

Frank beamed. ‘She’s marvellous. A treasure. I love that girl, Emma. I really do.’

‘I know. You’re lucky, Frank. You’re going to have a wonderful marriage. She’s-’ Emma stopped and caught her breath. From her position at the table, a vantage point in the bar, Emma could see a major portion of the lobby and her eyes were now riveted on two men talking together near the reception desk.

Frank, watching Emma carefully, said, ‘What’s wrong?’

Emma glanced at Frank, white with shock. ‘It’s Paul McGill!’ She looked down the steps again. ‘Oh my God! He’s coming this way. I think he’s heading for the bar. I must leave immediately, before he sees me.’

Frank put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘It’s perfectly all right, Emma. Don’t get excited. And please don’t leave,’ he implored softly.

Emma’s eyes blazed. ‘Frank! You knew he was in London, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t-you couldn’t possibly have asked him to join us?’

Frank did not answer. He looked down at his drink.

Emma hissed, ‘My God! You did!’

‘Guilty, I’m afraid,’ Frank murmured.

‘Oh, Frank, how could you?’ Emma half rose, and Frank pressed her gently back into the chair.

‘Please, Emma. You have to stay.’

She looked at him furiously. ‘This sudden desire to talk about Arthur and the house was just a ruse, wasn’t it?’ she cried accusingly.

‘No!’ Frank exclaimed. ‘It wasn’t! I did want to discuss your marriage. I have for a long time. I told you, Winston and I are very perturbed. And I do need your advice about the house. However, I did agree to arrange this meeting.’

‘My God! What am I going to do?’ Emma whispered hoarsely.

‘You are going to be your civilized self and have a drink with Paul.’

‘I can’t,’ she wailed. ‘You don’t understand. I must go!’ As she spoke, Emma knew it was already too late to make a graceful exit. Paul was bounding up the steps and then he was standing at the table, his bulk casting a shadow on them. Emma lifted her eyes slowly and looked at him looking down at her. She was relieved she was, seated. Her legs had turned to jelly and her heart was palpitating.

‘Hello, Emma,’ Paul said, and stretched out his hand.

Automatically she gave him hers. ‘Hello, Paul,’ she responded in a strangled voice, shaking internally. She felt his strong fingers tighten on hers, felt the bright colour flooding her face. She extracted her hand quickly and gazed blindly at the table.

Paul greeted Frank like an old friend and sat down. He ordered a scotch and soda, leaned back, crossed his legs non-chalantly, and lit a cigarette. He turned his attention to Emma. ‘It’s good to see you, Emma. You look lovely. You haven’t changed a bit. And I must congratulate you. Your store in Knightsbridge bowled me over. It’s magnificent. A monumental accomplishment. You should be proud of yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, not daring to look at him.

‘I must congratulate you, too, Frank. Your new book is splendid. Thanks for the copy. I was up half the night reading it. Couldn’t put it down, in fact.’

Frank grinned with pleasure. ‘I’m glad you like it. I’m also happy to say it’s doing very well.’

‘And so it should. It’s one of the best novels I’ve read in years.’ Paul’s drink arrived and as he lifted it he said, ‘Here’s to old and dear friends, and your impending marriage, Frank.’

Emma was silent. She had never thought her brother capable of duplicity, but he had certainly been devious in this instance, and was obviously on cordial terms with Paul.

Frank said, ‘I’m delighted you will be here in July. Natalie and I hope you can come to the wedding.’

Emma could not believe her ears. She glared at Frank, who ignored her penetrating look and continued,’And thanks for the invitation to dine with you later this week. Natalie suggested Friday, if you are free.’

‘I am. And I wouldn’t miss the wedding for anything.’ Paul’s eyes rested on Emma. ‘Could you join us for dinner on Friday, Emma?’

‘I’m quite sure I can’t,’ she responded, avoiding his eyes.

‘Why don’t you check your appointment book later?’ Frank suggested.

‘I don’t have to. I am positive I have a dinner engagement,’ she enunciated clearly and in a firmer tone, her eyes signalling her displeasure to Frank.

Recognizing the stubborn expression settling on her face, Paul refrained from pressing the point and, turning to Frank, he said, ‘Where are you planning to go on your honeymoon?’

‘We’ve been considering the South of France, although we haven’t definitely decided yet.’

Emma sat back in the chair, no longer listening to them. Their conversation washed over her as she retreated into herself. She had been utterly thrown off balance by Paul’s unexpected arrival and she could, at this moment, have cheerfully killed Frank for his participation in the scheme. She felt dazed, and many mixed emotions, so well controlled over the years, broke free in her. The impact of seeing him was devastating. Paul McGill was sitting here, unconcernedly chatting to Frank, smiling, nodding, and behaving as if nothing had happened between them. She felt the enormous power of him, his sheathed strength and virility, and she remembered every detail of the days they had spent together at the Ritz. And then she recalled, with a stab of sadness, how she had yearned for him. Pined for him. Needed him in the past. Now he was only inches away, and she stifled the impulse to reach out and touch him, to reassure herself he was real. Instead she looked at him surreptitiously. He was as immaculate as always, dressed in a dark grey chalk-striped suit and gleaming white silk shirt. Sapphire-and-gold links glittered in the French cuffs and he wore a deep blue silk tie, and a white handkerchief flared in his breast pocket. She knew he had been forty-two at the beginning of February, but he looked exactly the same as he had in 1919, except that his face was more deeply tanned and there were additional character lines around his eyes. His colouring was as vivid as it had ever been, and his chuckle was deep and throaty. How well she knew that amused, sardonic chuckle. Sudden anger swamped her. How dare he come back here so casually and expect her to treat him with civility after all the pain he had caused her. What audacity. What arrogance. Resentment edged out all other feelings, and she steeled herself against his potent charm.

Dimly, she heard Frank saying goodbye. He was leaving her alone with Paul. The idea terrified her.

‘I must go,’ she said, picking up her gloves and her purse. ‘Please excuse me, Paul. I have to leave with Frank.’

‘Don’t go, Emma. Please. I would like to talk to you,’ Paul said in the softest of voices. It was imperative that he detain her at all costs, yet he dare not exert obvious pressure on her.

Frank threw Paul a conspiratorial glance and addressed Emma. ‘I have to get back to Fleet Street. I’m running late.’ He kissed her on the cheek perfunctorily and departed before she could protest further, and she knew she was trapped.

Paul summoned the waiter and ordered more drinks, and then he leaned forward intently. His eyes were serious, his face grave. ‘Please don’t be angry with Frank. I persuaded him to arrange this meeting.’

‘Why?’ Emma asked, and for the first time she looked at Paul fully and with coldness.

Paul winced. He knew he had a difficult time ahead of him, but he was determined to convince her of his sincerity. ‘As I said, I wanted to see you and to talk to you. Very desperately.’

‘Desperately!’ she echoed, and laughed cynically. ‘That’s a strange word to use. You can’t have been all that desperate, otherwise you would not have let so many years elapse.’

‘I understand your feelings only too well, Emma. But it does happen to be the truth. I have been really desperate. And for the past four and a half years,’ he insisted.

‘Then why didn’t you write to me?’ she demanded, and her voice shook unexpectedly. She took furious control of herself, determined not to show any emotion whatsoever.

‘I did write to you a number of times and I also sent you three cablegrams.’

Emma stared at Paul, a look of disbelief crossing her face. ‘Don’t tell me they all got lost in the post! And that the cablegrams disappeared into thin air! I would find that very hard to swallow.’

‘No, they didn’t. They were stolen. As your letters to me were stolen,’ Paul said, his eyes not leaving her face.

‘Stolen by whom?’ Emma asked, returning his intense stare.

‘By my private secretary.’

‘But why would she do a thing like that?’

‘It’s rather a long story,’ Paul said quietly. ‘I would like to tell it to you. That was the reason I wanted to see you. Will you at least give me the courtesy of listening, Emma? Please.’

‘All right,’ she murmured. It would do no harm to hear what he had to say and her curiosity also got the better of her.

‘When I returned to Australia in 1919, the only thing on my mind was seeing my father and then returning to you as quickly as possible.’

Paul paused as the waiter appeared with the drinks. When he was out of earshot he went on, ‘I walked into quite a mess when I arrived in Sydney, but I won’t go into that now. Let me first tell you about the letters. Years ago my father befriended a young girl who worked in our Sydney office. He groomed her to be his private secretary during my absence. After I was demobbed I had to take over the reins of the business at once, because Dad was not at all well, and so I inherited her. Marion Reese was a godsend in those first few weeks. Anyway, for a couple of months I was working very long hours with Marion at my side, guiding me, helping me, and filling me in on most things. My father was gradually getting worse and he was confined to bed. Frankly, Emma, I relied heavily on Marion. I had enormous responsibilities thrust upon me and I was out of touch.’ Paul lit a cigarette, inhaled, and continued, ‘Marion had been like a member of the family before the war. My father was very fond of her and I looked on her as a friend, as well as a valued employee. She was like an older sister in a sense, since she is about four years my senior. One night, after we had been working rather late, I took her to supper, and I confided in her. I told her about you and my plans for the future, my intention of marrying you, once I had sorted out my marital problems.’

A regretful smile played around Paul’s mouth and he shook his head. ‘Confiding in Marion was a terrible mistake, as it turned out. A mistake I made when I had had a few drinks too many. Of course, I didn’t realize it was a mistake at the time. Marion was most understanding. She promised to help me pull everything back into shape as quickly as possible, so that I could come to London for a few months and-’

‘Why was it a mistake?’ Emma interrupted, frowning.

‘I didn’t know it at the time, but Marion Reese was in love with me and had been for many years. There had been nothing between us ever, and I had never done anything to encourage her. Naturally, the last thing she wanted was for me to leave Australia, and especially to go to another woman, although I was not aware of that then. In any event, I went on furiously reorganizing the business and writing to you, not realizing that my devoted secretary was confiscating my letters to you instead of posting them. I was puzzled and unnerved when you didn’t reply to my letters, other than the first one. I sent two cablegrams, begging you to at least let me know you were well. Of course, they were never transmitted. Marion destroyed them. Still, in spite of your silence, which I couldn’t understand, I was determined to see you and, as soon as I could, sailed for England.’

Emma, who had been listening attentively and digesting his words, knew with absolute certainty that he was speaking the truth. She looked at him alertly. ‘When was that?’

‘About a year later. In the spring of 1920. I wrote out a cable and gave it to Marion before I departed, announcing my arrival, and I prayed you would meet the boat. You didn’t because you never received the cable. The first person I telephoned was Frank. He told me you were on your honeymoon. That you had married Arthur Ainsley just one week before.’

‘Oh my God!’ Emma cried, her eyes flaring open. Dismay swamped her.

Paul’s smile was pained and he nodded his head. ‘Yes, I was a week too late to stop that. Unfortunately.’

‘But why didn’t you come before? Why did you wait a whole year?’ Emma demanded, her voice rising.

‘I simply couldn’t get away, Emma. You see, my father was dying of cancer. He passed away about eight months after I had returned to Australia.’

‘I’m so sorry, Paul,’ Emma murmured, and genuine sympathy was reflected in her eyes.

‘Yes, it was sad. And Dad was very dependent on me in those last few months. Well, to continue. I had hoped to leave immediately after Dad’s funeral, but then my wife-’ Paul hesitated and grimaced slightly. ‘My wife, Constance, became very ill, and I was further delayed. Just when I thought I could get away at last, my son fell sick.’ Paul eyed Emma carefully. ‘I have a son, you know.’

‘Yes, so I heard. You could have told me, Paul. I wish you had,’ she reproached.

‘Yes, I should have, Emma. But Howard, well, he has problems, and I have always found it difficult to talk about him.’ Paul sighed heavily and his eyes dulled momentarily. He straightened up in the chair. ‘Once Howard recovered I was able to leave for England.’

‘And you met with Frank?’

‘Not at first. Frank was a little reluctant to see me. I don’t believe he thought very highly of me. However, he did know how devastated I was when I learned of your marriage and I suppose he took pity on me, especially since I had told him on the phone that I had been writing to you diligently over the whole of the previous year. When he told me that you had never received my letters, and that you had also been writing to me, I was flabbergasted and baffled.’

‘How did you discover the letters had been stolen?’ Emma asked, her face as grim as Paul’s.

‘It struck me immediately, and most forcibly, that someone had been tampering with my mail. Several letters going astray was one thing, but not a dozen or so. It didn’t take much to deduce it was Marion. She was the obvious culprit, since she handled my correspondence in both Sydney and at the sheep station in Coonamble. And she also mailed all of my personal letters as well.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t post them yourself, isn’t it?’ Emma said quietly, cursing Marion Reese under her breath. Her penetrating eyes focused on Paul.

‘Yes, that’s true. I admit I was careless. On the other hand, I had no reason not to trust her. Also, I was facing monumental problems. I was overworked and preoccupied.’

‘I presume you confronted her when you returned to Sydney,’ Emma ventured.

‘I did indeed. She denied it at first. But eventually she broke down and confessed. When I asked her why she had done it, she said she had hoped to sabotage our romance, so I would not leave.’

‘She succeeded,’ Emma said drily, and thought of the wasted years.

‘Yes.’ Paul searched Emma’s face, which was unreadable. He reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘This is a letter from her solicitors. In it they acknowledge her guilt, on the understanding that I would not prosecute her, which I had threatened to do. Theft of mail is a felony, you know. I demanded this,’ he explained, tapping the envelope, ‘because I hoped one day to have the opportunity to show it to you, to prove that I am not the blackguard you undoubtedly think I am.’ He handed her the envelope and finished. ‘They also returned my letters to you, and yours to me, by the way.’

Emma looked at him askance. ‘You mean she kept them! How peculiar!’ she exclaimed.

‘I thought that, too. Please, Emma, read the letter from her solicitors. The story is so incredible it has occurred to me that you might think I have invented the whole thing.’

Emma was reflective for a moment, and then she took the letter out of the envelope and perused it rapidly. She returned it to Paul, smiling faintly. ‘I would have believed you without this letter. Nobody could invent such a yarn. Thank you for showing it to me, though. And what happened to Marion Reese?’

‘Naturally I fired her at once. I’ve no idea where she is today.’

Emma nodded. She pondered, looking down at her hands, and then she lifted her head and met Paul’s gaze directly. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me to return from my honeymoon four years ago, so that you could tell me you had written, Paul?’

Paul gave her a swift glance. ‘What would have been the point of that? It was too late, Emma. I didn’t want to interfere with your marriage. Besides, you might not have believed me. Remember, I was only speculating on what had happened to the letters. I had no proof until I returned to Sydney.’

‘Yes, I understand. However, I am surprised Frank never told me.’

‘In all fairness to him, he did want me to stay and meet with you. And he even wanted to tell you himself. I asked him not to do so. I thought it pointless. I felt you were lost to me.’ Paul shrugged. ‘At the time, it seemed wiser for me to simply disappear, quickly and quietly.’

‘And why are you telling me now, after all this time?’

‘I have always wanted to explain, Emma. To exonerate myself with you. The knowledge that I caused you suffering has haunted me. I’ve seen Frank on previous trips to London and he’s kept me informed about your life. But I thought it was inappropriate to come to you, under the circumstances, although I longed to. Last week, when I first arrived, I lunched with Frank. Almost at once he said your marriage wasn’t working. When I heard you were unhappy with Arthur and spending a lot of time alone in London, I decided I would no longer be upsetting anything if I saw you. I insisted Frank arrange this meeting. I did want the chance to vindicate myself,’ he finished, praying fervently that he had.

Paul leaned across the table, his face tensely set. ‘I know you were shocked to see me, and perhaps it was a little unfair of me to spring myself on you without warning, but quite honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. I hope you’re not angry with me, or with Frank.’

‘No, I’m not. And I’m glad we met.’ Emma looked down at the table contemplatively, and when she raised her head to meet Paul’s unwavering gaze her face was grave, her eyes moist. ‘I was as unnerved and as perplexed as you were, when I didn’t hear from you, Paul. And very hurt. Heartbroken, in fact,’ she found herself admitting. ‘It helps knowing the facts, even now so long afterwards.’ Emma smiled wryly. ‘I suppose, really, we are both victims of circumstances-and of Marion Reese’s possessiveness. How different our lives might have been if she had not interfered.’ She shook her head. ‘Why is it some people want to play God?’ she asked, her face wreathed in sadness.

Paul sighed. ‘I don’t know, Emma. In her case, I imagine it was a truly sick mind at work. You know the old saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” But I will never understand what she hoped to gain. I did not display the slightest interest in her as a woman.’

‘People can always hope,’ Emma murmured. ‘And fantasize.’

‘That’s so,’ Paul acknowledged. He scrutinized Emma closely for a few seconds and then said quietly. ‘Do you still hate me, Emma?’

A look of surprise flashed across her face. ‘I never hated you, Paul!’ She half smiled. ‘Well, at least only fleetingly, when my emotions overcame me. You can’t blame me for that.’

‘I don’t blame you at all.’ Paul shifted in the chair and lit a cigarette to hide his nervousness. ‘I wondered-would it be possible-could we be friends, Emma? Now that the air is cleared between us. Or is that too much to ask?’ He held his breath.

Emma dropped her eyes, feeling suddenly wary. Dare she expose herself to him again, if only in friendship? She had been acutely conscious of him as a man from the moment he had arrived. He was just as dangerous to her as he had been in the past. Despite her inherent caution, she finally said slowly, ‘Yes, Paul, if you want that.’

‘I do,’ Paul responded firmly. He looked at her in his old appraising way, his eyes admiring. She was composed and as beautiful as always. Time had not marked her exquisite face, although he detected a certain sadness in her eyes when her face was in repose. He had to curb the compelling desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. He did not even dare to touch her hand. He must be careful if he was to win her back and possess her completely again. He saw her glance at her watch and his heart sank. He said quickly, impulsively, ‘Have dinner with me, Emma.’

‘Oh, Paul, I can’t,’ she said, flustered.

‘Why not? Do you have another engagement?’

‘No, but I-’

‘Please, Emma. For old times’ sake.’ He smiled engagingly and his brilliantly blue eyes danced. ‘I’m not afraid. Are you?’

‘Why should I be afraid?’ Emma countered defensively, staring at him. Her heart missed a beat. He was hard to resist.

‘You have no reason at all, I can assure you,’ Paul chuckled, relaxing for the first time. As the tension slipped away he took command with his usual panache. ‘Then it’s settled. Where would you like to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Emma said, feeling curiously weak and so overpowered she was incapable of declining the invitation again.

‘Let’s go to Rules across the street in Covent Garden. Do you know it?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never dined there.’

‘It’s a charming old place. I know you’ll like it,’ he said, and motioned to the waiter for the bill.

They were halfway through dinner when Paul said, somewhat abruptly, ‘Why did your marriage go wrong, Emma?’

Emma was so startled by the unanticipated question she did not answer for a long moment. Because I still loved you, she wanted to say. Instead she murmured, ‘Because Arthur and I are incompatible.’

‘I see. What’s he like?’ Paul questioned, riddled with curiosity and not a little jealousy.

Emma said carefully, ‘He’s handsome, charming, and from a good family. But he’s also a little weak. And rather vain.’ She glanced back at Paul and said quietly, ‘He’s not the type of man you would have much in common with.’

Nor you apparently, my love, Paul thought, but said, ‘Are you going to get a divorce?’

‘Not at the moment. Are you?’ she retorted, and caught her breath, regretting the question.

