Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  He sighed. ‘You should have let them know at the farm. They’d have somehow managed to contact me, or the servants at Kerrysmoor.’

  I didn’t tell him I’d told Jan, but that he was too scared to spread the news in case he was blamed for gossiping about her ladyship. Instead, I merely remarked, ‘Can’t we try and forget about it all now? Oh, Rupert, shouldn’t we just be thankful to be alive, and together — and — and—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Couldn’t we — couldn’t you give up the other thing — the smuggling?’

  ‘For the time being, with this wretched leg, I have to,’ he answered. ‘But the house is going to cost a good deal getting into order, and when we’re married—’

  ‘When?’ I remarked pertly, ‘I never said I would marry you, did I? How could I, you’ve not asked me yet.’

  He paused before taking my chin in his hand and turning my face up to his. Then, before kissing me, he said whimsically with mock politeness, ‘Dear Miss Lebrun, I should be most honoured if you would consent to becoming my wife.’ His voice was restrained and formal, but laughter lit his golden eyes, laughter and all the love I’d hoped to find some day from this one man in the world to whom I knew I could be totally committed.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Oh, Rupert — Rupert — I do love you so.’

  ‘And I you — forever.’

  From outside came the high sweet trilling of a bird. One day maybe I would also sing again. Whether or not was unimportant to me just then. We had our whole life together ahead, and spring seemed everywhere.

  *

  Our son was born on a day when the lanes and hedgerows foamed with wild cherry blossom and gorse flamed gold over the high moors. From the distance a cuckoo called; the newly laid gardens of Kerrysmoor were already starred with primroses, and the thrusting speared heads of bluebells. We called the baby Pierre Rupert — which I guessed would naturally become shortened to Piers. He was a lusty, laugh-ing, strong-willed child, whose greenish eyes soon changed to sparkling amber. Dame Jenny, who had made a miraculous half-recovery from her stroke, insisted on placing one of her well-known lucky herbs under his pillow for the first week of his life. ‘T’ guard ’en against witches an’ pellars and the evil doings of smugglin’,’ she said. There was no need for the latter precaution; due to the intricate and numerous under-ground tunnelling of the moor behind the house, the ground had completely caved in, and been levelled not only by Rupert’s men, but by Nature.

  ‘Still, maybe it’s for the best,’ Rupert said a little ruefully, ‘With this damned leg of mine, and you to control, my wilful love, I shall have enough to do without further adventure.’

  Which proved to be perfectly true.

  If you enjoyed Portrait of a Girl you might be interested in An Inconvenient Affair by Mary Williams also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from An Inconvenient Affair by Mary Williams

  Chapter One

  She couldn’t rest. Watchful and tense, her nerves were stretched almost to breaking point. The ominous approach of thunder looming over the Burnwood hills didn’t help. Storms there were violent, as though the ancient heart of the range was erupting to vengeful life again, after countless millions of centuries.

  Emma Fairley, born in the vicinity and now in her twentieth year, had become sensitized to every mood of that particular north-western corner of Leyfordshire. Something of its lush sweetness, veiled mystery of its valleys and rugged freedom of rocky summits was in her very blood. A haunted area — one of volcanic origin, which at times could stir the imagination from dreamy peacefulness to a primitive awareness of a far-off bygone age. Apprehension then shuddered through Feyland Woods from the lonely tip of Hawkswycke Hill. The forest wilderness of larch, silver birch, and ancient oaks became a place of shadowed mystery; in the creeping mists of early summer and autumn, twisted branches of sloe and elder were grasping arms — the deep green tarns of Feyland, waiting graves for the unwary.

  Emma, on that far off autumn evening, was keyed-up to face not only nature’s elemental challenge, but a personal crisis which involved the whole of her future and that of her father, William Fairley — especially the latter. So much was at stake; on his meeting that day with Jonathan Bradley — business tycoon and owner of the new Leyford Comet, a daily newspaper intended to oust the well-established Leyford Courier — depended the survival of The Charwood Echo, her father’s own newspaper and particular baby. Bradley was determined to acquire it by fair means or foul. He had the wealth and the power. Already the Echo had been hit by the new sensational publication Comet which was cheap in price, flashy perhaps, but sufficiently colourful to woo a considerable public!

