Читать книгу A Woman of Substance - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 20

Adam Fairley stood in the middle of the library and pressed his hands to his face. He was tired, exhausted, in fact, for he had slept badly yet again. His insomnia was nothing new. He seemed to be cursed with it these days, or rather these interminable nights. Even when he resorted to drinking five, sometimes six large ports after dinner, and vintage port at that, the wine did not act as a sedative. He would sleep for several hours, a drugged and heavy stupor descending upon him, but then he would awaken suddenly in the early hours, perspiring or shivering, depending on his nightmares, his mind a turmoil of painfully dredged-up memories and analytical assessments of his life, which did not please him. It had not for a long time.

He walked up and down the room slowly, lost in contemplation, a compact, trimly built man of about six feet, with an attractive, intelligent face, well modelled and sensitive, which was pale and drawn today, and etched with fatigue. His fine eyes were greyish blue in colour and intensely brilliant, almost incandescent, and extraordinarily lucid, filled with hidden depths and the suggestion of spirituality. But today they were red-rimmed and the light in them was dimmed. The most surprising feature in his somewhat ascetic face was his mouth, which was exceedingly sensual, although the sensuality was generally repressed and disguised by the austere expression that constantly played around his lips. His light brown hair had a blondish cast to it, was straight and finely textured. He wore it brushed loosely across his shapely head, slightly longer than was the vogue. He had an aversion to the pomaded hairstyles that were currently the mode for gentlemen of fashion. Consequently, a forelock of hair continually fell down over his wide brow, and he had developed a nervous habit of pushing it back quickly. He did this now as he paced the floor.

Oddly enough, this impatient gesture never seemed to create dishevelment in him, for Adam Fairley was one of those men who looked eternally well groomed, no matter what the circumstance or whatever activity occupied him. His appearance was faultless. He was always superbly attired, befitting the occasion, with the flair usually attributed to a dandy, and yet he was not flashy in the least.

His Savile Row suits were so impeccably cut, so beautifully styled and made with such perfect precision and unerring tailoring, they were the envy of his cohorts in London and his colleagues in the wool trade in Leeds and Bradford. For the most part, they were of fine cloths from his own mills, or from those of his friends – woollens and worsteds from the great looms of Yorkshire, undisputed centre of the world’s woollen business and of which Adam Fairley was the undisputed king. All in all, Adam Fairley was the quintessence of sartorial elegance. He disliked anything shoddy or crude, and his weakness for fine clothes was one of his few indulgences. Conversely, it never occurred to him that the house in which he lived was singularly lacking in beauty. He rarely noticed it.

After a few minutes, he ceased pacing and walked across the room to the enormous carved ebony desk. He sat down in the dark wine-red leather chair and stared dully at his engagement diary. His eyes were scratchy and burning from lack of sleep, his body ached, and his head was throbbing not only from fatigue but from the wearisome thoughts that beset him. He felt there was nothing in his life of any worth. No joy, no love, no warmth, no companionship, not even any interests into which he could channel his energies. There was nothing … nothing but endless lonely days stretching slowly and inexorably into endless lonelier nights, day after day, year after year.

All animation slipped away and his face took on gauntness. Violet smudges bruised his cheeks below his eyes, were strong evidence of the ravages of the night before, of the countless hours he had paced his bedroom, racked with an anguish he found unendurable. And yet it was a boyish face, sorrowful and weary as it was. Adam Fairley looked much younger than his forty-four years.

My life is a damnable mess, he thought with dissatisfaction. What’s the point of living? I have nothing to live for. I wish I had the courage to put a bullet through my head and end it all for ever.

This thought so shocked him he sat bolt upright in the chair and gripped its arms. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Even in his worst moments, which had been not infrequent lately, he had never before thought of taking his own life. In the past he had always equated suicide with cowardice, yet now he admitted to himself that perhaps, in an oblique way, this act did take a kind of courage. It occurred to him that only the stupid never contemplated suicide. Surely most men of intelligence have considered it at some time or other? he asked himself. For he realized, with a sickening sense of futility, that knowledge of life and the human condition inevitably brought disillusionment and despair. For him it had also brought a sense of helplessness, which he found increasingly intolerable.

In spite of his wealth and position, Adam Fairley was a tormented man who had been bitterly disappointed in life. He no longer expected happiness, but he did crave contentment and, at the very least, peace of mind. And yet he could find no respite from his bitter loneliness and the desolation in his heart, all the more unbearable because it was, to a great extent, of his own creation. Adam’s dissatisfaction and searing disillusionment sprang from his betrayal of himself, his ambitions, his dreams, and his ideals. It was the failure of intellect and of moral conviction.