Paul’s face changed, settled into harsh lines. ‘Well, I asked for that one, I suppose,’ he responded quietly. ‘I want a divorce, Emma. I have for many years. However, I have some serious difficulties with Constance.’ He paused, ruminated briefly, and went on. ‘My wife is an alcoholic. She was a heavy drinker before the war. That is one of the reasons the marriage broke up. By the time I returned to Sydney she was a lost cause. I put her in a nursing home at once. She ran away, just after I had buried Dad. It took me five weeks to find her and she was in a pretty ghastly state. Physically debilitated and mentally deranged as well. That was why I couldn’t come to England when I wanted to-I had to see her settled first. Believe me, I was infuriated. I don’t want to sound callous, but I have tried to help Constance over the years, to no avail. She won’t help herself. I lost my patience a long time ago.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Emma said grimly. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. Truly sorry. It’s a terrible situation for anyone to cope with. Is she still in the nursing home?’

‘Yes, she is. They have dried her out, but she is very weak in every way and not capable of looking after herself, or functioning normally. She will have to be institutionalized permanently, I imagine. Constance is a Roman Catholic, Emma, so that is another impediment to the divorce. Nonetheless, I haven’t given up hope of gaining my freedom one day.’ Paul took a sip of Montrachet. After a moment he continued, ‘There is something else I must tell you, Emma. It’s about my son.’ He hesitated. ‘Howard is-well, he’s retarded, I’m afraid. That’s what I meant earlier when I said he had problems.’

Emma was stunned. The pain on his face was raw. ‘Oh, Paul! Paul! How awfully tragic. And what a heavy burden for you to carry alone.’ Compassion flooded her face and her eyes softened. ‘Why ever didn’t you tell me years ago? Surely you knew I would have been sympathetic, and talking about your son might have helped you.’

Paul shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should have told you, Emma. I think I was a little ashamed, to tell you the truth. Especially after I had met your children. Also, I have always found it hard to discuss Howard. I love him, of course. However, my emotions are mixed. My heart aches for him. I also carry enormous guilt. And sometimes I…-’ Paul frowned. ‘I am reluctant to admit this, and I never have to another soul, but at times I almost hate him. I know I shouldn’t. Yet I can’t help it. I hope you don’t despise me for that.’

Emma’s heart went out to him. ‘I don’t despise you, Paul. I know that parents of retarded children often do experience hatred. It apparently springs from frustration and despair. Truly, your feelings are not abnormal.’ Impulsively she reached out and touched his arm. ‘You must feel very helpless. How old is Howard?’

‘He’s twelve, Emma. And, yes, I do feel absolutely despairing most of the time.’ He shook his head. ‘Nature plays strange tricks. You know, he is a lovely-looking boy. He has a sweet, almost ethereal face and the most gentle eyes. And the mind of a five-year-old.’ Paul ran his hand across his face wearily. ‘And he’ll never be any different!’

Emma was silent, filled with sorrow, and she did not know how to comfort him. Eventually, she asked, ‘Where does he live?’

‘Out at the sheep station in Coonamble. He has a male companion-nurse who is devoted to him. My housekeeper is there and quite a large domestic staff. When I’m at Dunoon I spend a great deal of time with him, although I’m quite sure he doesn’t really know I’m around. He lives in his own very special world.’ Paul lit a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to pile all my problems on you tonight. I never discuss them with anyone.’ He grimaced. ‘I must admit, though, I have felt rather defeated by my personal life in the past few years. It is so arid and unrewarding. Thank you for listening, for being so understanding.’

‘I have been far enough down to know what the realities of life are, Paul,’ Emma said. ‘My life has never been easy. Whatever you might think.’

He looked at her attentively, his eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure it hasn’t, Emma.’

‘But then life is hard, Paul. The important thing is how one copes with the hardships and overcomes them.’ She smiled her dauntless smile. ‘Let’s face it, Paul, neither of us are too badly off. Not when you look around and see other people’s problems. We are both successful. Wealthy. In good health. We are also fortunate in that we have our work.’

Paul gazed at her. He thought: She truly is a rare woman. He said, ‘Yes, I have buried myself in work these last few years, as I’m sure you have. And you are right, Emma. Our lives are not too bad. We must be grateful for all the good things we do have.’ He smiled at her lovingly. ‘Thank you again. I’m glad I told you about Constance and Howard. I feel a great sense of relief.’

‘I’m glad, too.’

Paul lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Emma. You are a wise and understanding lady. I’m so happy we are going to be friends again, aren’t you?’

Emma touched his glass with hers. ‘Yes, I think I am, Paul.’

‘Well, enough of all this misery. Let’s talk about something more cheerful.’

Emma smiled at him. ‘Tell me about your oil fields in Texas, and the Sydney-Texas Oil Company. I was very intrigued when you mentioned your new venture earlier.’

After dinner Paul escorted Emma home to her small house in Wilton Mews, just off Belgrave Square. He helped her out of the cab, told the driver to wait, and saw her inside. He kissed her tentatively on the cheek. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Emma. May I call you soon?’

‘Yes, Paul. And thank you. Good night.’

‘Good night, Emma.’

Later, when she was in bed, Emma lay awake for a long time, musing on the evening. Paul McGill’s dramatic reappearance in her life was the last thing she had ever anticipated. Life was full of staggering surprises. She dwelt momentarily on Marion Reese. If Paul had not been the man he undoubtedly was, then perhaps that frustrated woman might never have loved him…might never have stolen the letters. If Paul had only written to Frank…If she had not rushed into marriage with Arthur. If…if…if. She sighed inwardly. It was such a waste of time dwelling on what might have been. And surely their characters had made their destinies. Her heart filled with sadness as her wandering thoughts settled on the tragic circumstances of Paul’s life. He who was so virile, and extra-ordinarily brilliant, must surely chafe under the burdens he had to carry. His life was as difficult and sterile as her own. She realized then, with a flash of surprise, that she had enjoyed the evening, once she had recovered from her initial shock and anger. She wondered if he had merely wanted to see her to set the record straight, or if he had been motivated by other reasons. Did he still love her? She did not know the answer to that. She shivered. One thing she did know: She was mortally afraid of his persuasive charm and of being engulfed by it again. She endeavoured to push him out of her mind, but when she finally fell asleep she was still thinking about Paul McGill.

FIFTY-THREE

‘You look as if you’re about to commit murder,’ Winston said quietly, drawing to a standstill next to Paul McGill. He followed Paul’s gaze, which was resting with loathing on Arthur Ainsley. ‘He’s asinine,’ Winston went on. ‘Don’t pay any attention to him. Frank and I don’t.’

Paul swung to Winston, his expression one of mingled anger and disgust. ‘He makes my blood boil! The preposterous fool has embarrassed Emma all through lunch and now he’s compounding his execrable behaviour. The bloody imbecile. Apart from the fact that he can’t hold his liquor, he can’t keep his hands off the other women present. Emma must be mortified.’

Winston smiled thinly, his animosity for Arthur barely concealed. ‘I know. You don’t have to tell me. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool bastard. And furthermore, I’m quite sure he does it on purpose. As for Emma, she appears not to notice. That’s sheer defensiveness, of course. You know my sister. She doesn’t miss a trick.’ Winston shook his head. ‘I’ll be glad when Frank and Natalie are married next week, and these interminable luncheons and dinners end. Then we won’t have to suffer Ainsley’s continuing presence.’

‘He’s a bit of an unsavoury character, isn’t he?’ Paul probed. Winston was silent, and Paul continued, ‘I know a lot of Englishmen of his particular upbringing and education do have somewhat effeminate mannerisms, and that these don’t necessarily indicate a lack of masculinity, but, if I didn’t know differently, I’d swear to God he was a raving homosexual. Don’t you agree, Winston?’

‘It’s crossed my mind, and more than once lately. I’ve noticed a change in Arthur over the past few months. Certain tendencies seem to be coming out. Being married to Emma and fathering the twins doesn’t necessarily preclude sexual deviation, although I’ve no evidence to prove that about him. And he does go after women all the time.’

Paul frowned. ‘Perhaps he likes both sexes. That’s not unheard of, you know-bisexuality.’

‘I wish to God my sister had never married him. We all tried to stop her, but she’s very stubborn. She was on the rebound, of course.’

‘I realize that only too well,’ Paul muttered, and looked down at the drink in his hand. ‘You don’t have to rub it in.’

Winston drew Paul into a secluded corner of Lionel Stewart’s drawing room, where the guests had gathered after a prenuptial luncheon. Winston, who had always liked Paul, had discovered that his admiration and empathy for the Australian had only increased over the past ten days when, at various social functions, they had been thrown together and had gravitated to each other. Now he said, in a confidential tone, ‘Frank tells me you have been seeing quite a lot of Emma during the last month. I’m happy about that.’ Observing the look of astonishment flit across Paul’s handsome face, Winston grinned. ‘I know you regard me as the protective older brother, so I just wanted you to know that I approve, in spite of the complications in your very complicated lives. Emma needs a man like you, Paul. To be accurate, she needs you. You’re about the only man I know who is strong enough to handle her on a permanent basis. She can be quite intimidating. Most men can’t cope with an independent and brilliant woman-albeit a very alluring one!’

Paul smiled engagingly, a trifle startled, but delighted at this endorsement. ‘Thanks, Winston. I’m glad to hear it. And I agree with you.’ His eyes crinkled with laughter. ‘Do me a favour and tell that to the lady in question. I need all the help I can get.’

‘I have told her. So has Frank. But you know Emma. She has to make up her own mind.’ Winston regarded Paul keenly. ‘Perhaps she thinks you’ll take off for Australia at any moment. After all, you do have vast business interests there.’

‘True enough. However, I’ve told her that I intend to be around for a long time. It doesn’t seem to make a dent. Actually I’ve reorganized my business enterprises so well in the last few years I will only need to make an occasional trip to Australia from now on-maybe once a year, twice at the most. Emma is also aware that I expanded my London offices last year and that I’m going to operate from here in the future.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t say much any more because she always looks sceptical. I can’t say I blame her.’

‘Maybe you’ve been too subtle,’ Winston volunteered. ‘You know what women are like. Sometimes you’ve got to spell everything out for them.’

‘Emma’s hardly like most women.’

‘That’s the understatement of the year.’ Winston laughed. ‘Give her a chance to get used to the idea that you’re here on a permanent basis. She’ll come around to accepting it eventually.’

Paul nodded and glanced about the spacious, elegantly appointed drawing room, seeking out Emma. He spotted her talking to Frank and Natalie and the latter’s parents. It was a scorching July day and everyone was suffering from the heat. The guests looked uncomfortable and a little wilted-except for the incomparable Emma. She was wearing a yellow silk summer frock that was simply styled, crisp and fresh. It gave her a carefree girlish air, as did the gay confection on top of her russet bobbed hair. She looked exceedingly feminine, and the other women paled in comparison. It was not only her beauty that set her apart, but that incandescent glow which emanated from her. It took one hell of a woman to conduct herself so elegantly and with such composure in the light of Ainsley’s antics, he conceded. Then he saw, to his surprise, that Emma was leaving. He handed his drink to Winston hastily. ‘Look after this, old chap. I’ll be back in a minute. Excuse me.’

Paul caught up with Emma in the entrance hall. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ he asked, taking her arm possessively and turning her to face him fully. ‘Running out? I thought I was the only one who did that.’ He chuckled.

Emma could not help laughing. ‘I am also fleet of foot when I want to be, Mr McGill,’ she said. ‘I felt it would be simpler if I made a quiet exit. I didn’t want to break up the party, and unfortunately, I have to get back to the store.’

Like hell you do, Paul commented dryly to himself, guessing she wanted to escape her ludicrous husband. ‘I’ll drive you,’ Paul asserted swiftly, taking charge and propelling her to the door.

At first Emma made a little desultory conversation as Paul edged his Rolls-Royce through the Saturday afternoon traffic congesting Mayfair. But after a few moments she fell silent, ruminating on the luncheon. She was seething. Arthur’s tasteless display had appalled her. He had not only demeaned himself but her as well. Usually indifferent to him, she had experienced real discomfiture during lunch and afterwards. She had handled it well, concealing her fury behind a dignified façade, yet, nonetheless, Arthur’s disregard for the social amenities rankled. She could no longer afford to turn a blind eye. After Frank’s wedding she would not expose herself in social situations. In part, her embarrassment sprang from the fact that Paul had witnessed it all. And yet, curiously, his presence had also been comforting.

Emma stole a glance at Paul, wondering what he was thinking. His face revealed nothing. On her recent trips to London she had dined with Paul on a regular basis. He had taken her to the theatre and the opera, and to parties. He had been charming, gallant-and oddly detached. She had half expected him to make overtures after their first few evenings together, but he had not, somewhat to her relief. In all honesty, she had wanted to see him, to spend time with him, and she could not deny he held a fascination for her. On the other hand, her inbred sense of self-preservation still made her wary of him. Her marriage was no marriage at all, yet the rest of her life was orderly. She could not permit anything to jeopardize her tranquil state of mind, acquired at such cost, and Paul could easily do that because he had the ability to hurt her. She was determined never to suffer for love again. An unprecedented feeling of depression swamped her. She looked at her watch.

‘Perhaps you had better take me home, Paul,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit late to go to the store. It’s almost five o’clock.’

‘Of course,’ Paul said. ‘Anything you want, Emma.’ He noticed that her expression was pensive and a wave of tenderness swept through him. As he stopped at the traffic lights he pondered on her, trying to gauge her feelings for him. She was pleasant and gay whenever they met, yet she held herself apart, and he had admitted days ago that she was impervious to his charms. He knew she was riddled with insecurity about him and he had acted accordingly, endeavouring to dispel this, but apparently without success. He wondered if his strategy had been all wrong. As he headed towards Belgrave Square he made a snap decision, drove around the square, bypassed Wilton Mews, and headed back to Mayfair.

‘Where are you going?’ Emma asked in a puzzled voice. ‘I thought you were taking me home.’

‘That’s exactly where I am taking you. Home. With me.’

Emma gasped. ‘But-’

‘No buts, Emma,’ he said forcefully and with a finality that forbade argument.

Emma held herself stiffly in the seat, clutching her bag. A protest rose on her lips, remained unspoken as her mouth went dry. Taken aback at this sudden bold move on his part, she found herself in a quandary. She had never been to his flat and was petrified of being alone with him. A self-deprecatory smile slid on to her face. She, who was afraid of nothing and no one, was actually frightened of Paul McGill! Yet he was only a man. After all, she was a grown woman and perfectly capable of looking after herself. Anyway, was not life full of risks?

His face was rigidly set and determined and he appeared to be perturbed. The tension in his broad shoulders conveyed itself to her, and she shivered involuntarily. Her eyes focused on his strong hands, which gripped the steering wheel so fiercely his knuckles protruded sharply, and, to her consternation, her heart began to beat with unusual rapidity.

Paul brought the car to a stop in Berkeley Square. Silently he helped her out and took hold of her arm firmly, manoeuvring her across the lobby and into the lift. His fingers bit into her flesh, yet she welcomed his support. She thought her legs would buckle at any moment.

He did not release her even after they had entered his flat. He slammed the door shut with ferocity and swung her to face him. He lifted her veil with the other hand, searching her face, and then he pulled her to him roughly. His lips crushed down on hers, hard and insistent. She tried to push him away, but he was too strong for her. He tightened his hold on her, tremors rippling along his arms, and she heard his heart banging like a sledgehammer in his expansive chest. His mouth suddenly softened on hers. He parted her lips gently and found her tongue with his. Emma ceased struggling as a swooning faintness enveloped her. She found herself yielding to him, clinging to him, returning his kisses. Her handbag fell to the floor unheeded. His hands slid down her back and on to her buttocks, and he pressed her body into his so that they were welded together. He shifted his stance slightly and she felt the hardness of his rising passion through the thin silk of her frock and her legs almost gave way, and she was suffused with that old familiar warmth which spread like fire through her body. He pushed her head back against his wide shoulder and covered her breast with one hand, his fingers rubbing against it and playing with the nipple with increasing urgency. She was overwhelmed by him, and filled with exquisite sensations long forgotten but now so well remembered. She was helpless in his arms.

Paul’s fervent kisses ceased abruptly, and he looked down into her face. She gazed back at him dizzily, saw the wild desire leaping from his clear blue eyes, took in the burgeoning impatience congesting his face, recognized the physical and emotional pressures driving him beyond endurance, and new tremors swept through her. Her lips opened and a cry strangled in her throat. His face closed in on her, his eyes darkening to brooding violet, and he was kissing her again, ravaging her mouth almost savagely, and she did not want him to stop. Prayed he would not stop. Desire engulfed her, and all of her true feelings surfaced, obliterating her fears, both rational and irrational. Her defences crumbled like a sand castle before an onrushing tide, and she willingly surrendered to him, her sensuality, so long submerged, taking hold of her completely, dazing her.

He placed her away from him, but he did not remove his hands from her shoulders. His mouth curved up in a small challenging smile. He leaned forward, pressing her against the door. ‘Now tell me you don’t love me!’ he whispered hoarsely in her ear. ‘Now tell me you don’t want me!’ His breath was warm and tantalizing against her throat. Before she could respond, he said in a low voice thickened by desire, ‘You can’t deny either, Emma, because I know you do!’ He peered deeply into her burning face and perceived the yearning in her eyes that surely reflected his own, and he finally released her. He took her hand gently in his and led her into the bedroom.

Late-afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the windows and Paul left her to draw the curtains. The room was suddenly cool and dim. Mesmerized, she stood in the middle of the floor watching him. He swung around and strode back to her, moving lithely, like a great panther, and he appeared taller and broader and more domineering in his masculinity than ever. He removed her hat and tossed it on to a chair. He pulled off her gloves slowly. He unbuttoned her dress and slipped it over her shoulders. It fell to the floor, a rippling pool of yellow at her feet. He guided her away from the dress and sat her down on the bottom of the bed, all the while smiling at her faintly, and his eyes did not once leave her face. He discarded his jacket, his tie, and his shirt, and she caught her breath, stunned at the sight of his handsome torso and the sheer physical size and beauty of him.

He knelt before her. He took off her shoes and kissed her feet, and then he buried his head in her lap. Automatically she ran her hands through his crisp black hair and bent to kiss the crown. She smoothed her fingers over his enormous shoulders and down his sunburned back, and she felt his muscles rippling under her touch.

‘There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought about you, Emma. A day I haven’t wanted you. Longed for you. Needed you, my love. Never in all these years,’ he cried in a muffled voice. He gripped her thighs, burying his face deeper into her. He finally raised his head and looked up, his eyes brilliant. ‘I’ve never stopped loving you, Emma.’

‘And I’ve never stopped loving you, Paul,’ she said softly, and her eyes grew huge, turned dark, and swam with tears.

He stood up and pressed her back on to the bed. He stretched himself on top of her, encircling her with his arms, kissing her face, her throat, and her shoulders. It seemed to Paul that the rest of their clothes just fell away. They were naked and in each other’s arms again, and he was blinded by his searing passion, the feverishness of his unendurable desire. He could hardly wait to possess her, to become one with her, but he controlled himself rigorously, leading her along as he always had in the past, arousing her as only he could. He covered her entire body with kisses, and caressed every intimate and erotic part of her until she gasped with delight, and her unbridled excitement only served to inflame him more than ever.

She thought: There is only him. He is the only thing that matters in my life. He is the only man I have ever truly loved and desired. If he goes away, and I never see him again as long as 1 live, this moment will have been worth it. It will last me for ever.

