A Woman of Substance

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Emma blinked back her tears. ‘Poor Edwin. Poor Edwin,’ she said in a voice that quavered. ‘I think perhaps your grandfather suffered more than I did, after all.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did,’ Jim said. His face became intense. ‘You do forgive the Fairleys, don’t you, Mrs Harte? And Grandfather in particular.’

  ‘I forgive them, Jim. All of them, and most especially Edwin.’ She touched Jim’s face lightly, and with affection. But it was Edwin she now saw kneeling before her. I’ve spent a lifetime seeking revenge for what you did to me, she thought. But it wasn’t really necessary. Your own conscience did my work for me. If only I had known. What a lot of pain and effort it would have saved. You wanted me to win. It was a salve for your overwhelming guilt. That’s why you looked so relieved when I stole the Gazette from you. You knew the vendetta was finally over.

  ‘Mrs Harte, are you all right?’ Jim asked anxiously.

  Emma blinked and stared at him. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Now be good enough to lend me your handkerchief. I can’t go downstairs to announce your engagement with tears streaming down my face, now can I?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned you can do anything you want,’ Jim said as he handed her his handkerchief.

  Emma blew her nose and said, ‘I was going to tell you tonight that I had borne your grandfather’s child, Jim. I wanted you to know. My eldest daughter, the Countess of Dunvale, is your Aunt Edwina. Or rather, your half aunt.’

  ‘I guessed as much when I met her this evening.’ Jim grinned. ‘She looks like a Fairley, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  Emma chuckled. ‘She does indeed. She used to be the spitting image of your great-grandmother, Adele, when she was younger. Now, give an old woman your arm and escort me downstairs to greet my family.’

  ‘I will be honoured,’ Jim said.

  SIXTY-ONE

  The dinner had been in progress for some time. Emma sat at the head of the long mahogany table in her splendidly appointed Adam dining room, surrounded by her children, their spouses, and her grandchildren. The food was superb, the wines were excellent, and now a certain conviviality prevailed. Everyone appeared to be relaxed, their jealousies, hatreds, and differences buried or well concealed behind their smiling facades.

  All the clowns wear masks, Emma thought, borrowing a line from a poem she had once read, for she detected an undercurrent of tension in the atmosphere, although to a degree it was less pronounced than when she had arrived in the drawing room earlier, on the arm of Jim Fairley. Her grandchildren, who loved her dearly and were fiercely loyal to her, had greeted her with enthusiasm and great affection, the camaraderie they shared most apparent. Her children had been amiable enough, if somewhat reserved, but Emma had been conscious of a cautiousness in some, veiled hostility in others, a wariness in them all, with the exception of Daisy.

  She had been sardonically amused to see that the four conspirators had assiduously avoided each other. However, she had not missed the apprehensive glances Kit and Robin had occasionally exchanged when they thought they were unobserved, yet they, too, had remained aloof from one another. Even Elizabeth, who was as close to Robin as ever, had adroitly sidestepped her twin, hovering attentively over Blackie, fawning and flattering him. Edwina had remained by the side of her son all through the cocktail hour. The engagement had been announced, champagne toasts given, congratulations effusively offered, and despite their obvious surprise when they learned she had accepted a Fairley into the bosom of her family, her children’s expressions had hardly slipped.

  Now, in the flickering candlelight, as she toyed with the dessert on her plate, Emma looked up from time to time, surreptitiously regarding the four culprits, her green eyes watchful beneath the hooded lids. She had the advantage. A lifetime’s experience in dealing with people had augmented her natural ability to assess her children’s individual capacities and handicaps. She had discovered their flaws long ago and they no longer baffled or surprised her. She could read each one like an open book. After tonight she would not have to bother. The book would be closed.

