Just Rewards (Harte Family Saga)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “You’d better not let Toby and Natalie hear you say that,” he warned, sipping his tea, reaching for a ginger biscuit.

  “As if I would …” Paula paused, looked across at her husband thoughtfully, her violet eyes suddenly filled with puzzlement. Then she sat back on the sofa, shaking her head.

  Shane, forever tuned in to her, said, “What is it? Come on, let’s have it.”

  “Tessa said a funny thing the other day. She said that Toby’s not her best friend anymore, that she never hears from him. Well, hardly ever. She sounds a bit sad, actually.”

  “Those two have been as thick as thieves since they were kids together, so I’m not surprised she’s upset if he’s pulled away from her. And yet that in itself is not surprising to me, Paula. They’re both in the middle of divorces, and he’s at a loose end, while she’s involved with another man before her divorce has even come through. Personally, I think Toby’s nose is out of joint. I always believed he was sweet on Tessa.” When she remained silent, Shane pressed, “Didn’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” Paula admitted and gave him a faint smile. “Although I’m not sure it would have worked, no, not at all. They’re so much alike in so many ways.”

  Leaning forward across the coffee table, Paula continued, “I’m quite a fan of Jean-Claude’s. I think she needs an older man, one who will give her love and support, but I don’t think their romance will lead to marriage.”

  “Because of her career?” Shane suggested. When Paula said nothing in response, he let his eyes rest on her speculatively. “Come on, Paula, you know that’s the reason. She’s very ambitious, and she always has been. Tessa wants the top job at Harte’s. She’ll probably put it before Jean-Claude in the end.”

  “Everything you say is true, but I was thinking of him, of Jean-Claude. He might not want to get married, Shane.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine there, but I do know one thing … . Tessa may look fragile, even delicate, and in need of protection, but she has a streak of strength, even toughness in her, and she’s not a Harte for nothing, you know.”

  “Yes, you’re right, and I’ve noticed that she refers to herself as a Harte these days. It wasn’t too long ago she insisted she was all Fairley. Quite a volte-face.”

  “I know, on the other—”

  “Am I interrupting?” Linnet asked from the doorway, and, not waiting for her parents to answer, she hurried into the room. After kissing Paula on the cheek, she flopped down next to her father and hugged him. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she went on. “I know how much you two lovebirds like to have this particular time to be alone together.”

  “It’s all right,” Shane answered, gazing at his daughter, his eyes full of love for her.

  “I bet Margaret told you I’ve invited Great-Aunt Edwina and Uncle Robin to dinner—she’s such a chatterbox,” Linnet remarked.

  “She mentioned it in passing,” Paula replied. “I wasn’t quite sure why you did it, though, unless you’re simply being cordial.”

  “No, there’s a reason, Mummy,” Linnet admitted. “I need to speak privately to Edwina before Robin comes. You see, I’ve got to explain why she has to drill some sense into him.”

  “About what?” Paula asked.

  “Having the Hughes family to stay at Lackland Priory during the wedding festivities. It won’t work, and it could be very troublesome.”

  “Why is that?” Shane asked.

  Paula experienced a flash of insight. Jonathan, she thought. It’s to do with him. Somehow. Dismay hit her like a punch in the chest. She sat very still, as always upset when she thought of her treacherous cousin, of his violent behavior when they were young.

  Linnet explained, “Jack Figg called me this morning to tell me that Jonathan Ainsley has parked himself at his house in Thirsk. Jack believes he could easily pop over to see his father and run slap-bang into Owen Hughes. Jack says that kind of encounter could prove dangerous.”

  “By God, that’s a possibility!” Shane interjected.

  Paula made no comment.

  “Didn’t you speak to Jack, Mummy? He said he was going to phone you.”

  Paula shook her head. “I’ve been at Beck House all day with Aunt Emily. I guess my mobile was off. So Jack couldn’t have reached me even if he’d tried. Anyway, Linnet, I could have talked to Uncle Robin quite easily. He does listen to me.”

