Emma then wondered why she had never noticed this likeness before. Instantly she understood. It was very simple really. In all of the time Olivia had been staying at Fairley Hall, Emma had never seen her so intimately revealed, undressed and ungroomed in the privacy of her room, until a few moments ago. Sitting at the dressing table in the diffused light, so informally attired, her face naked of cosmetics, she looked a different woman from the one Emma was accustomed to seeing moving around the house so elegantly and with cool authority. In her naturalness Olivia was still stunningly lovely, but without the stylish clothes, the elaborate hairdos, and the other artifices of fashion, she appeared ingenuous and vulnerable, and there was a sweet simplicity about her that was girlish and even innocent.
And Emma was not mistaken. Olivia Wainright, stripped of the outer trappings of the chic society woman, did resemble Elizabeth Harte. In fact, the resemblance was so extraordinary as to be uncanny. They might have been created from the same mould, except that Elizabeth’s beauty was now only a faint echo of Olivia’s. Worn out as she was by the struggle to survive, riddled with consumption, undernourished, and in constant pain, her fine looks had blurred and slowly begun to fade. Yet Emma had seen in Olivia her mother’s beauty as it had once been, and this had not only startled her but moved her as well. Emma was not the only one to have noticed the strong likeness between these two women from such different worlds. Another occupant of Fairley Hall had also detected it and, like Emma, had been rocked to the core at this discovery.
But Emma was unaware of this as she stood staring at Olivia Wainright’s door, still shaking her head. She regained some of her composure and for once in her life she did not run. She walked down the corridor, and slowly, benumbed by this odd coincidence. As she made her way back to Adele’s bedroom, it did not occur to Emma that perhaps she had unconsciously recognized the similarity earlier, and that this might partially explain her secret adoration of Olivia. Only years later did this thought strike her, and quite forcibly so.
In Emma’s absence, Adele had attended to her face. For once she had decided it was necessary to resort to her jars of French cosmetics. She had applied a little rouge, just enough to highlight her cheekbones and dispel the paleness of her skin, and had also touched her lips with it. She was lightly powdering her nose when Emma entered.
‘Here I am then, Mrs Fairley,’ said Emma in a low voice hurrying to the dressing table, and the waiting Adele.
Normally too preoccupied with self to be conscious of anyone else, Adele was particularly keyed up and alert tonight, in readiness for the important and perhaps trying evening that lay ahead. She was so acutely aware, in fact, she noticed the subdued note in Emma’s voice, which was always so cheerful, and she gave her a piercing look.
‘Did Mrs Wainright give you the hairpins? Was there a problem?’ she asked quickly.
‘Oh no, ma’am,’ responded Emma, already starting to work on the remaining curls. ‘She had plenty ter spare.’
‘What is Mrs Wainright wearing tonight, Emma?’ Adele continued curiously, watching Emma carefully through the mirror.
‘I didn’t see her dress, Mrs Fairley,’ said Emma quietly, her face closed and still.
Adele pursed her lips in frustration and disappointment. She had been longing to know which one of her many exquisite gowns Olivia had selected. Adele had always been highly competitive with her older sister, and this was now more pronounced and consuming than ever. Adele was filled with mortification, and infuriated by the fact that Olivia managed to appear elegant and arresting on every occasion. She smiled, and not a little smugly. She would outshine everyone tonight. Olivia will be dowdy in comparison to me, she thought, gloatingly.
‘There we are ma’am, all finished!’ exclaimed Emma with a triumphant flourish of the brush, stepping back to regard Adele’s hair. She gave Adele the small silver hand mirror. ‘See if yer like the back, Mrs Fairley.’
Adele moved and twisted and swivelled in the chair, viewing her pompadour from all angles. ‘Why Emma, it’s positively divine,’ she cried with delight. She laughed gaily. ‘It’s a work of art. A masterpiece. And so flattering to me. You are a clever girl.’
Adele put on her evening slippers and then stepped into the gown Emma was holding for her. She stood in front of the cheval mirror, and Emma patiently fastened the long line of buttons up the back, praying Adele wouldn’t remember the roses she had removed earlier. They were ugly, and Emma was convinced they ruined the gown, which was elegant and dramatic in its basic simplicity. As she did up the last button, Emma said hurriedly, hoping to divert her attention, ‘All we need for the finishing touch are yer jewels, Mrs Fairley.’
‘In a moment, Emma,’ said Adele, stepping back to view herself. She was ecstatic at the vision she made. The black velvet gown stunningly emphasized her tall, lissom figure and its excellent cut drew attention to her tiny waist. It had a low neckline that was draped adroitly across the shoulders, and a tightly moulded bodice that hugged her figure deliciously. She decided it was her most becoming gown as, intoxicated with herself, she swirled around on her elegantly shod feet that peeped out beneath her skirt. Emma was quite right about the roses. They were ghastly, she thought, marvelling that her young maid had such an innate sense of taste.