Adam lifted his head wearily and looked around the library slowly, as if seeing it after a long journey. This was a baronial and impressive room, with its immense high-flung ceiling and grand proportions, its panelled walls of bleached oak, its collection of scholarly books, and its handsome antiques. Fine Persian rugs threw rafts of vibrant red and dark blue Jewel tones across the polished wood floor, and a selection of rare hunting prints graced the walls not covered with the many bookshelves. A comfortable Chesterfield sofa, upholstered in a leather the colour of tawny ruby wine, was positioned next to the intricately carved oak fireplace, along with several deep wing chairs of dark wine velvet. Nearby, an ebony library table was heaped with newspapers, journals, and illustrated magazines, and in one corner a black-walnut chest held a silver tray of crystal decanters filled with port, brandy, sherry, whisky, and gin, as well as leaded crystal Waterford glasses that glittered in the faint grey light.

The library had never been quite as ponderous as the other rooms in Fairley Hall, and Adam had always fought his wife’s desire to overload it with bric-à-brac and ‘folderols’, as he disdainfully called her other decorative trinkets. In consequence, the room had a degree of graciousness and dignity, albeit a dignity that was masculine. Like his bedroom, which was somewhat more austere, it perfectly reflected his character and his tastes. Adam spent most of his time in the library, unless they were entertaining guests, which was rare these days, and it had become his haven, where he thankfully retreated to read and meditate, undisturbed in his solitariness.

He took out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was almost seven-thirty and he had seen no sign of the servants, except for the forlorn maid cleaning the morning room. Cursing the housekeeper’s absence, he tugged on the bell pull and glared with irritation at the cold and empty grate. As he waited for Murgatroyd to appear, the photogravure of himself in the dress uniform of the Fourth Hussars caught his eye. He turned and bent to look at it more fully, pursing his lips as he scrutinized it intently. He smiled ruefully. What a face! So full of anticipation, expectation, and yes, even happiness. He hardly recognized it as himself.

Murgatroyd knocked on the door and entered the room, interrupting Adam’s thoughts. ‘Good morning, Murgatroyd,’ he said in his cool voice.

The butler advanced towards him smoothly, adjusting his black jacket. ‘Good morning, Squire. I trust yer slept well, sir. Fine day it is today, for yer journey ter Leeds. Sunny and dry and hardly no wind at all. Cook’ll be ready with yer breakfast shortly. She’s preparing yer a kipper, sir.’ This was said with such obsequiousness Adam winced and averted his face, so that Murgatroyd would not see the look of disgust in his eyes.

When Adam made no response, the butler went on, ‘Is there owt else yer’ll be wanting, sir, besides the kipper, I mean?’

Unctuous fool, Adam thought, now looking at Murgatroyd fully. ‘A fire would be desirable, I think.’

‘Begging yer pardon, sir?’ Murgatroyd seemed flustered. He glanced swiftly at the empty grate and condemned Emma under his breath.

‘A fire, Murgatroyd!’ Adam repeated. ‘It’s cold enough in here to freeze the balls off a brass monkey—’ Adam stopped and coughed behind his hand, a flicker of amusement touching his eyes as he noted Murgatroyd’s discomfort. ‘Ahem! Well, let me put it this way. The atmosphere in this room is comparable only to the Arctic this morning. It seems to me that I employ enough servants to run a battleship and yet it appears that I cannot get a few simple amenities.’ Annoyed as he was, this was said in Adam’s usual self-contained way, for he rarely displayed temperament with anyone, least of all the servants.

Bloody hell! He’s in a right proper mood this morning, Murgatroyd thought, and said in an oily voice, ‘I’m ever so sorry, sir, I am indeed. Polly’s badly and the other lass was late. I don’t know, if I’m not standing over ’em every minute of the day these lasses do nowt. I told yon lass ter light the fire in here ages ago, I did th—’

‘What’s wrong with you, man? Are you crippled?’ Adam interjected softly, but his eyes were like icy pools.

A startled expression flashed across Murgatroyd’s dolorous face. ‘No! No, of course not, sir. I’ll attend ter it right sharpish, Squire,’ he said hurriedly, bowing subserviently several times in a jerky fashion.

‘Yes. Do!’

‘Right away, Squire.’ He bowed again and backed out of the room.

