Emma's Secret

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  As Emma glanced around she saw that the bed was rumpled–apparently Glynnis had been lying on it, crying. Moving towards the seating area in the bay window, Emma lowered herself onto the sofa and said, ‘Come and sit with me, my dear. You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it, but at least I can try and give you a bit of motherly comfort.’

  Standing in the middle of the floor, staring at Emma, Glynnis immediately burst into tears, covered her face with her hands and just stood there, shaking and sobbing.

  Emma was on her feet at once, and she guided Glynnis across the room, helped her to sit down, and then took the armchair opposite. ‘Take your time, my dear, try and calm down. Would you like a glass of water? A cup of tea?’

  Glynnis shook her head and groped in her pocket for her handkerchief, pressed it to her swollen eyes. After a moment or two she took a deep breath, and said in a choked voice, ‘I’m so…so…sorry to break down like this…I’ve tried to be brave, but it just got to me today.’

  ‘What did?’ Emma asked quietly.

  Glynnis shook her head, bit her lip, looking worried.

  Emma said, ‘Is it something to do with your nice GI boyfriend? Richard? Have you quarrelled or broken up?’

  ‘Oh no, Mrs. Harte,’ Glynnis whispered between dry sobs.

  ‘But there is something terribly wrong, something that’s disturbing you, Glynnis dear, and I don’t want to pry, but I do want to help. Don’t you think you can trust me? I can assure you no one will ever know what you tell me. I would never break a confidence.’

  Glynnis took a deep breath and tried to get the heaving under control. Finally, in a tearful voice, she blurted out: ‘I’m going to have a baby, Mrs. Harte. And I don’t know what to do.’

  For a second or so Emma was speechless. Far away in the past she heard a poor little servant girl saying, ‘I’m going to have a baby, Edwin, and I don’t know what to do.’ And her chest tightened as memories of that day in the rose garden at Fairley Hall swamped her. But then determinedly shaking off the past, she reached out and took Glynnis’s hand in hers.

  ‘Oh Glynnis, no wonder you’re so upset,’ Emma consoled. ‘But what about your friend, Richard? Surely he’s going to do the right thing by you. I thought he seemed quite taken with you the night you introduced him to me, and I’ve noticed, subsequently, how lovely he is with you. He seems very caring, very protective.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t he want to marry you, Glynnis? Is that the problem?’

  Glynnis bit her lip, looking suddenly flustered.

  Emma frowned. ‘You have told him, haven’t you?’

  Glynnis could not speak. She just shook her head, her face whiter than ever, and there was a stricken look in her lovely eyes.

  ‘But Glynnis, you must tell him, my dear—’

  ‘It’s not his,’ Glynnis whispered, interrupting Emma.

  Emma sat back in a sudden movement, staring at her secretary, her expression extremely troubled. ‘Then have you told the man who is the father?’

  Glynnis nodded, and began to cry, tears gushing down her cheeks.

  ‘He doesn’t want to marry you, is that it?’

  ‘Yes. He can’t.’

  ‘Is he married?’ Emma asked, giving the young woman a long, knowing look.

  When Glynnis remained totally silent, Emma murmured, ‘Oh Glynnis, my dear, getting involved with a married man only spells trouble. They rarely, if ever, leave their wives…’ Emma broke off, wondering why she was giving this poor girl a lecture about married men when she needed comfort and guidance.

  Glynnis began to weep once more, and Emma rose and went to sit next to her on the sofa. She put her arms around her, held her close, and eventually, as Glynnis calmed down a little, Emma told her firmly, ‘We must make a plan, Glynnis. I will help you in any way I can. I don’t suppose you want to go home to the Rhondda Valley?’

  Glynnis pulled away with a jerk, and gaped at Emma askance. ‘No, no, Mrs. Harte, I can’t! My Da will kill me, or he’ll die himself. For one thing, he couldn’t stand the shame, me giving birth out of wedlock.’

  ‘Sssh, my dear, I understand what you’re saying,’ Emma murmured, and she surely did, for hadn’t she said the self-same thing to Edwin Fairley when she was fifteen years old?

