A Woman of Substance

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘It struck me immediately, and most forcibly, that someone had been tampering with my mail. Several letters going astray was one thing, but not a dozen or so. It didn’t take much to deduce it was Marion. She was the obvious culprit, since she handled my correspondence in both Sydney and at the sheep station in Coonamble. And she also mailed all of my personal letters as well.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t post them yourself, isn’t it?’ Emma said quietly, cursing Marion Reese under her breath. Her penetrating eyes focused on Paul.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. I admit I was careless. On the other hand, I had no reason not to trust her. Also, I was facing monumental problems. I was overworked and preoccupied.’

  ‘I presume you confronted her when you returned to Sydney,’ Emma ventured.

  ‘I did indeed. She denied it at first. But eventually she broke down and confessed. When I asked her why she had done it, she said she had hoped to sabotage our romance, so I would not leave.’

  ‘She succeeded,’ Emma said drily, and thought of the wasted years.

  ‘Yes.’ Paul searched Emma’s face, which was unreadable. He reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘This is a letter from her solicitors. In it they acknowledge her guilt, on the understanding that I would not prosecute her, which I had threatened to do. Theft of mail is a felony, you know. I demanded this,’ he explained, tapping the envelope, ‘because I hoped one day to have the opportunity to show it to you, to prove that I am not the blackguard you undoubtedly think I am.’ He handed her the envelope and finished. ‘They also returned my letters to you, and yours to me, by the way.’

  Emma looked at him askance. ‘You mean she kept them! How peculiar!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I thought that, too. Please, Emma, read the letter from her solicitors. The story is so incredible it has occurred to me that you might think I have invented the whole thing.’

  Emma was reflective for a moment, and then she took the letter out of the envelope and perused it rapidly. She returned it to Paul, smiling faintly. ‘I would have believed you without this letter. Nobody could invent such a yarn. Thank you for showing it to me, though. And what happened to Marion Reese?’

  ‘Naturally I fired her at once. I’ve no idea where she is today.’

  Emma nodded. She pondered, looking down at her hands, and then she lifted her head and met Paul’s gaze directly. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me to return from my honeymoon four years ago, so that you could tell me you had written, Paul?’

  Paul gave her a swift glance. ‘What would have been the point of that? It was too late, Emma. I didn’t want to interfere with your marriage. Besides, you might not have believed me. Remember, I was only speculating on what had happened to the letters. I had no proof until I returned to Sydney.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. However, I am surprised Frank never told me.’

  ‘In all fairness to him, he did want me to stay and meet with you. And he even wanted to tell you himself. I asked him not to do so. I thought it pointless. I felt you were lost to me.’ Paul shrugged. ‘At the time, it seemed wiser for me to simply disappear, quickly and quietly.’

  ‘And why are you telling me now, after all this time?’

  ‘I have always wanted to explain, Emma. To exonerate myself with you. The knowledge that I caused you suffering has haunted me. I’ve seen Frank on previous trips to London and he’s kept me informed about your life. But I thought it was inappropriate to come to you, under the circumstances, although I longed to. Last week, when I first arrived, I lunched with Frank. Almost at once he said your marriage wasn’t working. When I heard you were unhappy with Arthur and spending a lot of time alone in London, I decided I would no longer be upsetting anything if I saw you. I insisted Frank arrange this meeting. I did want the chance to vindicate myself,’ he finished, praying fervently that he had.

  Paul leaned across the table, his face tensely set. ‘I know you were shocked to see me, and perhaps it was a little unfair of me to spring myself on you without warning, but quite honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. I hope you’re not angry with me, or with Frank.’

  ‘No, I’m not. And I’m glad we met.’ Emma looked down at the table contemplatively, and when she raised her head to meet Paul’s unwavering gaze her face was grave, her eyes moist. ‘I was as unnerved and as perplexed as you were, when I didn’t hear from you, Paul. And very hurt. Heartbroken, in fact,’ she found herself admitting. ‘It helps knowing the facts, even now so long afterwards.’ Emma smiled wryly. ‘I suppose, really, we are both victims of circumstances—and of Marion Reese’s possessiveness. How different our lives might have been if she had not interfered.’ She shook her head. ‘Why is it some people want to play God?’ she asked, her face wreathed in sadness.

