A Woman of Substance

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Gerald ignored Blackie and snarled viciously at Emma, his enmity for her more palpable than ever. ‘I’ll get you for this!’ he shouted, shaking his fist at her. ‘You’re not going to get off scot-free,’ he blustered. ‘Or as easily as you think, Emma.’

  ‘Mrs Ainsley to you,’ Blackie said as Emma walked over to the desk.

  Emma picked up her gloves and handbag and said, ‘Please leave us now. I believe you have something to attend to—removing your personal belongings from your office at the mill.’

  Gerald stood up uncertainly. He held on to the back of the chair and his tone was venomous as he said, ‘I give you fair warning—’ His voice broke and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I am going to—’

  ‘You can do nothing,’ Emma said, and she turned away in disgust.

  Blackie said firmly, ‘You heard the lady, Fairley. You had better do as she says and be quick about it. I think it would be rather embarrassing to find your stuff dumped in the mill yard.’

  Gerald stumbled out of the library, his shoulders hunched in defeat. He slammed the door behind him and the wall sconces rattled in their sockets.

  Emma, who abhorred violence, had been alarmed by the altercation, as brief as it was, but she had not lost her composure. She glanced across at Blackie and said dismissively, ‘So much for fools. Shall we look around the house?’

  ‘Why not? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘One of the reasons,’ Emma said.

  Blackie’s eyes rested reflectively on Emma. Revenge generally came at a high price and, whilst he understood her motivations, he wondered, abstractly, if the price had been worth it to her. Superstitious Celt that he was, Blackie shivered unexpectedly. The desire for revenge was not unnatural, but it could curdle and embitter the soul, and it often destroyed the avenger. Was it not perhaps infinitely wiser to abjure the wicked and abandon them to the fates, and trust in God to make retribution in His own good time? He found himself saying, almost inaudibly, ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.’

  Emma gave him a peculiar look, and then she laughed. There was a hint of irony in her voice as she retorted, ‘Don’t start getting mystical with me. You know I don’t believe in God. Besides, even if I did, I would still have taken matters into my own hands. You see, Blackie, I didn’t have time to wait for the Lord.’

  ‘And you also wanted the satisfaction of seeing Gerald Fairley’s face when he discovered you had been his adversary all these years,’ Blackie asserted.

  ‘Do you blame me?’ Emma asked, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I don’t suppose I do,’ Blackie admitted, and regarded her for a long moment. ‘And tell me, Emma, how do you feel, now that you have accomplished what you set out to do?’

  ‘Why, I feel wonderful. Why shouldn’t I? I have waited twenty years to see the tables turned on the Fairleys. Twenty years, Blackie! And let me tell you something. Revenge is sweet. Very sweet indeed.’

  Blackie did not reply. He put his arm around her shoulders and gazed down at her. To his relief that cold and implacable mask had been discarded, had been replaced by the sweetest of expressions, and the hard glint in her emerald eyes had disappeared. A thought struck him. ‘And what of Edwin Fairley?’ Blackie asked curiously. ‘Do you have something special in store for him?’

  ‘You will have to wait and see,’ Emma said cryptically, and smiled. ‘Anyway, don’t think Edwin won’t be upset by all this, because he will. For one thing, he will be mortified by the scandal, the terrible disgrace. Gerald is practically bankrupt and the whole of Yorkshire’s business community knows it. Furthermore, Edwin’s income is going to be most seriously affected. He had an interest in the Fairley mills, under his father’s will. Now that’s gone up in a puff of smoke,’ she finished triumphantly and with an eloquent wave of her hand.

  Blackie said softly, ‘Is there anything you don’t know about their affairs?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Blackie shook his head. ‘You’re an amazing woman, Emma.’

  ‘Aren’t I, just. I amaze myself sometimes.’ Emma laughed. ‘Well, let’s do what we came here to do and make our grand tour of Fairley Hall.’