  At the expense of the Echo.

  And this was only the beginning.

  Ultimately?

  Emma, who’d been her father’s trusted confidante since her mother’s death two years previously, shuddered to think. The only real hope, she well knew, was that Bradley might be induced to take up certain shares for a minimum of power on the Echo, leaving William and his co-director, Frank Page, in major control.

  It was for this that Fairley had gone to Eastwood Hall that day for his meeting with Bradley. Although she hoped desperately for his success, she doubted it; and as the sullen sky darkened towards evening, bringing the first clap of thunder from the hills, her body stiffened, and despondency intensified.

  William should have been back an hour — even two hours — ago. Had he called at the office in Charbrook before fortifying himself to bring news to her? Or could there have been an accident? The forest lanes were twisting and narrow, and could be dangerous to transport in the damp fading light, especially in the new-fangled motor car, which her father had insisted on purchasing for daily, quicker transport from home to his newspaper offices at Charbrook. The trap he’d used before was still retained in the stables at Oaklands, with their beloved mare, Lady, and so far the motor car, a Mercedes-Simplex, had not proved worth its cost. Emma herself had already learned to drive it. It could be fun, but not half so much enjoyment as a ride on Lady, and the mechanics worried her. It was the mechanics she feared every time her father set off at the wheel, making such a grinding noisy start to any journey.

  She’d wanted him to go on horseback or take the trap that day. Eastwood Hall, as the crow flies, was only fifteen miles away, and on Lady he could have taken short cuts across the country. But William on this occasion had been determined to appear modern and as affluent as possible, setting out at the wheel wearing a sporting check cap and tweed jacket over knickerbockers of the same tone.

  ‘The millionaire look,’ he’d told his daughter whimsically, with a little tug of his carefully trimmed Imperial beard. ‘I’ve met the man only twice, but he’s a climber. The type always appreciative of style.’

  ‘And money. Mean, I expect,’ Emma had retorted shrewdly.

  He’d smiled, trying to hide underlying anxiety.

  ‘Don’t be cynical, Emma, that’s not your type.’

  ‘What do you mean — my type?’

  He flung her a shrewd glance.

  ‘You know very well. Feminine. Womanly.’

  ‘You sound so stuffy.’

  ‘I am, my dear, over those I care about.’

  This was true. But in Emma he recognised very well, there was a quality of excitement and adventure that put her apart — ahead of her time. Not traditionally a beauty, perhaps, but arresting and unpredictable, unlike her mother Claire, whose gentle serenity and fair classical features had provided always a refuge of peace when he needed assurance to steer him through financial and other problems of the Echo.

  There was nothing really serene about Emma. Beneath her fine-boned, rather delicate exterior, was a quick-silver mind, forever darting this way and that to meet any challenge that might arise. The innocence of her widely-set luminous grey eyes was belied by a provocative tilted mouth in a heart-shaped face; her pert nose was slightly upturned, denoting what he termed a rare capacity for d
elving and digging into other people’s affairs. The small determined chin had a cleft in it, and her head was proudly set on a slender neck.

  Yes. Emma was indeed quite a force in his life.

  Claire’s death in giving birth to Rosalind, a younger daughter, following a dangerous lapse of fifteen years had eventually turned William’s affections all the more fiercely on his elder child. He hadn’t particularly wanted the new baby, and when she was proved to be backward and incapable of learning to speak or communicate properly, loss of Claire had turned to an inner resentment that could only be overcome by a quiet, almost fanatical determination to keep the family newspaper going — run in the traditional decent way first established by his grandfather.

  The Echo and Emma.

