Читать книгу Hold the Dream - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 9

Emma Harte was almost eighty years old.

She did not look it, for she had always carried her years lightly. Certainly Emma felt like a much younger woman as she sat at her desk in the upstairs parlour of Pennistone Royal on this bright April morning of 1969.

Her posture was erect in the chair, and her alert green eyes, wise and shrewd under the wrinkled lids, missed nothing. The burnished red-gold hair had turned to shining silver long ago, but it was impeccably coiffed in the latest style, and the widow’s peak was as dramatic as ever above her oval face. If this was now lined and scored by the years, her excellent bone structure had retained its clarity and her skin held the translucency of her youth. And so, though her great beauty had been blurred by the passage of time, she was still arresting, and her appearance, as always, was stylish.

For the busy working day stretching ahead of her she had chosen to wear a woollen dress of tailored simplicity in the powder-blue shade she so often favoured, and which was so flattering to her. A frothy white lace collar added just the right touch of softness and femininity at her throat, and there were discreet diamond studs on her ears. Otherwise she wore no jewellery, except for a gold watch and her rings.

After her bout with bronchial pneumonia the previous year she was in blooming health, had no infirmities to speak of, and she was filled with the restless vigour and drive that had marked her younger days.

That’s my problem, not knowing where to direct all this damned energy, she mused, putting down her pen, leaning back in the chair. She smiled and thought: The devil usually finds work for idle hands, so I’d better come up with a new project soon before I get into mischief. Her smile widened. Most people thought she had more than enough to keep her fully occupied, since she continued to control her vast business enterprises which stretched halfway round the world. Indeed, they did need her constant supervision; yet, for the most part, they offered her little challenge these days. Emma had always thrived on challenge, and it was this she sorely missed. Playing watchdog was not particularly exciting to her way of thinking. It did not fire her imagination, bring a tingle to her blood, or get her adrenaline flowing in the same way that wheeling and dealing did. Pitting her wits against business adversaries, and striving for power and supremacy in the international marketplace, had become such second nature to her over the years they were now essential to her well-being.

Restlessly she rose, crossed the floor in swift light steps, and opened one of the soaring leaded windows. She took a deep breath, peered out. The sky was a faultless blue, without a single cloud, and radiant with spring sunshine. New buds, tenderly green, sprouted on the skeletal branches, and under the great oak at the edge of the lawn a mass of daffodils, randomly planted, tossed yellow-bright heads under the fluttering breeze.

‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vale and hill, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils,’ she recited aloud, then thought: Good heavens, I learned that Wordsworth poem at the village school in Fairley. So long ago, and to think that I’ve remembered it all these years.

Raising her hand, she closed the window, and the great McGill emerald on the third finger of her left hand flashed as the clear Northern light struck the stone. Its brilliance caught her attention. She had worn this ring for forty-four years, ever since that day, in May of 1925, when Paul McGill had placed it on her finger. He had thrown away her wedding ring, symbol of her disastrous marriage to Arthur Ainsley, then slipped on the massive square-cut emerald. ‘We might not have had the benefit of clergy,’ Paul had said that memorable day. ‘But as far as I’m concerned, you are my wife. From this day forward until death do us part.’

The previous morning their child had been born. Their adored Daisy, conceived in love and raised with love. Her favourite of all her children, just as Paula, Daisy’s daughter, was her favourite grandchild, heiress to her enormous retailing empire and half of the colossal McGill fortune which Emma had inherited after Paul’s death in 1939. And Paula had given birth to twins four weeks ago, had presented her with her first great-grandchildren, who tomorrow would be christened at the ancient church in Fairley village.

Emma pursed her lips, suddenly wondering if she had made a mistake in acquiescing to this wish of Paula’s husband, Jim Fairley. Jim was a traditionalist, and thus wanted his children to be christened at the font where all of the Fairleys had been baptized, and all of the Hartes for that matter, herself included.