‘Oh, Murgatroyd!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Did the navvy arrive from Leeds? Young O’Neill.’

‘Yes, sir. Came by this morning, early, he did. I’ve given him the list of repairs.’

‘Good. See he has everything he needs to do the job right. And make sure he has the facilities of the kitchen. Plenty of food and the like.’

Murgatroyd nodded, surprised at the Squire’s concern about a mere labourer. It both baffled and interested him. ‘Yes, sir. Yer can rely on me, as always. I’ll handle it. By the by, Squire, what shall I be paying him for his week’s work?’ His crafty eyes did not leave Adam’s face.

Adam frowned. ‘I told you last night he was to receive one guinea for his work. Is your memory failing you, man?’

‘No, sir. It must’ve slipped me mind, that’s all.’

‘I see. Well, no harm done. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would attend to the fire immediately. I am rapidly turning into a block of ice. And I would like a cup of hot tea, Murgatroyd, if that’s not too difficult to accomplish.’

The edge to Adam’s voice did not go unnoticed by the butler. ‘Right away, sir,’ he said, bowing. He turned and scurried out, full of venom for Cook and the maids, and not so kindly disposed towards the Squire either. All that there tippling in the dead of night, that’s what makes him liverish, he mumbled under his breath as he closed the door softly behind him.

Adam gazed at the door. Murgatroyd was developing a peculiar tendency to forget conversations about money, especially when related to wages for the outside workers, who came to the Hall from time to time. The butler was too parsimonious by far and it bothered him. Also, Adam, who thought Murgatroyd was an ignorant man, suspected that the butler was a tyrant in his own domain downstairs.

He shook his head and turned again to his youthful portrait. He did not need to see that face to be reminded of his abandoned military career. It had been much on his mind recently. He had come to believe that his life would have been so very different if he had followed his lodestar, and not turned away from it, out of loyalty to his father. It was too late for regrets, but, nevertheless, he had them.

As he stood there in the dark cold room a mental image of himself as a youth flashed into his mind’s eye. He saw the thin intense boy he had been, home from Eton for the holidays, announcing to his father, with a fervency bordering on fanaticism, his intention of entering the army. His father had not only been flabbergasted but strongly, and vehemently, opposed to the idea, which he refused to countenance.

Adam recalled how unwavering his determination had been, how his dogged persistence and all manner of persuasive tactics had eventually convinced his father that he was sincere. The old Squire had finally succumbed and grudgingly agreed to let him take the entrance examination for Sandhurst, which he had passed with no problem. The old man really behaved quite decently, Adam now thought, and with a certain fondness, as he remembered his father.

The old Squire, Richard Fairley, had been a hearty, blustering Yorkshireman, one of the most powerful and richest industrialists in the North of England, with a gambler’s instinct for the main chance, a shrewd eye for business, and a mind as sharp as a steel blade. Once Adam had proved himself to be an exemplary cadet at the military academy, he had thrown all of his power and money behind his son. When Adam expressed a desire to join a cavalry regiment, being an incomparable horseman, Richard Fairley had left no stone unturned to accomplish this end. Through his wealth and his political connections he had obtained a place for Adam in the Fourth Hussars. He could easily afford the expense of two hundred pounds a year a commission in the cavalry entailed, along with the cost and upkeep of two horses and a string of polo ponies, which he had bought for his younger son. Being an astute observer of human nature, the old Squire had come to recognize that Adam had all the natural attributes of character a soldier required. He was ideally suited to military life, for he had a keen mind, great discipline, a sense of honour, and courage. Something of a romantic, Adam thirsted for adventure in foreign parts and, as an imperialist devoted to the goals and ambitions of Queen Victoria, he longed to serve his country, and his Queen, in the rapidly expanding Empire.

Adam had just gained his commission in the Fourth Hussars when his elder brother Edward had been tragically drowned in a boating accident. The old Squire had been brokenhearted. He also believed that the touchstone of a man’s character was dedication to duty. In no uncertain terms, and in spite of his understanding of Adam’s basic temperament, he had informed his younger son that his duty was to return to Yorkshire and take Edward’s place in the family business enterprises, which were huge.