  ‘Would you like me to speak to the man in question?’ Emma said softly, understanding her predicament and wanting to be gentle, sympathetic.

  ‘I don’t think it would…make any difference,’ Glynnis said in a low, choked voice.

  ‘Who is the father, Glynnis dear?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation on Glynnis’s part, and then she told her.

  Emma simply stared back at her, flabbergasted. For once in her life she did not know what to say, and she sat there, speechless, staring at her secretary. Disaster. I’m facing a disaster, Emma thought, and closed her eyes.

  But quickly recouping, she opened them, took hold of the girl’s hand, and said in a steady voice, ‘I think perhaps you’d better tell me all about it.’

  And Glynnis did.

  It was an old, old story, as old as the world, of a man and a woman, and Emma Harte was only too familiar with its many different interpretations. An instantaneous attraction, a coup de foudre, overwhelming passion, a falling in love so hot and obsessive it obliterated everything else. A kind of insanity, a madness, a love so intense it transmuted the ordinary into the sublime…for a time. She knew all of the words and phrases Glynnis was uttering. And then tragedy, heartbreak and pain…as the man cooled when she told him her sorry tale of woe…informed him she was carrying his child. His bastard, was the way Glynnis had just put it.

  Yet Emma now noticed that speaking about it seemed to have calmed Glynnis. The tears had ceased to flow, her voice no longer quavered and her excessive trembling had unexpectedly stopped.

  Emma had been attentive to the young woman’s every word, concentrating on the details of the over-charged romance now gone wrong. And she fully understood that nothing was going to change. Not now. The man had vacated her life; he would not come back. And Emma was quite certain that Glynnis was well aware of this.

  When Glynnis finally finished, she sat back, paused for a second, then murmured in a subdued voice, ‘Now you know it all, Mrs. Harte. You know my terrible predicament.’

  ‘Indeed I do, Glynnis,’ Emma answered, and thought: Only too well do I know what you are facing, but said, ‘Basically, you are on your own. At least that is what you believe. But you’re not, in fact, because you have me, and I am going to help you through this tough time in your life. I’m going to make sure you have a proper doctor, wages while you take maternity leave, a job waiting for you after the baby’s born. This I promise you.’

  Glynnis, taken aback by Emma’s sympathy, kindness and generosity, was silent, staring at this powerful woman, an uncomprehending expression in her eyes. At last she said slowly, ‘Why would you do this for me, Mrs. Harte? Don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am. But why?’

  ‘Because I’m fond of you, Glynnis, and because once, long ago, when I was only a girl, much younger than you, I was in a similar position. I had no one to help me at one particular moment, and so all I craved was money, because I knew money would be my salvation, the salvation of my child. I knew money would protect the baby, protect me, and I strove hard to acquire it. A lot of it. So you see, I know first-hand that money is the most important thing to a single mother, as well as a little understanding and kindness from others, if it’s available. But it isn’t always, you know. Most people turn a blind eye, or treat you like a leper.’

  ‘That’s true, I’m sure.’ Glynnis took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Harte. Thank you doesn’t seem quite enough.’

  ‘Oh it is, Glynnis, of course it is. I just want you to try not to worry now that we’ve had this talk.’

  ‘I do worry, I’m afraid it’s my nature.’ Glynnis stopped, bit her lip, and said in as steady a voice as she could summon,
‘Mrs. Harte, a while ago you spoke about Richard Hughes, my GI boyfriend. You said he seemed attentive and caring, protective even…’

  ‘Yes, I did say that. And it was my honest observation, Glynnis.’

  ‘Richard loves me, and he wants to marry me, and I was thinking that perhaps…well…actually, I wondered what you thought about it? I mean about me marrying Richard? Wouldn’t it be a solution…to my predicament?’

  Emma, momentarily startled though she was, kept her face neutral, displayed nothing as she sat back in the chair, giving Glynnis a keen and somewhat appraising look. ‘Do you have any feelings for him, Glynnis? I thought you were so madly in love with the other man that you couldn’t see straight.’

