Hold the Dream

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  For the first time since she had arrived, Paula smiled. ‘So much for my wheeling and dealing…skirmishing might be a better way to describe it, Grandy.’

  ‘And so much for my new project. Now that that’s flown out of the window, I’ll have to find another one, or take up knitting.’

  Paula could not help grinning. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she retorted, merriment swamping her face. Stepping back to the sofa, she sat down, lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, then remarked casually, ‘I had lunch with Miranda O’Neill today, and –’

  ‘Oh dear, that reminds me, I’m afraid I won’t be here for dinner this evening. I’m going out with Blackie and Shane.’

  ‘Yes, so Merry told me.’

  ‘My God, can’t I take a breath around here without everyone knowing!’ Emma paused, scanned Paula’s face. ‘Well, you don’t seem too upset, so I presume you don’t mind that I’m trotting off and leaving you to cope with Edwina. Don’t worry, she’ll behave.’

  ‘I’m not concerned. I was at first, but I decided she’s Jim’s problem. He invited her, so he can entertain her. In any case, Mummy’s always pretty good with Edwina. She knows how to appropriately squelch her, in the nicest possible way too.’ Paula put down her cup and saucer, leaned closer. ‘Listen, Grandy dear, Merry has had an idea, one that might appeal to you. It could be just the project you’re looking for.’

  ‘Oh, has she. Well then, tell me about it.’

  Paula did so, but as she came to the end of her little recital she made a small moue with her mouth, and finished lamely, ‘I can tell you’re not enthusiastic. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’

  Emma laughed at her crestfallen expression. ‘Yes, I do. However I’m not interested in taking it on as a personal project. Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pursue the idea and develop it further with Merry. It could be good for the stores. Come back to me when you have it refined. Perhaps we will open the boutiques.’

  ‘I’ll set up a meeting with her for next week – ’ Paula stopped, peered at Emma. ‘Out of curiosity, why don’t you think it’s a project for you?’

  ‘There’s no challenge to it. I like tougher nuts to crack.’

  ‘Oh Lord! And where on earth am I going to find such a thing for you?’

  ‘I might find my own project, you know.’ Emma’s green eyes twinkled, and she shook her head. ‘You’re constantly trying to mother me these days. I do wish you’d stop.’

  Paula joined in Emma’s laughter and admitted, ‘Yes, I am doing that lately, aren’t I. Sorry, Gran.’ She glanced at the clock, swung her eyes back to Emma, said: ‘I think I’d be much better off going home and mothering my babies. If I hurry I’ll get back in time to help the nurse bathe them.’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do that, darling. These early years are the most precious, the best really. Don’t sacrifice them.’

  Paula stood up and slipped into the magenta jacket, found her handbag, came to kiss Emma. ‘Have a lovely time tonight, and give Uncle Blackie and Shane my love.’

  ‘I will. And if I don’t see you later, I’ll talk to you in the morning.’

  Paula was halfway across the room when Emma called, ‘Oh, Paula, what time do you expect Jim and your parents?’

  ‘Around six. Jim said he’d be landing at Leeds-Bradford Airport at five.’

  ‘So he’s flying them up in that dreadful little plane of his, is he?’ Emma pursed her lips in annoyance and gave Paula the benefit of a reproving stare. ‘I thought I’d told the two of you I don’t like you flitting around in that pile of junk.’

  ‘You did indeed, but Jim has a mind of his own, as you well know. And flying is one of his main hobbies. But perhaps you’d better mention it to him again.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ Emma said, and waved her out of the room.

  CHAPTER 6

  They all said that he was a true Celt.

  And Shane Desmond Ingham O’Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride.

  When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments.

  But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.

  It was as a very small boy that Shane O’Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.

  Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew – through books. If he was ’a curious throwback to the Celts’, as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled. He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendour and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him, and as alive, as the present.

  In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby. Like his Celtic forebears he venerated words and their power, for filled with a recklessness and gaiety though he was, he was also a man of intellectual vigour. And perhaps it was this extraordinary mingling of contrasts – his mass of contradictions – that made him so unusual. If his angers and enmities were deep rooted, so his loves and loyalties were immovable and everlasting. And that theatricality, constantly attributed to the Celt in him, existed easily alongside his introspection and his rare, almost tender, understanding of nature and its beauty.