  “But you’ve enough to do with all these wedding arrangements and the reception. I thought Edwina was definitely the best other person to convince him they should be put up somewhere else.”

  “I understand,” Paula said.

  “I wish I’d come over to Beck House this afternoon after all.” Linnet shook her head. “But Julian and I had some other things we had to do. I could have explained then, couldn’t I?”

  “It doesn’t matter, darling.”

  Shane said, “But where would they stay?”

  “I thought they could go to Aunt Emily and Uncle Winston … after all, their son is marrying Owen’s daughter. And there’s lots of room at Allington Hall. The adoptees could stay there as well.”

  “Adoptees,” Shane spluttered, “that’s a peculiar way to describe Evan’s sisters, whom I assume you’re referring to.”

  “Adopted sisters, Dad,” Linnet corrected him.

  “Do be careful how you describe them to other people, Linnet,” Paula cautioned. “You mustn’t sound disrespectful.”

  Shane interjected, “You don’t like them much by the sound of it. And I didn’t know they were here already.”

  “They’re not,” Linnet said. “Well, one of them is. Angharad. I found her strange, Daddy.”

  “I see. Your mother’s right, Linny, do be careful how you speak of these girls in public. And anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Yes, Dad.” Looking across at her mother, Linnet now said, “I hope you don’t mind me taking charge of this problem, Mummy.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You’re becoming a regular Margaret Thatcher, aren’t you, Linnet?” Shane teased.

  “All Yorkshire women are Margaret Thatchers in the making, Dad. Bossy and controlling. Surely you know that.”

  Shane laughed, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible!”

  Paula looked from her husband to her daughter and smiled in amusement. She decided she wasn’t going to give any thought to Jonathan Ainsley and the trouble he might make. At least not today. Nor did she want to deal with Robin. She said evenly, and with a certain sense of relief, “I’m sure Jack is correct about lodging them somewhere else, Linnet, and thanks for taking charge. Since you’ve started the ball rolling, I’m going to let you continue. Go ahead and deal with Edwina and Robin, and do so with my blessing.”

  “Oh thanks, Mums, I’m glad you agree. Well, I’d better go and change into something a little bit more suitable for dinner.” Jumping up, she blew her parents a kiss and hurried off.

  When they were alone, Shane said, “To me she seems more like Emma every day.” He pushed himself to his feet, went and stood in front of the fireplace. “She’s nobody’s fool either.”

  Paula also got up, walked over to him, put her arms around him, and nestled her head against his chest. He was the love of her life; actually, he was her life. “I know she’s smart and bright and quick, you don’t have to tell me that. And yes, she is like Grandy. It’s quite strange for me sometimes …” Paula paused and then quietly added, “I feel as if I’m listening to my grandmother speaking. It’s as if Grandy has been reincarnated in my daughter.”

  “Perhaps she has,” Shane responded, and mystic Celt that he was, he didn’t think there was anything odd about his reply.

  Paula murmured, “There’s always the specter of Jonathan Ainsley hanging over our heads.” Her voice trailed off, and she held on to him tighter, fear running through her.

  “Let’s not blow things out of proportion,” Shane answered, wanting to soothe her worries. “He has a house here in Yorkshire, so obviously he’
s going to come and live in it from time to time.”

  “But why now all of a sudden, with another family wedding pending? He wants to make trouble, hurt someone, as he tried to do when Linnet and Julian got married last month.”

  “Oh, it’s just a coincidence,” Shane said swiftly. But he couldn’t help wondering if he was wrong and Paula was right. Worry now shot through him, and he decided to speak to Winston later. These thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and before either of them could answer, Tessa walked in, with Jean-Claude in her wake.

  Shane and Paula quickly stood apart, and Paula said, “I hear you’re making a wonderful lamb stew for dinner, darling.” As she spoke she smiled, beckoned for them to come closer. “How are you, Jean-Claude?” she asked, moving toward him, her smile intact, her eyes warm.

  Shane followed, extending his hand to the Frenchman. After greetings were exchanged, Tessa said, “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

  “Not at all,” Paula said. “Let’s go and sit by the fire.”