He felt her fingers gripping his shoulders. She stiffened and spasmed and then her body was racked by shudders, and she called his name in a low moaning voice and he knew, with the utmost certainty, that only with him had she experienced this special kind of ecstasy and fulfilment. He lifted his head and trailed his lips up over her smooth flat stomach until they reached her breasts. His mouth lingered there a moment and moved on into the hollow of her neck. She sighed and quivered under him, her arms entwining him, her hands sliding voluptuously down his back. He thought he was going to explode. He arched his body over hers, his arms braced on either side of her, and gazed down into her pleasure-filled eyes. Her deepest emotions were explicit on her face, that best-loved face that haunted him always, and he was moved by the wonder of it all, by the wonder of her, and his heart twisted.

And he took her then, his manhood at full flood, thrusting deeply into the very core of her, to touch her heart, and she responded with a rush of enveloping sweet warmth, spontaneously, wildly giving herself with no reserve. And her need for him was as clamouring as his need for her.

Memory became reality. Pain was transmuted into joy. Anger was diffused by passion. They were fused together in desire and exquisite bliss. Having suffered for each other and their love, there was a new awareness between them, an intensity of feelings heightened, a rare poignancy in their breathless consummation. And as perfect as their lovemaking had been in the past, this time it was more stunning than ever before, and they were devastated by the impact of their reunion.

Much later, when they lay clasped in each other’s arms, unable to tear themselves apart, shattered and exhausted, Paul said, ‘I will never leave you again, Emma. Never, as long as I live. I know you’re afraid I will hurt you. But I won’t. You must believe me, my darling.’

‘I’m not afraid, Paul,’ she said against his chest. ‘And I do believe you. I know now you will be with me always.’

He felt her smile. ‘What is it?’

‘Years ago someone called me Doubting Emma. Perhaps I was. Do you remember when you quoted Abelard to me and told me to have faith, before you went back to the front?’

‘Yes, I do, my love.’

‘Well, if I had that faith, when you were absent in Australia in 1919, perhaps all this anguish and torment we have experienced could have been avoided. I’ll never doubt you again.’

He smiled and pulled her closer to him and kissed a strand of her hair. ‘We’ll make up for the lost years,’ he said.

FIFTY-FOUR

Emma let herself into her house in Roundhay, shivering slightly from the cold December wind. She slipped out of the sable coat, which Paul had bought for her the previous winter when they had been in New York together, and threw it on to a chair. She walked briskly across the hall, thinking of Paul with a rush of tenderness. She must telephone him immediately to let him know she was arriving in London tomorrow.

She went into the library and stopped dead in her tracks on the threshold, astonishment flashing on to her face. ‘Good heavens, Edwina! What are you doing at home? I thought the winter term didn’t end until next week.’

‘It doesn’t,’ Edwina snapped, staring coldly at her mother.

Her daughter’s face was unusually pale, and the girl’s distress instantly communicated itself to her. Upon reaching the sofa Emma made a motion to kiss her, but Edwina swiftly averted her head. Faltering, Emma sat down opposite Edwina. On closer inspection the girl seemed positively ill. Or was it that grey school uniform which drained the colour from her face? Edwina looked almost gaunt in the winter afternoon light.

‘Whatever is it, darling?’ Emma asked with real concern. ‘What are you doing at home? Did something happen to upset you?’

‘No, it didn’t. I came home because I wanted to see you,’ Edwina retorted. ‘To talk to you about this.’ She pulled an envelope out of her pocket and tossed it to Emma.

‘Whatever it is they are teaching you at that expensive boarding school, it certainly isn’t manners,’ Emma remarked softly, and bent to pick up the paper at her feet.

Edwina cried shrilly, ‘You don’t have to bother looking inside. It’s my birth certificate. You wouldn’t give me the original, so I wrote to Somerset House for a copy. You know what’s on it. And now I know why you have hidden it from me all these years.’

The envelope fluttered in Emma’s shaking hand and she stared at it blankly, the blood draining out of her. She looked at Edwina, a feeling of nausea overwhelming her, and her mouth was stiff and white-lipped. She could not speak.

In turn, Edwina regarded Emma fixedly, a scornful expression on her face. ‘Why are you looking so shocked, Mother?’ she spat. ‘I’m the one who should be shocked. After all, I’m the one who is illegitimate.’ She pronounced the word with such harshness, and her contempt was so evident, Emma flinched.

Edwina now leaned forward and her silver-grey eyes were febrile with hatred. ‘How could you let me go on believing Joe Lowther was my father all these years, when it was Blackie O’Neill?’ She laughed with derision. ‘Blackie O’Neill! Your dearest friend. I’ll bet he is. Hanging around you like a lovesick dog for as long as I can remember, and through two marriages!’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You disgust me, Mother. I grieved for Joe for years after he was killed, and you let me. How cruel of you!’

Emma managed to pull herself together, but her voice shook as she said, ‘Would my telling you have helped, Edwina? Would it have assuaged your grief, or lessened it? Joe was your father, in the best sense of that word. He loved you as much, if not more than his own child. You loved him, too, and you would still have grieved for him if you had known the truth. Any man can father a child, Edwina. It’s what a man does after the child is born that makes him a real father, a good father. And although you were not of Joe’s flesh and blood he certainly treated you as if you were. And that’s all that counts.’

‘You were just protecting yourself! You-you-lying tramp!’

Emma gaped at the eighteen-year-old girl sitting before her and she did not know what to do, or to say, to calm her, to deflect her obvious pain.

‘And what am I supposed to call myself, might I ask, Mother dear? I don’t have a name, do I? Is it O’Neill? Or Harte, perhaps?’ Edwina sucked in her breath harshly and her eyes were metallic. ‘You are a lying, immoral bitch!’

Emma recoiled as if she had been slapped but she ignored the abusive remarks and took control of herself. ‘Your name is Lowther, Edwina. Joe adopted you and gave you his name.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know.’ Edwina rose and held out her hand. ‘I’ll have my birth certificate, since I went to so much trouble to get it.’ She grabbed it from Emma rudely. ‘I am leaving.’

Emma also rose. She took hold of Edwina’s arm but the girl snatched it away angrily. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she screamed, and darted across the library.

‘Edwina, please sit down,’ Emma said quietly. ‘You are old enough to discuss this with me calmly and intelligently. In a sensible manner.’ Her voice took on a pleading note. ‘Please, darling. I know you are terribly upset and hurt, but let me explain. Please give me a chance to tell you-’

‘Nothing you have to say interests me. I’m leaving,’ Edwina rejoined.

‘Where are you going?’ Emma asked agitatedly, and stepped forward, stretching out her hand imploringly to her daughter. ‘Please, Edwina, don’t go. Let us talk this out. I want to make you understand, and then perhaps you will forgive me for hiding the truth. I had good reasons. I wanted to protect you. I only had your welfare at heart, my darling. I love you.’

Edwina gave Emma a scathing look and her voice was tinged with bitterness. ‘I told you I am not interested in your explanations.’ She drew herself up haughtily. ‘I am leaving this house and I will never set foot in it again.’

‘But, darling, you can’t leave! Where will you go?’ Emma’s throat ached with suppressed tears.

‘I am going to stay with Cousin Freda in Ripon for Christmas. After the holidays, I intend to go to finishing school in Switzerland. The one I asked you to send me to, but which you refused to consider. Please make the necessary arrangements now.’ Edwina smiled contemptuously. ‘You’re rich enough to pull all the right strings to get me in at this late date. I presume you will continue to pay my school tuition, Mother. And that you will not stop my allowance.’

‘How could you even think that?’ Emma cried. ‘I have never deprived you of anything and I never will. Please stay.’ Emma’s eyes brimmed and her voice was unsteady. ‘Don’t leave like this. Let us discuss-’

‘I have said all I want to say to you.’ Edwina stepped purposefully to the door. Her hand rested briefly on the knob. She turned and looked at Emma and her delicate face twisted. ‘I hate you, Mother! I never want to see you again as long as I live!’

The door slammed behind Edwina. Emma stared at it, her face crumpling, and she staggered into the nearest chair. She dropped her head into her hands and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She had dreaded this day for years, had tried to avert this ugly confrontation. And now that it had finally happened she felt incapable of dealing with Edwina, who was so unbending. She had always known her daughter would react violently, just as she had always known she would lose Edwina’s affection, scant as it was, when the truth was revealed. Edwina had never had any deep feelings for her. Edwina had loved only Joe and Freda. All the devotion and tenderness she had showered on her firstborn had fallen on stony ground. Edwina had rejected her, even as a small child. She wondered suddenly if she should go and tell Edwina who her real father was. But that would not assuage Edwina’s pain and terrible humiliation. She would still be illegitimate. It was better to let matters rest for the moment. A jumble of painful memories and stark images danced around in her head. She thought of her struggles, the sacrifices she had made, the fears and humiliations she had experienced. And she thought, too, of all she had done to shield Edwina. Had it all been for nothing? Surely not. Besides, she had not known what else to do, and she had done her best.

Emma wiped the tears from her face, and her inherent optimism surfaced. Perhaps in a few weeks, when Edwina was calmer, there would be a chance for a reconciliation. This new thought cheered her and she hurried upstairs. She would persuade Edwina to meet with her after Christmas, beg her to do so if necessary, and surely somehow they could reach an understanding. But to Emma’s dismay the girl was nowhere to be found. Emma stood in the centre of Edwina’s room, staring at the open armoire where empty coat hangers told their own story. She crossed to the window, looking down into the driveway. The Rolls had disappeared. Edwina had obviously asked the chauffeur to take her to the railway station. Emma pressed her throbbing head against the windowpane and she knew, with a terrible sinking feeling, that there never would be a reconciliation. Her daughter was lost to her.

She turned away, her face ashen and troubled, and walked with leaden steps into her own bedroom. She must speak to Blackie. She reached for the phone and then her hand fell away. He was in Ireland until next week, which would be soon enough to break the news. Emma sat down wearily, overcome by a sense of loss. And her heart ached for Edwina, who was suffering such agonies, and she longed to comfort her.

Eventually Emma stood up, pulling herself together with effort, and went into the bathroom. She splashed cold water on to her aching face and her swollen eyes, and redid her makeup. When she was sufficiently composed, Emma telephoned Arthur at the office. ‘Are you coming home for dinner tonight?’ she asked quietly when he came to the phone.

Arthur was taken aback. ‘No. Why?’ he asked in his usual peremptory tone.

‘I must see you, Arthur. It’s rather urgent, actually, since I am leaving London tomorrow. I won’t take up much of your time. Just half an hour at the most.’

‘Well-all right,’ he acquiesced grudgingly, although more from curiosity than a desire to please her. ‘I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.’

‘Thank you, Arthur.’ Emma hung up and went downstairs to wait for her husband.

When Arthur entered the library a little later he gave her a guarded look and said, ‘What’s ruffled your feathers? You look bloody awful.’ He poured himself a drink and carried it to the fireplace. He sat down opposite Emma and scrutinized her with great interest. ‘What’s wrong?’

Emma said, ‘Arthur, I have something important to tell you.’

‘Go ahead, my dear. I’m all ears.’

‘I’m going to have a baby,’ Emma said evenly.

Arthur had the drink in his hand halfway to his mouth and for once in his life it did not reach its destination. He banged it down unsteadily and gawped at her, for a moment nonplussed. And then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Oh my God! That’s rich! Little Miss Goody Two-shoes has finally taken a lover. He must be a brave man indeed to want to tango with you!’ he cried. ‘And who’s the lucky fellow?’

‘I have no intention of telling you that, Arthur. I merely wanted you to know that I am almost four months pregnant. I am going to have the child, and you will recognize it as yours.’

‘You don’t think I’m going to give some bastard my name, do you? That’s preposterous. I shall divorce you immediately, Emma.’

‘I don’t think you will, Arthur.’ Emma fixed her cool gaze on him and smiled faintly. ‘I don’t want a divorce. At least, not at this moment. And neither do you.’

‘I bloody well do. You’re not going to rear your illegitimate brat as mine.’

Emma rose and walked across to the bookshelves. She pressed a button and a panel swung open to reveal a concealed safe. She opened it, removed a pile of documents, and returned to the fireplace. She looked at Arthur thoughtfully and said, ‘Your father is a conservative old gentleman, Arthur. And as fond of him as I am, I have to admit he is also narrow-minded and decidedly old-fashioned. If I give him these documents he will cut you out of his will at once, and without the proverbial shilling. And I fully intend to hand them over to him if you make trouble for me, or attempt to divorce me. And these do make fascinating reading.’ She smiled her icy smile. ‘Your father may not be surprised to learn of your gross infidelities to me over the years, or of your excessive drinking and gambling. However, Arthur, I am quite certain he will be shocked to discover his son, his heir, has questionable relationships with young men of dubious character who are known sexual deviants.’

Arthur looked like a man who had been handed a death sentence. ‘That’s a damnable lie!’ he shouted. ‘You’re bluffing!’

‘No, I’m not, Arthur. You see, I have had a detective on you for several years. There is absolutely nothing I don’t know about your private life. Unfortunately you have not been very discreet.’

‘I say you are bluffing!’ Arthur yelled.

Emma offered him the documents. ‘See for yourself.’

He snatched them from her anxiously and shuffled through them, his eyes widening. He paled, and then an embarrassed flush suffused his neck and face. He looked at her, and very deliberately began to tear the papers into shreds, throwing the pieces into the fire.

Emma let him continue without a word and, when he had disposed of them entirely, she laughed. ‘Oh, Arthur, you do underestimate me. Those were copies. I have the originals safely locked away. And, furthermore, I won’t hesitate to use them if you force my hand. I promise you I will go to your father.’

‘You bloody cow! That’s blackmail!’

‘Call it what you will, Arthur.’ Emma sat back and folded her hands in her lap.

He stood up unsteadily. ‘What a nerve you have! Expecting me to live in this house with you, when you’re carrying another man’s bastard.’ He laughed hollowly. ‘I’m not going to tolerate your adultery.’

Emma looked at him coldly. ‘Don’t be a hypocrite. That’s exactly what I’ve been tolerating for years.’

He stepped away with abruptness, glaring at her with unconcealed animosity. He was shaking now and his face was strained and grey. He looked down at her. ‘You bitch!’ he hissed. ‘You may have won this round, but we’ll see about the next.’

Emma remained utterly still, and she was silent. Arthur continued to glower at her for a prolonged moment and then he walked across the room in swift deliberate steps. When he reached the door he swung to face her. He was livid and fuming with rage. He drew in his breath. ‘God, how I hate you!’ he cried, then he left the library, banging the door behind him with a thunderous crash.

FIFTY-FIVE

Paul McGill paced the floor of Emma’s living room in Wilton Mews with restless impatience, his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He stopped at the window and gazed out, and when he eventually turned his head his eyes focused on Emma with intensity. He observed her reflectively, his face troubled.

Finally, he said, ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t ask Arthur for a divorce, Emma. I really don’t. I thought we had agreed you would seek your freedom immediately. Why are you procrastinating? Is it because Constance won’t divorce me? Don’t you trust me? Don’t you know that I intend to be with you always? I would like an explanation, Emma.’

‘Come and sit down next to me, darling,’ Emma said gently.

Paul joined her on the sofa and she took his hand in hers. ‘Of course I trust you, Paul. My decision had nothing to with your situation. I know you are doing everything you can to rectify it. And I will divorce Arthur. But not until after the baby has been born, registered, and christened. I want the baby to have a name, Paul. I don’t want the birth certificate to show that it is illegitimate.’

‘What you are actually saying is that you want my child to be brought up as Ainsley’s! I don’t like that, Emma. I’m not sure I will stand for it!’

Emma stared at him in surprise. This was the first time he had ever spoken harshly to her. She must make him understand her motives. ‘I know how you feel,’ she placated. ‘But we must think about the child, Paul. You see-’

‘I am thinking about the child. I want it to have the benefit of my love and protection and all the other things I can give it, and I don’t want it growing up not knowing me. Furthermore, I want my child reared under my influence and not another man’s. I won’t have it living under Ainsley’s roof under any circumstances. You know my opinion of him. I thought I had made myself clear about all this, Emma.’

‘Yes, you did, darling. I told you the baby would remain in London. But I must protect the child. It must not carry the stigma of illegitimacy all of its life.’

Paul sighed impatiently. ‘My money will protect the child, Emma. Give it immunity from scandal. Besides, I told you I would adopt it immediately. Please, Emma, you must consider naming me as the father on the birth certificate. I wish to acknowledge paternity.’

‘No! We can’t do that!’ Emma cried fiercely, her eyes flaring. Instantly recognizing the hurt flickering on his face, she brought his hand up to her lips and kissed it. She looked at Paul long and hard. She drew a deep breath and very slowly, in a sure voice, she told him.

She told him first of her confrontation with Edwina the preceding day, and of the way she had handled Arthur. She told him about her early life as a servant at Fairley Hall. She told him about Edwin Fairley, her pregnancy, his repudiation of her, and her anguished flight to Leeds as a terrified young girl. She told him about her struggles and her poverty, her deprivations and the punishing days of toil she had endured. She told him of Gerald Fairley’s attempted rape of her. She told him everything there was to know, and she spoke with candour and with eloquence, and she neither embellished nor dramatized. Very simply, she gave him the facts without any show of emotion.

Paul listened attentively, his eyes riveted on her face, and he was moved as he had never been before by anyone. When she had finished he took her in his arms and stroked her hair, and pulled her closer to him, overwhelmed by feelings of pro-tectiveness and abiding love.

‘Whoever passed around the ridiculous story that this is a civilized world we live in?’ he murmured into her hair, and kissed her forehead. He fell silent and then he said softly, ‘Oh, Emma, Emma. I have to make up for so much-all the pain you have suffered over the years. And I will. I promise you that.’

Paul held her away from him and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Why ever didn’t you tell me all this before?’ When she dropped her eyes and did not answer, he continued gently, ‘Did you think it would have made any difference to the way I feel about you?’ He bent forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘You don’t know me very well if you think your past matters to me. I love you all the more for what you have made of yourself, what you have become. And for your indomitability and enormous strength. You are a very special woman, Emma.’

‘I didn’t deliberately avoid telling you,’ Emma said quietly. ‘There just never seemed to be the right opportunity.’

Paul gazed at her, his heart bursting with his love. He thought: Oh, my darling, what cruelties and humiliations you must have endured and how bravely you have dealt with life.

Emma said, ‘You do understand now, don’t you, Paul? I mean about my not divorcing Arthur just yet. I don’t want our child to turn on me one day. I couldn’t bear a repetition of yesterday’s scene with Edwina.’

‘That would never happen. Not with our child. But yes, I do understand,’ he said, ‘I will do whatever you want, Emma.’

Their child, a girl, was born early in May of 1925, at a private nursing home in London. It was Paul who paced the waiting-room floor. It was Paul who took Emma in his arms after the delivery. It was Paul who chose the baby’s name. She was to be called Daisy after his mother.

The following day Paul visited Emma, his face wreathed in smiles, his arms filled with flowers and gifts. ‘Where’s my daughter?’ he asked.

‘The nurse will bring her in momentarily,’ Emma said, smiling radiantly.

He settled himself on the edge of the bed and embraced Emma. ‘And how’s my love?’

‘I’m wonderful, Paul. But you must stop spoiling me.’

‘You might as well get used to it. That’s the way it is going to be from now on.’ He took her hand in his and to her amazement he pulled off her wedding ring before she could protest, opened the window, and threw it out.

‘Good heavens, Paul, whatever are you doing?’

He did not respond. He reached into his pocket and took out a platinum wedding band. He slipped it on to her finger and then he added the great square-cut McGill emerald which had belonged to his mother and his grandmother before her.

‘We may not have had the benefit of clergy, but as far as I’m concerned you are my wife,’ he said. ‘From this day forward until death do us part.’