  Her eyes rested briefly on Kit. How like Joe Lowther he had become over the years Plodding, phlegmatic, and lacking in imagination or initiative. And what a monumental fool he had been to throw his lot in with Robin, who would double-cross him at the drop of a hat. She shifted her glance to the latter. How handsome Robin looks tonight, she thought, and experienced a twinge of pain. Robin had always been her favourite son and the knowledge that he had been the instigator of the plot hurt more than she had realized. He was urbane and suave, the true dyed-in-the-wool politician, facile of tongue, the deal maker. Unfortunately, like his father, Arthur Ainsley, his overweening vanity was his fatal flaw, and it constantly obscured his judgements.

  In many ways his twin sister was much shrewder than he, except that she rarely bothered to exercise that capacity. Emma glanced at Elizabeth, swathed in silver lamé and turquoise chiffon and dripping diamonds. Her problem was a desire to pursue pleasure to the exclusion of all else. Just like her father, too.

  At forty-seven Elizabeth was still stunning, the real beauty of the family, but she was more highly strung than in her youth, brittle, and immature in innumerable ways. Emma thought: She’s a dreadfully unhappy woman. But then, when was Elizabeth ever happy? And how many husbands had she had since she divorced Tony Barkstone, father of Alexander and Emily? Emma had almost lost count. There had been Michael Villiers and then Derek Linde, by whom she had had the twins, Amanda and Francesca. After their birth Elizabeth had lost the taste for Englishmen, and had sought out more exotic fare. A Polish prince with an unpronounceable name, to be followed in quick succession by the Italian count, who was a good fifteen years younger. Some count, Emma thought dryly. More like a gigolo.

  Emma now observed that the count was being excessively attentive to Edwina, who in turn was playing the role of the Dowager Countess of Dunvale to the hilt, acting condescendingly and with a display of superiority that was nauseating. How transparent Edwina was. After tonight, with the information she now had about her paternity, she would really feel obliged to turn up her snooty nose at the world.

  Well, so much for those four, Emma remarked to herself with cold detachment. Little joy or comfort they’ve offered me in my old age. But they did give me my grandchildren and for that I will be eternally grateful. Emma put down her fork and sat back in her chair, smiling benignly. But her eyes were for ever watchful and if any of them had looked more closely they would have detected a cynical light glittering in their ancient depths. She moved her head and peered down the table at Blackie, who sat in the host’s chair, stately and distinguished. His hair was snow white but still abundant and wavy, his skin glowed with ruddy health, and his black eyes were as merry as they had been sixty years ago. He had become a majestic figure of a man, his bulk undiminished, his mind unimpaired, and he carried his old age blithely. He had outlived Winston and Frank, who had both died in the early 1960s within a year of each other, and David Kallinski, who had passed on in the summer of 1967. There are only the two of us left now, Emma thought. And Blackie will go on for ever. He’s an old warhorse. But then, so am I.

  Emily, who was sitting further down the table, caught Emma’s attention, rolling her eyes upward, silently mouthing words Emma could not understand. She frowned and motioned for Emily to come to the head of the table.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Emily? You look as if you’re having a fit!’

  Emily bent forward and whispered, ‘It’s Aunt Edwina, Grandy. She’s three sheets to the wind, and tilting. As usual. It’s all that wine she’s guzzled, plus the four scotches and the champagne before dinner. If you ask me, she’s got a drinking problem. She’s getting awfully snotty with Gianni. I know you don’t like him, but he’s harmless and he’s good to the twins and Mummy. I think she’s been abominably rude and he’s so uncomfortable. Mummy’s bombed, too. Not that that’s so unusual these days. Shouldn’t Hilda serve coffee?’

  Emma pat
ted Emily’s arm affectionately. ‘Good girl. I’m glad you told me. Now, do me a small favour and run upstairs. You’ll find my briefcase in the parlour. Put it behind the desk in the library.’

  ‘I will, Grandy. In just one minute.’ Emily returned to her place at the table, reached over, and picked up her glass. She stood behind her chair and cleared her throat loudly. ‘Please, be quiet, everyone!’ she pronounced in a strong voice. The buzz of conversation stopped abruptly and they all looked at her in surprise.