  Once they were settled, Tessa looked at her mother and then at Shane, and said in an excited tone, “We’ve become engaged.”

  “This is just wonderful!” Paula exclaimed in surprise. But her face filled with warmth and love instantly. “Congratulations, Tessa … Jean-Claude.”

  “Thank you,” Jean-Claude said and added, “I’m very glad to see you approve.”

  “I’ll say we do!” Shane exclaimed. “Very much so. Congratulations.”

  Tessa beamed and then held out her hand to show them her diamond engagement ring.

  “It’s beautiful,” Paula said, her happiness growing more apparent. Looking from Tessa to Jean-Claude, she went on, “I’m thrilled. It looks as if we’ve now got something wonderful to celebrate tonight. It’s going to be a lovely dinner party with so many of the family coming. And I’d like to welcome you, welcome you to our family, Jean-Claude. It’s wonderful that you are going to be part of us.”

  11

  The man took the key out of his pocket and inserted it in the lock of the back door. He turned it and smiled as the door opened easily. Stepping into the kitchen, he shut the door and glanced around.

  It was late afternoon and the light was dim in the kitchen, but he resisted turning on the lights. Instead he went on into the front hall, took off his overcoat, hung it in the closet, and then walked through the various rooms on the ground floor.

  There were moments when he wanted to laugh out loud as he moved through the space, surveying everything, chuckling with pleasure and pride in his own deviousness.

  Paula O’Neill would have a heart attack if she knew he had a key to this house. But he did, it was in his hand; now he dropped it into his pocket, still smiling to himself. He had a key to the back door at Pennistone Royal as well. She would have a triple heart attack if she knew that. He guffawed aloud, his laughter echoing hollowly through the empty house.

  How clever he had been all those years ago when he was a teenager. At that time he had had the keys copied for himself, and nobody, not even his canny grandmother, had been any the wiser. And nobody had ever changed the locks at Pennistone Royal. Or here at Heron’s Nest in Scarborough.

  Dumb, he said to himself. My cousins are indeed dumb. Paula O’Neill most especially. She ought to have known better. Locks should always be changed from time to time. Precautions always taken. Against people like him. Even Jack Figg was stupid. As if he didn’t know that Figg had a tail on him. He laughed to himself. A tail was easy to lose.

  The furniture in all the rooms was covered in sheets, the curtains partially drawn, and this gave the place a ghostly, eerie feeling. Yet this did not trouble him one iota. He did not believe in the supernatural, and, anyway, he had nerves of steel; nothing fazed him. Not ever.

  As he went up the staircase, he noted yet again how neat the house was, thanks to the caretaker who came in once a week to check the heating system and pipes. Although the house was not used much by the family anymore, especially in the winter months, Paula O’Neill made sure it was in good condition. As some sort of ridiculous tribute to Emma Harte, no doubt, who had loved this house and favored it more than any of her other holiday homes.

  As he walked into the bedroom that had been his as a boy, it never occurred to him that his cousin loved Heron’s Nest as much as their grandmother had, and that it held many fond and sentimental memories for her. He knew little about sentiment.

  Jonathan Ainsley opened the draperies and stood looking out the window at the gardens below and the sea beyond, stretching into infinity. Heron’s Nest stood on a little promontory, and he had always thought his room had one of the best views in the house. He still did.

  Under the pale sun, the sea was gleaming brightly this afternoon. It was smooth, hardly a ripple on the surface, and it had a grayish green patina that reminded him of the glaze-like surface of ancient jade. Automatically his hand went into his pocket, his long fingers curling around the piece of mutton-fat jade that he believed brought him good joss—good luck—because it had been blessed in a very special way by a beautiful and charismatic woman. Jasmine Wu-Jen. He thought of her now. He had missed her during this sojourn in Paris and London.

  There had been times when he had thought of flying her in from Hong Kong, but invariably he changed his mind at the last minute. She wouldn’t fit in here. She was too exotic. Too disturbing. Better she remained where she was. In her home high on the Peak above the teeming city he had always loved, a home he had given to her when she became his possession.