Since his return to England in 1923, Paul McGill had made his feelings for Emma obvious in every way. He was passionately in love with her and his emotional involvement transcended all else in his life. He admired her as well, and was filled with a sense of pride in her achievements. After the birth of their daughter these feelings were only intensified. She and their child became the core of his life, his reason for living. They gave shape and meaning to everything he did, to the way he ran his life and his enormous business enterprises. Old disappointments and defeats, and the hurts which had accumulated over the years, were swept away and he was filled with burgeoning hopes for the future. Daisy might not bear his name, but she was his child, of his blood, and in her he saw the continuation of the McGill line and the dynasty founded by his grandfather, the Scottish sea captain who had settled in Coonamble in 1852.

In all truth, he worshipped Emma and Daisy and he had no intention of letting either of them out of his sight, or his presence, for very long, despite the complications of their lives and the obstacles presented by their marital entanglements. He took matters firmly into his own hands in the late summer of 1925, when he purchased an unusually beautiful mansion in Belgrave Square, immediately giving the deeds of ownership to Emma. He then set about remodelling it into two flats, sparing no expense. The smaller bachelor quarters on the ground floor he retained for himself. The three floors above became an exquisitely appointed maisonette for Emma, Daisy, a nanny, a housekeeper, and a maid, whom he engaged. To the casual observer the two flats were entirely separate and self-contained, each having its own entrance. But they were linked by a private interior elevator.

They lived together, but discreetly so, with an eye to all the proprieties, for Emma was reluctant to flaunt their relationship in view of her other children and her responsibilities as a mother. Paul was constantly astonished at the duality in her nature. He would tease her, calling her a bundle of contradictions, and point out that she, who was so fearless in business and scorned what the world thought of her, was curiously sensitive about public opinion regarding her personal morals. ‘Once I’m divorced I won’t give a damn,’ she would temporize, and Paul would simply smile, realizing that her self-consciousness about their life sprang from the experiences of her early life.

As it happened, the divorce came sooner than anyone anticipated. In June, acutely aware of Emma’s overwhelming desire to protect their child, Paul permitted Emma to take Daisy to Yorkshire, agreeing she could be christened at a local church in Leeds. However, he insisted on being invited and travelled to Yorkshire with Frank and Natalie for the occasion. As a long-standing friend of the family, his presence was not unseemly, and, because of an unexpected turn of events, it actually went almost unnoticed. Several days prior to the christening, Arthur Ainsley’s mother collapsed and died of a heart attack. The baptism, following so quickly on the heels of the funeral, was a glum affair and Frederick Ainsley and Arthur were so grief-stricken they were hardly aware of the proceedings or of the other guests, and, also, Arthur had no interest in the event. Daisy was duly christened without incident and the next day Emma took her back to London. Three months later Frederick Ainsley, old, frail, and long in ill health, followed his wife to the grave. Arthur came into his inheritance and, in an unprecedented show of gallantry that stunned Emma’s brothers, he allowed her to divorce him on the grounds of adultery. Emma was not stunned. She had cannily bought Arthur’s gallantry for ten thousand pounds.

Once the decree nisi was granted, Emma’s life changed radically. She brought the twins, Robin and Elizabeth, to live with her in Belgrave Square, and, just as she had guessed, Arthur made no objections. Apart from being happy to be free of him at last, she also welcomed the idea of bringing up the twins without his influence.

Kit, who was at boarding school, spent half terms and vacations with Emma and made no secret of the fact that he approved of Paul and was devoted to him. Nor did he shed any tears about the abrupt disappearance of Arthur Ainsley from his young life. Emma also reorganized her business drastically, so that she could spend most of her time in London. Winston was appointed managing director of the Yorkshire shops and the mills, and Emma supervised her northern industries from her headquarters at the Knightsbridge store, making a monthly trip to Leeds, where she spent five hectic days, working long hours with Winston.

She and Paul were as circumspect as possible, especially in front of the children, but as time passed no one seemed to care about their unusual living arrangements and their rather extraordinary household filled with her diverse children by different fathers. Very early Paul had established himself as the titular head of the household and with his strength, plus his inherent gentleness, he was both respected and adored by the children, and he quickly became the father figure to them all. Slowly Emma began to relax. Paul had patiently explained to her that their combined wealth set them above the usual conventions, making them invulnerable to social censorship, and she admitted the truth in what he said. Her natural self-confidence and courage soon overcame her earlier misgivings.

Paul and Emma were inseparable. He bedecked her in magnificent jewels and furs and lovely gowns. He entertained on a lavish scale with her at his side as his hostess. They went to the theatre, the opera, concerts, dinners, and parties. They mixed with the wealthiest and the most influential people in London and in other cities across the world-politicians, tycoons, socialites, and men and women from the arts and letters on three continents. He took her to the capitals of Europe when he travelled, whether for business or pleasure. She went with him to New York and to Texas, where his oil fields were located, and twice she accompanied him on his annual trips to Australia. Just as she had fallen in love with New York and Texas, so, too, was she captivated by the Antipodes. Paul was still endeavouring to gain his freedom, but continually met implacable opposition from Constance, who would not agree to a divorce. This was the one thing that marred his happiness. Although he had legally adopted Daisy, and had provided for both her and her mother, he desperately wanted to marry Emma and put their lives in order. However, so secure was Emma in their relationship by this time she was unperturbed by the situation and constantly tried to alleviate Paul’s anxiety. Now it was she who told him to relax and not to fret so much, optimistically remarking that things would work out in the end, reiterating her love for him and reassuring him of her happiness.

The only disturbing factor in Emma’s life was Edwina’s continued estrangement, for she had not been able to mend the rift between them. Her only tenuous communication with her eldest daughter was through Winston, who took care of Edwina’s financial affairs on Emma’s behalf. After two years at the finishing school in Switzerland, Edwina had taken a flat in Mayfair and was leading a dizzy social life with her upper-class friends, enjoying her status as the well-heeled daughter of a very rich woman. Emma had not curtailed Edwina’s spending, and had set up a trust fund for her which gave the girl an annual income of no mean proportions. Emma longed to see Edwina, to draw her back into the bosom of the family, yet she was wise enough to refrain from making overtures, understanding that the first move must necessarily come from the girl.

And so for the most part Emma was content, more so than ever before. Paul’s abiding love, and hers for him, sustained her at all times. Emma also took great consolation in Daisy, who was her particular pride, and even though she was reluctant to admit it even to herself, she loved Daisy more than any of her other children. This was the child of love, the one child she truly carried with joy. There was a closeness between them she had not experienced with those born before, and it only became stronger with time. Sometimes, when she looked at the growing child, Emma’s heart would clench with the most overwhelming feelings of tenderness, seeing her beloved Paul so perfectly reflected in her. For Daisy was undoubtedly her father’s daughter, favouring him in every way. Being his constant companion, she unconsciously copied many of his mannerisms and when she smiled her face became as mischievous and as endearing to Emma as his. By nature Daisy was sweet and loving, and because of the affection and attentions showered on her by her parents she was a self-confident, outgoing little girl, yet she was utterly unspoiled and natural with everyone. There was much of Emma in her character. She had inherited her mother’s sunny disposition, her optimism, and her stubborn will.

When Daisy was five years old, Paul had insisted she accompany him and Emma to Australia. After a week in Sydney he took them up to Coonamble and they spent four weeks at Dunoon. An unusual rapport sprang up between the vivacious little girl and her half brother, Howard, and Emma and Paul were touched by the relationship. Daisy seemed to reach the boy in a way no one else ever had before, and her devotion to him and his dependency on her warmed their hearts. They returned every year thereafter with Paul, who did not want to deprive Howard of the joy his little stepsister so apparently brought to his restricted life.

The years slipped by so quickly Emma often wondered what happened to time. The children were all growing up and leaving the house in Belgrave Square. Kit, a fine-looking young man who much resembled Joe Lowther, went to Leeds University, and the twins departed for their respective boarding schools, bitterly complaining about being separated for the first time. If Daisy was Emma’s best-loved child, then Robin was undoubtedly her favourite son, and she missed him more than she had realized she would during school terms. Robin had none of Arthur Ainsley’s annoying characteristics or habits, and bore a strong likeness to Winston. He was a thin vital boy, with a vivid intelligence, a quick wit, and inbred charm. Scholarly by inclination, he was a brilliant student and Emma had high expectations for him.

His twin, Elizabeth, also favoured the Harte side of the family. Emma would sometimes look at her and catch her breath, seeing striking echoes of her own mother in the girl, and occasionally she even caught a fleeting glimpse of Olivia Wainright in Elizabeth’s lovely face. She would ponder briefly then on the past, recalling the uncanny resemblance between those two women from such different worlds and which had so startled her as a girl. Of all Emma’s children, Elizabeth was the real beauty, willowy, graceful, her exquisite face delicately translucent, surrounded by a thick cloud of dark hair. She too, was blessed with an abundance of charm. Unfortunately, Emma had long detected other traits in her, which she found dismaying. Elizabeth was violent of temper, flighty, and often difficult to control. Paul agreed with Emma that she needed a firm hand, and they hoped that the discipline of boarding school would tone her down without breaking her spirit.

Emma’s businesses continued to grow. The Knightsbridge store became world-famous, the Yorkshire stores a household name in the North; the mills flourished, as did the Kallinski clothing factories; the Emeremm Company, now known as Harte Enterprises, blossomed into an enormously rich organization with diverse holdings throughout the world. By following her own shrewd instincts and listening to Paul’s advice, Emma invested her money wisely and multiplied her worth threefold, as well as that of Winston and Frank, whose personal financial affairs she supervised. By the time she was forty-six years old she was a millionairess many times over and a power to be reckoned with, not only in London and the north of England, but in international business circles as well.

Despite her happiness with Paul and her family, and as preoccupied as she was with her gargantuan business enterprises, Emma’s interest in the Fairley family had not waned one iota. Their affairs continued to obsess her as they always had. Gerald Fairley, after she had ruined him in 1923, spent the last few miserable years of his life depending on the largesse of Edwin, since the brickyard was not a profitable concern. He died in 1926, ‘obviously from the gross excesses of his nature’, Emma had remarked to Blackie on hearing the news, and in the ensuing years her icy gaze had rested solely on Edwin. She followed his career with undivided interest. How she had longed for him to be a failure! But he had made a name for himself as a criminal lawyer of great brilliance, and there were constant rumours in the Temple that he would be made a K.C., although this had not yet happened. He resided and practised in London, but he had not entirely severed his ties to Yorkshire. He was often in Leeds, where he devoted an unflagging amount of energy to the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, just as Adam Fairley had done before him. He was chairman of the board and the majority shareholder, and thus wielded the power on the newspaper.

Emma wanted that paper and she would stop at nothing to get it. Both Winston and Blackie pointed out that she had done enough to cripple the Fairley influence in Yorkshire, and remonstrated with her to drop her vendetta and forget about the newspaper. But Emma, as self-willed as always and still vindictive about the Fairleys, would not listen. She was determined to acquire their only remaining holding. Gradually she began to buy up the common shares as they came on to the market, moving with her usual stealth, and waiting patiently until she could find the right opportunity to move against Edwin. Although the paper was losing money, Edwin somehow managed to keep it operating and he clung to his shares, much to Emma’s frustration. Until she could wrest those shares from him she was powerless to move in and take over. She dreamed about the day she would oust Edwin. Only then would her revenge be complete.

‘And I do have the patience of Job,’ she told Winston one day in the summer of 1935. ‘I won’t rest until I own the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, and I will own it one day.’

‘I know you will,’ Winston said, and shifted in his chair. He lit a cigarette and went on, ‘I had a call from Joe Fulton yesterday. He’s prepared to sell you the remainder of his shares in the Sheffield Star. If you buy, you will have control. Do you want them?’

‘I do indeed,’ Emma declared, and her face brightened. ‘I also think you should talk to Harry Metcalfe again. He’s been hankering to sell the Yorkshire Morning Observer for a long time. I think I’d like to own it, after all. I can certainly use it as a vehicle against Edwin Fairley. Give him a run for his money and a lot of stiff competition. If we do buy the shares in both newspapers, I will really have a foothold in publishing in the North.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Let’s start a new company, Winston. What shall we call it? How about the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company?’ she suggested, and rushed on, before Winston could reply, ‘Yes, that’s a strong-sounding name. Let’s do it!’

‘I can’t think of any good reason why you shouldn’t take over both papers, Emma,’ Winston said, suddenly infected by her enthusiasm. ‘They can easily be turned around. All they need is good management, an infusion of money, and some top-notch journalists to inject new life. Maybe Frank can recommend the right men. I’ll get on to it first thing tomorrow.’

‘I do wish we’d thought of this before,’ Emma exclaimed, hardly able to contain her excitement at the prospect of becoming a publisher, and going into competition with Edwin Fairley.

‘Obvious ideas are generally the last ones we think of, you know,’ Winston remarked casually, and stood up.

He walked slowly across the lovely upstairs parlour at Pennistone Royal, the great house near Ripon, which Emma had purchased three years before, and stood in front of the oriel window gazing down into the grounds. It was a glorious August Sunday, the sky a blaze of crystal blue above the clipped lawns, fanciful topiary hedges, and luxuriant abundance of trees, so verdant and lush and shimmering in the summer air. The gardens were spectacular, Elizabethan in design and so very English with their overwhelming greenness and profusion of vivid flower beds.

In the distance, he heard the plopping of tennis balls and he wondered how Paul found the energy to play three sets on such a gruelling day. His thoughts now turned to the news he had to impart to Emma, edging out all else as he sought the simplest way of doing it. His common sense told him to be direct. He looked at Emma sitting on the sofa, coolly beautiful in a white shantung dress and with her russet hair falling to her shoulders. Well, he might as well tell her. He said, ‘I spoke to Edwina yesterday. She’s getting married.’

‘Married!’ Emma repeated, sitting bolt upright on the sofa. She put down the balance sheet she was reading and gave him her full attention. ‘To whom, might I ask?’

Winston cleared his throat. ‘To Jeremy Standish.’

Emma stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Jeremy Standish? The Earl of Dunvale?’

‘That’s right. The wedding is in two weeks. In Ireland, of course, at his estate, Clonloughlin.’

‘But he’s so much older than she is, Winston,’ Emma said. ‘I’m not so sure about this marriage.’ She frowned. ‘It’s not a very likely match, in my opinion.’

‘There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, Emma,’ Winston pointed out, relieved her reaction had been so mild. ‘After all, she is twenty-nine. Besides, it might just be the stabilizing influence she needs. And he does have pots and pots of money, you know.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Emma mused. She looked at Winston. ‘I don’t suppose she is inviting any members of the family.’

Winston shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid she’s not. But she did ask me to give her away. How do you feel about that? Do you mind, dear?’

Emma leaned forward and clasped her hand over his. ‘Oh, darling, of course not. I think it’s wonderful of her to ask you. It would please me enormously. She won’t seem quite so alone if you’re there.’ Emma paused and then asked hesitantly, ‘Did she mention me?’

‘No, Emma, she didn’t. I’m sorry.’

‘I must send a nice wedding present, of course.’ Emma changed the subject, realizing there was nothing further to add, but her eyes were reflective as she continued her business discussion with her brother.

When Winston returned from Ireland, Emma was full of questions about Edwina, the Earl of Dunvale, and the wedding. Winston satisfied her curiosity, and assuaged her anxieties about Edwina’s marriage to the man, who was twenty years her senior. It had been apparent to him that Edwina was deliriously happy, although he was not absolutely certain whether this was because she had become the Countess of Dunvale and a member of an ancient and celebrated Anglo-Irish family, or because she truly loved her husband. Dunvale, for his part, was besotted with Edwina, and Winston had no doubts about the bridegroom’s feelings in the least.

A year later Emma became a grandmother, when Edwina gave birth to a son, baptized Anthony George Michael. As the first-born he had the courtesy title of Lord Standish and was heir to the earldom. Emma wrote to her daughter congratulating her, and sent her a gift, as she had done at the time of the wedding. Emma received a courteous but cool thank-you note from Edwina and she was hopeful that it would lead to a complete reconciliation one day. And she determined to enlist Winston’s help to effect this. Kit was not so positive. Feeling slighted at not having been invited to his sister’s fancy society wedding, he took to making derogatory remarks about her disregard for family, and her snobbishness, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Paul constantly admonished him and finally, in exasperation, forbade him to discuss Edwina with his mother. He himself encouraged Emma’s belief that she would be on friendly terms with her eldest daughter again, knowing that this was the only possibility acceptable to her, and he dare not demolish her hope.

One of Emma’s greatest assets was her ability to shelve unsolvable problems, and eventually she managed to put Edwina out of her mind. The present was her first priority, her true imperative. Her own life was as demanding as always. There was her work, her relationship with Paul, and the other children. She had no complaints about them and in general things were harmonious. Kit was working in the mills and learning the woollen business. Robin, in his last year of boarding school, was preparing to go up to Cambridge to study law. Elizabeth had expressed a wish to follow in Edwina’s footsteps and was at a fashionable Swiss finishing school. Finally the day came when Daisy left for boarding school, and Emma and Paul were alone in the house in Belgrave Square for the first time.

‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, and only me now,’ he teased her one evening when they were having a glass of champagne in the library.

‘I miss them all, particularly Daisy, but I’m glad we have our time together at last, Paul. Just the two of us.’

‘And we do have lots of time, Emma. Years and years stretching ahead.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know how you feel, my love, but I rather like the prospect of growing old with you.’

It was the first week of September in 1938. And sitting there in the handsome mellow library, talking quietly as the twilight descended to fill the room with soft drifting shadows, it did not occur to Emma and Paul that anything could happen to destroy their security. They were at peace with themselves and with each other, and still deeply in love. And so they spoke for a long time about their future together, and made plans for the Christmas holidays at Pennistone Royal, and discussed their impending trip to America in the new year. Later they went out to dinner at Quaglino’s, laughing and holding hands like young lovers, and it was one of the most carefree evenings they had spent in months.

But the Nazi shadow was spreading itself across Central Europe. Hitler, who gained power in Germany after the burning of the Reichstag in 1933, was on the march. War was inevitable. It was only a question of time.

FIFTY-SIX

‘There will be a war in the Pacific, just as surely as there will be a war in Europe,’ Paul McGill said quietly. ‘The facts are incontrovertible. Japan industrialized late, as Germany did, and their success has shaped them both into arrogant, warlike nations with plans for world domination.’ He paused and drew on his cigarette. ‘I know I’m not wrong, Dan. America had better be prepared. Europe isn’t, unfortunately.’

Daniel P. Nelson, one of the most powerful men in the world, and grandson of the most famous of all the great robber barons, nodded thoughtfully. He smiled but his eyes were worried as he said, ‘I don’t doubt you, Paul. I’ve been saying the same thing for months. Told the President, only last week when I was at Hyde Park, that Japan has real aims in the Pacific. Has had since the twenties, to be accurate. Roosevelt’s not blind. He’s aware of the situation. On the other hand, this country’s still recovering from the Depression. Not unnaturally, his thoughts are focused on the domestic scene. There are still ten million unemployed here, Paul.’

‘Yes, I know. What worries me is that since Congress passed three neutrality acts a few years ago the prevailing attitude has been isolationist. It still is, I’m afraid. However, America can’t possibly remain neutral if Britain goes to war with Germany.’

Dan said, ‘But as far as Roosevelt’s concerned, I know he’s not an isolationist himself. I feel he will come to Britain’s aid if the necessity arises. We’ve been natural allies for more than a century, and he’s also aware he can’t let the West sink. But-enough of all this depressing talk of war. Emma is looking far too grave.’