  The self-confident Emily, who was never put out by anything, exclaimed, ‘Far be it from me, as a member of the younger generation of this family, to suggest that someone here has been remiss tonight. But I would like to point out that no one has proposed a toast to Grandmother, who has just recovered from a serious illness. I think we should drink to her continuing good health. For we all love her very dearly—’

  Emily paused and glared at Robin and Kit, whom she detested. Her green eyes, so like Emma’s, were condemning. ‘And so I am going to propose a toast to her. To Emma Harte. A great lady. To whom we all owe so much. May she be with us for a long time to come. To Emma Harte!’

  ‘To Emma Harte!’ they said in unison, raising their glasses.

  Emma was moved by Emily’s gesture. But, perhaps more importantly, she was proud of her twenty-one-year-old granddaughter. She’s got guts, that one, Emma thought, and she’s not afraid of anyone, least of all her uncles. Emma took in the furious expressions on the faces of her sons, and she concealed a small smile as she rose to her feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, inclining her head. ‘And now let us adjourn to the library for coffee and liqueurs.’ And the last round, she added silently, thinking of the winning cards she had up her sleeve.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The library was a large room with a high-flung ceiling and mullioned windows looking out on to the grounds. With its western aspect and early eighteenth-century pine panelling, it made a gracious setting for the fine antique tables and cabinets, the grand Chippendale desk, the many books, the comfortable sofas covered in light green floral chintz, the dark green velvet chairs and matching draperies.

  Emma walked briskly across the Aubusson carpet that covered the dark wood floor and stood in front of the massive carved stone fireplace, the original that dated back to 1611, when Pennistone Royal had been built. She spread her hands and warmed them in front of the log fire and then looked up at the overmantel that soared to the ceiling. Her eyes settled on the relief in its centre. How appropriate, she thought, with a faint ironic smile. It depicted the Judgement of Solomon.

  Emma swung round as Emily hurried in breathlessly. She held up the briefcase, grinned, and deposited it behind the desk, and then flitted over to the fireplace, the red chiffon flaring out behind her. She hugged Emma. ‘I do adore this dress, Grandy. Thank you again for giving it to me.’

  Smiling affectionately, Emma touched Emily’s cheek, the gesture tender. ‘You may also keep the earrings, dear.’

  Emily gasped. ‘Oh, I couldn’t! Are you sure?’ Emily stared at her grandmother, her eyes sparkling. ‘You do mean it. I can tell by the look on your face. Oh, you are a darling. Thank you. Oh, gosh!’ She broke off and her young face fell. ‘Mummy’s going to be as mad as hell. She was furious when she saw me wearing them.’

  Emma swallowed a smile. ‘I think I can dispose of my jewellery any way I like, Emily. It’s none of your mother’s business, or anybody else’s for that matter. Don’t give it another thought.’

  Sarah, Kit’s only child, appeared in the doorway. She made a striking picture in her bottle-green velvet gown, her russetgold hair tumbling around her freckled face to soften her angular features. Thank God she doesn’t take after her father or her grandfather, Joe, Emma thought, as Sarah joined them at the fireplace.

  The twenty-six-year-old tucked her arm through Emma’s possessively and said with a frown. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with my father. He’s been edgy all evening. I just ran into him in the Stone Hall talking to Uncle Robin. They both looked like thunder and seemed to be having a terrible row. I hope they won’t spoil this lovely party with their bickering. They’re impossible, as usual.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing of any consequence, Sarah. Don’t worry,’ Emma said. She thought: So, the conspirators are at each other’s throats. Not surprising.

  Emily volunteered in her breathless voice, ‘I think all the oldies have been behaving a bit strange since they got here. Sort of jittery, Grandy. Especially Mummy. But then she’s always a bag of nerves. Oh, well, who cares. We’re having fun.’

  ‘Indeed we are,’ Emma said, and plunged into an animated discussion about business with her granddaughters.

  The others began to stroll in gradually. They seated themselves around the room or clustered in groups. Hilda, the housekeeper, served coffee and the butler dispensed afterdinner drinks and cigars. Blackie strolled over to Emma, nursing a brandy and puffing on a cigar.

