Emma's Secret

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘Perhaps that’s so.’

  ‘You and Charlotte are coming, aren’t you? And Randolph?’

  Winston’s face changed, lighting up at the mention of his son, his only child. ‘We’re keeping our fingers crossed that he’ll get leave, if only for a few days. His battleship’s up at Scapa Flow at the moment. But yes, we’re coming. What about your boys?’

  ‘I think Robin will be getting a two-day pass, and hopefully Kit will, too. I know he’s anxious to see June and the baby.’

  Winston’s expression changed yet again, and he almost chortled as he said, ‘And what a smashing little redhead Sarah is…there’s no mistaking that she’s a Harte and your grandchild. She looks just like you–well, at least her colouring is the same.’

  ‘I can’t believe I have a second grandchild…’ Emma stopped abruptly, and sadness settled on her face as she looked across at Winston and asked, ‘Have you heard from Edwina lately? How’s her marriage, and how’s my first grandchild?’

  ‘I did get a short letter recently,’ Winston admitted quietly. ‘But she didn’t say very much. Little Anthony is flourishing, and Jeremy is fine. I thought he was a splendid chap, Emma, when I went to the wedding. Please don’t worry about Edwina. I’m sure she’s happy, and she’ll come round one day.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part.’ Unexpectedly, her face lit up with the extraordinary radiance that had always captivated everyone. ‘Just think, Winston, I’ve got a grandson who’s a lord…Lord Anthony Standish.’

  He smiled, enjoying this sudden flash of pleasure in his sister. Wanting to prolong it, he moved away from the discussion of her recalcitrant and difficult daughter Edwina, and said, ‘How’s Daisy?’

  ‘She’s just a miracle! Of course, even though she’s now left boarding school, there’s no way she can go to a finishing school in Switzerland as Edwina and Elizabeth did. Because of the war. But she doesn’t seem to care. She’s perfectly happy living at home with me and Elizabeth, and thank God they’ve always been the closest of friends. The house is very harmonious.’

  He nodded, relieved that her other two daughters were so devoted to her. Edwina irritated him at times; she was bearing a grudge that went back to her childhood, and she a woman now in her mid-thirties. Ridiculous, he thought, and made up his mind to write a stern letter to his niece. Or perhaps he would phone her at Clonloughlin in Ireland, where she lived with her husband and little son. He would talk to Frank about it; get his brother’s advice.

  ‘Blackie’s also coming on Christmas Day,’ Emma said, interrupting Winston’s thoughts. ‘And hopefully Bryan will get leave.’

  ‘What about David? Is he coming up to London too?’

  ‘Naturally. He’s always attended my Christmas Day lunch, you know that, Winston. The three clans are always together, it’s the one day we celebrate our long friendship. Blackie O’Neill, Emma Harte and David Kallinski. The Three Musketeers, that’s what Frank used to call us…such a long time we’ve been friends. Blackie and I met when I was only fourteen and a half, almost fifteen…in 1904. And I met the Kallinskis about a year later. Thirty-eight years or more…’

  ‘Of great devotion, loyalty and love between the three of you. Do you know how remarkable that is, Emma?’

  ‘Yes, I believe I do.’

  After her brother had left to drive back to Leeds, Emma remained in the upstairs parlour, drifting with her thoughts for a while, enjoying this time of repose and reflection. She had not been here in this house for some time, caught up as she was with the store and her worldwide business enterprises in London. And the war.

  She had missed Pennistone Royal, and she had missed this room. She had always thought it was distinguished by a gentle beauty. It was understated, and not at all pretentious, and yet she knew only too well that its very simplicity was deceptive. It had been achieved by a great expenditure of money when she had decorated it in 1932; she had also been both skilful and patient when she had sought out furniture, knowing that only the very best antiques would do for this splendid and ancient room.

  Now, as she glanced around, she saw how well everything had held up, how beautiful it still looked after ten years. Pale yellow washed over the walls, and this soft, radiant colour gave the room a truly sunny feeling, even on the dullest of overcast Yorkshire days. A dark, highly polished wood floor gleamed against the antique Savonnerie rug that splashed its pale colours into the middle of the room. She had always loved beautiful crystal and silver, and her favourite pieces sparkled against the rich, mellow patinas of the Georgian tables, consoles and chests.