This morning Adam could remember his father’s voice. ‘No more gallivanting around on horses in fancy uniforms, quelling the natives in godforsaken foreign regions,’ he had blustered, valiantly striving to subdue and disguise his raw grief for Edward. It was a grief that had been painfully apparent to Adam, who had been reluctantly compelled to resign his commission. He was bitterly disappointed, but he had behaved in the only way he knew how, as an officer and a gentleman, bound by codes of honour and obligation to family. He had accepted his filial duty with grace, not recognizing at the time that his ready acquiescence to his father’s command was a mistake that was irrevocable. He knew it now. It was a fact that haunted him. As he walked back to his desk Murgatroyd knocked on the door and hurried in carrying a coal scuttle. ‘Yer tea’ll be coming up in a minute, sir,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Murgatroyd. I would appreciate it if you would light the lamps at that end of the room.’ As he spoke Adam struck a match and lit the lamp on his desk and then pulled his engagement diary towards him. He looked over his appointments with boredom. He had a board meeting at the Yorkshire Morning Gazette in Leeds, the newspaper company of which he was the controlling shareholder. Later there was luncheon with a cloth buyer from London, one of his most important customers. Not such a heavy day after all. He would have time to stop at the mill in Fairley on his way to Leeds, to speak to Wilson, the manager, about his son Gerald’s progress. He stifled a sigh. Business was beginning to pall on him. There were no challenges any more. Now that he thought about it, there never had been really. He had no interest in the pursuit of money; in fact, he had never harboured any ambitions for great wealth or power. His success was his father’s success, and his grandfather’s before him, and he had only reaped the rewards.

Certainly Adam Fairley had increased the fortune he had inherited, but to him it seemed as if this had happened through fortuitous accidents rather than any true brilliance on his part. In this he did himself an injustice, for he was not without a certain business acumen that, although it was less obvious than his father’s, was, none the less, just as trenchant. He was known to be a tough negotiator in spite of his gentle soft-spoken manner, and some of his associates even considered him to be as calculating an opportunist as his father.

He pushed the diary away. The fire was now burning brightly, and although its warmth had not yet fully permeated the vast room, the sight of the blazing flames flying up the chimney cheered him and the chilled feeling that had previously enveloped him was beginning to ebb away. The library lost its shadowy gloominess. Although its style was basically severe and there was a paucity of bric-à-brac, the room had a comfortable ambiance that denoted masculinity, solidness, lineage, and old money rather than wealth newly acquired.

Murgatroyd had busied himself at the fireplace, then paused at Adam’s desk. He cleared his throat. Adam looked up from the newspaper company’s annual balance sheet he was perusing. ‘Yes, Murgatroyd, what is it?’

‘I was wondering, sir, should I have the maid prepare the same room for Mrs Wainright? The Grey Room in the main wing? She likes that there room, Squire, I knows that. And I always wants Mrs Wainright ter be real comfortable like.’

For once, the butler’s fawning attitude failed to irritate Adam. He scarcely noticed it in his surprise. He stared at Murgatroyd, for a moment nonplussed. And then he remembered. In his preoccupation with his own problems he had completely forgotten that his sister-in-law was arriving this afternoon. ‘Yes, yes, that will be fine, Murgatroyd,’ Adam conceded, and added quickly, ‘And please find out what happened to my tea, and let me know when the children come down for breakfast. I will wait for them this morning.’ Adam dismissed the butler with a curt nod.

‘Certainly, sir.’ A vengeful look settled on Murgatroyd’s face the moment he left the library, and he hurried down to the kitchen to give Emma a piece of his mind and the back of his hand. She was undermining him, dillydallying with that tea.

Adam opened the centre drawer of his desk and frantically searched for Olivia’s letter to Adele, realizing that his introspection was making him extremely forgetful. He must pull himself out of his mental dejection, which was becoming a permanent condition, or he would drive himself insane. As insane as that woman upstairs.

Mostly, Adam resisted the temptation to conjecture about his wife’s mental stability, dismissing her odd behaviour of the last few years as a combination of female vapours, general depression, hypochondria, and the peculiar vagueness that had always been predominant in her character. She was full of strange fears and delusions, but these, too, he had concluded to be mere female imaginings. He wondered now, with a small stab of guilt, if his attitude had been engendered by a sense of self-protection, for he never wanted to admit to himself that Adele might conceivably be losing her mind. As long as he did not think about it, he did not have to face that reality.

Now he faced it, recognizing that at times she had been like mad Ophelia, wandering dazedly around the upstairs corridors in bewilderment, a glazed expression on her face, her hair in disarray, the floating chiffon peignoir she favoured enveloping her like a nimbus. Some months ago, on a business trip to London, he had described her behaviour to his friend Andrew Melton, a doctor of some renown, who had listened patiently, and had suggested that Adele be examined by a doctor in Leeds or, better still, himself. Adam had been prepared to take Adele to London at once. But on his return to Fairley he had been astonished and relieved to find that her strangeness had evaporated and she seemed perfectly normal ever since. Frail, yes, but not suffering from delusions. But he knew instinctively, and with a crushing sense of dread, that the fragile cocoon of sanity that surrounded her might shatter at any moment.

