‘Mrs Harte, I am absolutely sure of everything I’ve said,’ Gaye answered quietly. ‘Furthermore, I have not added or subtracted anything, and I haven’t exaggerated either.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No, there’s more.’ Gaye bent down and picked up her handbag. She opened it and took out a tape, which she placed on the desk in front of Emma.
Emma regarded the tape, her eyes narrowing. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a tape of everything that was said, Mrs Harte. Except for whatever occurred before I went into the filing room. And the first few sentences I heard. They are missing.’
Emma looked at her uncomprehendingly, her eyebrows lifting, questions on the tip of her tongue. But before she could ask them, Gaye proceeded to explain more fully.
‘Mrs Harte, the tape machine was on. That’s why I went back to the office in the first place. When I went into the filing room, and heard them shouting, I was distracted for a minute. I turned off the filing-room light so they wouldn’t come in and see me. It was then that I saw the red light on the machine flickering and I went to turn this off, too. But it suddenly occured to me to record their conversation, since I was getting the general drift of it, and realized its importance. So I pressed the record button. Everything they said after that moment is here, even the things which were said after I closed the door and couldn’t hear clearly.’
Emma had the irresistible desire to laugh out loud, a bitter, hollow laugh. She resisted the impulse, lest Gaye think her raving mad and out of her senses, or hysterical at the most. The fools, the utter fools! she thought. And the irony of it! They had chosen her own boardroom in which to plot against her. That was their first and most crucial mistake. An irrevocable mistake. Kit and Robin were directors of Harte Enterprises, but they were not on the board of the department-store chain. They did not come to board meetings at the store, and so they did not know that she had recently installed sophisticated equipment to record the minutes, another time-saving device. It liberated Gaye for other duties and she simply typed up the minutes from the tapes when it was convenient. The microphones were hooked up under the boardroom table, hidden for aesthetics rather than for any reasons of secrecy in the elegant Georgian room with its fine antiques and paintings of great worth. Emma looked down at the tape on the glass desk, and to her it was an evil thing, lying there like a coiled and venomous snake.
‘I assume you have listened to this, Gaye?’
‘Yes, Mrs Harte. I waited until they left and then I played it back, I took it home with me on Friday and it hasn’t been out of my sight since then.’
‘Is there much more on it? More than you have already told me?’
‘About another ten minutes or so. They were discussing…’
Emma held up her hand, utterly exhausted, unable to hear any more. ‘Never mind, Gaye. I’ll play it later. I know quite enough already!’
She stood up and walked across the room to the window, erect and composed, though her steps were slow and dragged wearily across the thick carpet. She moved the curtains slightly. It had started to snow. The crystal flakes fell in glittering white flurries, swirling and eddying in the wind, brushing up against the window and coating it with a light film as delicate and as fine as white lace. But the flakes were rapidly melting under the bright sun, running in rivulets down the glass and turning into drizzle before they reached the ground. Emma looked down. Far below her the traffic moved in slow unending lines up and down Park Avenue and the scene was strangely remote. And everything was hushed in the room, as if the entire world had stopped and was silent, stilled for ever.
She pressed her aching head against the window and closed her eyes and thought of her two sons, of all her children, but mostly of her adored Robin, her favourite son. Robin, who had become her antagonist after they had clashed a few years before about a take-over bid for the chain of stores. A bid which came from out of the blue and which she did not want to even discuss, never mind consider. When she had refused to talk to the conglomerate involved, he had been vociferous in his condemnation of her, exclaiming angrily that she did not want to sell because she did not want to relinquish her power. She had met resentment from him in such virulent proportions that she was at first incredulous and then truly infuriated. What nerve, what gall, she had thought at the time, that he would dare to dictate to her about her business. One in which he did not have the slightest interest, except for the money it brought him. Robin the handsome, the dashing, the brilliant Member of Parliament. Robin with his long-suffering wife, his mistresses, his rather questionable male friends, and his taste for high living. Yes, Robin was the instigator of this deadly little plot, of that she was quite sure.