  ‘That’s true, Mrs. Harte, I just told you, I loved him too much. But I like Richard a lot, you can’t not like him, he’s so kind and good-natured. And he’s crazy about me, so I suppose I could grow to care for him in a good way…’ Her voice trailed off when she saw the stern look settling on Emma’s face. ‘What’s wrong, Mrs. Harte? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I was thinking that–if what you’re saying about Richard is true–you cannot possibly deceive a man as good and kind as him. It would be dishonest, and dishonourable. You cannot let him think this child is his.’

  ‘Oh, but I wouldn’t do that!’ Glynnis cried, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Anyway, it couldn’t be his, because we…well, we haven’t, you know, done anything like that.’ Glynnis stopped abruptly, her face now scarlet with embarrassment. ‘I’m not promiscuous.’

  ‘Forgive me, Glynnis, I didn’t mean to imply that you were. However, you did appear to be rather close to him when I saw you together at the Fulham Road canteen, so I made an assumption. That was totally wrong of me, and I apologize. I would never cast aspersions on your morals, my dear. I understand life too well to do that.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs. Harte, please don’t get upset.’ Glynnis swallowed hard and, dropping her voice, she added sotto voce, ‘I was a virgin until I fell in love with him…he was the first man I…knew.’ Her voice was lower, as she added, ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I see.’ Emma rose, went to look out of the window, staring down at the parterres. ‘Best seen from above,’ the young Wiggs was always telling her. He was such a sweet little boy…they were all sweet when they were boys.

  Returning to the chair, Emma now continued: ‘So…how will you go about this, Glynnis? Are you simply going to accept Richard’s proposal, and then tell him you’re pregnant? Explain to me how you intend to proceed.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Glynnis said quietly, looking suddenly more subdued and downcast than ever. ‘Perhaps I should just tell him the truth, say that I’m pregnant, that the man’s not standing by me, and ask him if he still wants to marry me. That I’d be willing, if he is.’

  Emma said nothing, turned this over in her mind, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘What do you think, Mrs. Harte?’

  ‘I think it’s the only way to approach it, I really do,’ Emma replied finally. ‘I think in this particular instance, honesty is your best policy.’ Leaning forward, focusing on her secretary, Emma explained: ‘You have nothing to lose. If Richard turns you down and walks away from you, then you have your fall-back position. Me. You know I won’t break my word to you, Glynnis. I will help you all I can, and for as long as you need my help. I promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much. And will you promise me something else, Mrs. Harte?’

  ‘If I can keep the promise, then of course I’ll make it. What is it?’

  ‘Whether I marry Richard or not, I don’t want anyone to know who the father of my child is, not ever. You must promise me that you’ll never tell a soul.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone ever, Glynnis, not as long as I live.’

  Glynnis sighed in relief. ‘You see, if Richard doesn’t marry me, I’ll figure out a story about the father of the baby. It’s 1943 and there’s a war on, and there are a lot of dead heroes already…I’ll invent a good story to protect my child…’

  Emma nodded, but remained silent.

  ‘Perhaps it doesn’t sound very nice, but it’s only a sort of…well, a white lie, isn’t it? You see, I wouldn’t want the world to know that he had…abandoned me. It would be humiliating. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I certainly do. However, remembering how beautifully your nice GI treats you, I feel certain he’ll marry you. Why wouldn’t he? You’re very lovely, Glynnis, and a very nice girl. He’d be a fool not to marry you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Emma picked up the silver-framed photograph of Daisy and David, taken at their marriage in May of 1943, and breathed on the glass. Then she rubbed it with the yellow duster she held in her small hand, removing the fingerprints.

  There, that’s better, she murmured to herself, staring down at the picture, thinking how lovely Daisy looked in her wedding dress. It was made of pale blue silk and she wore a matching picture hat, and carried a nosegay of summer flowers. Almost two years ago. Now she was a mother, having given birth to a baby girl in January of this year, 1945.

  Stepping closer to the long library table in her Leeds office, Emma put the photograph back in its place, and picked up the latest one of her newest granddaughter.