‘I am concerned,’ Emma said, ‘as any informed person is today. My brother is a political writer in London, and he believes Hitler seeks global power and will stop at nothing to get it. Unfortunately, like his good friend Winston Churchill, Frank is patently ignored. When will the world open its eyes and see what is going on?’

Dan smiled faintly. ‘The prospect of another world war is frightening, my dear. There is a tendency to dismiss those with the vision to foresee onrushing disaster. The public has a bad habit of sticking its collective head in the sand, as do a great number of politicians.’

‘I suppose that’s human nature-the desire not to face such a terrible reality as war. But some of us must be prepared-’ She stopped short, as Paul caught her eye. Aware that he wished to discuss business with Dan Nelson, she murmured, ‘Well, I’ll leave you. If you will excuse me, I must attend to my other guests.’

The two men watched her glide across the drawing room, the white chiffon evening gown floating out behind her, the magnificent emeralds blazing at her throat and ears, on her arms and hands. Dan said, ‘I do believe Emma’s the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met. You’re a lucky man.’

‘I know,’ Paul replied. He turned his attention to Dan Nelson and went on, ‘I wanted to talk to you about my oil tankers and a couple of other rather pressing matters. I think we have time before we leave for the opera. Let’s step into the library.’ They slipped out discreetly.

As Emma circulated amongst the other guests assembled in their luxurious Fifth Avenue apartment, the thought of impending war nagged at the back of her mind. She had, only that morning, received a disturbing letter from Frank, who had just returned from a trip to Berlin. He had been full of dire predictions, and, trusting his judgement as she did, she knew he was not exaggerating. He had said Britain would be at war before the end of the year, and she believed him. She glanced at the three other men in the room. They also wielded immense international influence and their combined wealth added up to hundreds of billions of dollars. She saw that their eyes betrayed their fears, even though they, too, were making a show of conviviality that befitted the occasion. Yes, they knew that the world was on the brink of another holocaust. She thought of her two sons with a stab of apprehension. Both of them were eligible to be called up. Another generation of young men in their prime would be sacrificed to the war machine. Despite the warmth of the room she shivered and she thought then of Joe Lowther, and remembered the Great War and the havoc it had wreaked. Had the past twenty-one years been only an armed truce?

Later, when they were seated in their box at the Metropolitan Opera, Emma was temporarily distracted by the anticipation that pervaded the air. Her eyes swept over the opulent red-and-gold décor, took in the glittering beauty of the bejewelled women and the elegance of the men in their tails. And she thought how normal they all seemed, even carefree, as though they were oblivious to the gathering storm.

Emma glanced down at her programme, determined to enjoy the opera. It was from Blackie O’Neill that she had learned about music, and as the breathtaking theatrical spectacle unfolded on the stage she suddenly wished Blackie was here with them to share the experience. She began to relax, captivated by ‘Mignon’. Risë Stevens, the young mezzo-soprano who had made her debut two months before, was magnificent in the title role and at one moment her glorious voice so moved Emma she felt the rush of tears. What a gift that superb voice was. Emma was soon transported into a magical world of make-believe and she let herself be engulfed by the melodic arias, the performances of Risë Stevens and Ezio Pinza, the exquisite sets and costumes, and for several hours her worries were entirely forgotten.

Paul had invited their eight guests to Delmonico’s for dinner, and as they settled themselves at the table Emma looked across at Paul, endeavouring to assess his mood. Despite the grave conversation with Dan Nelson earlier, he now appeared to be unconcerned, and as always he was the expansive host, ordering Dom Pérignon and caviar, and beguiling everyone. He is the most brilliant and handsome man here, Emma thought with a flash of possessiveness. It was February 3, 1939. His birthday. He was fifty-nine years old, but he carried his years splendidly, and the wings of white in his black hair only served to emphasize his dashing appearance. His eyes had not lost their vivid blueness and the brows above were still the colour of jet, as was his moustache. There were deep lines around those eyes, but his tanned face was surprisingly free of wrinkles and his body was as firm and as muscular as it had been twenty years ago. Emma was always slightly stunned by the sheer physical size of him, the bulk of those wide shoulders and barrel chest. Tonight, in his white tie and tails, he had an aura of true glamour that was more electrifying than ever.

His eyes met hers and he winked, and then gave her that old appraising look she knew so well. Why, the devil’s flirting with me. And after all these years, she thought. She herself would be fifty in April. It hardly seemed possible. She had known Paul for twenty-one years, and they had been together on a permanent basis for sixteen of them. Sixteen incredible years. They had not always been easy years. Paul could be as authoritative and as self-willed as she was herself, and he often felt the need to assert himself forcefully. He was domineering, frequently bossy, and he had made it clear who wore the trousers in their household. She had learned to let him have his way in most things pertaining to their private lives, and he, in turn, was wise enough never to interfere in her business. Paul was also a flirt and he made no secret of the fact that he liked the ladies. Emma suspected he might have had other women when he travelled abroad alone, but he never gave her cause for heartache, or embarrassment, and she never doubted his devotion. Also, since she considered sexual jealousy a useless emotion, she rarely contemplated his infidelities, if indeed there were any. His passion for her had not lessened with time, and she knew she was a lucky woman.

Emma sat back in the chair, and between the champagne, the delicious food, the stimulating conversation, and the gaiety that prevailed amongst their friends, she managed to push aside those troubling thoughts of war that had assailed her at the outset of the evening.

In the following week Paul did not mention the war again and she carefully avoided the subject herself. They went to East Texas to visit the Sydney-Texas Oil Company, recently renamed Sitex at her suggestion, and then proceeded to West Texas, where Paul purchased oil leases in Odessa and Midland, much to Harry Marriott’s annoyance. Emma did not particularly like Paul’s partner and had not hesitated to say so when she had first met him some years before. It was on their return journey to New York that she reiterated her opinion, and asked Paul why Marriott was so unhappy about the new purchases.

Paul grinned and said, ‘Because he always wants to play it safe. He never wants to gamble. He’s afraid of losing or diminishing what we’ve already accumulated over the years. The fool. We’re one of the richest oil companies in America today, but expansion is necessary. No, vital. Harry means well, but he lacks imagination. Remember how he fought me when I bought the oil tankers? I proved him wrong about that. They’ve been an enormous asset to the company and more than earned their money back. I’ll prove him wrong again, Emma. I have a nose for oil, and I guarantee you it will be discovered in Odessa and Midland within a few years. I plan to start drilling there before the end of the year.’

‘It’s a good thing you own the majority of stock in that company, otherwise you might have really insurmountable problems with Marriott,’ Emma said.

‘You’re damned right.’ Paul chuckled. ‘You don’t think I’d be fool enough to spend the millions I invested initially without having control, do you?’

‘No,’ she conceded, laughing. ‘You’re far too tough and smart for that.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you sorry Daisy wasn’t a boy?’

‘Good Lord, no! Whatever makes you ask that, darling?’

‘Well, Howard can’t very well follow in your footsteps. And it’s often occurred to me you might be disappointed you don’t have a son to carry on the business, the McGill dynasty.’

‘What makes you think I’ve dismissed the idea of Daisy doing that? After all, if she takes after her beautiful mother she’ll make a hell of a good businesswoman. And she’ll marry one day and have children. My grandchildren. Ponder on that one, Emma.’

She did, never once forgetting his words.

One day, at the end of February, Paul came home early from the Sitex offices in New York, and Emma knew at once that something was terribly amiss. He appeared to be unusually preoccupied, kissed her somewhat absently, and fixed himself a drink, which was also rare in that it was only four o’clock.

Never one to hedge, she said immediately, ‘You’re upset, Paul. What is it?’

‘I can never hide anything from you, my love, can I?’ He sipped the drink, lit a cigarette, and then he told her, ‘I have booked a passage for you to England on the Queen Elizabeth. I was lucky enough to get a stateroom for you, even at this late date, so you will be comfortable, darling. You sail on Thursday.’

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ she asked as evenly as possible, but her throat tightened.

‘No, darling, I can’t.’

‘Why not, Paul? You had planned to return with me.’

‘I want to go back to Texas for a few days, to take care of certain matters and to reassure myself that Harry fully understands I want to start drilling in Odessa as soon as possible. And then I’m going to Australia.’

‘But you weren’t supposed to go there until later in the year!’

‘Later in the year might be too late, Emma. I must leave as quickly as possible now, to attend to my interests over there and confer with the men who run my companies. You know how I feel about Japan’s threat to the Pacific. I can’t possibly leave anything to chance.’

Emma’s face had paled. ‘I don’t want you to go!’ she cried ‘I’m frightened-frightened you’ll get stuck in Australia if war breaks out before you can return to England. We could be separated for years.’ She rose and went to kneel at his feet. She looked up at him. ‘Please don’t go, darling. I beg you not to go!’ She touched his face lightly, the dearest face in the world to her, and her eyes brimmed.

‘You know I must, Emma darling,’ he said with the utmost gentleness. He smoothed one hand over her head and his eyes regarded her tenderly. ‘But I won’t stay for long. Only two months at the most. Things are in relatively good order out there. They have been for years. However, I must be sure everything will run smoothly, should I have to be absent for longer than the usual year. And I might have to be. We don’t know how long this war will last when it does come, do we?’ He smiled at her confidently. ‘I’ll get back quickly. I want to be with you in England when the conflict starts. I certainly don’t want you to be alone. Now come along, cheer up, sweetheart. I’ll only be gone eight weeks. That’s not so bad.’

Emma did not argue with Paul or further attempt to dissuade him, knowing it would be fruitless to do so. His holdings were so vast they staggered the imagination, and he could not shrug off the responsibilities they entailed, which were of equal magnitude. Power had its undeniable privileges but it brought crushing burdens as well. It was quite apparent that Paul, in all good conscience, could not ignore the world political situation, and the effect it would have on his business. Because of who and what she was, Emma understood his motives and acknowledged the necessity of his plan, even though she was not enamoured of it.

And so she put up a gay front for the next few days before she sailed. But the idea of being separated from Paul depressed her more than it ever had before, and that awful sense of foreboding stayed with her during the entire voyage to England. Even when she was settled in their house in Belgrave Square it persisted, gnawing at her peace of mind.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Torrential rain was falling when Paul left the nursing home on the outskirts of Sydney. He turned up the collar of his trench coat and made a dash for the Daimler.

He was drenched when he got inside and he shrugged out of his wet coat, tossing it carelessly on to the back seat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his streaming face before lighting a cigarette. He noticed that his hand shook as he did so. He was in a blinding rage with Constance, so that was not very surprising. He had been on the verge of striking her a few moments before, and it had taken all of his will power to control himself, to take his leave of her with a degree of civility. The violence of his emotions appalled him. He had never struck a woman in his life, had not experienced such overwhelming anger in years.

Paul inserted the key in the ignition, pulled out of the parking area, and turned into the main road leading back into the city. His patience with Constance had entirely evaporated years ago, along with his pity, and now he loathed her. Loathed her. Damn it, he wasn’t going to be tied to her any longer. He would find a way to get the divorce himself. He would talk to his solicitor. There must be a legal loophole, a means of disentangling himself from this ridiculous marriage, which had not been a marriage for twenty-seven years. It was absurd that a man of his undeniable power should find himself in such an untenable situation, shackled to that demented creature, who surely held on to him only out of sheer perversity. He wondered what he had ever done to Constance to make her want to punish him. He had been a good husband in the early years. It had been her drinking and her promiscuousness which had come between them, and inevitably killed his love for her. He must have his freedom. For Emma and Daisy. And he was bloody well going to get it, come hell or high water. He gripped the steering wheel and hit the open road with ferocity.

The etiolated sky, bleached out by lightning, rocked with the deafening booms of thunder and, as if there had been a sudden cloudburst, the rain fell more profusely, sluicing down the windows in streaming sheets, dimming his vision momentarily. He took the turn in the road too fast, saw the approaching lorry too late. Instinctively he swerved and braked, but the car was travelling at such high speed it seemed to move with its own velocity. It went into a slithering skid and spun out of control, careering across the wet road. He fought to regain control but despite his enormous strength he was unable to do so. The car slewed up over the embankment, leapt into the air, somer-saulted down into the gully, and impacted against a formation of boulders. He felt himself being crushed against the steering wheel, and then he blacked out.

It was the lorry driver who pulled him out of the wreckage a fraction of a second before the car burst into flames. Paul was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived at the hospital in Sydney two hours later. And he remained unconscious for several days. That he had lived at all was a miracle, the doctors said.

Paul manoeuvred himself across his study in the wheelchair until he was directly in front of his desk. He lit a cigarette and then settled down to peruse the pile of legal documents Mel Harrison, his solicitor, had left with him a week ago, just before he had been discharged from the hospital. He had gone over them endlessly, searching for any kind of small omission, or a clause that might lack clarity, and so far he had found none. But to be absolutely certain before he signed them, he went through them for the last time, reading each page slowly, weighing each word scrupulously. At the end of three hours he was satisfied nothing could be misinterpreted. As usual, Mel had drawn the documents with his special brand of brilliance. Every one of them was watertight and would stand up in any court of law, in any country in the world, should they be challenged. He did not expect that to happen. He was mostly concerned that his exact intentions were crystal clear, and indeed they were. Paul smiled for the first time in days. Something had gone right for once.

It was almost six o’clock. Mel was due any moment. What a staunch, supportive, and devoted friend he had been in the last three months since the accident, always there when he was needed, and often when he was not. Preparing legal papers; attending to matters too confidential to hand over to anyone else; visiting the hospital on a daily basis; even neglecting his wife and family at weekends, to sit with him and bolster his courage, to pull him out of the black moods which sometimes engulfed him. Since the bandages had been removed, Paul had not wanted any visitors except Mel and the men who worked for the various McGill corporations. He had certainly not wanted his other friends to see his shattered face. He could not have stomached their sympathy, or their pity.

Despair trickled through him and he closed his eyes, wondering how much longer he could go on. Sometimes he thought he could not tolerate another day of living in this wretched state. What a rotten twist of fate. The accident would never have happened if he had listened to Emma in New York and not returned to Sydney. Now here he was, chained to a wheelchair and dependent on others for almost everything he needed. It was a condition that did not sit easily with him. He had always been in the enviable position of being able to bend life to his will, to reverse circumstances to suit himself. But ever since the crash he had experienced a sense of powerlessness so acute it was devastating. It engendered a monumental frustration that spiralled into blazing anger. Even his money and his influence, always potent weapons in the past, had become quite useless to him.

Smithers, the butler-valet who had been in his employ for years, knocked and entered the study, interrupting Paul’s thoughts. ‘Mr Harrison has arrived, sir. Shall I show him in here, or do you want to go into the sitting room?’

‘In here, Smithers, please.’

A moment later Mel was grasping his hand. ‘How are you, Paul?’

‘Feeling much better, believe it or not,’ Paul said, and motioned to the butler. ‘Fix us the usual, Smithers, please.’

‘Right away, sir.’

Paul swung the chair away from the desk. ‘Let’s sit over there by the fire. I always feel chilled to the bone these days.’

When the butler had left, Paul said, ‘I should have been more forceful with the doctors weeks ago, and made them discharge me then. I think being in familiar surroundings has helped me a great deal.’

‘I’m sure it has,’ Mel said brightly. ‘Cheers, old chap.’

‘Cheers,’ Paul responded. They clinked glasses and Paul went on, ‘I’ve spent a lot of time on the papers, Mel. They’re in good order now. We can sign them later.’

‘Fine, Paul. Incidentally, I told Audrey I wouldn’t be home for dinner. If you can stand my company for a second night running I thought I’d foist myself on you. Is that all right?’

‘Of course. I’d be delighted to have you dine with me.’ He wheeled himself to the bar and poured another scotch. ‘How’s your drink, Mel? Can I freshen it up?’

‘Not right now, thanks. Listen, Paul, I’ve been thinking a lot about Emma these past few days, since you’ve been home. I think we ought to send for her. I’ve discussed it with Audrey, and she agrees with me.’

‘No!’ Paul spun the wheelchair around. He peered into Mel’s face and his eyes blazed. ‘I absolutely forbid it!’ he exclaimed harshly. ‘I don’t want her to see me like this. Besides, the news is getting graver every day. We could be at war with Germany tomorrow. I don’t want her travelling halfway across the world at such a dangerous time.’

Mel regarded Paul carefully. ‘I understand your feelings. But I also dread to think what she’ll do to me when she finds out I’ve lied to her in my letters, just as you have in yours. You also used your considerable influence to keep the details of the accident out of the newspapers, and so she is in the dark about the seriousness of your condition. But isn’t it time you wrote and told her the truth? She should know.’

Paul shook his head. ‘She’s not to know. Not under any circumstances whatsoever.’ He softened his tone. ‘Not yet, anyway. I’ll decide when it’s the right time to tell her.’ His face became morose. ‘How does a man tell a passionate and active woman like Emma that she’s tied to a hopeless cripple who is paralysed from the waist down, who has lost half his face and-’ He paused and looked at Mel intently. ‘And who is impotent. Who will always be impotent. Not easy, my friend. Not easy at all.’

Mel did not know how to respond and such strong feelings of sympathy swept through him he stood up quickly before Paul detected the pity filling his eyes. He stepped to the bar and picked up the bottle of scotch. He said, ‘I think you might be underestimating Emma. In fact, I’m damned sure you are. She would want to be with you. To give you all of her support and love. Let’s cable her, Paul. Now.’

‘No,’ Paul said, his voice suddenly tinged with weariness. ‘I don’t want her to be burdened down with me. I’m no use to her. I’m not much use to myself, if the truth be known.’

Mel walked back to the fireplace, racking his brains for a way to convince Paul to send for Emma. He needed her more than he had ever needed her in his life, but he was an obstinate devil, and proud. ‘Emma wouldn’t see it that way. She loves you. Why, she worships the ground…You,’ Mel quickly corrected himself, and cleared his throat. Then his face brightened perceptibly as another thought struck him. He said rapidly, ‘Look here, if you don’t want Emma travelling, why don’t you book a passage to England yourself? You could be there in a month.’

‘That’s not feasible. I have to go to the hospital almost every day for treatment. There are no medical facilities of the kind I need on board a ship.’ Paul gulped down the scotch and placed his glass on the table. He brought his gaze back to Mel and his eyes were deadly serious, his tone bleak. ‘There is something I haven’t told you, Mel. The prognosis is bad. Very bad, actually. The doctors don’t know how long they can keep the infection out of my kidneys. That’s what usually kills paraplegics-kidney failure.’

Mel stared at Paul and his ruddy face lost most of its colour. ‘H-h-how l-l-long?’ he stammered, unable to complete the question.

‘Nine months-at the most,’ Paul replied in a matter-of-fact voice. He had already adjusted to his death sentence. He had no alternative.

Mel said with a desperate urgency, ‘I think we ought to call in more specialists, Paul. Surely there must be a way to-’

‘No, there isn’t.’ Paul said. ‘If I had broken my spine the doctors could have fused it. But the nerve ends of the spinal cord were crushed. There is no known way to repair those.’

Mel looked away into the fire. He had no words that would comfort Paul. The accident had been a catastrophe, but he had been led to believe Paul had years of life ahead of him, albeit confined to the wheelchair. But now…Oh, God, what a waste of a rare and brilliant man. Eventually, after a long silence, he said, ‘Is there anything I can do, Paul? Anything at all? You only have to ask me.’

Paul smiled gently. ‘No, old chap. Thanks, though. Don’t take this so hard. And for Christ’s sake, don’t start getting maudlin on me now. I need that cheery spirit of yours, and your optimism. Also, you’ve become my right arm and you’re going to be around me a great deal. I don’t want a glum face staring at me. Now come on, let’s have another drink and then we’ll dine. I’ve got some great Chambertin, which my father put down years ago. We’ll have a couple of bottles with dinner. Might as well drink it now, while there’s still-’ Paul bit off his sentence abruptly. He picked up the empty glasses, dropped them into his lap, and rolled over to the bar.