  Being a dedicated clear-sighted man, he recognised that a certain modernisation might be necessary. With moderate expenditure this could be done. But the policy of fair comment must remain. The Echo had never been a political publication, and he was determined at this time, following the ending of the Boer War, that he’d restrain it from being influenced too obviously by right or left. All the same — the tempo of life was changing. Liberalism was gaining steadily, and he had a shrewd idea that in a couple of years’ time Campbell Bannerman might emerge as Prime Minister. The voice of radicalism was stirring among the minds of the people. Women, too, were showing a desire to play a part in the country’s affairs other than mere domesticity. He couldn’t see they’d have much success. But the future was chancy and unknowable. Meanwhile let the feminine appeal of the Echo have full play. Emma had been a great asset during the past twelve months contributing a weekly column dealing with dress, cooking, and social and gardening observations that for a time had sent the circulation up — a swing of the pendulum that might have continued, but for the sudden appearance on the scene of the Leyford Comet. Racy, witty, a little cheap and Americanised, it had gained immediate response.

  And Bradley was certainly not going to allow it to decline.

  William did not fear for the future of the Weekly Echo but the daily publication was a different matter. It was the Daily he feared for.

  And so did Emma.

  Why could life be so unfair and complicated, she wondered, as she wandered time after time to the gate of their garden overlooking the forest? Why must that rich stranger from up country have arrived at such a crucial time to upset things? Why had he to fling his wealth about so vulgarly, just to destroy the even tempo of the Echo’s progress, with his power? Her own column week by week had been gathering the interest of new readers. In time (though she hadn’t yet broached the suggestion to William) she might even be a regular contributor to the Daily. Women journalists were few and far between. But there was no reason on earth why she shouldn’t be among the first. Fame didn’t particularly appeal to her. But proving herself did — proving that she could be an important factor in helping retain the standards of the respected newspaper established by her forbears so many years ago.

  Oh dear! Why was he so late?

  The housekeeper who’d been with them through and since her mother’s illness came down the path, saying irritably, ‘Can’t you come in now? It’s getting damp. And you with nothing on your shoulders.’

  Emma smoothed a strand of russet hair from her brow.

  ‘I’m not cold. I like the air.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. And it’s already spitting with rain. You can’t do any good standing about getting wet.’

  Emma sighed. ‘No. That’s true. Very well — go along, Mrs Cox. I’ll be there in a moment.’

  She was turning to follow the receding figure when the familiar rattling sound of an engine chugged in fits and starts from a bend in the lane. Emma felt a surge of relief, and ignoring the heavy spatter of increasing rain, ran towards the blurred shape of the approaching vehicle. The gates below the house leading to the shed where the car was kept were already open. William turned in awkwardly.

  ‘You’re so late,’ Emma exclaimed. ‘I was wondering if you’d overturned into a ditch or something.’

  Clambering out, William answered, pulling his cap off and wiping his forehead free of damp, ‘You should control that imagination of yours better. There was a puncture about five miles back and I had to change a wheel.’

  ‘Oh. Poor you. What a nuisance. Are you wet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what happened? Did he — did you have any success with Bradley?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get into the house,’ William said rather abruptly. ‘Please, my dear. I’ve had a long day.’

  Emma’s heart sank. Obviously he had nothing good to report.

  Her deductions were correct.

  When William had changed and gone into his study for a drink before the meal, he said heavily, ‘It’s no good, Emma. He won’t co-operate. The Echo — yes. He wants it, and will invest a tidy sum provided he has an overall majority in the shareholdings. This would mean giving him complete power to alter the character of the paper in any way he chose — so—’ he shrugged and gave an expressive gesture of the hands, ‘it’s no go.’

  ‘But — didn’t you explain properly? Couldn’t he see that although his type of publication might draw in a new public, the present readers like it as it is—’

  ‘Of course I did. But he’s a hard thinker, looking ahead to the future. He even has a plan eventually to contain the whole lot — the Courier, Echo and Comet into one paper — The Midlander. Oh, he’s got his head screwed on pretty firmly, but for once he won’t get his way that easily. I’ll spike his guns, by God.’