  They went out into the entrance hall and slowly mounted the great staircase washed in the eerie light sifting in through the huge stained-glass window that soared high above the central landing. They walked down the endless dusky corridors that reeked faintly of wax and gas and dust and that peculiar mustiness that seeped out of the walls, and the wood creaked and the wind moaned in the eaves and the light dimmed, and it seemed to Emma that the ancient house was expiring all around them. They looked in on various rooms where grimy dust sheets draped the furniture and then moved on into the main corridor of bedrooms.

  Emma paused at the door of the Blue Suite and glanced back at Blackie standing behind her. ‘These were Adele Fairley’s rooms,’ she remarked, and hesitated, her hand resting on the knob. And then she braced herself, flung open the door, and went in purposefully. Motes of dust rose up from the carpet in eddying whirls and danced in the sunlit air as they disturbed the room, which had obviously been unused for years and held an aura of neglect more pronounced than the library. Although Emma had never liked this room as a child, she had been awed by the quality of the antiques and some of the other furnishings. Now she saw it through the eyes of the connoisseur she had become, and she grimaced. Here poor Adele Fairley had lived out her life in her introverted world, isolated from her family and escaping reality by fleeing down the neck of a bottle. Emma had long ago acknowledged that Adele had been an alcoholic. But was she also mad? She pushed aside the troubling thought of inherited insanity and drifted through into the adjoining bedroom, pausing by the huge four-poster bed swathed in faded green silk. The silence was overwhelming and, in the way the imagination can play queer tricks, Emma heard Adele’s tinkling laughter and the rustling of her peignoir, caught a faint whiff of her Jasmine perfume. She blinked rapidly and gooseflesh spreckled her arms. She laughed at herself and then swung around and hurriedly returned to the sitting room.

  Blackie followed her, assessing everything as he did. ‘These are fine rooms, Emma,’ he said, peering about. ‘Beautifully proportioned. They have a lot of potential. Of course, you’ll have to get rid of most of this junk Adele Fairley collected.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ Emma said, and thought: What a pathetic memorial to Adele Fairley. She who was so beautiful.

  Emma inspected the other bedrooms perfunctorily yet with a degree of curiosity. She hovered in front of the dressing table in the Grey Room, once occupied by Olivia Wainright Fairley, musing on her. Unexpectedly, a wave of reluctant affection surfaced in her. Olivia had been kind; had eased her burdens in this terrible house. She wondered if her empathy for Olivia had been unconsciously engendered by that woman’s marked resemblance to her mother. Perhaps. Emma’s face softened and she turned and left the Grey Room. But her expression changed radically when she pushed open the door of the Master’s Room. Her eyes were stony as she surveyed the austere furnishings, thinking of Adam Fairley. And Emma remembered anew all that had happened to her at Fairley Hall and she felt no compunction about what she had done. Her revenge had had a long gestation period, but it had been surely worth it.

  Fifteen minutes later Emma and Blackie descended the main staircase and quickly traversed the reception rooms on the ground floor. All the while Blackie chatted enthusiastically about the renovations he would make, and outlined his plans for transforming Fairley Hall into an elegant home for her. Emma listened and nodded but said little. At one moment, when they were viewing the drawing room, she touched Blackie’s arm and asked, ‘Why was I so frightened of this house when I was a child?’

  Blackie squeezed her hand lovingly. ‘You weren’t afraid of the house, Emma. You were afraid of the people in it.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she replied softly. ‘And now those people are just ghosts.’

  ‘Yes, me darlin’, just ghosts. And this is only a house
, after all. I once told you it could never harm you.’

  ‘I know you did.’ Emma took Blackie’s arm. ‘Let’s go outside and look at the grounds. It’s chilly in here, and rather depressing.’

  Emma blinked when they stepped out into the bright sunlight. ‘Do you know, it’s warmer out here than it is in there,’ she remarked, and stared up at the grim edifice soaring in front of her. Emma’s face became introspective as she walked along the flagged terrace, regarding Fairley Hall from time to time. This daunting house was enduring—and inescapable; a bastion of wealth and privilege, a monument to a society long outmoded, to a cruel class system she detested, and it sorely offended her.