  Two long sofas faced each other in front of the fireplace of bleached oak, and were covered in a colourful floral chintz with a white background. Emma smiled to herself, knowing how right she had been to buy numerous bolts of this fabric. Every few years she had the sofas reupholstered, so that the same pink, yellow, blue and red floral pattern could bloom afresh. Once she had created a decorative theme for a room she rarely changed it, simply refurbished it when this was required; always using the same decorative elements for the identical effect.

  Her eyes roamed around, noting how fine the Rose Medallion china looked in the elegant Chippendale cabinet, and then she focused for a moment on the priceless Turner landscape above the fireplace. It was redolent with misty greens and blues; its poignant, bucolic setting never failed to stir her. And yet she had decided only the other day to hang it elsewhere. Certainly there was plenty of wall space, and she wanted to put a painting of Paul over the fireplace. It was the perfect spot. She wondered which to hang there, and decided it should be the one of him in his officer’s uniform. He had sat for it after the end of the Great War, and she had always thought this one in particular bore the greatest likeness to him…the way he looked when they first met.

  Rising, she walked across to the leaded windows and stood looking out. The hillside opposite was covered in snow, but in spring the daffodils bloomed, and were such a wondrous sight to her, always evoking in her mind the lovely Wordsworth poem. Sighing to herself, she turned away and went back into the room, walking over to the large Queen Anne chest. It stood under a mirror, and it needed something to finish it, some sort of decorative object to give it a completed look. The fruitwood-and-silver casket, she suddenly thought. I’ll bring that up here the next time I come. It will look beautiful on top of the chest.

  Moving across the floor, she went and sat down at her large desk, took out her diary for 1942, found today’s date, and wrote a few lines about her meeting with Winston and the decisions they had made about the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company. And then she put the pen down and sat back, thinking about the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. She had always wanted that paper, and one day she would own it. Edwin Fairley did not have the financial resources to keep it going. It had had staggering losses over the last few years; she was using her own Yorkshire newspapers to run his into the ground. It was the only Fairley business she did not own…once she did, her revenge would be complete.

  All of a sudden she heard Blackie’s voice in her head, echoing to her down the years; he was quoting the Bible to her. ‘Revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord, and that’s the truth, Emma.’ At the time she had laughed and answered, ‘And Shakespeare wrote that revenge is a dish best served cold.’ That day she had shaken her head and laughed hollowly again, had added, ‘I want to enjoy my revenge. I’m not leaving it to the Lord or anyone else. And I’m certainly not going to serve it cold.’

  Emma knew deep within herself that Edwin realized she had deliberately set out to ruin the Fairleys, and that he did not care. He knew they deserved it, and that his brother Gerald had been as responsible for their downfall as she had. In his own way, Edwin had prospered as a barrister, specializing in criminal law. The newspaper was his great folly…and he was playing into her hands, just as Gerald had done before him.

  Edwina was the fruit of their brief union when she had been a servant girl at Fairley Hall and he the son
of the squire, Adam Fairley. She had always done her best for Edwina, even gone that step further, and yet Edwina hated her because she had not been able to give her daughter the one thing she had always wanted: legitimacy and the Fairley name. Emma longed to see her firstborn child, and her first grandchild, little Anthony Standish…

  The jangle of the telephone interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Hello? Pennistone Royal.’

  ‘Hello, Emma. It’s Frank. I just spoke to Winston, and he asked me to let you know about Christmas. We’d love to come, all of us. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course it is! Oh Frankie, I’m so pleased you’re able to make it after all. This means the family will be together…well, almost all of us. If the boys get leave.’

  Thoughts of Edwin Fairley and his betrayal of her vanished. Bleak, dark memories of her terrible and painful past were expunged. And a rush of real joy at the prospect of spending Christmas with those she loved galvanized her.

  Emma jumped up, almost ran out of the upstairs parlour, down the stairs, through the Stone Hall and into the kitchen.

  ‘Hilda! Are you here?’ Emma called out, glancing around.