  Paul sighed. ‘I don’t know, Emma. In her case, I imagine it was a truly sick mind at work. You know the old saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” But I will never understand what she hoped to gain. I did not display the slightest interest in her as a woman.’

  ‘People can always hope,’ Emma murmured. ‘And fantasize.’

  ‘That’s so,’ Paul acknowledged. He scrutinized Emma closely for a few seconds and then said quietly. ‘Do you still hate me, Emma?’

  A look of surprise flashed across her face. ‘I never hated you, Paul!’ She half smiled. ‘Well, at least only fleetingly, when my emotions overcame me. You can’t blame me for that.’

  ‘I don’t blame you at all.’ Paul shifted in the chair and lit a cigarette to hide his nervousness. ‘I wondered—would it be possible—could we be friends, Emma? Now that the air is cleared between us. Or is that too much to ask?’ He held his breath.

  Emma dropped her eyes, feeling suddenly wary. Dare she expose herself to him again, if only in friendship? She had been acutely conscious of him as a man from the moment he had arrived. He was just as dangerous to her as he had been in the past. Despite her inherent caution, she finally said slowly, ‘Yes, Paul, if you want that.’

  ‘I do,’ Paul responded firmly. He looked at her in his old appraising way, his eyes admiring. She was composed and as beautiful as always. Time had not marked her exquisite face, although he detected a certain sadness in her eyes when her face was in repose. He had to curb the compelling desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. He did not even dare to touch her hand. He must be careful if he was to win her back and possess her completely again. He saw her glance at her watch and his heart sank. He said quickly, impulsively, ‘Have dinner with me, Emma.’

  ‘Oh, Paul, I can’t,’ she said, flustered.

  ‘Why not? Do you have another engagement?’

  ‘No, but I—’

  ‘Please, Emma. For old times’ sake.’ He smiled engagingly and his brilliantly blue eyes danced. ‘I’m not afraid. Are you?’

  ‘Why should I be afraid?’ Emma countered defensively, staring at him. Her heart missed a beat. He was hard to resist.

  ‘You have no reason at all, I can assure you,’ Paul chuckled, relaxing for the first time. As the tension slipped away he took command with his usual panache. ‘Then it’s settled. Where would you like to go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emma said, feeling curiously weak and so overpowered she was incapable of declining the invitation again.

  ‘Let’s go to Rules across the street in Covent Garden. Do you know it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never dined there.’

  ‘It’s a charming old place. I know you’ll like it,’ he said, and motioned to the waiter for the bill.

  They were halfway through dinner when Paul said, somewhat abruptly, ‘Why did your marriage go wrong, Emma?’

  Emma was so startled by the unanticipated question she did not answer for a long moment. Because I still loved you, she wanted to say. Instead she murmured, ‘Because Arthur and I are incompatible.’

  ‘I see. What’s he like?’ Paul questioned, riddled with curiosity and not a little jealousy.
<
br />   Emma said carefully, ‘He’s handsome, charming, and from a good family. But he’s also a little weak. And rather vain.’ She glanced back at Paul and said quietly, ‘He’s not the type of man you would have much in common with.’

  Nor you apparently, my love, Paul thought, but said, ‘Are you going to get a divorce?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Are you?’ she retorted, and caught her breath, regretting the question.

  Paul’s face changed, settled into harsh lines. ‘Well, I asked for that one, I suppose,’ he responded quietly. ‘I want a divorce, Emma. I have for many years. However, I have some serious difficulties with Constance.’ He paused, ruminated briefly, and went on. ‘My wife is an alcoholic. She was a heavy drinker before the war. That is one of the reasons the marriage broke up. By the time I returned to Sydney she was a lost cause. I put her in a nursing home at once. She ran away, just after I had buried Dad. It took me five weeks to find her and she was in a pretty ghastly state. Physically debilitated and mentally deranged as well. That was why I couldn’t come to England when I wanted to—I had to see her settled first. Believe me, I was infuriated. I don’t want to sound callous, but I have tried to help Constance over the years, to no avail. She won’t help herself. I lost my patience a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Emma said grimly. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. Truly sorry. It’s a terrible situation for anyone to cope with. Is she still in the nursing home?’