Kit, her eldest son, did not have the imagination or the nerve to promulgate so nefarious a scheme. But what he lacked in imagination he made up for in plodding diligence and stubbornness and he was uncommonly patient. Kit could wait years for anything he truly wanted, and she had always known he wanted the stores. But he had never had any aptitude for retailing, and long ago, when he was still young, she had manoeuvred him into Harte Enterprises, steered him towards the woollen mills in Yorkshire, which he ran with a degree of efficiency. Yes, Kit could always be manoeuvred, and no doubt Robin is doing just that, she thought contemptuously.
She contemplated her three daughters and her mouth twisted into a grim smile as she considered Edwina, the eldest, the first born of all her children. She had worked like a drudge and fought like a tigress for Edwina when she was still only a girl herself, for she had loved Edwina with all her heart. And yet she had always known that Edwina had never truly felt the same way about her, oddly distant as a little girl, remote in her youth, and that remoteness had turned into real coldness in later years. Edwina had allied herself with Robin at the time of the takeover bid, backing him to the hilt. Undoubtedly she was now his chief ally in this perfidious scheme. She found it hard to believe that Elizabeth, Robin’s twin, would go along with them, and yet perhaps she would. Beautiful, wild, untameable Elizabeth, with her exquisite features and beguiling charm and her penchant for expensive husbands, expensive clothes, and expensive travel. No amount of money was ever enough to satisfy her and she needed it as constantly and as desperately as Robin.
Daisy was the only one of whom she was sure, because shethat of all her children Daisy truly loved her. Daisy was not involved in this scheme of things, because she would never be a party to a conspiracy engineered by her brothers and sisters to slice up the Harte holdings. Apart from her love and her loyalty, Daisy had the utmost respect for her and faith in her judgement. Daisy never questioned her motives or decisions, because she recognized that they were generated by a sense of fair play, and were based entirely on judicious planning.
Daisy was her youngest child, and as different in looks and character from Emma as the others were, but she was closely bound to her mother and they cared for each other with a deep and powerful love that bordered on adoration. Daisy was all sweetness and gentleness, fine and honourable and good. At times, in the past, Emma had mused on Daisy’s intrinsic purity and honesty and worried about it, believing her to be too open and soft for her own safety. Emma had reasoned that her goodness could only make her dangerously vulnerable. But, eventually, she had begun to comprehend that there was a deep and strong inner core in Daisy that was tenacious. In her own way she could be as implacable as Emma, and she was unshakeable in her beliefs, brave and courageous in her actions, and steadfast in her loyalties. Emma had finally recognized that it was Daisy’s very goodness that protected her. It enfolded her like a shining and impenetrable sheath of chain mail and so made her incorruptible and inviolate against all.
And the others know that, Emma thought, as she continued to gaze out at the skyline of Manhattan, her heart flooded with despair. She was still shaken; however, the stunned feeling that she had been bludgeoned about her head and her body was slowly dissipating. She discovered, too, that although she had been thunderstruck initially
, this reaction was also a passing thing. She actually felt no sense of surprise now at Gaye’s story. It was not that she had ever anticipated these actions of her children, for in all truth she had not. But few things came as a surprise to Emma any more and in her wisdom, understanding, and experience of life, family treachery was not surprising to her at all.
Emma had come to believe long ago that ties of blood did not assure fidelity or love. It’s not true that blood is thicker than water, she thought, except in Daisy’s case. She really is part of me. She remembered a conversation she had once had with her banker, Henry Rossiter. It was years ago now, but it came back to her quite strongly, each nuance so clear it might have taken place only yesterday. He had said grimly that Daisy was like a dove that had been flung into a nest of vipers. Emma had shuddered with revulsion at his savage analogy. To dispel the hideous image he had conjured up before her eyes, she had told him that he was being melodramatic and over-imaginative, and she had laughed, so that he would not observe her true reactions. Now on this January day, in her seventy-ninth year, she recalled Henry’s words, which had been so ominous, as she contemplated the first four children she had borne and raised, and who had turned on her. A nest of vipers indeed, she thought.