She sat down and took the diamond chandelier earrings out of the red velvet case and put them on. She added two bracelets and several rings, and then Emma placed the diamond necklace around her throat, securing it carefully. It was a glittering lacy web of brilliant, perfectly cut and mounted stones. The diamonds had such fire, such life, such matchless beauty, Emma gasped.
‘It is exquisite, is it not?’ remarked Adele. ‘The Squire gave it to me,’ she went on, and sighed. ‘He used to give me so many lovely jewels,’ she confided softly.
‘It fair takes me breath away, Mrs Fairley, it does that,’ Emma said in awe, wondering what it had cost. A fortune, no doubt. Bought from the toil of others, she thought with a stab of bitterness, thinking of Frankie and her dad labouring at the mill.
Adele did not see the scowl on Emma’s face, and she threw her a gratified smile and opened another velvet case. She lifted out a large diamond brooch and commenced to pin it on the small draped sleeve that barely covered the top of her left arm.
Emma compressed her mouth. ‘Er—er—Mrs Fairley, ma’am, I don’t knows that yer needs that there brooch, if yer don’t mind me saying so—’
‘It was my mother’s,’ said Adele peremptorily.
‘Oh! Then please excuse me, Mrs Fairley. I understand. Yer wants ter wear it for sentimental reasons,’ said Emma with the utmost politeness. But she was dismayed. The brooch was unnecessary, and it ruined the whole effect she had been striving for.
Sentimental reasons, repeated Adele inwardly, gazing into the mirror. Her eyes, narrowing perceptibly, were as cold and as glittering as the diamonds she wore. She looked down at the brooch absently and thought of her mother and then slowly lifted her head.
Vaguely, Adele removed the brooch and returned it to its case. She wanted no reminders of her mother. Nor did she want Olivia to be reminded either. Olivia thought she was mad, just like their mother had been mad. So did Adam. They were plotting against her. Oh yes, they were. Adam and Olivia. She saw them, whispering in corners of this hideous house.
Her eyes fixed on Emma, who was closing the jewel cases, and she grabbed hold of her arm tightly. Taken by surprise, Emma flinched. But noting the sudden glazed and febrile expression, she did not struggle or attempt to free herself. ‘Yes, Mrs Fairley? What is it?’ she asked gently.
‘You must get away from this place, Emma! Away from this house. Before it’s too late. It’s pernicious,’ Adele whispered.
Emma looked at Adele, baffled by this statement. ‘Per—per—what? I don’t know what that means, Mrs Fairley.’
Adele laughed her shrill laugh, and it sent an icy chill through Emma. ‘It means wicked. Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!’ she shrieked, her voice almost a scream.
Emma looked around helplessly, considering the best course of action to take, her face white and tense. She wondered if she should run and fetch Mrs Wainright, or perhaps Master Edwin. And then some instinct warned her to avoid involving them. She alone would have to pull Mrs Fairley out of this distracted mood. Emma knelt on the floor and took hold of Adele’s slender, aristocratic hands with her own small scarred ones. They were as cold as death. Emma squeezed them so tightly she thought they would snap in half from the pressure. ‘Mrs Fairley! Mrs Fairley! Listen ter me,’ Emma said urgently, making her voice strong and compelling. ‘Yer must listen ter me. The guests’ll be here any minute. Yer must pull yerself together and go down ter meet ‘em. Yer must, for yer own sake!’ she exclaimed fiercely, passionate in her determination to reach Adele.
Adele appeared not to hear. Her opaque eyes regarded Emma blindly. Emma tightened her grasp on Adele’s hands, even though ugly red marks were beginning to appear. She gripped them so strenuously her own fingers hurt. ‘Please, Mrs Fairley! Get a hold of yerself. At once, do yer hear! At once!’ Emma’s voice was now enormously cold, and commanding, and all of her stubborn will rose up in her. It surfaced on her face, stern in its fixity of purpose, as she forced Adele to listen to her. The older woman’s expression remained closed. Emma contemplated slapping her cheek, to rouse her from this stupor. She changed her mind. She did not dare. She was not afraid of the consequences. She simply did not want to mar Adele’s fragile skin.
Finally Adele’s eyes flickered with a hint of life, and her pale lips parted. Emma took a deep breath and gripped her by the shoulders. ‘Yer must go downstairs, Mrs Fairley. Now! Afore it’s too late! Yer the Squire’s wife. The mistress of this house. The Squire’s waiting for yer, Mrs Fairley.’
Emma shook her more forcefully. ‘Look at me, Mrs Fairley. Look at me.’ Emma’s eyes blazed hard green light. ‘Yer must get control of yerself. If yer don’t, there’s bound ter be trouble. There’ll be a right scandal, Mrs Fairley!’
Adele heard her dimly, above the sound of splintering crystal that reverberated in her head. Slowly the shattering and tinkling began to ebb away, and she saw Emma more clearly as her eyes became focused and lost their cloudiness. Now Emma’s voice was penetrating her tired mind. It was strong. ‘I’ll be there, if yer needs me, ma’am. All yer have ter do is signal me during dinner, if yer needs owt. Or ring for me later. I’ll see yer all right. I will! I’ll look after yer, Mrs Fairley. I promise!’ Emma said, her tone cajoling yet firm.