  ‘Yes, she is. They have dried her out, but she is very weak in every way and not capable of looking after herself, or functioning normally. She will have to be institutionalized permanently, I imagine. Constance is a Roman Catholic, Emma, so that is another impediment to the divorce. Nonetheless, I haven’t given up hope of gaining my freedom one day.’ Paul took a sip of Montrachet. After a moment he continued, ‘There is something else I must tell you, Emma. It’s about my son.’ He hesitated. ‘Howard is—well, he’s retarded, I’m afraid. That’s what I meant earlier when I said he had problems.’

  Emma was stunned. The pain on his face was raw. ‘Oh, Paul! Paul! How awfully tragic. And what a heavy burden for you to carry alone.’ Compassion flooded her face and her eyes softened. ‘Why ever didn’t you tell me years ago? Surely you knew I would have been sympathetic, and talking about your son might have helped you.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should have told you, Emma. I think I was a little ashamed, to tell you the truth. Especially after I had met your children. Also, I have always found it hard to discuss Howard. I love him, of course. However, my emotions are mixed. My heart aches for him. I also carry enormous guilt. And sometimes I…—’ Paul frowned. ‘I am reluctant to admit this, and I never have to another soul, but at times I almost hate him. I know I shouldn’t. Yet I can’t help it. I hope you don’t despise me for that.’

  Emma’s heart went out to him. ‘I don’t despise you, Paul. I know that parents of retarded children often do experience hatred. It apparently springs from frustration and despair. Truly, your feelings are not abnormal.’ Impulsively she reached out and touched his arm. ‘You must feel very helpless. How old is Howard?’

  ‘He’s twelve, Emma. And, yes, I do feel absolutely despairing most of the time.’ He shook his head. ‘Nature plays strange tricks. You know, he is a lovely-looking boy. He has a sweet, almost ethereal face and the most gentle eyes. And the mind of a five-year-old.’ Paul ran his hand across his face wearily. ‘And he’ll never be any different!’

  Emma was silent, filled with sorrow, and she did not know how to comfort him. Eventually, she asked, ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Out at the sheep station in Coonamble. He has a male companion-nurse who is devoted to him. My housekeeper is there and quite a large domestic staff. When I’m at Dunoon I spend a great deal of time with him, although I’m quite sure he doesn’t really know I’m around. He lives in his own very special world.’ Paul lit a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to pile all my problems on you tonight. I never discuss them with anyone.’ He grimaced. ‘I must admit, though, I have felt rather defeated by my personal life in the past few years. It is so arid and unrewarding. Thank you for listening, for being so understanding.’

  ‘I have been far enough down to know what the realities of life are, Paul,’ Emma said. ‘My life has never been easy. Whatever you might think.’

  He looked at her attentively, his eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure it hasn’t, Emma.’

  ‘But then life is hard, Paul. The important thing is how one copes with the hardships and overcomes them.’ She smiled her dauntless smile. ‘Let’s face it, Paul, neither of us are too badly off. Not when you look around and see other people’s problems. We are both successful. Wealthy. In good health. We are also fortunate in that we have our work.’

  Paul gazed at her. He thought: She truly is a rare woman. He said, ‘Yes, I have buried myself in work these last few years, as I’m sure you have. And you are right, Emma. Our lives are not too bad. We must be grateful for all the good things we do have.’ He smiled at her lovingly. ‘Thank you again. I’m glad I told you about Constance and Howard. I feel a great sense of relief.’

  ‘I’m glad, too.’

  Paul lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Emma. You are a wise and understanding lady. I’m so happy we are going to be friends again, aren’t you?’

  Emma touched his glass with hers. ‘Yes, I think I am, Paul.’

  ‘Well, enough of all this misery. Let’s talk about something more cheerful.’

  Emma smiled at him. ‘Tell me about your oil fields in Texas, and the Sydney-Texas Oil Company. I was very intrigued when you mentioned your new venture earlier.’

  After dinner Paul escorted Emma home to her small house in Wilton Mews, just off Belgrave Square. He helped her out of the cab, told the driver to wait, and saw her inside. He kissed her tentatively on the cheek. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Emma. May I call you soon?’

  ‘Yes, Paul. And thank you. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Emma.’