  Inclining her head towards the house, she murmured, ‘My father used to call this Fairley’s Folly.’

  ‘And so it is.’

  ‘Tear it down,’ Emma said with cool deliberation.

  ‘Tear it down!’ Blackie echoed, gazing at her incredulously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. I want you to tear it down. Brick by brick by brick, until there is nothing left standing.’

  ‘But I thought you were going to live in it,’ Blackie exclaimed, still flabbergasted.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever really intended to do that. You once said it was a monstrosity and that’s a decided understatement. There is no place in this world for monstrosities. I want it wiped off the face of the earth as if it never existed.’

  ‘And the furniture?’

  ‘Sell it. Give it away. Do as you wish. I know I don’t want one piece of it. You can take anything you like, Blackie.’ She smiled. ‘You might consider keeping Adam Fairley’s desk. It is quite valuable, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll think about it.’ Blackie rubbed his chin. ‘Are you sure about this decision? You did pay a lot for the house.’

  ‘I am very sure.’ Emma swivelled and tripped lightly down the terrace steps until she stood at the entrance to the rose garden. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a young and desperate girl, and she recalled the day she had told Edwin she was pregnant, and remembered his repudiation of her as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

  ‘And destroy this garden,’ she said icily. ‘Demolish it completely. I don’t want one rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’

  The villagers were agog at the news that Emma Harte, Big Jack’s daughter, was now the owner of Fairley Hall and the mill. It was a reversal of circumstances so unlikely it staggered the imagination, and, in turn, they were stunned, astonished, and finally wryly amused at the ironic justice so inherent in the turn of events, which were quite unexpected. Hidebound as they were by tradition and prejudice, and trapped in a rigid caste system that kept the workers in their place, they nevertheless marvelled at her audacity in daring to defy that system and break all the rules set down by the Establishment for centuries.

  The following morning women stood on doorsteps and leaned over garden gates, arms akimbo, shaking their heads and exclaiming about the remarkable success story of one of their own. That night in the White Horse, the men at the bar, most of whom worked at the mill, crowded together, speculating about the future of the mill and chuckling at the demise of the Fairleys’ power. Although Adam Fairley had not been particularly liked, because he was not of the same ilk as his bluff and hearty father, being too ‘fancy’ for their north-country tastes, he had been respected since the men recognized his basic integrity and fairness. However, Gerald, who was a tyrant and a fool, was loathed, and no one was unhappy to see his downfall, nor did they have a shred of pity for him. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’ was the phrase most often heard in the ensuing days as the villagers waited eagerly for the arrival of their new employer and the future mistress of Fairley Hall.

  But Emma did not come to the village—at least not until Gerald Fairley had vacated Fairley Hall. Two days after his departure her silver-grey Rolls-Royce pulled up into the mill yard and she went into the mill to hold a meeting with the workers. The manager, Josh Wilson, son of Ernest, who had served Adam so well, assembled the men and women in the weaving shed. Emma, wearing a navy-blue tailored dress, a navy cloche, and pearls, cordially greeted some of the men she remembered from her childhood and then addressed the gathering.

  She was direct: ‘As you are only too well aware, there has been a slump in the cloth business for almost eighteen months, ever since the price of wool hit ??ock bottom, to be followed by the price of cloth. Due to ?? inferior management of the previous owner, Fairley mil?? h?? been limping along and I know that many men were laid off over the past few months.’ Emma paused and cleared her throat. ‘I am afraid I cannot reinstate those men.’ She held up her hand as loud groans and mutterings rippled through the audience. ‘However, I am going to give a small pension to the men who have been laid off and who have not found work in the nearby towns. I would also like to say now, and most definitely, that I have no intention of closing the mill, as I believe many of you thought I would. But under the present circumstances, I must retrench, economize, reorganize, and decrease the staff. Therefore, all men of retiring age and close to it will be retired immediately. Each man will receive a pension. Younger men, especially those who are single, will be offered jobs in my other companies, if they are willing to leave Fairley and carve out a niche for themselves in the cities of Leeds and Bradford. Those who do not wish to take advantage of this offer may remain. Of course, I hope some of you will consider it, so that I can reduce the work force here in order to operate more economically. As I told Josh, I am going to sell the quality cloth we produce to the three Kallinski tailoring factories in Leeds, but even their orders will not be sufficient to keep the mill in full production. I have a solution to that problem. I am going to start making a lower-quality cloth immediately, to be sold at cheaper prices abroad, and I hope there will be a demand for it here, too.’