Oh well, she thought, I can’t very well renege at this late date, and perhaps it is only fitting. She had wreaked her revenge on the Fairleys, the vendetta she had waged against them for most of her life was finally at an end, and the two families had been united through Paula’s marriage with James Arthur Fairley, the last of the old line. It was a new beginning.

But when Blackie O’Neill had heard of the choice of church he had raised a snowy brow and chuckled and made a remark about the cynic turning into a sentimentalist in her old age, an accusation he was frequently levelling at her of late. Maybe Blackie was right in this assumption. On the other hand, the past no longer troubled her as it once had. The past had been buried with the dead. Only the future concerned her now. And Paula and Jim and their children were that future.

Emma’s thoughts centred on Fairley village as she returned to her desk, put on her glasses and stared at the memorandum in front of her. It was from her grandson Alexander, who, with her son Kit, ran her mills, and it was bluntly to the point, in Alexander’s inimitable fashion. The Fairley mill was in serious trouble. It had been failing to break even for the longest time and was now deeply in the red. A crucial decision hovered over her head … to close the mill or keep it running at a considerable loss. Emma, ever the pragmatist, knew deep in her bones that the wisest move would be to close down the Fairley operation, yet she balked at this drastic measure, not wanting to bring hardship to the village of her birth. She had asked Alexander to find an alternative, a workable solution, hoped that he had done so. She would soon know. He was due to arrive for a meeting with her imminently.

One possibility which might enable them to resolve the situation at the Fairley mill had occurred to Emma, but she wanted to give Alexander his head, an opportunity to handle this problem himself. Testing him, she admitted, as I’m constantly testing all of my grandchildren. And why not? That was her prerogative, wasn’t it? Everything she owned had been hard won, built on a life rooted in single-mindedness of purpose and the most gruelling work and dogged determination and relentlessness and terrible sacrifice. Nothing had ever been handed to her on a plate. Her mighty empire was entirely of her own making, and, since it was hers and hers alone, she could dispose of it as she wished.

And so with calm deliberation and judiciousness and selectivity she had chosen her heirs one year ago, bypassing four of her five children in favour of her grandchildren in the new will she had drawn; yet she continued to scrutinize the third generation, forever evaluating their worth, seeking weaknesses in them whilst inwardly praying to find none.

They have lived up to my expectations, she reassured herself, then thought with a swift stab of dismay: No, that’s not strictly true. There is one of whom I am not really sure, one whom I don’t think I can trust.

Emma unlocked the top drawer of her desk, took out a sheet of paper, and studied the names of her grandchildren, which she had listed only last night when she had experienced her first feelings of uneasiness. Is there a joker in this pack, as I suspect? she asked herself worriedly, squinting at the names. And if there is, how on earth will I handle it?

Her eyes remained riveted to one name. She shook her head, with sadness, pondering.

Treachery had long ceased to surprise Emma, for her natural astuteness and psychological insight had been sharply honed during a long, frequently hard, and always extraordinary life. In fact, relatively few things surprised her any more, and, with her special brand of cynicism, she had come to expect the worst from people, including family. Yet she had been taken aback last year when she had discovered through Gaye Sloane, her secretary, that her four eldest children were wilfully plotting against her. Spurred on by their avariciousness and vaunting ambition, they had endeavoured to wrest her empire away from her in the most underhanded way, seriously underestimating her in the process. Her initial shock, and the pain of betrayal, had been swiftly replaced by an anger of icy ferocity, and she had made her moves with speed and consummate skill and resourcefulness, which was her way when facing any opponent. And she had pushed sentiment and emotions aside, had not allowed feelings to obscure intelligence, for it was her superior intelligence which had inevitably saved her in disastrous situations in the past.