  A split second later her devoted young housekeeper hurried out of the stone storage larder at one end of the kitchen, carrying two bottles of preserved plums and pears.

  ‘That’s just what I need,’ Emma exclaimed, laughter echoing in her voice.

  ‘Bottled fruit, Mrs. Harte? Whatever for?’ Hilda looked slightly puzzled as she put the bottles down on the large wooden table in the centre of the kitchen. ‘Do you mean you’d like some for supper? With custard?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘No, Hilda, not for supper. I’ve just had the most wonderful news! Both my brothers and their wives are coming to dinner on Christmas Day. It looks as if I’ll have the whole family with me–if the boys get leave, of course. Hopefully Mrs. Lowther will come with baby Sarah. And there will be Mr. O’Neill and Mr. Kallinski, and with a bit of luck their sons too. So you see, Hilda, I’m afraid I’m going to have to raid your larder.’

  Hilda beamed. ‘Oh Mrs. Harte, that’s luvely to hear! I sort of hoped you’d be having a family gathering this Christmas. It was awful for you the year of the Blitz, and last year as well, what with the boys away fighting. So I did prepare some nice things for you to take back to London with you, on the off chance you’d need them.’ Hilda paused, and finished, ‘Would you like to come into the stone larder? You can look at everything.’

  ‘I would indeed. And I might have known you’d be thinking ahead to Christmas in the summer. Did you bottle a lot of fruits?’

  Hilda nodded. ‘Pears, damsons, plums from the orchard. Gooseberries and blackberries–we had some luvely ones in the garden this summer. I also bottled some of the tomatoes Mr. Ramsbotham’s been growing in the greenhouses.’ Hurrying over to the larder, Hilda added, ‘And I’ve made things like chutney, and done a lot of pickling. Onions, beetroot, gherkins, and your favourite, piccalilli, Mrs. Harte.’

  Walking across the kitchen, following Hilda into the stone larder full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, Emma said, ‘Thank you. And I’m fairly certain you made some Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings as well, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hilda answered, beaming at her. ‘Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a bit of your fruitcake, would it, Mrs. Harte? I always use your recipe.’ Hilda indicated the large round tins stacked on one of the many shelves. ‘These are the cakes. I put lots of fruit in, just the way you like, and sherry, plenty of that. And down there are the puddings in the white basins tied with cheesecloth. I’ve also got jams and jellies made, all your favourites, madam, and lemon curd, as well.’

  ‘Thank you for preparing all these wonderful things, Hilda, I really appreciate it.’ It was cold in the larder and Emma was shivering as she hurried back into the warmth of the big family kitchen. She went and stood in front of the fire blazing in the hearth.

  ‘Cook taught me well before she retired, Mrs. Harte,’ Hilda murmured, walking over to the table.

  Emma’s face changed slightly, her eyes turned anxious. ‘How is Mrs. Walton doing? Is she any better?’

  ‘Yes, a bit. It’s the gout, a’course, in her right foot. Too much acid or summut. Anyways, it makes standing and walking right difficult for her.’

  ‘Give her my best, Hilda, when you see her.’

  ‘Oh I will, madam. She always asks about you.’ Hilda sighed and, giving Emma a long pointed stare, she said, ‘I do wish you could all spend Christmas here at Pennistone Royal. That’d be luvely, it would.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.’

  ‘But it’s right dangerous in London, what with all the bombing, madam. If you don’t mind me saying so, I was thinking only the other day that it’d be right nice for Miss Daisy and Miss Elizabeth if they were in Yorkshire. Safer, madam.’ Her voice faltered and she wondered if she had spoken out of turn, crossed a line she knew she should never cross.

  ‘Well, what you say is true, Hilda. I agree with you that it’s safer up here, and calmer.’ As she spoke Emma was reminded of the screaming sirens, the deafening sound of the anti-aircraft guns in Hyde Park, the bombs exploding, the searchlights at night, and the general air of chaos, although things were becoming a bit better.

  Returning Hilda’s steady, questioning gaze, she felt the need to explain. ‘The problem is they want to be in London with me, Hilda. As you know, Miss Elizabeth is very committed to her nursing. Also, her husband is stationed at Biggin Hill, which is much closer to London than it is to Yorkshire.’ Emma shook her head. ‘Not that he’s been on leave lately. Those boys are always up in the air, in combat.’

