Hold the Dream

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Emily rose and hugged her tightly. ‘I do love you so much, Gran. And goodnight, sleep tight.’ She picked up the tray. ‘I suppose I’d better do the same. I’ve got to collect the twins from Harrogate College tomorrow, and I’ve thousands of other chores.’ She sucked in her breath. ‘Phew!’ she exhaled, ‘I never seem to have a minute to spare.’

  Emma swallowed a smile and disappeared into her bedroom before Emily decided to regale her with those chores she had planned for the following morning.

  ‘Oh Grandy,’ Emily called after her, ‘I’m glad you’re not upset about the Aire Communications deal collapsing.’

  Emma came back to the doorway. ‘I’d venture to say that it’s their loss, our gain.’

  ‘Yes, so Paula indicated when she mentioned it earlier.’ Emily glided to the door, and muttered with a degree of terseness, ‘Sebastian Cross is simply dreadful. I thought Jonathan might make headway with him. Apparently he didn’t, and if Jonathan couldn’t succeed, then nobody could.’

  Emma stood perfectly still, said with the utmost care, ‘What are you chattering on about, Emily?’

  Emily stopped in her tracks, swung to face Emma. ‘The Aire deal. You asked Jonathan to talk to Sebastian, didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Emma replied in the quietest of voices.

  ‘Oh,’ Emily said, looking confused.

  ‘What makes you think I propelled Jonathan into those particular negotiations?’ As she spoke Emma steadied herself against the door jamb, her astute eyes glinting darkly as they rested with fixity on her grandchild. All of her senses were alerted, and she remarked tersely, ‘Obviously something did.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Emily began, and scowled. ‘On Tuesday, when I had dinner with Daddy in London, I saw the two of them in the bar of Les Ambassadeurs when we were leaving. We’d had an early dinner, you see, and Daddy was in a frightful stew about being late for a business meeting. He was in such a hurry I didn’t get a chance to go over and speak to Jonathan.’

  ‘I see.’ Emma was thoughtful for a moment, asked, ‘Why did you suggest Jonathan would be able to influence young Cross?’

  ‘Because of their old friendship…they were at Eton together. But then you know that, Gran. You once took me there with you, when you went to visit Jonathan at half-term. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes. Naturally I also remember that Jonathan went to Eton. What I hadn’t realized was that Cross was a pupil there as well, or that Jonathan and he had been friends in those days. I had – ’

  ‘I think they’re still friends actually,’ Emily interrupted.

  This bit of information chilled Emma to the bone, but she attempted a smile. ‘He probably wanted to surprise me. He might have realized the negotiations were going to be touchy and was endeavouring to smooth the way for Paula,’ she said, trying to convince herself this was the truth. But her intuition told her it was not. Emma gripped the door jamb more tightly, and, adopting a meticulously casual tone, asked, ‘Did Jonathan see you in Les Ambassadeurs, Emily?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘He was in deep conversation with Cross.’ She pondered, asked swiftly, ‘Why? Is it important?’

  ‘Not really. Did you mention this to Paula?’

  ‘I didn’t get an opportunity. She had just started to tell me about the Aire fiasco, as she called it, and Cross being horrid to her, when Hilda announced dinner.’ Emily bit her inner lip, frowning, beginning to wonder precisely what her grandmother was leading up to with her questions.

  Emma nodded, as though to herself, remarked in that same lightly casual voice, ‘I’d prefer you not to say anything about this to Paula. I wouldn’t want her to think he was interfering, queering her pitch. Unintentionally, of course. And don’t bother to bring it up with Jonathan either. I’ll talk to him, find out what his aim was, if indeed he had an aim. It might have been a strictly social evening you know, in view of their friendship.’

  ‘Yes, Grandy, whatever you say.’

  Emily stood rooted to the spot, studying her grandmother closely, filling with alarm. Emma’s face had paled as they had been talking and she noticed that the happy light in her eyes had fled. They were uncommonly dull, lifeless for once. Emily put down the tray hurriedly, and flew across the room. She grasped Emma’s arm, exclaimed with concern, ‘Are you all right, Gran darling?’