If she had outwitted the inept plotters, had left them floundering stupidly in disarray, she had also finally come to the bitter, and chilling, realization that blood was not thicker than water. It had struck her, and most forcibly, that ties of the blood and of the flesh did not come into play when vast amounts of money and, more importantly, great power, were at stake. People thought nothing of killing to attain even the smallest portions of both. Despite her overriding disgust and disillusionment with her children, she had been very sure of their children, their devotion to her. Now one of them was causing her to re-evaluate her judgement and question her trust.

She turned the name over in her mind … Perhaps she was wrong; she hoped she was wrong. She had nothing to go on really – except gut instinct and her prescience. But, like her intelligence, both had served her well throughout her life.

Always when she faced this kind of dilemma, Emma’s instinctive attitude was to wait – and watch. Once again she decided to play for time. By doing thus she could conceal her real feelings, whilst gambling that things would sort themselves out to her advantage, thereby dispensing with the need for harsh action. But I will dole out the rope, she added inwardly. Experience had taught her that when lots of freely proffered rope fell into unwitting hands it invariably formed a noose.

Emma considered the manifold possibilities if this should happen, and a hard grimness settled over her face and her eyes darkened. She did not relish picking up the sword again, to defend herself and her interests, not to mention her other heirs.

History does have a way of repeating itself, she thought wearily, especially in my life. But I refuse to anticipate. That’s surely borrowing trouble. Purposefully, she put the list back in the drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.

Emma Harte had the enviable knack of shelving unsolvable problems in order to concentrate on priorities, and so she was enabled to subdue the nagging – and disturbing – suspicion that a grandchild of hers was untrustworthy, and therefore a potential adversary. Current business was the immediate imperative, and she gave her attention to her appointments for the rest of the day, each of which was with three of the six grandchildren who worked for her.

Alexander would come first.

Emma glanced at her watch. He was due to arrive in fifteen minutes, at ten-thirty. He would be on time, if not indeed early. Her lips twitched in amusement. Alexander had become something of a demon about punctuality, he had even chided her last week when she had kept him waiting, and he was forever at odds with his mother, who suffered from a chronic disregard for the clock. Her amused smile fled, was replaced by a cold and disapproving tightness around her mouth as she contemplated her second daughter.

Elizabeth was beginning to push her patience to the limits – gallivanting around the world in the most scandalous manner, marrying and divorcing haphazardly, and with such increasing frequency it was appalling. Her daughter’s inconsistency and instability had ceased to baffle her, for she had long understood that Elizabeth had inherited most of her father’s worst traits. Arthur Ainsley had been a weak, selfish and self-indulgent man; these flaws were paramount in his daughter, and following his pattern, the beautiful, wild and wilful Elizabeth flouted all the rules, and had remained untamed. And dreadfully unhappy, Emma acknowledged to herself. The woman has become a tragic spectacle, to be pitied, perhaps, rather than condemned.

She wondered where her daughter was at the moment, then instantly dropped the thought. It was of no consequence, she supposed, since they were barely on speaking terms after the matter of the will. Surprisingly, even Alexander had been treated to a degree of cold-shouldering by his adoring mother because he had been favoured in her place. But Elizabeth had not been able to cope with Alexander’s cool indifference to her feelings, and her hysterical tantrums and the rivers of tears had abruptly ceased when she realized she was wasting her time. She had capitulated in the face of his aloofness, disapproval, and thinly-veiled contempt. Her son’s good opinion of her, and his love, were vital, apparently, and she had made her peace with him, mended her ways. But not for long, Emma thought acidly. She soon fell back into her bad habits. And it’s certainly no thanks to that foolish and skittish woman that Alexander has turned out so well.

Emma experienced a little rush of warmth mingled with gratification as she contemplated her grandson. Alexander had become the man he was because of his strength of character and his integrity. He was solid, hardworking, dependable. If he did not have his cousin Paula’s brilliance, and lacked her vision in business, he was, nonetheless, sound of judgement. His conservative streak was balanced by a degree of flexibility, and he displayed a genuine willingness to weigh the pros and cons of any given situation, and, when necessary, make compromises. Alexander had the ability to keep everything in its proper perspective, and this was reassuring to Emma, who was a born realist herself.