  Emma smiled confidently. ‘I am fortunate in that I can afford to ride out this slump, and with a little luck, and your cooperation, I know we can turn this mill around and put it on a paying basis quickly. Let me say again, I am not going to close the mill, so I don’t want any of you to worry about your jobs. I don’t intend to let this village starve.’

  They cheered her rousingly, and one by one, clutching their cloth caps, the men came to shake her hand, to thank her, and to welcome her back to Fairley. ‘I knew yer dad, love,’ one man told her, and another added, ‘By gum, Big Jack’d be right proud of yer, lass.’

  After a meeting with Josh Wilson, Emma stepped into her Rolls and told the chauffeur to drive her to Fairley Hall. Blackie O’Neill’s workmen were already swarming all over the house, scrambling up ladders and across the roof. Windows were being removed, chimneys dismantled, and slates ripped off. Emma smiled to herself, and returned to Leeds.

  At first the villagers believed the Hall was being renovated and they were excited about this development and looked forward to welcoming Emma Harte as the lady of the manor. But within the space of a week, they realized, to their shock, that the house was being slowly demolished, and they were baffled.

  In the middle of May, Emma made a second trip to Fairley Hall. She walked along the terrace, which still remained intact, and regarded the great tract of rough bare ground where the house and stables had formerly stood. Not one brick was left and the rose garden, too, had disappeared. Emma felt an enormous surge of relief and an unexpected sense of liberation. Fairley Hall, that house where she had suffered such humiliation and heartache, might never have existed. It could no longer hurt her with the painful memories it evoked. She had exorcized all the ghosts of her childhood. She was free at last of the Fairleys.

  Blackie, who arrived a few moments later, put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I followed your instructions down to the letter and removed the monstrosity, mavourneen. But like the whole of the village, I am eaten up with curiosity, Emma. Tell me, darlin’, what are you going to do with this land?’

  Emma looked up at him and smiled. ‘I a
m going to turn it into a park. A beautiful park for the villagers of Fairley, and I am going to name it after my mother.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  A week later, on a lovely evening at the end of May, Emma stepped out of a taxi at the Savoy Hotel in London and hurried through the lobby to the American Bar. She saw Frank before her saw her. He was seated at a table facing the lobby, and as she mounted the short flight of steps into the bar she noticed that he looked reflective and brooding as he nursed his drink.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said, coming to a standstill in front of him.

  Momentarily startled, Frank raised his head quickly and his eyes lit up. ‘There you are!’ He rose and pulled out a chair for her. ‘And don’t you look lovely, our Em.’

  ‘Why, thank you, darling.’ She smoothed the skirt of her lime-green silk dress and took off her white kid gloves. ‘It is a scorcher, isn’t it? I think I’ll have a gin fizz, Frank, please. It will refresh me. I had quite a hectic day at the store.’

  Frank ordered the drink and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way down to the Strand, but it is closer to Fleet Street and I’ve got to be back at the paper in a short while.’

  ‘I didn’t mind coming here. I rather like this bar. Anyway, why did you want to see me? You sounded urgent when you phoned me at the store. I was a little worried, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to do that. Actually, it’s not all that urgent, but I did want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Arthur Ainsley.’

  Emma’s shapely brows shot up. ‘Arthur. Good heavens, why do you want to talk about him?’