  Emma made no response. Her mind was working with that razor-sharp precision and vivid intelligence which were so integral to her great genius. Assessing and analysing with her rare brand of shrewdness and perception, she suddenly saw things with a clarity that shocked. For a split second she recoiled from the truth. I’m making assumptions, she thought, but then her ingrained pragmatism reminded her that she was rarely wrong. The truth was staring her in the face.

  Becoming conscious of Emily’s hand clutching her arm, her worry and anxiousness apparent, Emma dragged herself out of her disturbing thoughts. She patted the girl’s hand, brought a smile to her face that was convincing, reassuring in its certitude.

  ‘I’m just tired,’ Emma said in a contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.

  CHAPTER 10

  The medieval church at the top of the hill in Fairley village was filled to capacity, almost bursting at the seams.

  Family and friends occupied the front pews and the villagers were crowded in closely behind, for they had turned out in full force to honour Emma Harte at the baptism of her great-grandchildren. And after the ceremony they would troop across the road to the parish hall to partake of the special celebration tea, which Emma had instructed Alexander to arrange.

  All was peace and serenity within the ancient grey stone walls. Sunshine pouring in through the stained-glass windows threw rainbow arcs of dancing, jewelled light across the sombre stone floor and the dark wood pews. Masses of spring flowers were banked around the altar and on the altar steps. The mingled scents of hyacinths, narcissi, freesia, imported mimosa and lilac filled the air, diminishing the peculiar musty smell of mildew and dust and old wood that was so prevalent in the church. It was the odour of antiquity, and one Emma had detested since childhood: she had automatically chosen the most fragrant of flowers for this occasion in an attempt to counteract it.

  She sat in the front pew, proud and dignified, wearing a midnight-blue wool-crêpe dress and loose matching coat. A small velvet beret of the same deep blue was perched at a jaunty angle on her immaculate silver hair, and she wore the McGill emeralds and a long rope of matchless pearls. Blackie was seated to her left, handsome in a dark suit, whilst Daisy sat with her husband, David Amory, to Emma’s right. Edwina was wedged in between David and Sarah Lowther, her posture rigid, her expression rather prim, as usual.

  Emma had been somewhat taken aback to find Sarah standing on the porch steps when they had arrived. No one had expected to see her, since she was supposed to have a bad cold. They had spoken briefly at the back of the church before taking their seats, and Emma had been immediately struck by her granddaughter’s healthy appearance. In her opinion, Sarah had either made a miraculous recovery overnight, or had not been sick in the first place. It was more than likely she had toyed with the idea of not coming in order to avoid Shane. Emma could not hold that against her. She understood, had a good idea how Sarah probably felt. But, she thought, I’ll say this for Sarah. She’s a cool customer. Sarah had not blinked an eyelash nor displayed the slightest sign of self-consciousness when Shane had greeted them earlier.

  Now Emma sneaked a look at him.

  He was sitting with his parents in a pew across the nave, his face in profile. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being observed, he turned his head slightly to the right and caught Emma’s eye, half smiled and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. Emma returned his smile, swung her eyes back to the altar.

  Paula and Jim were standing at the carved stone font which dated back to 1574, and were surrounded by the godparents of their children, totalling six in all. The vicar, the Reverend Geoffrey Huntley, havi
ng christened the boy Lorne McGill Harte Fairley, was now preparing to baptize the girl, who was to be named Tessa. Like her twin she would bear the same additional middle names.

  Emily, one of Tessa’s godmothers, was holding the baby in her arms, and standing on Emma’s left were Anthony, and Vivienne Harte, who were the other godparents. Vivienne’s elder sister, Sally, was godmother to Lorne and cradled him, flanked on either side by his godfathers, Alexander and Winston.

  What an attractive group of young people they are, Emma said inwardly, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, and she saw in her mind, for a brief instant, their antecedents…her own parents, her brother Winston, Arthur Ainsley, Paul McGill, Adele and Adam Fairley. How miraculous it was that she and Blackie were still alive and were able to be here today to witness this event, to share in the joyfulness of the occasion.