This past year Alexander had proved himself deserving of her faith in him, and she had no regrets about making him the chief heir to Harte Enterprises by leaving him fifty-two per cent of her shares in this privately-held company. Whilst he continued to supervise the mills, she deemed it essential for him to have a true understanding of every aspect of the holding corporation, and she had been training him assiduously, preparing him for the day when he took over the reins from her.

Harte Enterprises controlled her woollen mills, clothing factories, real estate, the General Retail Trading Company, and the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company, and it was worth many millions of pounds. She had long recognized that Alexander might never increase its worth by much, because of his tendency to be cautious; but, for the same reason, neither would he ruin it through rash decisions and reckless speculation. He would keep it on the steady course she had so carefully charted, following the guidelines and principles she had set down years ago. This was the way she wanted it, had planned it, in point of fact.

Emma drew her appointment book towards her, and checked the time of her lunch with Emily, Alexander’s sister.

Emily was due to arrive at one o’clock.

When she had phoned earlier in the week Emily had sounded somewhat enigmatic when she had said she had a serious problem to discuss. There was no mystery, as far as Emma was concerned. She knew what Emily’s problem was, had known about it for a long time. She was only surprised her granddaughter had not asked to discuss it before now. She lifted her head and stared into space reflectively, turning the matter over in her mind, and then she frowned. Two weeks ago she had come to a decision about Emily, and she was convinced it was the right one. But would Emily agree? Yes, she answered herself. The girl will see the sense in it, I’m positive of that. Emma brought her eyes back to the open page of the diary.

Paula would stop by at the end of the afternoon.

She and Paula were to discuss the Cross project. Now, if that is skilfully handled by Paula, and she brings the negotiations to a favourable conclusion, then I’ll have the challenge I’m looking for, Emma thought. Her mouth settled into its familiar resolute lines as she turned her attention to the balance sheets of the Aire Communications Company, owned, by the Crosses. The figures were disastrous – and damning. But its financial problems aside, the company was weighted down with serious afflictions of such enormity they boggled the mind. According to Paula, these could be surmounted and solved, and she had evolved a plan so simple yet so masterful in its premise, Emma had been both intrigued and impressed.

‘Let’s buy the company, Grandy,’ Paula had said to her a few weeks ago. ‘I realize Aire looks like a catastrophe, and actually it is, but only because of its bad management, and its present structure. It’s a hodgepodge. Too diversified. And they have too many divisions. Those that make a good profit can never get properly ahead and really flourish because they’re burdened by the divisions which are in the red, and which they have to support.’ Paula had then walked her through the plan, step by step, and Emma had instantly understood how Aire Communications could be turned round and in no time at all. She had instructed her granddaughter to start negotiating immediately.

How she would love to get her hands on that little enterprise. And perhaps she would, and very soon too, if her reading of the situation was as accurate as she thought. Emma was convinced that no one was better equipped to deal with John Cross and his son, Sebastian, than Paula, who had developed into a tough and shrewd negotiator. She no longer equivocated when Emma hurled her into touchy business situations that required nimble thinking and business acumen, which she possessed in good measure. And of late her self-confidence had grown.

Emma glanced at her watch again, then curbed the impulse to telephone Paula at the store in Leeds, to give her a few last-minute tips about John Cross and how to deal with him effectively. Paula had proved she had come into her own, and Emma did not want her to think she was forever breathing down her neck.

The telephone rang. Emma reached for it. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me, Aunt Emma. Shane. How are you?’

‘Why Shane, how lovely to hear your voice. And I’m fine, thanks. You sound pretty good yourself. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, at the christening.’ As she spoke, she took off her glasses and laid them on the desk, relaxed in the chair.

‘I was hoping to see you before then, Aunt Emma. How would you like to go out on the town tonight, with two fun-loving bachelors?’

Emma laughed gaily. ‘And who’s the other fun-loving bachelor?’