  Later, when she was in bed, Emma lay awake for a long time, musing on the evening. Paul McGill’s dramatic reappearance in her life was the last thing she had ever anticipated. Life was full of staggering surprises. She dwelt momentarily on Marion Reese. If Paul had not been the man he undoubtedly was, then perhaps that frustrated woman might never have loved him…might never have stolen the letters. If Paul had only written to Frank…If she had not rushed into marriage with Arthur. If…if…if. She sighed inwardly. It was such a waste of time dwelling on what might have been. And surely their characters had made their destinies. Her heart filled with sadness as her wandering thoughts settled on the tragic circumstances of Paul’s life. He who was so virile, and extra-ordinarily brilliant, must surely chafe under the burdens he had to carry. His life was as difficult and sterile as her own. She realized then, with a flash of surprise, that she had enjoyed the evening, once she had recovered from her initial shock and anger. She wondered if he had merely wanted to see her to set the record straight, or if he had been motivated by other reasons. Did he still love her? She did not know the answer to that. She shivered. One thing she did know: She was mortally afraid of his persuasive charm and of being engulfed by it again. She endeavoured to push him out of her mind, but when she finally fell asleep she was still thinking about Paul McGill.

  FIFTY-THREE

  ‘You look as if you’re about to commit murder,’ Winston said quietly, drawing to a standstill next to Paul McGill. He followed Paul’s gaze, which was resting with loathing on Arthur Ainsley. ‘He’s asinine,’ Winston went on. ‘Don’t pay any attention to him. Frank and I don’t.’

  Paul swung to Winston, his expression one of mingled anger and disgust. ‘He makes my blood boil! The preposterous fool has embarrassed Emma all through lunch and now he’s compounding his execrable behaviour. The bloody imbecile. Apart from the fact that he can’t hold his liquor, he can’t keep his hands off the other women present. Emma must be mort
ified.’

  Winston smiled thinly, his animosity for Arthur barely concealed. ‘I know. You don’t have to tell me. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool bastard. And furthermore, I’m quite sure he does it on purpose. As for Emma, she appears not to notice. That’s sheer defensiveness, of course. You know my sister. She doesn’t miss a trick.’ Winston shook his head. ‘I’ll be glad when Frank and Natalie are married next week, and these interminable luncheons and dinners end. Then we won’t have to suffer Ainsley’s continuing presence.’

  ‘He’s a bit of an unsavoury character, isn’t he?’ Paul probed. Winston was silent, and Paul continued, ‘I know a lot of Englishmen of his particular upbringing and education do have somewhat effeminate mannerisms, and that these don’t necessarily indicate a lack of masculinity, but, if I didn’t know differently, I’d swear to God he was a raving homosexual. Don’t you agree, Winston?’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind, and more than once lately. I’ve noticed a change in Arthur over the past few months. Certain tendencies seem to be coming out. Being married to Emma and fathering the twins doesn’t necessarily preclude sexual deviation, although I’ve no evidence to prove that about him. And he does go after women all the time.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Perhaps he likes both sexes. That’s not unheard of, you know—bisexuality.’

  ‘I wish to God my sister had never married him. We all tried to stop her, but she’s very stubborn. She was on the rebound, of course.’

  ‘I realize that only too well,’ Paul muttered, and looked down at the drink in his hand. ‘You don’t have to rub it in.’

  Winston drew Paul into a secluded corner of Lionel Stewart’s drawing room, where the guests had gathered after a prenuptial luncheon. Winston, who had always liked Paul, had discovered that his admiration and empathy for the Australian had only increased over the past ten days when, at various social functions, they had been thrown together and had gravitated to each other. Now he said, in a confidential tone, ‘Frank tells me you have been seeing quite a lot of Emma during the last month. I’m happy about that.’ Observing the look of astonishment flit across Paul’s handsome face, Winston grinned. ‘I know you regard me as the protective older brother, so I just wanted you to know that I approve, in spite of the complications in your very complicated lives. Emma needs a man like you, Paul. To be accurate, she needs you. You’re about the only man I know who is strong enough to handle her on a permanent basis. She can be quite intimidating. Most men can’t cope with an independent and brilliant woman—albeit a very alluring one!’