  At twenty-seven there was a dazzle to Shane O’Neill, an intense glamour that sprang not so much from his remarkable looks as from his character and personality. He could devastate any woman in a room; equally, he could captivate his male friends with an incisive discussion on politics, a ribald joke, a humorous story filled with wit and selfmockery. He could entertain with a song in his splendid baritone, whether he was rendering a rollicking sea shanty or a sentimental ballad, and poetry flew with swiftness from his tongue. Yet he could be hard-headed, objective, outspoken and honest almost to the point of cruelty, and he was ambitious and driven, by his own admission. Greatness, and greatness for its own sake in particular, appealed strongly to him. And he appealed to everyone who crossed his path. Not that Shane was without enemies, but even they never denied the existence of his potent charm. Some of these traits had been passed on from his paternal Irish grandfather, that other larger-than-life Celt, whose physique and physical presence he had inherited. Yet there was also much of his mother’s ancestry in him.

  Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O’Neill stood with his horse, aptly called War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still proud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless halls and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone amongst the daffodils, snowdrops and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.

  With his vivid imagination, it was never hard for Shane to visualize how it had once been centuries ago when Warwick and Gareth Ingham, an ancestor on his mother’s side, had lived within that stout fortress, spinning their convoluted schemes. Instantly, in his mind’s eye, he saw the panoply unfolding as it had in a bygone age…glittering occasions of state, princely banquets, other scenes of royal magnificence and of pomp and ceremony, and for a few seconds he was transported into the historical past.

  Then he blinked, expunging these images, and lifted his head, tore his eyes away from
the ruined battlements, and gazed out at the spectacular vista spread before him. He always felt the same thrill when he stood on this spot. To Shane there was an austerity and an aloofness to the vast and empty moors, and a most singular majesty dwelt within this landscape. The rolling moors swept up and away like a great unfurled banner of green and gold and umber and ochre, flaring out to meet the rim of the endless sky, that incredible blaze of blue shimmering with silvered sunlight at this hour. It was a beauty of such magnitude and stunning clarity Shane found it almost unendurable to look at, and his response, as always, was intensely emotional. Here was the one spot on this earth where he felt he truly belonged, and when he was away from it he was filled with a sense of deprivation, yearned to return. Once again he was about to exile himself, but like all of his other exiles, this, too, was self-imposed.

  Shane O’Neill sighed heavily as he felt the old sadness, the melancholy, trickling through him. He leaned his head against the stallion’s neck and squeezed his eyes shut, and he willed the pain of longing for her to pass. How could he live here, under the same sky, knowing she was so close yet so far beyond his reach. So he must go…go far away and leave this place he loved, leave the woman he loved beyond reason because she could never be his. It was the only way he could survive as a man.

  Abruptly he turned, and swung himself into the saddle, determined to pull himself out of the black mood which had so unexpectedly engulfed him. He spurred War Lord forward, taking the wild moorland at a flat out gallop.

  Halfway along the road he passed a couple of stable lads out exercising two magnificent thoroughbreds and he returned their cheery greetings with a friendly nod, then branched off at the Swine Cross, making for Allington Hall, Randolph Harte’s house. In Middleham, a town famous for a dozen or more of the greatest racing stables in England, Allington Hall was considered to be one of the finest, and Randolph a trainer of some renown. Randolph was Blackie O’Neill’s trainer, and permitted Shane to stable War Lord, Feudal Baron, and his filly, Celtic Maiden, at Allington alongside his grandfather’s string of race horses.

  By the time he reached the huge iron gates of Allington Hall, Shane had managed to partially subdue his nagging heartache and lift himself out of his depression. He took several deep breaths, and brought a neutral expression to his face as he turned at the end of the gravel driveway and headed in the direction of the stables at the back of the house. To Shane’s surprise, the yard was deserted, but as he clattered across the cobblestones a stable lad appeared, and a moment later Randolph Harte walked out of the stalls and waved to him.

  Tall, heavy-set, and bluff in manner, Randolph had a voice to match his build, and he boomed, ‘Hello, Shane. I was hoping to see you. I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare me a minute.’

  Dismounting, Shane called back, ‘It will have to be a minute, Randolph. I have an important dinner date tonight and I’m running late.’ He handed the reins of War Lord to the lad, who led the horse off to the Rubbing House to be rubbed down. Shane strode over to Randolph, grasped his outstretched hand, and said, ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘No, no,’ Randolph said quickly, steering him across the yard to the back entrance of the house. ‘But let’s go inside for a few minutes.’ He looked up at Shane, who at six feet four was several inches taller, and grinned. ‘Surely you can make it five minutes, old chap? The lady, whoever she is, will no doubt be perfectly happy to wait for you.’

  Shane also grinned. ‘The lady in question is Aunt Emma, and we both know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  ‘Only too true,’ Randolph said, opening the door and ushering Shane inside. ‘Now, have you time for a cup of tea, or would you prefer a drink?’