‘Grandfather, of course, who else?’

‘Fun-loving! He’s getting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, if you ask me.’

‘I wouldn’t be saying that, mavourneen,’ Blackie boomed into the phone, having taken it away from his grandson. ‘I bet I could still give you a run for your money, if I got half the chance.’

‘I’m sure you could, darling.’ Emma smiled into the phone, her heart warming to him. ‘However, I’m afraid you won’t get that chance tonight. I can’t accept your invitation, Blackie dear. Some of the family are arriving later, and I ought to be here.’

‘No,’ Blackie interjected peremptorily. ‘You can see them tomorrow. Ah now, don’t be refusin’ me, darlin’,’ he cajoled. ‘Apart from wanting the pleasure of your lovely company, I need your advice on an important business matter.’

‘Oh!’ Emma was mildly taken aback by this statement. Blackie had retired and left the running of his companies to his son, Bryan, and to Shane. Not unnaturally, her curiosity was piqued, and she said, ‘What kind of business?’

‘I don’t want to be discussing it on the telephone, Emma,’ Blackie said in a softly chiding tone. ‘It’s not something that’s so cut and dried it can be settled in the matter of a few minutes. We have to be going back and forth, you know, dissecting it a bit, and I think we should be doing it over a nice drop of Irish and a fine meal.’

Emma laughed under her breath, wondering how important this so-called business matter really was, but found herself conceding, ‘I suppose I can let them fend for themselves. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t much looking forward to tonight. Even though Daisy and David will be here, the prospect of a family gathering isn’t particularly exciting. So I accept. And where are you and your dashing grandson planning to take me? Out on the town in Leeds isn’t too exciting.’

Laughingly, Blackie concurred and said, ‘But don’t worry, we’ll cook up something, and I promise you won’t be bored.’

‘What time then?’

‘Shane will pick you up around six. Is that all right, me darlin’ girl?’

‘It’s perfect.’

‘Good. Good. Until later then. Oh, and Emma?’

‘Yes, Blackie?’

‘Have you given any more thought to me little proposition?’

‘Yes, and I have serious doubts about it working.’

‘Oh, so you’re still me Doubting Emma after all these years, I can see. Well, we’ll discuss that tonight, too, and maybe I can be convincing you yet.’

‘Perhaps,’ she murmured softly as he hung up.

Emma sat back, contemplating Blackie O’Neill. Doubting Emma. A faint smile flickered in her eyes. When had he first called her that? Was it 1904 or 1905? She was no longer sure, but it had been thereabouts, and Blackie had been her dearest, closest friend for all of those sixty-five years. For a whole lifetime. Always there when she needed him, loyal, devoted, supportive and loving. They had been through most of life’s exigencies together, had shared each other’s terrible losses and defeats, pain and anguish; had celebrated each other’s triumphs and joys. Of their contemporaries, there were only the two of them left, and they were closer than ever, inseparable really. She did not know what she would do if anything happened to him. She resolutely squashed this unacceptable thought before it took hold. Blackie was an old war horse, just as she herself was an old war horse, and even though he was eighty-three there was a great deal of surging life and vitality left in him. But no one lasts indefinitely, she thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiousness, whilst acknowledging the inevitable. At their grand ages mortality was a given, one which could not be argued with, and impending death was an old, if unwelcome, familiar.

There was a knock on the door.

Emma glanced at it, adopted her normal expression of cool inscrutability, and called, ‘Come in.’

The door swung open and Alexander entered. He was tall, lean and trim in build, with his mother’s dark good looks, her large, light-blue eyes; but his somewhat serious, saturnine face made him appear older than his twenty-five years, gave him a dignified air. He wore a well-cut dark grey worsted suit, a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, all of which reflected, and reinforced, his rather sober personality.

‘Good morning, Grandmother,’ he said, striding towards her. Reaching the desk, he added, ‘I must say, you’re looking pretty nifty today.’