Now he obstinately pushed away this disturbing thought and glanced at Olivia Wainright’s letter. She would arrive at Leeds station on the three-thirty train from London. He would be able to meet her train immediately after his luncheon. He turned his attention to the balance sheet and made a few notations on the side, and then went through other business documents he had neglected and which needed his immediate attention.

As he worked on the papers Adam was unaware that his face had changed quite perceptibly. The haggard look had miraculously disappeared, and his eyes had brightened. All Adam knew, as he worked, was that his spirits had lifted unexpectedly, and quite inexplicably. There was a diffident tapping on the door. Adam lifted his head and called, ‘Come in,’ shifting slightly in his chair to observe the door. It opened slowly and Emma entered. She was carrying a cup of tea on a small silver tray and she hesitated in the doorway.

‘It’s yer tea, Squire,’ she murmured. Her voice was hardly audible. She dropped a half curtsy as she spoke and almost spilled the tea. Her solemn green eyes regarded him steadily, but she made no move to bring him the tea and Adam thought she appeared afraid to approach the desk.

He smiled at her faintly. ‘Put it over there, on the table by the fireplace,’ he said quietly. She did as she was told, deposited the tray, and hurried back to the door. She dropped a curtsy again and turned to leave.

‘Who told you to do that? To curtsy every time you see me.’

Emma looked back at him, a startled expression crossing her face, and her eyes, widening, betrayed what seemed to him to be sheer fright.

She swallowed and said timidly, ‘Murgatroyd, Squire.’ She paused and looked at him with great directness and asked in a stronger voice, ‘Don’t I do it proper like?’

He bit back a smile. ‘Yes, you do. But it irritates me enormously to have you all bobbing up and down constantly. You don’t have to curtsy to me. I’m not King Edward, you know. I told Polly to refrain from doing it, and I assumed she had informed Murgatroyd of my wishes. Obviously she did not. You may tell Murgatroyd what I have said and don’t do it again.’

‘Yes, Squire.’

‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘Emma, Squire.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You may go, Emma, and thank you again for the tea.’

Emma started to curtsy automatically, but corrected herself quickly and flew out of the room. As she descended the stairs to the kitchen she laughed softly to herself, and it was a grim laugh. Did he think she was daft, trying to soft-soap her like that! Telling her she didn’t have to curtsy. It was no skin off her nose either way and, whatever he did, she would never change her mind about him. Never. As long as she lived.

Adam crossed the floor to the fireplace and Emma’s face stayed with him. It struck a chord in his memory, as it had done when he first noticed her earlier that morning, but one so hazy he could not grasp it. She must be from the village, yet she did not resemble any of the villagers and he had known every family all of his life. The puzzled frown returned to his handsome face as he probed around in his mind, attempting to revive the memory to full consciousness. It remained fleeting and elusive. There was a purity and innocence and nobility in the girl’s young face, and those eyes, filled with a piercing and brilliant Arctic greenness, were the most dazzling eyes he had ever seen. She reminded him of someone but he was damned if he could remember who it was.

He picked up the cup and saucer and drank the tea quickly before it became cold. He was warming himself in front of the fire when there was another knock on the door, the same light tapping as before, but this time it was much firmer. At his bidding the door opened and Emma was standing there once more. She seemed less hesitant, and Adam looked at her intently, as the memory became strangely alive again, yet still unformed.

For a brief instant their eyes met and locked and neither of them seemed able to look away, and Adam thought with amazement and sudden comprehension: Why, the girl’s not afraid of me. She hates me! He recoiled from her gaze. Emma thought: He’s a mean and wicked man, living off the toil of others, and her young and trembling heart hardened against him more resolutely.

Her voice was strong and cold as she said, ‘Murgatroyd said ter tell yer the children are waiting for yer in the morning room, Squire.’ She gripped the side of the door tightly to steady herself, for she was dizzy from the second punishing blow she had just received from Murgatroyd’s cruel hand.

Adam nodded, aware that he had an inflexible enemy in this strange yet attractive girl, although he could not conceive why this should be so. She retreated quietly without another glance. Adam noticed that she had not had to correct herself from curtsying.