Mel was again unable to respond coherently. He reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. He looked at Paul’s wide shoulders and broad back outlined above the chair, and his eyes dimmed with infinite sorrow. It was heartbreaking to see that splendid body so horribly broken, that extraordinarily handsome face so hideously ruined. And yet how stoically this incredible man bore his afflictions. The admiration Mel had always held for his oldest and dearest friend increased inordinately. Paul’s unimpaired courage and his strength of character in the face of defeat were immense. He wondered if he could have been so brave and indomitable in similar circumstances. He was not sure. One thing he did know, Paul needed all the support he could get and he was going to do his damnedest to give it to him without reserve.

Much later that same evening, long after Mel had left, Paul sat in his dimly lit study, nursing a balloon of brandy and chain-smoking. His face was calm, his eyes thoughtful as he mused on the conversation of earlier. Perhaps Mel was right. Perhaps he should write to Emma and tell her the truth. In his previous letters he had underplayed the accident and used business as an excuse for his tardiness in not returning to England. Yes, he owed her that. The truth. For all they had been to each other and still meant to each other. And it must be the absolute truth. Nothing less would do for his Emma. He moved the wheelchair up to the desk, pulled a piece of notepaper towards him, and began the letter.

Sydney, July 24, 1939

My dearest darling Emma:

You are my life…

His eyes lifted and rested on the gold-framed photograph of her on the corner of his desk. He picked it up, gazing at it intently. It had been taken a few years after Daisy’s birth and Emma looked radiant and she was smiling that incandescent smile that was so uniquely hers. He thought his heart would burst with his love for her, and unexpected tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks unchecked. Paul held the photograph to his chest for a long time, hugging it to him as if it were Emma herself he held in his arms, remembering the past, pondering on the future. And he did not write the letter.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Frank Harte left El Vino’s bar and walked down Fleet Street towards the Daily Express, reflecting on the piece he had written earlier that evening. It still sat on his desk, for he had wanted an hour away from the office to think about the tone of it.

The hour in El Vino’s had not been restful. The bar had been jammed with reporters from all the newspapers, their faces grim, their voices sombre as they had talked about the political situation, which was worsening, and reviewing the depressing news flooding in from all parts of Europe. Now he asked himself if he had been excessive as he considered the piece, written for the Editorial Opinion page. But that fool Neville Chamberlain should be kicked out of office. Winston Churchill was, without doubt, the man they needed as Prime Minister, with war an inevitability. He knew the Old Man agreed with him on that issue. Beaverbrook and Churchill were long-time friends.

Frank crossed Fleet Street and looked up at the Daily Express, a shimmering sliver of black glass and steel and blazing lights, the modern architecture incongruous, juxtaposed against the time-worn buildings that flanked it on all sides. It was as if the Old Man had deliberately cocked a snook at tradition when he had built the Express, and yet nobody was more traditional than Lord Beaverbrook, tireless defender of the British Empire and all that it entailed. Jealous competitors considered the building to be an eyesore, an offence to the historic Street of Ink, but Frank loved it. He saw it as a tribute to modern journalism and the changing times. The Old Man had been right to build it, for it was certainly the most striking landmark on Fleet Street.

Pushing through the swinging doors of the Express, Frank traversed the lobby and took the lift up to his office. He threw his hat on a chair, sat down, picked up the column, and propped his feet on the desk. He read his words with as critical an eye as possible. It was good, damned good, even though he said so himself. He would let it stand. He jumped up and took it in to Arthur Christiansen.

Chris, young editor of the Daily Express, was the boy wonder of Fleet Street. Beaverbrook’s star protégé, he was the man responsible for changing the look and tenor of English popular journalism. In his shirt sleeves, his face flushed, his hair rumpled, he looked harassed but was obviously in total control behind the paper-strewn desk. He gave Frank a cheery grin. ‘I wondered what had happened to you. I was just about to send a copy boy over to El Vino’s to get you.’

Frank handed him the column. ‘I wanted time to think this over. I thought I might have been too strong.’

Chris’s bright, probing eyes focused on the pages of copy. He read them quickly. ‘Good man. It’s damned clever, Frank. We’ll run it as it stands. No changes necessary. If you tone it down it will lose its impact. The Old Man will like this. You’ve struck just the right note, as usual.’

‘You’re sure it’s not excessive?’

Chris grinned again. ‘I am. It’s very balanced, in fact. But then everything you’ve been writing about the world situation lately has been thoughtful. And damn it all, let’s face it, you are dealing with facts. Nobody can deny that.’ Chris wrote on the first page: Set as is. No changes. ‘Boy!’ he called, motioning to a copy boy loitering near the door of his office. ‘Run this down to the chief sub.’

Frank said, ‘If you don’t need me, I’ll get off. My sister’s expecting me. You have her number if anything comes up.’

Chris nodded. ‘Fine, Frank.’ He picked up one of the telephones, which was ringing loudly. ‘Christiansen here. Good evening, sir.’ He covered the mouthpiece and said to Frank, ‘It’s Lord Beaverbrook calling from Cherkley. Excuse me, Frank.’

Frank collected his hat from his office and strolled through the newsroom, as always lingering there for a moment. The bustle and activity had reached fever pitch as the deadline for the first edition of Monday’s paper approached and the noise was deafening. There was a sense of immediacy in the atmosphere, and the air was pungent with the smell of damp newsprint and wet ink from the page proofs, which always sent a thrill of excitement coursing through Frank’s veins. Popular and successful novelist though he had become over the years, he could no more abandon journalism than he could stop breathing. It was in his blood. And there was no other place quite like the offices of a daily newspaper at this hour, just before the giant presses rolled. It was the pulse, the very heartbeat of the world.

Frank paused at the Reuters wire machine and glanced with quickening interest at the stories coming in. The news was ominous, presaging war. A copy boy dodged past him, tore off the latest Reuters dispatches, and raced away. As he did, Frank’s eye caught a new story coming over the wire. His attention was riveted on it. He was motionless for a long time, reeling from the shock, and disbelieving, and then he roused himself and moved up to the Associated Press machine. After a moment he went to look at the United Press ticker. All the wire services were carrying the identical story and he groaned. There was undoubtedly no mistake. No mistake at all. He tore off the UP story and had a word with the chief sub about it, who acquiesced when Frank asked to take it with him. Pushing the piece of paper in his pocket, Frank walked out of the newsroom, benumbed and sick at heart.

Within seconds he was in the street and hailing a cab. Despite the muggy August weather, he shivered and his hands were unsteady as he lit a cigarette. He wondered how in God’s name he was going to find the strength to do what he must do.

Winston was in London on business and he was staying with Emma, as he always did. They were seated in the drawing room, drinking their after-dinner coffee, when the housekeeper showed Frank in a few minutes later.

Emma’s face lit up when she saw him, and she rose to embrace him. ‘We’d just about given you up!’ she exclaimed, hugging him.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ Frank murmured.

Emma said, ‘Let me get you a drink. What would you like, Frank?’

‘A brandy, please, Emma.’ He turned to Winston. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘A few days. Do you want to have lunch tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Emma handed Frank the drink and sat down in the chair opposite. She looked at him intently and then frowned. ‘You look awfully pale, Frank dear. You’re not sickening with something, are you?’

‘No, I’m just tired.’ He tossed down the brandy and stood up. ‘Mind if I have another? I need it tonight.’

‘Of course not.’ Emma’s eyes swivelled to Winston and one brow shot up quizzically.

Winston noticed his brother’s weary stance. ‘Are you sure you’re not ill, Frank? Emma’s quite right, you don’t seem to be your usual self.’

Frank swung around and managed a smile. ‘I suppose the situation is getting on top of me,’ he muttered, and returned to the chair. ‘The Nazis are about to move into Poland. We’re all convinced of that.’

Winston and Emma plied him with questions, and Frank responded automatically, attempting to sound coherent. Emma had been listening thoughtfully and she turned to face Winston, who was fixing himself a scotch and soda, and she said, ‘I expect we ought to start thinking about our various staffs. They will be badly depleted when the men get called up.’ She caught her breath and her hand flew to her throat nervously to finger her pearls. ‘And my God! What about the boys! Kit and Robin are bound to go. And Randolph, Winston. He’s also of age.’

‘Yes, he is. In fact, he wants to join the navy. Immediately.’ Winston’s mouth tightened. ‘He’s determined to do it. I won’t be able to stop him.’

Emma gave her older brother an anxious glance. His only son was the apple of his eye. ‘Randolph’s headstrong, I realize that, and so are my boys. They’re not going to listen to us. I don’t suppose there is anything we can do. They will ultimately get their papers.’ She now addressed Frank. ‘Well, at least your Simon is not old enough to be called up.’

‘For the moment,’ Frank said, and rose. He poured a large brandy and brought it to Emma. ‘You had better drink this. I think you are going to need it.’

Emma regarded him with puzzlement. ‘Why do you say that?’ She frowned. ‘And you know I don’t like brandy. It gives me heart palpitations.’

‘Please drink it,’ Frank said quietly.

Emma brought the brandy balloon up to her mouth and took a drop of it, wrinkling her nose with distaste. She put the glass down on the butler’s tray table in front of her, and focused her attention on Frank. Once more she noted his extraordinary pallor. And when she saw the apprehension, now so clearly etched on his sensitive face, it alarmed her. A dreadful feeling of impending disaster struck Emma and she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Something’s terribly wrong, isn’t it, Frank?’

Frank felt a dryness in his mouth and his voice was hoarse as he finally said, ‘I’ve had some very bad news. Just now, before I left the office.’ Despite the iron control he was exercising, his voice shook badly.

‘Frank dear, whatever is it?’ asked Emma, every one of her instincts alerted for trouble.

Winston said rapidly, ‘There’s nothing wrong at the paper, is there?’

‘No,’ Frank responded in a low voice. ‘It’s…it’s about Paul, actually.’

‘Paul! You’ve had bad news about Paul! What’s wrong with him?’ Emma demanded.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Emma-’ Frank stopped. After an awful moment of silence he finished in a faltering voice, ‘He’s-he’s-he’s passed away.’

Emma stared at her brother with stunned disbelief, and she shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, unable to digest his words. ‘I don’t understand what you are saying. I just had a letter from him. Yesterday. What are you saying to me?’ She had turned so deathly pale she looked as if she was going to faint and she was shaking.

Frank went to kneel at her feet. He looked up at her gravely and took her hand in his. He said with great gentleness, ‘Paul’s dead, Emma. The story came over the wires when I was on my way here.’

‘Paul,’ Emma whispered incredulously, and her expression was one of blank stupefaction mingled with fear. She cried in a tremulous voice, ‘Are you sure there is no mistake? There must be a mistake!’

Frank shook his head dismally. ‘All the wire services are carrying the same story. I checked them out.’

‘Oh my God,’ Emma groaned, her blood turning cold.

Winston, as grey as a ghost, managed, ‘How did Paul die, Frank?’

Frank gazed at Emma, bleakness washing over his face as he sought the appropriate words. But nothing would soften the blow. Frank found himself incapable of speech.

Now Emma tightened her grip, her fingers biting into his hand. ‘Did Paul-? Was it his injuries? Were they more serious than he told me?’ She sounded weak.

‘Well, yes, I believe they were much worse than he led you to understand-’

The trilling of the doorbell startled them all, and Emma’s eyes widened with apprehension and appealed to Winston. He nodded and pulled himself up out of the chair. As he left the drawing room he prayed it wasn’t the press wanting a statement. To Winston’s relief the housekeeper was admitting Henry Rossiter, a partner in the private merchant bank which handled all of Paul’s business in England, and much of Emma’s as well. Henry’s face was as dolorous as Winston’s. He shook Winston’s hand and asked, ‘Does she know?’ Winston inclined his head. ‘How is she taking it?’ Henry murmured.

Winston said, ‘She’s stunned. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. There will be a horrible delayed reaction, of course, Henry. I dread to contemplate it.’

Henry nodded his understanding. ‘Yes. They were so close. What a tragic, tragic thing to happen. How did Emma hear about it?’

Winston quickly explained and motioned to the drawing room. ‘We’d better go in, Henry. She needs us.’

Henry entered the living room and sat down next to Emma. ‘I’m sorry. So very sorry, my dear. I got here as quickly as I could. As soon as I knew.’

Emma’s throat worked and she passed her hand over her throbbing head. She said, ‘Did someone in Sydney contact you, Henry?’

‘Yes, Mel Harrison. He has been trying to get me all day. I was in the country, unfortunately.’

‘Why didn’t he attempt to reach me?’ she asked in a voice echoing with sorrow.

‘He wanted me to break the news to you in person, Emma. He didn’t want you to be alone when you heard-’

‘When did Paul die?’ she interrupted, her heart squeezing.

‘His body was found on Sunday night. It’s early Monday morning there now. Mel put in a call to me as soon as he arrived at the house. He realized he couldn’t hold off the press indefinitely, since the police have to-’

‘Police!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘What do you mean? Why were the police there?’

Henry looked at Frank with dismay. They exchanged worried glances and both men were silent. Frank now contemplated lying to Emma, but there was no point in dissembling. Better to get it over with. He said gently, ‘Paul took his own life, Emma.’

‘Oh my God! No! No! It’s not true! I don’t believe you! Paul wouldn’t do that. Never,’ Emma cried.

‘I’m afraid it’s true, darling,’ Frank said, and put his arm around her.

Emma moved her head wildly from side to side, denying Frank. She seemed to shrink in the chair. ‘How did he-’ She could not continue.

Frank bit his lip. ‘He-he shot himself.’ He did not add that Paul shot himself through the heart. He could not bring himself to tell her that.

‘No!’ she shrieked, losing control. ‘It’s not true!’ she gasped. A tearing sob strangled in her throat and she twisted her hands agitatedly. Her eyes, brimming with shock, focused on Henry.

He nodded sadly. ‘It is true, Emma.’

‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘Oh my God! Paul! Paul! Oh, my darling. Why?’ Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. She pushed Frank aside and stood up, moving to the centre of the room. She stretched out her arms, clutching blindly at the empty air, as if seeking Paul, to hold him to her.

Frank sprang up and took her arm, leading her back to the sofa. ‘Sit down, Emma. Please, darling.’

Winston rose unsteadily and walked across the room, anxiety dulling his eyes, and he wondered desperately where she was going to find the strength to bear this tragedy. He picked up the glass of brandy. ‘Drink this, our Emma. Drink it, love. We’re here. We’ll stay with you.’

She took the glass from him with both hands, which were trembling, and she gulped it down quickly. ‘I must know everything. Please, Frank, you must tell me everything. I must know it all. For my own sanity.’

Frank was alarmed. ‘I have the UP story with me, Emma, but I don’t think I should-’

‘Yes, you should. You must. I beg of you.’

‘I think you had better give Emma the facts, Frank,’ Winston interceded, adopting a calmness he did not feel. ‘She won’t rest until she knows all the details. However painful they are to hear, you must tell her.’

Frank nodded and pulled the piece of paper out. In a slow, saddened voice he read:

‘Paul McGill, Australia’s most renowned industrialist, was found shot to death on Sunday night at his home in Sydney. Mr McGill, who was fifty-nine years old, was in a serious automobile accident four months ago, which paralysed him from the waist downward. One side of his face was also badly shattered. Mr McGill had been confined to a wheelchair since his release from the hospital and his doctors believe he took his own life in a moment of acute depression, undoubtedly caused by his condition. No note was found. Mr McGill, who had resided mostly in London for the past sixteen years, was the only son of Bruce McGill and the grandson of Andrew McGill, founding father of the famous Australian family, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. It was Andrew McGill, a Scottish sea captain, who began the family sheep station, Dunoon, in Coonamble, in 1852. One of the biggest and most prosperous in New South Wales, the sheep station was inherited by Paul McGill upon his father’s death in 1919. Mr McGill, believed to be one of the richest men in the world, was chairman of the board of numerous Australian companies, including the McGill Corporation, which operated the sheep station, McGill and Smythson Real Estate, the McGill Mining Corporation, and the McGill Coal Company. He was also chairman of the board of the Sitex Oil Corporation of America, headquartered in Texas, and president and chief executive officer of McGill-Marriott Maritime, which owns and operates one of the world’s largest oil-tanker fleets.’

Frank stopped. ‘There’s a lot more about the business, the family, Paul’s war record, and his education. Do you want to go on, Emma?’

‘No,’ she whispered. She turned to Henry miserably. ‘Why didn’t he tell me about the paralysis? His face? I would have gone to him immediately. He should have told me, Henry.’ Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes and trickled silently down her cheeks. ‘Did he think his condition would have made any difference to me? And I should have been with him.’ She began to sob brokenly. ‘I loved him.’

Henry’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Mel wanted him to send for you. But you know how stubborn and proud Paul was. He was adamant, it seems. According to Mel, he didn’t want you to see him that way, or know the seriousness of his injuries, or to be burdened with him.’

Emma was speechless. Not to be burdened with him, she thought. But I loved him more than life itself. Oh, Paul, why did you keep me away from you when you needed me the most? She envisaged Paul’s pain and the terrible despair which had prompted his action, and an overwhelming sorrow engulfed her.

It seemed to Emma that the whole world had abruptly stopped. There was no sound in the room, except for the faint ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelshelf. She looked down at the great McGill emerald glittering on her finger, and at the wedding ring Paul had given her when Daisy was born, and her unchecked tears fell on her hands and splashed against the rings. And she remembered the words he had spoken that day: ‘Until death do us part,’ he had said. Her heart twisted inside her. She lifted her head and glanced about, and a terrible aching numbness entered her body. She felt as though she, too, was paralysed and would be quite unable to move ever again. The pain was beginning, and she understood with a flash of clarity that she would never be free of it. She thought: I cannot live without him. He was my life. There is nothing left now. Only the empty years ahead to endure until I, too, die.

Winston and Frank were helpless in their despair. Winston could not stand to see her suffering, and telephoned the family doctor, who arrived fifteen minutes later. Emma was given a sedative and the housekeeper helped her to bed. But racking sobs continued to convulse her and they did not cease for over two hours, when the sedative finally lulled her into a more tranquil state.

Her two brothers, Henry Rossiter, and the doctor stayed with Emma until she finally fell into a drugged sleep. As they left the bedroom, Winston said, ‘Her sorrow is only just beginning.’

Tragedy had struck at Emma many times in her life. It had caused her to falter, but it had never brought her to her knees. Paul’s death felled her with one swift blow.

All of her children, except Edwina, came home to be with her. They had loved and admired Paul, and they were aghast and grief-stricken, most especially Daisy, who had been the closest to him. Each one in their own way tried to comfort their mother, but their efforts were in vain.

Frank’s wife, Natalie, came immediately; Charlotte, Winston’s wife, and their son, Randolph, travelled up to London from Leeds with Blackie and his son Bryan, the four of them accompanied by David Kallinski and his sons, Ronnie and Mark. None of them could reach Emma and, after a brief visit with her in her bedroom, they assembled in the library, their faces clouded with anxiety.

Blackie attempted to alleviate their worry. He said, ‘Even the strongest heart can be broken, you know. But a strong heart always mends. I put my money on Emma any day. She’s a born survivor and she’ll survive this. Also, I think it’s much better she gets her grief out. I know she’ll be all right.’ And he meant every word, for he knew the stern stuff she was made of.