‘Morning, Alexander, and thank you for the compliment. Mind you, flattery’s not going to get you anywhere with me,’ she responded crisply. Nonetheless, her eyes danced and she regarded her grandson fondly.

Alexander kissed her on the cheek, seated himself opposite, and protested, ‘I’m not trying to flatter you, Grandy, honestly I’m not. You do look absolutely spiffing. That colour really suits you and the dress is very chic.’

Emma nodded impatiently, waved her hand in airy dismissal, and fixed her grandson with a keen and penetrating stare. ‘What have you come up with?’

‘The only solution to the Fairley problem,’ Alexander began, understanding she wanted to curtail the small talk and plunge into business. His grandmother loathed procrastination, unless it suited her own ends; then she could elevate procrastination to an art. But she scarcely tolerated it in others, so he rushed on. ‘We have to change our product. By that I mean we have to stop manufacturing the expensive woollens and worsted cloths that hardly anybody is buying, and start weaving blends. Man-made fibres, such as nylon and polyester, blended with wool. Those are our best bets.’

‘And you think this move will get us out of the red and into the black?’ Emma asked, her stare intensifying.

‘Yes, I do, Grandy,’ he replied, sounding sure of himself. ‘One of our chief problems at Fairley has been trying to compete with the man-made fibre goods on the market today. Nobody wants pure wool any more, except the Savile Row boys, and they’re not a big enough market for the Fairley output. Look, either we produce the blends or shut up shop – which you don’t want to do. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Can we make the changeover easily?’

Alexander nodded emphatically. ‘We can. By manufacturing cheaper goods we can capture the more popular-priced markets here and abroad, and do volume sales. Of course, it is a question of sales and getting a real foothold in those new markets. But I’m sure we can pull it off.’ He reached into his inside breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve analysed every aspect of the plan, and I’m certain I’ve not overlooked one thing. Here it is.’

Emma took it from him, reached for her glasses, studied the closely-typed sheet. She recognized immediately that he had done his homework with his usual diligence. He had refined the idea she herself had toyed with, although she had no intention of revealing this, not wishing to undermine him, or diminish his efforts. She looked up, removed her spectacles and gave him the benefit of a warm, congratulatory smile.

‘Well done, Sandy!’ she exclaimed, reverting to the affectionate diminutive of his childhood. ‘You’ve put a lot of sound thinking into this, and I’m delighted, really delighted.’

‘That’s a relief,’ he said, a smile breaking through. Reserved of nature though he was, Alexander was always completely relaxed and outgoing with Emma, who was the one person he truly loved, and now he confessed, ‘I’ve really bashed my brains out on this one, Grandy, played around with all manner of convoluted ideas, I don’t mind telling you. Still, I kept coming back to my original plan for creating the new blends.’ He leaned closer to the desk, and gave her one of her own penetrating stares. ‘But, knowing you, I have a feeling you’d already thought of the solution before you threw the problem at me.’

Emma was tickled at his perceptiveness, but she stifled the laugh that bubbled in her throat. She looked into his candid blue eyes and slowly shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she lied. Then observing his disbelief, she added, ‘But I suppose I would have. Eventually.’

‘You’re damned right you would,’ he acknowledged. He shifted slightly in the chair and crossed his legs, wondering how to break the bit of bad news to her. He decided to jump in with both feet. ‘There is one other thing, though, Grandmother.’ He hesitated, worry suddenly clouding his face. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cut down on our running costs at the mill. Really tighten our belts out there at Fairley, if we want to operate more efficiently – and profitably. I hate to tell you this, but a number of men will have to be laid off.’ There was a slight pause before he finished gloomily, ‘Permanently laid off.’

Emma’s face tightened in aggravation. ‘Oh dear.’ She nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself. ‘Well, I sort of expected that, Alexander. If you have to do it, you have to do it. I presume you’ll be letting the older men go, those who are near retirement age?’ she asked, one brow lifting questioningly.