  Turning away from the window for a moment, he let his eyes roam around the room, taking in all of the possessions from his youth. He had never removed them from here, preferring instead to let them stay intact on the bookshelves. Many of them were trifling things. Odd-looking or unusual pebbles and shells from the beach, an ancient miner’s lamp made of brass, a small stuffed bird in a glass case, a big jar of multicolored marbles, and, in another glass case, an old Roman coin he had found on the moors above Scarborough, which as a teenager he had considered his most prized possession.

  He still liked to walk across the moors and along the sea cliffs, as he had as a boy. He had loved history when he was growing up, and it had been easy for him to envision battles and skirmishes amongst the hills, conflicts at sea, those violent and bloody encounters that were part of the story of this island race he came from.

  He turned back to the window and gazed out again, thinking of times past when there had been so much strife in this land, and often strife within families. Brother against brother, cousin against cousin. The royal houses of York and Lancaster in mortal combat, cousins warring with each other to gain the ultimate in power, the crown of England. That most glittering prize.

  There’s nothing new under the sun, he thought suddenly. I am prepared to do battle with Paula O’Neill to get what I want. It was no longer Harte’s. He knew now that this would be an impossible undertaking. But he could still have his revenge on her by destroying those things she held dear. Her husband, Shane, long ago his friend … her children … and, of course, that little jewel, Adele Longden, her only grandchild.

  He thought of Mark Longden with a rush of bitterness. What a waste of time he had been ultimately. No guts. Jonathan was convinced that it was Mark who had betrayed him last November by alerting Jack Figg that a gang of yobbos were going to rumble into Pennistone village to create havoc at the December wedding of Linnet O’Neill and Julian Kallinski. The scheme had almost worked; it would have if Mark had not lost his nerve.

  The woman slowed her car as she came to the end of the main road and turned onto a patch of dirt, parking under an ancient tree. As she got out of her car and locked it, she glanced at the tree, so old its roots protruded like knotted fingers reaching out of the earth to grasp for life. It had hardly changed, had looked like this since her childhood, when she had first come here with her mother. It had always fascinated her.

  Moving away from the car, crossing the main road, sh
e saw that the area ahead was deserted this afternoon. But then, it was chilly and a sharp wind was blowing up from the sea; few people would venture out on a bitter day like this, not even the dog owners who were dedicated to their pets and made a walk along the cliffs a daily ritual.

  As she finally came up onto the cliffs, the woman could see the house in the distance, standing on its little promontory, and she struck out toward it, striding briskly along the path high above the North Sea. Below her the waves foamed and frothed around the clusters of rocks, but farther out it was calm and flat, glittering like glass in the pale sunlight, a greenish gray reflecting the anthracite-colored sky.

  The path led directly to the back gate of the house, and it would take her exactly nine minutes to walk there. When she had been small, it had taken her double that time as she trotted along next to her mother.

  She was a tall woman, slender, with a mass of black, curly hair tied back in a ponytail. Her eyes were the color of coal under perfectly arched black brows; she had a broad forehead, a sharply defined nose, and a long neck. Although she was not beautiful in the classical sense, she was attractive, very striking.

  When she was a child, her friends had called her Gypsy, because of her dusky complexion and jet-black hair; her coloring resembled that of the Romany women who traveled across the countryside from fair to fair, the women who lived in gypsy caravans and told fortunes by reading palms, looking into glass globes or at tea leaves.

  But gypsy she was not. The woman was a mixture of Irish and Scottish. Her mother had frequently told her when she was growing up that she was a true Celt but also a throwback to her Black Irish ancestors, who in turn were descended from the sailors shipwrecked when the Great Armada from Spain had foundered off the coast of Ireland in Elizabethan times.

  Matched to her striking looks were her striking clothes—elegant, expensive, and colorful. No shrinking violet, she usually selected vibrant colors, particularly in the red—amethyst—purple—royal blue—violet spectrum, shades that suited her and made her stand out wherever she went.