She turned away from the window abruptly and went back to her desk. She sat down and her unflickering eyes rested on that vile tape for a moment, and then she lifted her briefcase on to the desk, opened it, and dropped the tape into it without further comment.
Gaye had been watching with some consternation, her face grave. She was disturbed by Emma’s appearance. Her countenance was now glazed over by a kind of hard grimness, and she looked haggard and drawn. The fine bones of her face, always very prominent, were so gaunt and close to the surface of her skin they appeared almost fleshless. Her naturally pale face was ashen. The spots of rouge stood out like raw smudges on her cheeks, and her lips had turned livid under the gloss of the red lipstick. Emma’s wide-set green eyes, usually so clear and so brilliant and so comprehending, were now clouded with dark pain and disillusionment and the agony of fully acknowledged betrayal. To Gaye her face had taken on the overtones of a death mask.
There was something fragile and vulnerable about Emma at this moment and she looked so very old that Gaye had the desire to run and put her arms around her. But she refrained, afraid Emma would think of it as an intrusion, for she knew that there was an unremitting self-reliance and intense pride in Emma’s nature, which was forbidding, and she had an innate sense of privateness about her personal affairs.
She asked quietly and with some tenderness, ‘Do you feel ill, Mrs Harte? Can I get you anything?’
‘I’ll be all right in a few minutes, Gaye.’ Emma attempted a smile. She bent her head and she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. Eventually she looked up and said, ‘I think I would like to be alone for a little while, Gaye. To think. Would you make me a cup of tea and bring it in shortly, in about ten minutes, please?’
‘Of course, Mrs Harte. As long as you are sure you will be all right alone.’ She stood up and moved towards the door, hesitating briefly.
Emma smiled. ‘Yes, I will, Gaye. Don’t worry.’ Gaye left the room and Emma leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, relaxing her rigid muscles. First Sitex and now this, she thought wearily, and then there is Paula and her lingering interest in Jim Fairley. Always the past coming back to haunt me, she reflected sadly, although she knew deep within herself that no one ever escaped the past. It was the burden of the present and of the future and you carried it with you always.
Years ago, when Emma had been a young woman and had seen traits developing in her children which alarmed her, she had thought: It’s my fault. I have made them what they are. Some I’ve neglected, others I’ve loved too well and too hard, all of them I’ve indulged and spoiled for the most part. But as she had grown older and wiser, her guilt was diluted as she came to believe that each man was responsible for his own character. Eventually she had been able to acknowledge to herself that if character did determine a man’s destiny then every man and woman created their own heaven or hell. It was then that she had truly understood what Paul McGill had meant when he had once said to her, ‘We are each the authors of our own lives, Emma. We live in what we have created. There is no way to shift the blame and no one else to accept the accolades.’ From that moment on she had been able to come to grips with her mixed and frequently turbulent emotions about her children. She had refrained from agonizing over them and she had stopped blaming herself for their weaknesses and their faults. They alone were responsible for what they had made of their lives, and she was enabled to shake off the feeling that she was culpable.
All this came back to her now as she remembered Paul’s words and she thought: No, I’m not guilty. They are motivated by their own greed, their own vaunting and misplaced ambitions. She rose again and crossed to the window, a degree of firmness returning to her step, the resolute expression settling on her face. She looked out absently. It had stopped snowing and the sun was shining in a clear sky. After a few moments of contemplation she returned to her desk. She knew what her course of action must be. She buzzed for Gaye, who responded immediately and came into the room carrying the tea tray. She set it down on the desk in front of Emma, who thanked her, and then went and sat in the chair opposite the desk. She is dauntless, Gaye said to herself as she gazed at Emma, noting the calm expression in her eyes, the steady hand that poured the tea.