‘Yes. I think that’s the fairest thing.’

‘See to it that they get a special bonus, severance pay, whatever you want to call it. And naturally their pensions will become effective immediately. No penny pinching, and waiting it out until they actually reach retirement age. I won’t have any of that nonsense, Sandy.’

‘Yes, of course. I second-guessed you on that one. I’m preparing a list of names, and details of our financial obligations to the men. I’ll get it to you next week, if that’s all right with you.’ He sat back, waiting.

Emma made no response. She pushed herself up and walked slowly to the oriel window, where she stood looking down into the magnificent gardens of Pennistone Royal. Concern edged on to her wrinkled face as she ruminated on the mill at Fairley. Her life had been bound up with it in so many different ways. Her father had worked there, and her brother, Frank, when he was only a small boy and should have been at school. Frank had been a bobbin ligger, slaving from early morning until nightfall, hardly able to drag his weary little legs home at the end of the long day, sickly pale from exhaustion and lack of fresh air and sunshine.

Adam Fairley, Jim’s great-grandfather and the Squire of Fairley, had been the owner of the mill then. How she had hated him as a girl; for the best part of her life really. With the wisdom of great age, she knew Adam had not been the tyrant she had believed him to be. But he had been negligent, and that in itself was a crime in her eyes. His monumental negligence and his selfish preoccupation with his personal problems and his all-consuming love for Olivia Wainright had caused grievous trouble for others less fortunate. Yes, Adam Fairley had been guilty of abdicating his duties in the most careless and callous fashion, and without so much as a glance at those poor souls who toiled in his mills: The workers who made his cushioned life of ease and privilege possible, who were dependent on him, and were, in a very real sense, his responsibility. Half a century ago, she commented silently. I may understand something of the man now, but I’ll never forget what he did. Never.

She glanced down at her small but strong hands, soft and well cared for, the nails manicured to expensive perfection. But once those hands had been red and chapped and sore from scrubbing and polishing and washing and cooking for the Fairleys, when she had been bound in service to them as a child. Lifting one hand, she touched her face, and remembered with stunning clarity Murgatroyd’s sharp blows on her cheek. The detestable Murgatroyd, Adam Fairley’s butler, who had been permitted by the squire to rule that pernicious and secretive doomed house with a cruelty that bordered on savagery. Despite his harshness and his unremitting persecution of her, Murgatroyd had never frightened her. It was that monstrous house which had filled her with a nameless terror and from which she had wanted always to flee.

Then, one day, she had owned that great mausoleum of a place – Fairley’s Folly, the villagers had called it – and she had known at once that she would never live in it, would never play the role of the grand lady of the manor. And with a flash of sudden and intense vision she had understood exactly what she must do. She must obliterate it from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. And so she had torn it down, brick by brick by brick, until not a trace of it was left, and she could still recall to this very day the grim satisfaction she had experienced when she had finally razed it to the ground.

Now, across the span of four decades, she heard an echo of her own voice saying to Blackie: ‘And destroy this garden. Demolish it completely. I don’t want a rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’ Blackie had done exactly as she had instructed, uprooting that walled rose garden where Edwin Fairley had so inhumanly and shamefully repudiated her and their child, which she had been carrying. Miraculously, in the space of a few days, the garden, too, had disappeared as if it had never been there at all, and only then had she felt free of the Fairleys at last.

At this time in her life, Emma had acquired the mill. She had done her utmost to give the men proper living wages and overtime and all manner of fringe benefits, and she had kept the village going for years, often at great financial cost to herself. The workers were part of her in a way, for it was from their class that she herself came, and they held a favoured and unique place in her affections. The thought of letting a single one of them go distressed her, yet she had no choice, it seemed. Better, surely, to operate at half her work capacity and keep the mill rolling, than to close it down completely.

Half turning she said, ‘By the way, Alexander, have you discussed any of this with Kit?’