  She shifted her eyes to Paula and Jim.

  They do look well together, she thought. He so tall and broad and fair, and the living embodiment of his great-grandfather, Adam; Paula so slender and willowy and dark, and so dramatic looking with her vivid McGill colouring. And Paula’s inbred elegance was most apparent in the way she held herself, and in her clothes. She had chosen a tailored wool suit of a deep violet tone, and wore it with a lighter coloured violet satin blouse and a satin pillbox of the same tone. The violet echoed her eyes. She’s still too thin, Emma thought, but she has such an extraordinary radiance this afternoon.

  Her love for her granddaughter and her pride in the girl were emotions most paramount in Emma at this moment, and her face relaxed into softer lines as she continued to regard Paula. The young woman standing up there at the font had given her nothing but happiness and comfort since the day she had been born, in much the same way her mother, Daisy, had done, and continued to do.

  Emma closed her eyes. Paul would have been as proud of Paula as she was, for the girl had all the qualities he had most admired: Honour, integrity, honesty, fairness and an intelligence that frequently startled with its brilliance. Although she had gentle manners, and was inclined to shyness, Paula possessed a certain cool poise, and she had inherited her grandfather’s great sense of fun, as had Daisy. Yes, she’s a McGill all right, Emma remarked under her breath. But she’s a Harte as well. Thank God she has my toughness and astuteness, my indomitability and stamina. She’s going to need all of those in the years to come, with what I’m leaving her, with what she has inherited from her grandfather. I hope she never thinks of her inheritance as a terrible burden. It is an enormous responsibility, of course…

  Baby Tessa started to shriek, her piercing wails echoing throughout the church. Emma opened her eyes and blinked. She leaned forward, peered at the scene at the font. Everyone wore expressions of concern. The vicar was holding the baby, sprinkling the holy water on her forehead, christening her now in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. When he had finished he handed the child back to Emily, obviously with some relief. Emily began to rock her, trying to calm and soothe the infant to no avail.

  Emma chuckled quietly, knowing it was the shock of the cold water on her forehead which had made Tessa cry. The child was protesting – and most vociferously. I can see it already, she thought, little Tessa McGill Harte Fairley is going to be the rebellious one in that family.

  Daisy, also smiling, took hold of her mother’s arm and squeezed it. She whispered, ‘It sounds to me as if Tessa is a chip off the old block, Mummy.’

  Emma turned her head to look into her favourite daughter’s wide clear blue eyes. ‘Yes,’ Emma whispered back, ‘she’s always been the livelier of the two. Another maverick in the brood?’ She arched a silver brow most eloquently. Daisy simply nodded in answer, her fine eyes dancing with happiness and some amusement.

  Within minutes the ceremony was over and they were slowly filing up the aisle. Emma, her arm tucked through Blackie’s, smiled and nodded graciously, but she did not pause to speak to anyone.

  Before long the entire family, their friends and the villagers were assembled on the porch, congratulating the parents and chatting amongst themselves.

  Several of the local residents came up to Emma, stood talking to her for a few minutes, but very shortly she excused herself and drew Blackie away from the crowd. She said, ‘I’ll slip away now and I’ll be back before anyone notices my absence. Then we can get off to Pennistone Royal.’

  ‘All right, Emma. Are you sure I can’t go with you?’

  ‘No. But thanks anyway, Blackie. I won’t be a minute.’

  As Emma edged away from the busy porch, Milson, Blackie’s chauffeur, hurried towards her carrying a basket of flowers. She took it from him, smiled, and murmured her thanks.

  She went through the lych-gate leading into the graveyard adjoining the church.

