Читать книгу The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 63

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 fire-place 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 book-shelves, 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.’