After a moment Emma smiled at her. ‘I’m feeling better, Gaye. I think you had better make three reservations on any plane leaving for London tonight. I know several airlines have early evening flights. I don’t care which one it is, just get us on a flight.’
‘Yes, Mrs Harte. I’ll start calling right away.’ She stood up to take her leave.
‘By the way, Gaye dear, I am quite certain Paula will wonder why we are returning to London sooner than expected. I shall tell her I have urgent business that needs my attention. I would prefer her not to know anything about this…’ She paused, searching for the appropriate word, and laughed bitterly. ‘This plot I suppose we should call it.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to Miss Paula or anyone!’ Gaye exclaimed vehemently.
‘And Gaye…’
‘Yes, Mrs Harte?’
‘Thank you. You did the right thing. I am very grateful to you.’
‘Oh, Mrs Harte, please…what else could I do? I was simply afraid to tell you because I knew how much it would distress you.’
Emma smiled. ‘I know. Now see if you can get us on a plane.’
Gaye nodded and left the room. Emma sipped the tea, her mind crowded with thoughts. Thoughts of her business, her children and her grandchildren. The family she had raised, the dynasty she had created. She knew what must be done to preserve it all. But could she do it? Her heart fluttered as she envisioned the days ahead. But she knew she would find the strength somehow. It struck her then how ironical life was. Her sons had made an irrevocable mistake by plotting in her own boardroom. Admittedly they had chosen what they thought was a propitious time, early evening on a Friday, when everyone had left. Even so, she was aghast at their utter stupidity. There was another flaw in their plot and it was a flaw that was fatal. They had underestimated her. And, finally, by a twist of fate, she had been forewarned of their treachery. Now that she was prepared, she could handle the situation most effectively, anticipate their next moves and forestall them. She smiled grimly to herself. She had always been something of a gambler in her business, in life in general, and once again she was holding the equivalent of a straight flush. Her luck was holding. She prayed that it would hold long enough.
THREE
Henry Rossiter pressed the telephone closer to his ear, as if better to hear the woman’s voice, concentrating on her words, straining and attentive, for although Emma Harte’s voice was well modulated as always, she spoke more softly than usual.
‘And so, Henry, I would appreciate it if
you would come over to the store at about eleven-thirty this morning. I thought we could chat for about an hour and then have lunch here in the boardroom. If you are free, of course.’
He hesitated and it was almost imperceptible, but he knew Emma had caught it and he said quickly, ‘That’s fine, my dear, I shall be glad to come over.’
‘Do you have another appointment, Henry? I would hate to inconvenience you.’
He did, and it was an important luncheon date that had been arranged for some time, but he was hardly going to offend his most important client, who also happened to be one of the richest women in England, possibly in the world, since it was hard to truly estimate her real worth. He knew that she was astute enough to realize he would have a previous appointment, so he refrained from the tiny white lie and, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Yes, I do, but it is easy for me to cancel it, if you wish, my dear.’
‘Good. I appreciate it, Henry. I will see you at eleven-thirty then. Goodbye, Henry.’
‘Goodbye, Emma,’ he murmured, but she had already hung up.
Henry had known Emma Harte for almost forty years, long enough to fully understand that there was always an imperious demand beneath her soft-spoken requests, that they were really commands uttered in the most dulcet of tones and the most charming manner. That inbred charm had carried her a long way, as Henry was the first to acknowledge.
She had said nothing unusual and he had been unable to detect any undertones of disquiet or anger in her voice, and yet a peculiar sense of foreboding had descended upon him as they talked. Henry was not without perception, and, being the ultimate banker, he was always carefully attuned to his clients, fully conscious of their basic characteristics, the quirks and foibles of their personalities. He had to be, since he was handling their money and usually much of their business, and he had come to realize years ago that the very rich could also be very difficult, especially about their money.
A Woman of Substance Page 4