  ‘Perhaps things’ll get a bit better now that the Americans are in the war,’ the young housekeeper suggested.

  ‘Let’s hope so, Hilda, let’s hope so. And, speaking of the Americans, what have you planned to do for Christmas for the American pilots stationed around here?’

  ‘Well, I was going to speak to you about that before you left,’ Hilda replied. ‘Joe and I thought we’d do a nice buffet for them in the Stone Hall, with your permission, that is. It’d be luvely for the young lads to have a bit of Christmas fare, sort of remind them of home, don’t you think, madam?’

  ‘I do, Hilda, and naturally you have my permission. Don’t skimp either: make sure it’s a proper treat for them. I remember how much they enjoyed the July the fourth party we gave this summer.’

  ‘And the bowling on the lawn,’ Hilda reminded her. ‘They enjoyed that. And the dancing later with the girls from the village. You were a big hit, Mrs. Harte, you really were. Especially with that nice young major.’

  ‘Come along, Hilda, don’t be so silly,’ Emma murmured, and quickly changed the subject.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Blackie O’Neill stood with his back to the blazing fire in the beautiful drawing room of Emma’s Belgrave Square house, waiting for her to come downstairs.

  ‘Mrs. Harte’ll be down in a minute,’ Grace had told him after she had ushered him into the room. ‘Wot she said was to fix yerself a drink. Do yer want me ter do it for yer, Mr. O’Neill?’

  He had declined. Now, as he glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf, he saw that the minute had stretched into ten. He was just about to walk over to the console where there was an assortment of drinks, to fix himself something after all, when he heard Emma’s high heels clicking against the parquet floor of the hallway outside. He swung around to greet her, and then said not a word, just stood there open-mouthed, staring at her, utterly speechless for a moment.

  ‘What’s the matter, Blackie?’ she asked, walking into the room. ‘You’re gawping at me.’

  ‘Aye, I am that, Emma Harte. And everybody else that comes here today will also be…gawping at you.’ He chuckled. ‘I do love that funny Yorkshire word of yours.’

  Coming to a standstill in front of him, she smiled a little coquettishly for her, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek. ‘And
why will they be doing that? Why are you doing it, Blackie darling?’

  ‘Oh, Emm, you know very well why. You know exactly how you look this afternoon,’ he answered, chuckling again. ‘And if you don’t, mavourneen, then it’s a new pair of glasses I’ll have to be buying you.’

  ‘My eyesight’s perfect,’ she shot back.

  ‘Aye, I know it is, so you must know that you look positively beautiful. In all the forty years I’ve known you, I’ve never ever seen you look better or bonnier. And that’s the God’s own truth, me darlin’ girl. You’ve outdone yourself, Emm.’

  ‘Thank you, Blackie. It’s an old dress, you know. I’ve had it since 1937. You like it, do you?’

  ‘Aye, I like it. Very elegant it is.’

  Emma had spoken the truth when she had said it was old. It was from Paris, designed by Lanvin, and it was a cocktail dress. Made of exquisite black cobweb lace mounted on emerald-green silk, the silk showed through the lace for an unusual effect. It had a full skirt, a Vee neckline, long sleeves, and was sashed in emerald-green silk. The full skirt and tight bodice flattered her youthful figure and long, shapely legs. She wore very high black silk court shoes by Pinet, her favourite shoemaker.

  Still eyeing her with the utmost admiration, Blackie said, with a huge smile, ‘I’m glad to see that you’re wearing my emerald brooch. It goes well with your frock.’

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? I’ve always loved my emerald bow. Do you know, Blackie, I still have the original one you gave me.’

  ‘You do?’ He sounded surprised and yet also pleased. ‘I can’t believe it…all these years you’ve kept it, since you were a little sprite of a girl, only fifteen. My little green glass bow?’

  ‘That’s right. And by the way, I’ve known you since I was fourteen and I’m now fifty-three, so actually I’ve only known you thirty-nine years, not forty.’

  ‘Splittin’ hairs are we now, mavourneen?’ he asked, his black eyes narrowing.