But for days Emma lay prostrate, half crazed and incoherent with grief. She became so debilitated at one point Winston seriously contemplated hospitalizing her. The dawn hours were the worst for Emma. She would lie motionless in her bed, bereft and without hope, watching the cold grey light creeping in, waiting for the beginning of a new endless empty day, staring vacantly into space like a blind woman. But her vivid and active mind was for ever in a turmoil, filled with conflicting and troublesome thoughts. She wondered if she had failed Paul in some way. Failed to properly convey over the years the depth and sincerity of her love for him. She castigated herself for not having gone to Australia when he had first had the accident, believing she could have prevented him from lifting that fateful gun. If she had not listened to him she could have saved his life, of that she was absolutely convinced. The weight of her guilt was heavy to bear, and her despondency and wretchedness only increased.

Henry Rossiter had told her of the doctors’ dismal prognosis, and slowly, as the shock receded, she began to dimly understand that a man like Paul, so virile, so powerful, would regard suicide as the only viable solution to his awful predicament, and yet sometimes she felt utterly abandoned and betrayed by him. However, mostly she was able to dismiss these feelings as manifestations of self-pity, a curious anger, which was baffling, and her own sense of powerlessness. It was also incomprehensible to her that Paul had not written, for she was unable to accept the fact that he would kill himself without one last word to her, and every day she looked for a letter, which did not come.

Winston, who had taken charge of the household and the Knightsbridge store, decided to keep Daisy at home from boarding school after the rest of the family departed. It was she who eventually reached Emma and brought her a measure of relief. Emma’s youngest child was surprisingly mature for a fourteen-year-old, and understanding beyond her years. Her own sorrow was acute, but she carefully strove to conceal this most of the time, and she finally achieved a real breakthrough with her mother. She persuaded Emma to eat a little every day, and gradually helped to stem the flow of tears with her loving presence. Occasionally Emma would look intently at Daisy and she would see Paul so clearly reflected in the child’s face her tears would start afresh, and she would cling to their daughter, calling for Paul. Daisy would wipe away the tears and calm her with soothing words, rocking her in her arms as if she were the mother and Emma the daughter.

One night, after Emma had collapsed again, Daisy tenderly cajoled her into a more peaceful state of mind, and for the first time Emma fell into a natural sleep that was heavy and deep. When she awakened several hours later she felt rested and had even acquired a degree of composure. She at once noticed Daisy curled up on the chaise dozing. And she suddenly saw her daughter objectively. With a flash of insight Emma recognized she had been burdening Daisy with her own grief when the child herself needed love and support. With a supreme effort she roused herself from her lethargy, and some of that strength, always formidable, began to trickle back into her weary body.

Emma got out of bed unaided and moved slowly to the chaise, her legs shaking and unsteady. Daisy woke up instantly and when she saw her mother bending over her she took hold of her hand swiftly, her eyes apprehensive. ‘Mummy, what is it? Do you feel ill again?’

‘No, darling. In fact, I think I’m a bit better.’ Emma took Daisy in her arms and held her close, stroking her glossy black hair. ‘I’ve been very wrong, Daisy, putting the burden of my grief on you. So wrong. Please forgive me, darling. Now, I want you to get ready for bed and have a really good night’s sleep. And I don’t want you to worry about me any more. I will be fine. And tomorrow I am going to send you back to boarding school.’

Daisy pulled away and stared at Emma in surprise, and her vivid blue eyes were brilliant with tears. ‘But I want to stay with you, Mummy. To look after you. Paul would want that. He really would. He wouldn’t want you to be alone, Mummy.’

Emma smiled gently. ‘You’ve been looking after me very well, and now it’s my turn to look after you. I am going to be all right, darling. Truly I am.’

Daisy began to cry and she buried her head on Emma’s breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Hush, darling. Hush,’ Emma murmured. ‘We must be strong and brave, and help each other in the coming months.’

‘I’ve been so afraid, Mummy.’ Daisy sobbed, her tears drenching Emma’s crumpled nightgown. ‘I thought you were going to die, too.’

Emma said, in a voice that was surprisingly steady, ‘I am not going to die, Daisy, I have you to live for now.’

It was a glorious afternoon in late September, sunny and warm and with a cloudless sky that was radiant with light. But Emma shivered as she walked wearily across the drawing room. She huddled in a chair in front of the fire, warming herself, her thoughts on her sons. War had been declared on September 3, and although she had been too bereaved to pay attention then, the situation could no longer be ignored. Britain was mobilizing with the same speed and efficiency it had displayed in her youth, and she knew that they would be in for a long siege.

Feeling warmer, she shifted in the chair. As she did a shaft of bright sunlight illuminated the ravages her grief had wrought. She had shed pounds and looked painfully thin in the simple black wool dress, its severity unrelieved by jewellery. The only pieces she wore were Paul’s rings, and a watch. But her hair was bright and crackling with life.

‘Here I am, me darlin’,’ Blackie called from the doorway, startling her. She rose to greet him, managing a smile. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Blackie dear,’ Emma said, embracing him.

He enveloped her in his arms and held her tightly to his broad chest, and he choked up as he felt the fragility of her body. She was a bag of bones. He held her away, looked down into her face, and put his hand under her chin. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, mavourneen. It’s grand to see you up and about.’

They sat in front of the fire and talked for a while about the war and the probability that the boys would enlist imminently. ‘Bryan is in London with me,’ Blackie told her. ‘He wanted to come with me today, but I wasn’t sure you’d be up to it.’

‘Oh, Blackie, I am disappointed. I’d love to see him,’ she exclaimed, her face brightening. ‘Could he come tomorrow? You know how dear Bryan is to me.’

‘Sure and he can. I’ll bring him meself.’ Blackie now gave her a guarded look. ‘When do you think you’ll be fit enough to go back to the store?’

‘Next week. The doctor was against it, actually. He thinks I should go to Yorkshire for a rest. But I simply can’t neglect the business any longer, and it’s just not fair to Winston. He’s carrying all the responsibility. Besides, he ought to go back to Leeds. We’ve a lot of reorganizing to do.’

‘I know what you mean. I’m facing the same problems. Anyway, Emma, I think it’s a good idea for you to get back into the harness again. You must keep your mind occupied, so that you don’t dwell on things.’

Her face clouded momentarily. ‘Yes, that’s true.’ The maid knocked and came in with the tea tray. Emma eyed the heavy Georgian teapot warily, wondering if she had the strength to lift it. For days she had been like a woman with the palsy, dropping and spilling things. She lifted it carefully and poured two cups, and to her relief her hands did not tremble for once.

She said, ‘I spoke to David yesterday. He sounded very down in the dumps. Ronnie and Mark have already joined up. He’s going to miss them terribly. They’ve been his whole life since Rebecca died.’

He observed the sudden mistiness in her eyes and said swiftly, ‘He’ll be all right, Emma. Tell you what, I’ll take him under my wing when I get back to Leeds. Get him out of that great mausoleum where he lives in such solitary splendour. It’ll do him good to start socializing again.’

‘I wish you would, darling. I do worry about him.’ Emma looked into the fire reflectively, and when she turned back to Blackie her expression was sorrowful. ‘How does one go on, Blackie? It’s so hard, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but not impossible, Emma. Not for someone with your courage.’

‘I haven’t been very strong these past few weeks,’ she said drearily.

‘You can’t rush it, Emma. You’ll have a lot of readjusting to do. You must give yourself time, darlin’.’

‘However did you manage after Laura died?’ she asked.

‘I sometimes wondered that myself at the time.’ He smiled faintly. ‘After I went back to the front I tried my damnedest to catch a bullet, to get myself killed. But the good Lord protected me from me own foolishness. After the war it took me a long time to forgive myself for being alive, but once I did I started to live again. I looked around and became aware of my responsibilities, my duty to Bryan. He was a great help, Emma. A great source of sustenance. As Daisy will be for you. That child, of all your children, is the most like you in character. She understands you and she worships you, mavourneen.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Emma responded quietly, and looked away again. ‘I just-just-just don’t know how I can go on without Paul.’

Blackie took her hand and held it tightly. ‘You can, darlin’. You will. The human soul has great fortitude.’ He paused and his black eyes swept over her piteous face. He said gently, ‘Do you remember what Laura said to you when she was dying? I’ve never forgotten the words since you repeated them to me, and they have helped me many times. Do you remember what she said about death, Emma?’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her words as if she had spoken them only yesterday. Laura said there was no such thing as death in her lexicon, and that as long as I lived and you lived she would live, too, for we would carry the memory of her in our hearts for ever.’

Blackie said, ‘Aye, mavourneen, and she was a wise lady, my Laura. She truly believed that, as I have come to believe it, and as you must. It will help you, I know. And just as I have Bryan, you have Paul’s daughter. She is part of his flesh, part of him, and you must cleave to that and take strength from it.’

His words seemed to give her comfort and so he continued. ‘You also told me Laura said God doesn’t give us a burden that is too heavy to bear. She was right, Emma. Think on that.’ He sighed under his breath. ‘I know you are heartbroken and that you feel lost and alone. But none of us are alone, Emma. We all have God, and God has helped me over the years. Why don’t you try Him on for size?’

Emma’s eyes widened. ‘You know I don’t believe in God.’

Observing the look on her face, Blackie refrained from making any further comments and wisely talked of other things.

But later, when he left Emma’s house, Blackie walked to the Brompton Oratory. He crossed himself on entering that fine old church, sat down in a pew, and lifted his face to the altar. And he prayed to God to give Emma comfort and courage in her crushing loss, and he prayed for her soul.

Before she went to bed that night, Emma sat at the window in her bedroom for several hours, dwelling on those words of Laura’s. The sky was a peculiar cobalt blue, clear yet intense, and shining with hundreds of stars, and a pale silver moon rode high in the heavens. Its beauty was so perfectly revealed to her it made her catch her breath and she suddenly had the most overwhelming sense of the Infinite. It was a feeling she had never experienced before and she was strangely moved as she sat gazing at that incredible night sky. And then it seemed to her that Paul was with her in the room. And she thought: But of course he is, for he is in my heart always. And she drew strength from this knowledge, and that night she slept a deep and untroubled sleep.

Two days later Emma received a letter from Paul. It had been posted the day before his death and it had taken three weeks to arrive. She looked at it for a long time before she finally found the courage to slit open the envelope and take out the letter.

My dearest darling Emma:

You are my life. I cannot live without my life. But I cannot live with you. And so I must end my miserable existence, for there is no future for us together now. Lest you think my suicide an act of weakness, let me reassure you that it is not. It is an act of strength and of will, for by committing it I gratefully take back that control over myself which I have lost in the past few months. It is a final act of power over my own fate.

It is the only way out for me, my love, and I will die with your name on my lips, the image of you before my eyes, my love for you secure in my heart always. We have been lucky, Emma. We have had so many good years together and shared so much, and the happy memories are alive in me, as I know they are in you, and will be as long as you live. I thank you for giving me the best years of my life.

I did not send for you because I did not want you to be tied to a helpless cripple, if only for a few months at the most. Perhaps I was wrong. On the other hand, I want you to remember me as I was, and not what I have become since the accident. Pride? Maybe. But try to understand my reasons, and try, my darling, to find it in your heart to forgive me.

I have great faith in you, my dearest Emma. You are not faint of heart. You are strong and dauntless, and you will go on courageously. You must. For there is our child to consider. She is the embodiment of our love, and I know you will cherish and care for her, and bring her up to be as brave and as stalwart and as loving as you are yourself. I give her into your trust, my darling.

By the time you receive this I will be dead. But I will live on in Daisy. She is your future now, my Emma. And mine.

I love you with all my heart and soul and mind, and I pray to God that one day we will be reunited in Eternity.

I kiss you, my darling.

Paul

Emma was motionless in the chair, clutching the letter, the tears seeping out of her eyes and rolling silently down her pale cheeks. She saw him in her mind’s eye, tall and handsome, his deep violet eyes laughing, and she remembered him as he wanted her to remember him. She thought of the years and the joy and love he had given her. And she forgave him, now understanding, and with great compassion, both his dilemma and his motives.

At the beginning of October, Mel Harrison took a four-engined ‘C Class’ Qantas flying boat from Sydney to Karachi, and there boarded an English aeroplane that provided the link to Great Britain. Several days later he arrived in London. His purpose: to see Emma and present Paul McGill’s will to the solicitors who handled the McGill legal work in England and Europe.

Emma, austerely dressed in black, appeared wan and fragile, yet she was composed when she arrived at Price, Ellis, and Watson for the reading of Paul McGill’s last will and testament. Winston, Frank, and Henry Rossiter accompanied her.

‘Paul made you the executrix of his estate,’ Mel informed her as she sat down. She was taken by surprise, but she simply nodded, at a loss for words.

There were bequests to servants, to old and loyal employees, and a two-million-pound trust fund had been created to provide for his wife and son during their lifetimes. Upon their deaths it was to go to charity. His entire estate he had willed to Emma in perpetuity, passing to Daisy upon her death, and from Daisy to her progeny. To Emma’s astonishment Paul had left her everything he owned, holdings worth well over two hundred million pounds. He had made her one of the richest women in the world and their daughter the heiress to a great fortune. But the thing that moved Emma the most was the fact that Paul had accorded her the respect and consideration generally reserved for a man’s legal widow and not his common-law wife. In death, as in life, Paul had declared his devotion and love for her, had acknowledged her to the whole world. And into her hands had passed the McGill dynasty for safekeeping.

FIFTY-NINE

Emma’s grief was a mantle of iron, but slowly she came to grips with her heartache. In all truth, her sorrow did not really lessen and she missed Paul and yearned for him constantly, but she took control of her emotions, and as the weeks passed she began to function like her old self. Also, her anguish was muted by the circumstances of her life and the world crisis which had developed.

She was beset by the most pressing problems as England plunged into the European conflict, and consequently her energies were taxed to the fullest, leaving little time or strength for self-indulgences. Her sons joined the forces, Kit enlisting in the army, Robin in the Royal Air Force.

Elizabeth, who had enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in the summer of 1939, was quietly married to Tony Barkstone during the Christmas holidays. Although Elizabeth was only eighteen and still too flighty to marry, in Emma’s opinion, she did not have the heart to object. Everyone had to grasp happiness when they could, especially in these terrible times, and, in spite of her misgivings, she gave her blessing. The young couple were obviously head over heels in love, and Emma approved of Tony, who was a friend of Robin’s from Cambridge and also a pilot in the RAF.

Despite the austerity, a spirit of gaiety prevailed at the wedding and all of the family were briefly reunited, with the exception of Edwina, who was still estranged from Emma, and Kit, who was unable to get leave. June, his wife of one year, came up to London for the occasion and stayed with Emma through the New Year. In January of 1940, Elizabeth dropped out of the Royal Academy to become a Red Cross nurse, much to Emma’s amazement. ‘But I thought you always dreamed of being a famous actress and seeing your name in lights,’ she exclaimed when she heard the news. ‘Oh, phooey to all that nonsense,’ Elizabeth quickly responded. ‘I feel I must be part of the war effort, too, Mummy.’ Emma was soon impressed by Elizabeth’s seriousness and her dedication to nursing, and she began to think the marriage would be the stabilizing influence her most wayward child needed.

The news grew more distressing by the day, and in March Emma contemplated sending Daisy to America to live with the Nelsons at their Hudson River estate. But the more she thought about it, the more she balked, acknowledging that the transatlantic crossing could be hazardous, and she decided that the child’s present location at boarding school in Ascot was probably the safest place.

As the year progressed, Emma threw herself into work with a vengeance, but she welcomed the distraction it offered. Henry Rossiter, who had handled some of her business in the past, became her financial adviser on a full-time basis, since she now had all the McGill holdings to supervise as well as her own. She was in constant touch with Mel Harrison in Sydney and Harry Marriott in Texas, and her days were longer and more arduous than ever before as her responsibilities increased. But she took everything in her stride. She was the dynamo she had been in her youth, and most especially during the First World War when she had also been left to cope single-handedly. If Emma’s face grew graver by the day, then so did every other face in England, for the country was held in the grip of fulminating desperation as Hitler’s blitzkrieg continued unabated.

Towards the end of May, just after his fifty-fourth birthday, David Kallinski came to London to discuss their mutual business interests with Emma. He was still a good-looking man and those penetrating blue eyes had not dimmed, although his hair was iron grey and he had thickened around the waist. His devotion to Emma had remained constant over the years and he was always concerned about her. To his relief, when she greeted him at the house in Belgrave Square, he immediately saw that her face had lost its gaunt look and her beauty was returning, and she had also put on a little weight. Later they were joined by Blackie, and after a light supper they adjourned to the library for coffee and liqueurs, their conversation revolving around the war.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to get the boys off the beaches in time?’ Emma asked, thinking not only of Kit, and Ronnie and Mark Kallinski, but of the thousands of other British troops stranded in Dunkirk.

‘If anybody can do it, by God, Winston Churchill can!’ Blackie asserted. He shifted in his chair and went on, ‘He’s assembled an armada the likes of which the world has never seen, albeit a motley one. But it’s united in one goal-getting our boys safely home to Deal and Ramsgate before they are annihilated by the Germans advancing across the Low Countries into France.’

‘I read they came from all over England to assist the Royal Navy’s destroyers,’ David interjected, puffing on his cigar. ‘Volunteers from all walks of life, with their rowing boats, sailing boats, fishing trawlers, yachts, pleasure steamers, and even barges. It’s the most wonderful display of patriotism and heroism I’ve heard of in my lifetime.’

Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, it is, David. Seven hundred vessels of all shapes and sizes, including the destroyers, of course. It seems the volunteers are picking up the men and carrying them out to the bigger ships that can’t get close enough to the beaches, while some are even ferrying the boys across the Channel on a round-the-clock basis. Enormously brave men, sure and they are, and indefatigable.’

‘How long do you think the evacuation will take?’ Emma inquired quietly, looking from Blackie to David with consternation.

David said, ‘A few days longer at least. There are hundreds of thousands of British and French troops to lift off, you know.’

‘I read today that the Luftwaffe is keeping up a steady bombardment of the beaches,’ Emma said. ‘I dread to think of the casualties.’

There are bound to be some, Emma,’ Blackie said. ‘But the RAF boys are up there in their fighter planes doing their damnedest to-’

‘Bryan, Robin, and Tony amongst them, Blackie,’ Emma interjected, and she looked away.

‘We all feel frustrated and helpless, sitting here in London. But all we can do is pray that our sons will be safe. And we must be cheerful,’ Blackie said. ‘Now come along, let’s have another drink. It will do us good.’ As she fixed their drinks Blackie’s eyes strayed to the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘Do you mind if we turn the radio on, Emma? Winston Churchill’s about to speak.’

‘No, of course not. I’d like to hear him myself.’ She rose and fiddled with the knob, tuning in to the BBC, and a moment later the familiar rhetorical voice rang out: ‘Good evening. This is the Prime Minister.’ The three old friends, who had shared so much in the past thirty years, sat back to listen, even more strongly joined together by fear for their sons and all the sons of England. When the Prime Minister had finished, Emma’s eyes stung and her voice quavered when she said, ‘What an inspiration that man is to us all. God help us if we didn’t have Churchill.’

The epic of Dunkirk gripped the imagination of England and her allies. Out of hell came back all the little steamers and rowing boats and pleasure steamers, bringing back the living and the wounded. The evacuation had taken eleven days, and 340,000 Allied troops had been rescued by the time the Germans captured the French sea town. Only 40,000, mostly French, were left behind. Emma and David were lucky. Amongst those to land at Ramsgate on June 1 and 2 were Ronnie and Mark, and on June 3 Kit stepped off the barge that had transported him to Deal across a choppy Channel jammed with vessels and wreckage. Kit told Emma later, when he came home on leave, ‘I just made it by the skin of my teeth, Mother. I must have a guardian angel watching over me.’ He embraced her tightly, and, clinging to him, she choked up, thinking of his father, who had died in France in 1916, apparently in vain.