  Paula McGill Harte Amory. How surprised Emma had been the day of her granddaughter’s birth, when she had gone to the London Clinic to see Daisy. ‘I’ve chosen the baby’s first two names, Mummy,’ Daisy had announced. ‘I’m going to call her Paula McGill. After my father.’ Emma would never forget how flabbergasted she had been. Daisy had simply laughed and said, ‘Don’t look so shocked. Honestly, Mummy, for a woman as sophisticated as you are, you can be awfully naïve sometimes. Did you think I didn’t know Paul was my father?’

  Emma had not known what to say, how to answer her. Daisy had gone on to explain that she had worked it out for herself when she was quite a small child. ‘And anyway, I realized how much I resembled him physically. And when I was twelve he told me himself. He told me he was my biological father.’ She had been stupefied, had gaped at Daisy, who had laughed again, but very gently this time. And then Daisy had told Emma how much she loved her and Paul; that they had been the best of parents. But now Emma recalled that she had remained a little flustered all that day.

  His heiress, Emma thought, as she put the picture back on the table and reached for the one of her first grandson, Alexander Barkstone. Elizabeth had given birth to him in February of 1944. He was a handsome little devil, gurgling there at his christening, the spitting image of his father Tony. She set the photograph down, and leant closer to the table, now looking at the wedding picture of Robin. He had married Valerie Ludden in January of 1944, a nursing friend of Elizabeth’s, who had been their matron-of-honour. They look well together, Emma decided, and she’ll be perfect for him, good for his career. The right choice. She stared at her favourite son. How good-looking and clever he was. Recently he had told her he was going into politics after the war.

  After the war, she thought, moving away from the table; how glibly we say that these days. But the end was near. Everyone knew it. And Churchill kept saying it. They were winning the war, with the help of their greatest ally, the Americans. Thank God the Yanks, as Robin called them, had come in to fight alongside their troops. They might not have made it without them. And certainly not without Winston Churchill, the greatest leader their country had ever known. Deep in her heart Emma believed that Churchill had been their salvation, and that it was he who had brought them to victory, a victory hard won and honourable.

  Walking back to her desk, Emma suddenly thought of Glynnis Jenkins, with affection. Eventually Glynnis would go to America as a GI bride.

  She was Glynnis Hughes now, having married her nice GI boyfriend in December of 1943. The wedding had been at a local chapel in her home town in the Rhondda Valley, and everyone had had a grand time, Glynnis had told her afterwards. Especially the Jenkins family.
They had discovered that Richard’s forebears had come from that part of Wales before emigrating to America a century before.

  Glynnis’s son had been born in April of 1944, and they had called him Owen, a favourite Welsh boys’ name. He was just a year old this month. Emma made a mental note to send him a card and an appropriate present. She and Glynnis had stayed in touch; there was a deep friendship between them. And without knowing it, perhaps, Glynnis had averted a disaster.

  Marriages and births, that’s what make the world go around, Emma thought, and then looked at the door as it burst open, startling her.

  Her brother Winston hurried in, moving so rapidly she thought he might trip. From the look of him she thought something dreadful must have happened, perhaps to one of their boys. His face was drained of all colour and stricken, and his eyes were dark with pain.

  Automatically, she jumped to her feet, all of her senses alerted to trouble. ‘Winston, whatever is it? You look…demented’ She took a deep breath and steadied herself for bad news. ‘It’s not one of our boys, or Blackie’s or David’s, is it?’ she asked, her voice faltering slightly.

  ‘No, no,’ he was swift to answer, wanting to reassure her, seeing the fear in her eyes.

  ‘But what is it? You seem so perturbed, so distressed.’

  ‘I am. And so will you be. It’s hard for me to explain here. You have to see. You have to come across the street to the Evening Standard. They’re waiting for you. We have some important decisions to make. About what to put in the next edition today. The first one’s already on the street. I want you there because the decision will be yours ultimately. It’s your newspaper, you own it, and you’ve got to call the shots today, Emma. The editorial shots.’ He grabbed her arm and started to pull her away from her desk. ‘Come on, it’s urgent!’

  ‘But for God’s sake, Winston, tell me what’s wrong? What is this all about?’ She struggled to free herself from his grip and stared into his face, trying to understand. ‘Please tell me before we go over to the paper. You owe me that.’