‘Uncle Kit,’ Alexander exclaimed, his startled tone reflecting the expression flicking on to his face. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘For one thing, he hasn’t been around. And for another, he doesn’t seem interested in any of the mills, Fairley least of all. He hasn’t appeared to give a damn since you dumped him out of your will.’

‘That’s a crude way of putting it, I must say!’ Emma snapped, and returned to her desk with a show of briskness. ‘I didn’t dump him, as you call it. I passed him over. For his daughter, remember. As I did your mother for you and Emily, and your Uncle Robin for Jonathan. And you know the reasons why, so I won’t bother elucidating on them again. Also, let’s not forget that my will doesn’t come into effect until I die. Which won’t be for a long time, if I have anything to do with it.’

‘Or me either,’ Alexander cried swiftly, as always dismayed by her talk of dying.

Emma smiled at him, fully aware of his devotion to her, his genuine concern for her well being. She continued, in that business-like tone, ‘Well, so much for Kit. Mmmm. Of course, I realized he was being a bit derelict in his duties; on the other hand, I did think he made an occasional visit, if only for appearances’ sake.’

‘Oh yes, he does do that. But he’s so morose and uncommunicative he might as well not be there,’ Alexander explained, adding, as an afterthought, ‘I can’t begin to guess what he does with his time these days.’

‘Not much, if I know my eldest son. He never was blessed with much imagination,’ Emma shot back sardonically, the suggestion of a disdainful smirk playing on her mouth. She made a mental note to talk to Kit’s daughter, Sarah, about her father’s present mood. Morose indeed, Emma thought, with disgust. He brought his troubles on entirely by himself. No, not true. Robin gave him a helping hand, and Elizabeth and Edwina, his cohorts in the plot against me. Aware that Alexander was waiting expectantly, Emma finished, ‘Anyway, since Kit’s not around, he’s not going to hamper you – as he has so often in the past. Your way is clear. Put this plan into operation immediately. You have my blessing.’

‘Thanks, Grandy.’ He leaned forward, said with earnestness, ‘We are doing the right thing.’

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘And don’t worry about the men who are to be retired. They will be all right, really they will.’

She glanced at him quickly, her eyes narrowed under the hooded lids. She thought: I am so glad it’s not Alexander whom I suspect of treachery and duplicity. That I could not bear. It would kill me. She said, ‘It pleases me that you’ve always been so involved with the Fairley mill, and on such a personal basis, Sandy. You care, and that’s important to me. And I appreciate your understanding … I mean of my involvement with that particular mill.’ She smiled wryly and shook her head. ‘The past, you know, is always with us, always reaching out to claim part of us, and I learned a very long time ago that we cannot escape it.’

‘Yes,’ he said laconically, but the look in his eyes expressed so much more.

Emma said, ‘I’ve decided to go to the Fairley mill next week. I’ll be the one to explain the changes we’re going to make. Tell them about the retirements myself, in my own words. It’s only proper.’

‘Yes, it is, Grandy. And they’ll be thrilled to see you. They all worship you, but then you know that.’

‘Humph!’ she snorted. ‘Don’t be so foolish, Alexander. And don’t exaggerate. You know I can’t abide exaggeration.’

Alexander swallowed a smile, remained silent, watching her closely as she sorted through some of the papers on the desk, her head bent. She had spoken swiftly, crossly even, but there had been a curious gruffness in her voice, and he knew that she had been touched by his words. He was amused by her mild chastisement. It was a hoot. Her whole life had been an extraordinary exaggeration, for God’s sake. Why, she was larger than life.

‘Are you still here?’ Emma said, glancing up, frowning and feigning annoyance. ‘I thought you’d be halfway to the office by now, with all you’ve got to do today. Get along with you!’

Alexander laughed, jumped up and went around the desk. He hugged her to him, and kissed the crown of her silvery head. ‘There’s nobody like you in this entire world, Emma Harte,’ he said gently. ‘Nobody like you at all.’