  Emma shook her head slowly. How could he? When their annual income was only just sufficient to keep them and the Echo, out of debt? ‘What plan have you?’ she asked. ‘If you haven’t the money—’

  ‘I could have,’ he interrupted. ‘There’s a way. You won’t like it. But — I’ve decided.’

  The strained lines of his face — the hard look of hopeless defiance and determination about his mouth and eyes frightened her.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I can sell Oaklands,’ he stated, not looking at her. ‘It’s a unique place and would fetch a good sum. Whoever bought it might allow us to remain on a rental basis. It’s the only way, Emma.’

  ‘You can’t mean it. Oaklands! It’s been in the family for — for generations. My great-grandfather designed it. It’s a heritage — a duty; an obligation.’

  ‘The Echo comes first.’

  ‘But why? Why?’

  ‘Tradition — it’s the only decent newspaper Charbook’s ever had. And there are other places where we could live.’

  Emma could feel her nails biting into the palms of both hands.

  ‘Not like this,’ she said fiercely. ‘There’s nowhere in Burnwood to compare. You’ve said yourself it’s unique. Where else could anyone find a house built from the rock face? It’s listed in books — a feature of the forest—’ Emotion half choked her, bringing the flood of words to a halt.

  ‘I know, my dear. I know—’ he slumped forward suddenly, with his head in his hands. When he glanced up again the strange greyness of his face temporarily drove all other thoughts but anxiety from her mind. ‘Are you all right, father?’ she queried sharply.

  He forced a smile. ‘I will be. Pour me another brandy, child. Oh—’ A hand suddenly went to the left side of his chest.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. A touch of indigestion. I get it occasionally when I’m tired. It’ll soon pass.’

  ‘Then you must see a doctor,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve been working too hard for too long. And all this worry—’

  He waved a hand in negation. ‘I want no doctor. Fussy old pessimists all of them. Now, Emma—’ He got up, straightened himself, thumped his chest, and with forced energy said, ‘There’s life in the old dog yet. So stop worrying. Things will work out. Just drop the talking now, and in the morning, maybe we’ll both feel differently about things. The pendulum could swing either
way.’

  But Emma knew that business pendulums didn’t swing that easily in her father’s direction. Especially concerning the Echo.

  For a moment she almost hated the paper. Hated it for sapping her father’s energy, and endangering what were the roots of their very existence — Oaklands.

  That evening, when William had retired to bed, she went downstairs and out into the steamy autumn night.

  The thunder had cleared, leaving a freshness of the air, with a pale watery moon filtering through the haze of dying cloud.

  Like sentinels of the past, the massed trees of the forest stood dimly shadowed beyond the garden. On one side the tip of Hawkshill was visible momentarily, then faded again. The distant glimmer of Marten Pool shone silver for a second beyond Feyland. An owl called softly from the woods. All was mystery — a threadwork of winding lanes and small lost hamlets. Yet she knew them, had walked them all, climbed every tumpy rock-tipped hill, since childhood. It was her birthright. They couldn’t lose it now — neither she nor her father. Somehow both Oaklands and the Echo had to be saved.

  But how?

  Had her father been sufficiently tactful during the meeting with Bradley? When reason failed had he thrown his cards too bluntly on the table? William Fairley, though inherently and by practice diplomatic, could be amazingly defiant when pressed. Perhaps in the end when he’d found the other man so unco-operative he’d let his temper get the better of him and he’d issued a challenge he could not possibly win.

  There was, then, only one course left. Without telling her father she’d herself visit Eastwood Hall that Thursday, which was publishing day for the Echo, knowing William would be fully occupied at Charbrook and would not miss her. She’d ride Lady cross-country, and deal with the hateful stranger in her own way. What that way would be, she hadn’t a clue. Until they met face to face, she’d no way of assessing their instinctive reactions to each other. But she’d dress carefully and suitably, and while keeping her business senses alert, would make the most of her feminine attributes.