  Her feet knew the way by heart, and they led her down the flagged path to the far corner, a bit secluded and bosky and shaded by an old elm tree growing by the side of the moss-covered stone wall. Lying in that corner, beneath the headstones she herself had chosen years before, were her parents, John and Elizabeth Harte. Next to them were her two brothers, Winston and Frank. She took bunches of flowers from the basket and placed one on each of the four graves. Straightening up, she rested her hand on her mother’s headstone and stared out towards the bleak moors, a smudged dark line against the periwinkle blue sky filled with scudding white clouds and intermittent sunshine. It was a lovely day, surprisingly warm, balmy even, after the thunderstorms of yesterday. A perfect day to go climbing to the Top of the World. She strained her eyes, but that spot was too far away in the distance to see, and obscured by the soaring fells. She sighed, remembering. Her eyes swept from headstone to headstone, name to name. I’ve carried each one of you in my heart all the days of my life, she said silently. I’ve never forgotten any of you. Then unexpectedly the queerest thought entered her mind – she would not be coming back here again to visit these graves.

  Emma turned away at last.

  Her steps carried her along the same flagged path that curved through the cemetery, and she did not stop until she reached a wide plot of ground at the other side, in the gloomy shadows of the church. This large private plot was encircled by iron railings which set it apart, told everyone that it was special and exclusive. She pushed open the small gate and found herself amongst generations of Fairleys. She glanced at the graves, and finally her eyes came to rest on Adam Fairley’s headstone made of white marble. On either side of him were his two wives – Adele, the first, and Olivia, the second. Those two beautiful sisters who had loved and married the same man, and who had, in their own ways, been good to her when she had been a young girl. She had never forgotten their kindness to her, but it was on the middle grave that her gaze lingered for a moment longer.

  Well, Adam Fairley, she thought, I won. In the end it was I who triumphed. There is nothing left that your family owns in the village, except this plot of land where you are buried. Everything else belongs to me, and even the church operates mostly through my largesse. Your great-great-grandchildren have just been christened and they bear both of our names, but it is from me that they will inherit great wealth and power and position. These thoughts were not rancorous, ran through her mind in a matter-of-fact way, for she had lost all hatred for the Fairleys, and it was not in her nature to gloat, especially when standing next to a man’s last resting place.

  Slowly she walked back to the church, and the smile on her serene face was one of gentleness and peace.

  Coming through the lych-gate, Emma saw Blackie standing to one side, away from the large group of people, talking to her two youngest grandchildren, Amanda and Francesca.

  Blackie chuckled as she came to a standstill by his side. ‘You might know these two would see you do your disappearing act! I had to forcibly restrain them from running after you. Well, almost.’

  ‘We wanted to look at the graves, too, Grandy,’ Amanda explained. ‘We love cemeteries.’

  Emma gave her a look of mock horror. ‘How morbid.�
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  ‘No, it isn’t, it’s interesting,’ Francesca chirped up. ‘We like to read the tombstones, and we try to guess what the people were like, what kind of lives they led. It’s like reading a book.’

  ‘Is it now.’ Emma laughed, and the look she gave the fifteen-year-old was affectionate. ‘I think we should go back to the house,’ Emma continued. ‘Did Emily tell you we’re having a champagne tea this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, but she said we couldn’t have any champagne. We can, though, can’t we, Gran?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘Just one glass each, I don’t want you both getting tiddly.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Gran,’ Amanda said, and Francesca linked her arm in Emma’s, and announced, ‘We’ll come with you. Uncle Blackie’s car is much nicer than Emily’s old Jag.’

  ‘That’s not a very nice attitude, Francesca. You came with Emily, and you will drive back with her. Besides, Uncle Blackie and I have things to discuss.’

  But they did not really have anything very special or important to talk about. Emma simply wanted to be alone with her dear old friend, to relax before the reception, to catch her breath before she was engulfed by her large and unorthodox clan.

  At one point, as they were driving along, Blackie looked at her and said, ‘It was a grand christening, Emma. Very beautiful. But you had such a strange look on your face when the vicar was baptizing Lorne, I couldn’t help wondering what was going through your mind.’

  Emma half turned to face him. ‘I was thinking about another christening…the one you performed when you baptized Edwina with Armley tap water in Laura’s kitchen sink.’ Her eyes held his for the longest moment. ‘I couldn’t help dwelling on the past. You know, Edwin Fairley wouldn’t have been permitted to marry me when I was pregnant, even if he had wanted to, and so Edwina could never have been christened here at Fairley. That really struck home today.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in agreement, ‘it would have been denied her, no matter what.’