On June 4 Winston Churchill rose in the House of Commons and made a speech on Dunkirk. At one moment he said, ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing-grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.’ Six days later the French Government and the Army High Command fled Paris as the Nazi army drew closer. Four days after that the French capital was captured by the Germans, who took it without firing one shot. France had fallen.

Britain stood alone.

That summer was the worst Emma could remember. In July the Battle of Britain began in earnest. Hitler had ordered an all-out offensive against the RAF, specifically Britain’s aircraft factories and the fighter bases that ringed London. Day after day, night after night, huge fleets of Dornier and Heinkel bombers swept across the Channel to pulverize Britain, while Messerschmitt fighter planes fought off the RAF Hurricanes and Spitfires that rose up into the sky in swift retaliation.

Awakened at night by the screaming air-raid sirens, Emma would get up and stand by the window in her darkened bedroom, looking out at the night sky starkly illuminated by the searchlights and echoing with the incessant drone of the bombers and fighter planes, her heart in her mouth as she thought of Robin, Tony, and Bryan and the other young pilots up there risking their lives. Some nights she was joined by Elizabeth, who had given up the small flat she had taken during her Royal Academy days, and was again living at home. ‘Are you awake, Mummy?’ she would invariably whisper, gliding into the room in her nightgown. ‘Yes, darling,’ Emma would answer, and the two of them would stand together, their arms around each other, watching the planes zooming past.

One night Elizabeth grasped her mother’s arm fiercely, and her voice was unusually harsh when she cried out, ‘Why, Mummy? Why? Why did this ghastly war have to start? What’s the purpose of it? They’re all going to be killed! Tony and Robin and Bryan, and all of our other boys!’

Emma had no answers for her daughter, or for herself. Elizabeth became distraught, sobbing uncontrollably. Emma put her arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders and led her to the bed. ‘They’re not going to be killed, darling,’ she comforted. ‘They’re going to be all right. I promise you. We must be brave. Get into my bed and sleep with me tonight. We’ll keep each other company.’

‘Yes, Mummy, I think I will,’ Elizabeth said, crawling under the covers. Emma held her close, as she had done when she was small and frightened of the dark. ‘Don’t cry and try not to worry, Elizabeth.’

‘If Tony gets killed I won’t be able to bear it,’ Elizabeth said through her tears. ‘I love him so much. And if Robin-’

‘Hush, darling. Try to sleep now. You must have your rest.’

‘Yes, I’ll try. Thank you, Mummy. Good night.’

‘Good night, dear.’

Emma lay in the darkness, waiting for Elizabeth’s tense body to relax and go limp in sleep. But it did not, and Emma knew that her daughter would spend yet another sleepless night worrying about her husband and her twin, as she would herself.

Emma had made a habit of walking to the store in Knights-bridge every day, and as the summer drifted on she did so to the accompanying sounds of anti-aircraft guns, whining sirens, falling rubble, and shattering glass. She would flinch when she saw a favourite landmark demolished, an ancient church in ruins, old haunts she and Paul had frequented flattened to the ground. Yet in spite of London’s devastation, its bleak mood, and the weary expressions on the faces she passed in the streets, Emma would nevertheless marvel at the stoicism and indomitability of her fellow countrymen and countrywomen. Often a cheery Cockney voice would break into a song, perhaps a fireman hosing a pile of smoking bricks or a workman clearing away the debris, and a cab driver would have a breezy comment to make, and they lifted her heart with courage. It was at times like these that she would remember Churchill’s words: ‘We shall never surrender’, and her strength was renewed, a spring returned to her step, her back straightened, and her head flew up proudly. And somehow her burdens seemed all that much lighter to bear.

The summer drew to a close. In September a large portion of the East End docks was destroyed in a massive air attack. The daily raids continued and the RAF pilots were tested to their limits, flying nonstop missions. The usual two- and three-day leaves were cancelled and Emma did not see Robin for weeks. The Royal Air Force was Britain’s last defence, and even though they were outnumbered three to one, the boys in blue in their Spitfires and Hurricanes out-performed the Luftwaffe. By October the Führer’s plan to destroy the RAF and break English morale in readiness for a full-scale invasion had proved a failure. In fact, Hitler had suffered his first major defeat. But the German bombers still continued night raids on the large cities, levelling many to the ground, and the grim years dragged on endlessly. Years of the Blitz; coupons, ration cards, and queues; shortages and deprivations; sorrow and grief as old friends and the sons and daughters of old friends were killed or named missing in action.

But in the midst of the devastation there was the miraculous renewal of life. In 1942, June, Kit’s wife, gave birth to a daughter. Emma was fond of June and delighted at the arrival of a second grandchild, and she went up to Leeds for the baptism of the baby, who was called Sarah. The same year, at the end of the summer term, Daisy left boarding school and came home to live with her mother and Elizabeth in Belgrave Square. Now the house did not seem so lonely and there were even moments of gaiety and laughter, especially when Robin came up from Biggin Hill, where he was stationed. He invariably brought one or two of his RAF friends from the 111th Squadron with him, explaining to Emma, ‘The chaps are going to bunk in with us, Ma. You don’t mind, do you? All the hotels are jam-packed.’ Emma did not mind. In fact, she willingly opened her doors and her heart to those dauntless young pilots.

At Christmas, Robin was fortunate to get a three-day pass at the last minute and he arrived unannounced on Christmas Eve, as usual dragging three friends in his wake. The moment David Amory walked into her living room Emma’s heart missed a beat. He was tall and dark, with bright blue eyes and a flashing smile, and there was something about his looks and his engaging manner that reminded her of Paul McGill. David was not as outrageously handsome as Paul had been as a young man, nor did he have his massive size or his audacious personality, yet he struck a chord in her memory of Paul as he had been during the First World War. David was twenty-four, a new arrival at Biggin Hill and already something of a war hero. With an ingeniousness that was quite endearing, he charmed Emma at once.

That Christmas was a particularly merry one and the house rang with peals of laughter, the friendly but unmerciful bantering that went on between the RAF boys and her daughters, the endless sound of the gramophone and the clink of glasses. Emma entertained gaily, taking them all under her wing, enjoying the fun as much as the young people. But whether she was being the gracious hostess or quietly sitting in a corner, looking on and knitting a Balaclava helmet, she was aware of David Amory. Her smile was benign but her eyes were watchful as she observed the seventeen-year-old Daisy, her most beloved child, being bewitched and falling under the fatal spell of the dashing young RAF officer. And David appeared to be as enamoured with Daisy as she was with him, and he was never far from her side. Emma held her breath, knowing they were falling in love and that there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Nor was she certain she wanted to interfere. After the holidays, David Amory became a constant visitor at Belgrave Square, whether he arrived with Robin or came alone, and over the months Emma took him to her heart. He was from an old Gloucestershire family, well bred and well educated, and had been studying law when the war had erupted. Emma quickly discovered he had integrity and a bright mind, as well as a gentleness that she found appealing, and she could not help but approve of him for Daisy. It did not come as a surpise when David asked her permission to marry her youngest child. He did so in May of 1943, just after Daisy’s eighteenth birthday. ‘But she’s so young, David darling,’ Emma exclaimed, intending to persuade them to wait. But she found herself saying instead, ‘When do you plan to get married?’

Daisy, who had been hovering nervously by the fireplace, hugged her so furiously Emma winced. Daisy’s face was radiant and her eyes sparkled. ‘Next weekend, Mummy, if that’s all right with you.’

The wedding was quiet, just as Elizabeth’s had been, because of the wartime conditions and Emma’s natural reluctance to display her wealth in such troubled times. Daisy wore a blue silk dress, a matching picture hat, and carried a nosegay of summer flowers. Winston gave her away, Robin was the best man, and Elizabeth the matron of honour. David’s parents and younger sister came up from Gloucestershire for the wedding and there was a small reception at the house afterwards. The young couple had a one-night honeymoon at the Ritz Hotel before David returned to Biggin Hill and Daisy to her mother’s house.

And then, almost before Emma could catch her breath, Robin married Valerie Ludden, a nursing friend of Elizabeth’s, in January of 1944, and a few weeks later Elizabeth gave birth to a son, whom she named Alexander. Elizabeth, who wanted to be close to Tony, found a small cottage near the airfield and moved there when the baby was a month old.

‘It hardly seems possible they are all married now,’ Emma said to Winston one day in the spring, when they were lunching together. ‘Or that I have three grandchildren. I feel as old as the hills.’

‘Nonsense,’ Winston declared. ‘You’re the damnedest-looking grandmother I’ve ever seen. And you’ll never get old, Emma. You have the kind of beauty that is indestructible.’ He grinned at her affectionately. ‘Furthermore, Frank tells me that the American major you met at his house has taken quite a fancy to you. You might find yourself with a suitor before you know it.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Winston,’ Emma snapped, but she smiled as she spoke.

‘I’m not being foolish,’ Winston responded. ‘After all, you’ll only be fifty-five next month. Besides, you look years younger.’ He paused and eyed her carefully. ‘And Paul has been dead for almost five years.’

Emma was silent and Winston changed the subject. He and Frank constantly talked about the possibility of Emma forming a relationship with another man, and they went out of their way to introduce her to their eligible friends. But although she was gracious, she was patently not interested. She would never replace Paul in her life; she did not want to.

The year 1945 began auspiciously for Emma. Daisy gave birth to her first child in January. It was a girl.

‘How do you feel, darling?’ Emma asked as she walked into Daisy’s private room at the London Clinic.

‘Thin,’ Daisy said, laughing. She hugged Emma. ‘I was awfully lucky. It was an easy birth.’

‘Yes, I know. The doctor told me.’ Emma moved a strand of hair away from Daisy’s face and kissed her. ‘I just spoke to David at Biggin Hill. He’s thrilled to bits. Celebrating with the boys from the squadron, and playing the proud father. He’s going to phone you a little later. And good news, darling. He’s got a twenty-four hour pass. He’ll be up in town tomorrow.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Mummy. I can’t wait to see him.’ Daisy wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure who the baby looks like. She’s awfully crumpled and red, poor little thing. But she has black hair, and I think she’s going to have a widow’s peak like yours from the way her hairline is formed. And her eyes are violet. Do you think they’ll change colour?’

‘They might,’ Emma said, sitting down. ‘They often do. Still, yours remained blue.’

‘I’ve chosen the baby’s first two names, Mummy,’ Daisy announced. ‘I’m going to call her Paula McGill. After my father.’

Emma’s face, normally inscrutable, was only too readable for once in her life, and Daisy burst out laughing. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Honestly, Mummy, for a woman as sophisticated as you are, you can be awfully naïve sometimes. Did you think I didn’t know Paul was my father?’

Emma said, ‘I-I-’ and stopped.

Daisy laughed again, but it was a gentle laugh and full of love. ‘Even when I was quite small I thought he was my father. After all, he was always with us and we travelled everywhere with him. Then, as I grew older, I realized how much I resembled him physically. And let’s face it, I never knew Arthur Ainsley, whose name I bear.’ Daisy paused and her bright blue eyes were fixed intently on Emma. ‘Anyway, when I was twelve Paul told me himself.’

Emma’s jaw dropped. ‘Paul told you he was your father! I can’t believe it!’

Daisy nodded. ‘Well, he did. He said he wanted me to know, and that I was old enough to understand. But he said it must be our secret for a few years. He was worried you would be upset. He explained everything to me very directly and carefully, and with so much gentleness. He told me why you and he couldn’t be married, but that he hoped to solve the problem one day. He also told me that he had legally adopted me, and he said he loved us both more than anything in the world.’ Daisy’s eyes were moist. She cleared her throat and finished, ‘Actually, it didn’t come as much of a surprise to me, Mummy, because by that time I had guessed. I told him so, and he really chuckled. He said he knew his Princess was the smartest girl in the world.’

‘Didn’t-doesn’t it bother you, knowing you are illegitimate?’ Emma managed to ask.

‘Oh, Mummy, don’t be so old-fashioned. Of course it doesn’t. I’d rather be Paul McGill’s illegitimate daughter than Arthur Ainsley’s legitimate daughter any day of the week.’

Tears welled in Emma’s eyes and she fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘I-I-don’t know what to say,’ she began falteringly.

Daisy leaned forward and held out her arms to Emma. ‘I love you, Mummy. And I loved Paul. I couldn’t have had better parents if I’d chosen them myself. And you have been the most wonderful mother in the whole world.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me you knew before?’ Emma asked in a muffled voice, her face pushed against Daisy’s shoulder. ‘Why didn’t you tell me when Paul died?’

‘I didn’t think it was really the right time. My main concern was trying to alleviate your grief.’

Emma sat back in the chair, blowing her nose. She smiled weakly at Daisy, her face reflecting her love. ‘I’m glad you know, darling. I should have told you myself. But I thought you would react like-that you would be upset and that you would hate me and Paul.’

‘You are a silly goose, Mummy. I could never hate or criticize you or my father for what you did. You loved each other.’ Daisy took hold of Emma’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m proud to be your daughter.’ Daisy gave Emma a questioning look. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind my calling the baby after my father?’

‘I’m thrilled,’ Emma said.

The nurse came in, interrupting them. Emma held the baby in her arms and her face glowed as she looked down at the small bundle nestling against her shoulder. This is Paul’s first grandchild, she thought, and her heart quickened. If only he had been alive to see her. Paula McGill Amory, the first of a new generation in the McGill dynasty.

One week later Daisy came home to Belgrave Square, where her old nursery had been beautifully prepared to receive its new young occupant. Almost immediately the child became the centre of Emma’s world, and if she sometimes usurped Daisy’s role as mother, Daisy did not seem to mind in the least. She was gratified to see Emma so joyous and smiling. And she enthusiastically encouraged her mother when she talked of her plans for Paula and her future.

And the future in general was beginning to look brighter. ‘It’s as if Paula’s birth was a good omen,’ Emma said one morning over breakfast, gesturing to the newspaper she was reading. ‘The Allies are really making a breakthrough. I think the war will end soon.’

She was right in this assumption. As the new year eased into spring, the whole of England took heart. In March, the American First Army crossed the Rhine over the bridge at Remagen and established an invasion bridgehead in Germany. Between April 20 and 25, the Russians entered Berlin, and five days later Hitler and Eva Braun committed suicide. The Third Reich, which the Führer had said would last a thousand years, had disintegrated in humiliating defeat. On May 7, the Germans surrendered unconditionally at Rheims in France.

Emma was in Leeds on May 8, which was V-E Day in Britain. She dined that night with Winston and Charlotte and they drank two bottles of champagne in celebration. But in spite of the flags hanging out of windows and fluttering on flagpoles all over Leeds, and the festivities going on around them, Emma felt more relieved than jubilant. And she drew her first easy breath in six years. Her sons were safe, and her sons-in-law, and the sons of her brother and her dearest friends, Blackie O’Neill and David Kallinski. There had been no casualties in their families, and for that Emma was deeply grateful.

And slowly they all came home.

‘I just stopped by to congratulate you, Emma,’ Blackie O’Neill said, striding into the drawing room at Pennistone Royal. ‘Winston tells me the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company has taken control of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. So you’ve finally won!’

Emma smiled at him faintly. ‘Yes, I have. But then you always knew I would, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’ He threw her a sharp glance and asked, ‘How did you do it, Emma? I’m very curious.’

‘Patience, really, and a weak adversary.’ She folded her hands in her lap, looked down at the McGill emerald and then went on crisply. ‘My newspapers are the most successful in Yorkshire and they have slowly eaten up all of the Gazette’s circulation. That paper’s been losing money since the end of the war. To be honest, I deliberately ran the Gazette into the ground, and I did so without compunction. Edwin Fairley is not a good businessman. He should have stuck to law.’ She laughed dryly. ‘And he’s made a few fatal errors, not the least of which was selling a big block of his shares two years ago. He weakened his position. He has not been dealing from strength for a long time.’

‘But he stayed on as chairman of the board,’ Blackie interjected.

‘Yes, he did. But he failed to recognize the tenuousness of his position, and he also underestimated the other shareholders, both the old and the new. He just didn’t seem to realize that loyalty flies out of the window when there’s a great deal of money at stake. The board has been worried about the failing papers for years, and when Harte Enterprises approached them to buy up their shares they were willing to sell, almost to the last man. I’ve been acquiring shares in the company for years, and those, coupled with my last purchases, gave me a lot of power. Those shareholders who didn’t at first sell to me finally threw their weight behind me when I offered to step in and put new management into the company. Very simply, Edwin Fairley was outvoted at the last board meeting and had to step down as chairman. Harte Enterprises made an offer for the remainder of his shares and, surprisingly, he sold.’

‘Quite a coup for you, Emma, eh?’ Blackie remarked. ‘But I’m surprised you weren’t present at that board meeting to witness his demise. Winston said he represented you.’

Emma’s face changed radically and a cold glint entered her eyes. She said, ‘Forty-five years ago I told Edwin Fairley I would never see him again as long as I lived, and I haven’t. You don’t think I want to set eyes on him now, do you?’

Blackie shrugged. ‘I suppose not,’ he responded quietly. ‘Did Winston say how Edwin reacted when he learned you were behind his fall from power at the Gazette?’

Emma nodded. ‘Apparently he was poker-faced. All barristers are good actors, you know. Then he said, “I see.” But Winston told me Edwin had a peculiar look on his face, which he found hard to fathom.’ She paused and stared fully at Blackie. ‘Winston said he thought Edwin looked gratified. Odd, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes, I would. I can’t imagine why Edwin Fairley would be gratified you had taken over his newspaper.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘The paper that’s been in his family for three generations.’

‘God knows,’ Emma said, ‘it’s a mystery to me. I told Winston it was more than likely sheer relief he witnessed.’ She laughed ironically. ‘In one way, you might say I’ve lifted a burden from Edwin’s shoulders.’

‘Aye, mavourneen,’ Blackie said, and his face was unreadable as he lit a cigar. Maybe she’s right, he thought. Maybe Edwin Fairley is relieved, but not for the reason she thinks.

Emma rose. ‘I must go out and look for Paula. It’s time for her lunch. I won’t be a minute, Blackie. Please excuse me.’

Blackie nodded and followed her out on to the terrace. He stood watching her hurry down into the garden, his eyes trained on her and narrowed against the bright August sunlight. Emma drew to a standstill at the lily pond at the bottom of the garden and bent down to talk to Paula, who was playing with her doll’s pram on the lawn. Emma was as lithe as she had ever been, and in the distance, in her light summer frock and with her still luxuriant hair now tinted to the russet-gold shade of her youth, she appeared to be the young girl he had first met on the moors so long ago, and for an instant the decades fell away. He clearly recalled his little servant girl of Fairley Hall, and a slow smile spread itself across his face. Almost half a century had passed and so much had happened, things he had never dreamed possible. How extraordinary life was. And Emma went on for ever, as indomitable now as she had been then. He blinked and shaded his eyes. He saw her smooth her hand over the child’s head and then she straightened up and returned to the terrace, walking briskly.

Blackie smiled at her fondly. ‘You’re undoubtedly the most doting grandmother I’ve ever seen,’ he remarked with a chuckle. ‘And as for the wee one, why, she’s become your shadow.’

‘I suppose we do seem like an odd couple, the old woman and the five-year-old, but we understand each other.’ She turned back to look at the child and her face softened. ‘All my dreams and hopes and expectations are centred in her, Blackie. She is my future.’