  ‘Scotch, thanks, Randolph.’ Shane walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, glancing around the room, feeling suddenly relaxed and at ease for the first time that afternoon. He had known and loved this study all of his life, and it was his favourite room at the Hall. Its ambience was wholly masculine, this mood reflected in the huge Georgian desk in front of the window, the Chippendale cabinet, the dark wine-coloured leather Chesterfield and armchairs, the circular rent table littered with such magazines as Country Life and Horse and Hounds, along with racing sheets from the daily papers. A stranger entering this room would have no trouble guessing the chief interest and occupation of the owner. It was redolent of the Turf and the Sport of Kings. The dark green walls were hung with eighteenth-century sporting prints by Stubbs; framed photographs of the winning race horses Randolph had trained graced a dark mahogany chest; and cups and trophies abounded. There was the gleam of brass around the fireplace, in the horse brasses hanging there, and in the Victorian fender. On the mantelpiece, Randolph’s pipe rack and tobacco jar nestled between small bronzes of two thoroughbreds and a pair of silver candlesticks. The study had a comfortable lived-in look, was even a bit shabby in spots, but to Shane the scuffed carpet and the cracked leather on the chairs only added to the mellow feeling of warmth and friendliness.

  Randolph brought their drinks, the two men clinked glasses and Shane turned to sit in one of the leather armchairs.

  ‘Whoah! Not there. The spring’s going,’ Randolph exclaimed.

  ‘It’s been going for years,’ Shane laughed, but seated himself in the other chair.

  ‘Well, it’s finally gone. I keep meaning to have the damn thing sent to the upholsterers, but I always forget.’

  Shane put his glass on the edge of the brass fender and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one, said, ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Emerald Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?’

  A surprised look flashed across Shane’s face and he sat up straighter. ‘He’d be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she’s a fine mare, but the Aintree course…Jaysus! as Blackie would say.’

  Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. ‘Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She’s done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points, and most impressively.’ Randolph paused to light his pipe, then remarked, with a twinkle, ‘I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But, seriously, she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I’ve ever trained.’

  ‘Oh my God, this is wonderful news!’ Shane cried, excitement running through him. ‘It’s always been Grandfather’s dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?’

  ‘Steve Larner. He’s a tough sod, just what we need to take Emerald Bow around Aintree. If anyone can negotiate her over Beecher’s Brook twice it’s Steve. He’s a brilliant horseman.’

  ‘Why haven’t you mentioned it to Grandfather?’

  ‘I wanted to get your reaction first. You’re the closest to him.’

  ‘You know he always takes your advice. You’re his trusted trainer, and the best in the business, as far as we’re concerned.’

  ‘Thanks, Shane. Appreciate the confidence. But to be honest, old chap, I’ve never seen Blackie fuss over any of his horses the way he does that mare. He’d like to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, if you ask me. He was out here last week, and he was treating her as if she was his great lady love.’

  A grin tugged at Shane’s mouth. ‘Don’t forget, she was a gift from his favourite lady. And talking of Emma, did I hear a hint of annoyance when you mentioned her earlier?’

  ‘Not really. I was a bit irritated with her last night, but…’ Randolph broke off, and smiled genially. ‘Well, I never harbour a grudge where she’s concerned, and she is the matriarch of our clan, and she’s so good to us all. It’s just that she can be so bloody bossy. She makes me feel this high.’ He held his hand six inches off the ground, and grinned. ‘Anyway, getting back to Emerald Bow, I’d intended to mention it to Blackie tomorrow. What do yo
u think about my timing? Should I wait until next week perhaps?’

  ‘No, tell him tomorrow, Randolph. It’ll make his day, and Aunt Emma will be delighted.’ Shane finished his drink and stood up. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I for one am thrilled about this decision of yours. Now, I’m afraid I really have to leave. I want to stop by the stables for a second, to say goodbye to my horses.’ Shane smiled a trifle ruefully. ‘I’m going away again, Randolph. I’m leaving Monday morning.’

  ‘But you just got back!’ Randolph exclaimed. ‘Where are you off to this time?’

  ‘Jamaica, then Barbados, where we’ve recently bought a new hotel,’ Shane explained as they left the study together. ‘I’ve a great deal of work there, and I’ll be gone for quite a few months.’ He fell silent as they crossed the stable yard, and Randolph made no further comment either.

  Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.

  Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane’s demeanour at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O’Neill since he had been a child, and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane’s closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodelled it and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Georgina, had been alive she had often had to comfort more than one broken-hearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn’t have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scallywags, but he did love them both very dearly.