  ‘A lovely evening, Emma.’ He peered down into her face. ‘And you look wonderful, mavourneen. If I were two years younger I’d be asking ye to marry me. On the blessed heads of the saints I swear I would,’ he laughed, lapsing into his brogue as he was wont to do of late.

  ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ Emma laughed. Her face sobered. ‘And talking of fools, don’t you think you ought to take it easy with these?’ she asked, indicating the drink and cigar.

  ‘I hardly have to worry about my health at my age. I’m living on borrowed time as it is,’ he exclaimed, and continued, ‘Bryan sends you his love. And I’m happy to announce that Geraldine’s expecting me third grandchild.’

  ‘Congratulations, Blackie. That is wonderful.’

  Elizabeth, who looked feverishly excited, pounced on Blackie and dragged him away, chatting incessantly as she led him over to her husband. Emily and Sarah drifted off and Emma stood alone in front of the fireplace quietly observing the scene. She felt completely at ease with herself and she was enjoying the company of her nine grandchildren, who in their different ways gave her such happiness. One by one, the younger generation gravitated to her. They kept her entertained and warmed her tired heart and she basked in the love that flowed out from them. And her conviction that she had been right in all she had done to preserve her dynasty was more strongly reinforced in her than ever.

  Philip, whom she had recalled from Australia earlier that week, recounted anecdotes about happenings at the sheep station, and as she listened she was filled with fond memories of Dunoon and of the happy times she had spent with Paul and Daisy in that lovely old house. Paul would be proud of his grandchildren, she thought. They turned out well. Philip was as straight as a die, intelligent, and a hard worker, and he was proving himself a good businessman. Along with Paula he would ensure the continued success of the McGill enterprises.

  Emma glanced over at her granddaughter, who was totally absorbed in Jim Fairley and radiating happiness, and her mind turned automatically to the Fairleys. She had brought ruin to that family and she wondered if it had all been worth it. But regrets were a waste of time. She remembered words uttered years before by Paul. ‘Success is the best revenge, Emma,’ he had said. Perhaps her own success would have been enough in the long run, and yet without her hatred for the Fairleys to goad her on she might not have reached the pinnacle. Revenge had been the spur. Now she was in the valley of her life, and after tonight she could relax, secure in the knowledge that all she had built was intact for this generation, and the ones that followed.

  I must get it over with. Be done with it, she said to herself. An hour had already passed and it was time to show her hand. She quietly disengaged herself from the group in front of the fireplace and edged her way around her guests until she was standing in front of her desk at the far end of the room.

  ‘Can I have your attention, please,’ Emma said, walking behind the desk. The buzz of conversation continued unabated. She picked up a glass paperweight and banged it hard on the leather blo
tting pad. There was a lull as they stopped talking and all faces turned to look at her. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable. I have a little family business to go over with you.’

  Glances were anxiously exchanged by some, and they all did as she asked. When they were settled, Emma sat down at the desk and opened her briefcase. She removed the pile of documents and spread them out before her, taking her time. Her glance caught Jonathan’s, who winked and gave her a broad smile. He looks more like Arthur Ainsley than Robin, she mused, shuffling the papers. It’s fortuitous his character is more like mine. She smiled at Jonathan. ‘Please be good enough to get me a glass of water, dear.’ Jonathan sprang up and did as she asked. Emma took a sip, savouring the moment, purposely keeping the plotters on tenterhooks.

  Emma picked up a document at last and her voice rang out:

  ‘I, Emma Harte Lowther Ainsley, of Pennistone Royal, Yorkshire, being of sound mind and body do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all wills and codicils heretofore made by me.’

  A collective gasp rose on the air. Emma paused and lifted her silver head. All eyes were on her and the silence in the room was suddenly so acute a pin dropping would have sounded like a clap of thunder. Emma smiled, deriving malicious enjoyment from the astonished expressions on the faces of her children. Only Daisy and the grandchildren seemed unperturbed.

  Emma smiled, but her eyes were steely. ‘I know it is not the usual practice for a will to be read by the testator, but there is apparently no legal reason why this cannot be done. Unorthodox perhaps, but then, I’ve never been one to conform to the rules.’