Adele blinked and sat up with an abruptness that was almost violent. What had Emma been saying? That she was the mistress of this house…the Squire’s wife. Yes, that was what she had said. And it was true. Adele passed her hand over her brow and it was a gesture that bespoke her confusion and weariness and despair.
‘Shall I fetch yer a drink of water, Mrs Fairley?’ asked Emma, relieved that a semblance of comprehension, of normality, was returning to Adele’s face.
‘No, thank you, Emma,’ Adele whispered, looking directly at her. ‘I don’t know what happened. My head began to ache again. Yes, that was it, Emma. Another of my dreadful headaches. They are so debilitating, you know.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But it has passed, thank goodness.’
‘Are yer sure, ma’am?’ Emma inquired solicitously, studying her closely.
‘Yes, yes. And I must go downstairs!’ She stood up shakily and moved to the cheval mirror. Emma hurried after her.
‘Now just look at yerself, Mrs Fairley. See how beautiful yer are,’ Emma pointed out, adopting an admiring and reassuring voice, in an effort to bolster Adele’s self-confidence. ‘The Squire will be right proud of yer, ma’am. He will that.’
Oh! My God! Adam! She must go down there and conduct herself with propriety and dignity and grace and charm; otherwise Adam’s wrath would come tumbling about her head, and that she could not survive. She regarded her own image in the glass, and suddenly she saw it objectively, as one views a stranger. That image was of a stunningly beautiful woman. Then she remembered. She was supposed to hide behind the mask of her beauty, so that everyone would be deluded, including Adam.
Her smile wreathed her face with loveliness and her luminous eyes sparkled with silvery lights. She smoothed the skirt of her gown and swung around lightly. ‘I’m ready, Emma,’ she said sweetly.
‘Shall I come with yer, Mrs Fairley?’
‘No, thank you. I can manage on my own,’ Adele answered with absolute sureness. She glided through the adjoining sitting room and out into the corridor, just as the porcelain lions’ clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour.
SEVENTEEN
The dinner had been a tremendous success so far, much to Adam Fairley’s profound relief and satisfaction. He leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, smiling inwardly, and surveyed his guests and the glittering scene that spread out before his eyes.
The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, almost jovial, and everyone appeared to be at ease. It had been a long time since Adam had heard the murmurous sounds of genial chatter and gaiety reverberating against these old walls, and it filled him with a sense of such gratification he was positively startled. At the beginning of the evening he had been suffering from extreme nervousness. It was not unnatural for Adam to feel apprehensive, in view of Adele’s past performances, and whilst he had been able to conceal his fears, he had been uneasy, all of his senses alerted for trouble. But as the dinner progressed without incident, these feelings were lessening and he had started to unbend. From time to time he would marvel that the malaise of his spirit, which had slowly been diminishing in the last few weeks, had now, this night, miraculously disappeared. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he felt unfettered and even carefree.
He lifted the crystal glass of champagne Murgatroyd had just refilled and sipped it slowly, savouring its sparkling iciness. The food had been delicious, the wines excellent, and Murgatroyd and Emma had executed their duties with aplomb, as though they were a seasoned team accustomed to handling such a complicated and elaborate dinner every night of the week. He realized this achievement was no accident. It had been accomplished only with Olivia’s expert planning, and her perfect taste was apparent everywhere.
Adam looked down the long expanse of white linen, until Adele was in his direct line of vision. He had watched her closely all night and her behaviour had astounded him. She was charming and attentive to their guests and, on the surface at least, she seemed like the woman she had been years ago. And she looked magnificent. She was flirting outrageously with Bruce McGill, who appeared to be fascinated, much to Adam’s wry amusement. He suspected there was something of the actress in Adele. Certainly she had made a grand enough entrance. Bruce had arrived earlier than the other guests, in order to conclude their business, and they had been strolling across the hall when she had materialized at the top of the staircase. Aware that they had noticed her, she had paused histrionically at the central landing, clinging for a second to the newel post, and then she had floated down the main staircase like Aphrodite descending from the heavens. Bruce, his mouth slightly agape, had been momentarily speechless and, to Adam, he had looked like a stagestruck schoolboy. That expression still lingered on the Australian’s face. Seated at Adele’s left, he was giving his rapt attention to her and Adele’s tinkling laughter drifted down to Adam on the warm air. He narrowed his eyes, observing her closely. For all her beauty there was something oddly removed about her. The Snow Queen. Never to be touched.
Ada
m’s eyes swivelled to Olivia, who was seated at the centre of the table. She had that special self-assurance so often found in upper-class English women, who were always at ease and in command of themselves and the situation, whether seated on a horse or at a dinner table. She looked just as magnificent as Adele, but in a less brittle way. Her kingfisher-blue silk gown was elegant, and provocatively low-cut, although not quite as daringly so as Adele’s. A choker of sapphires made a ring of blue fire around her neck, the same stones cascaded in linked drops from her small ears, and matching bracelets entwined those superb arms. She was listening quietly to her dinner partner, and in repose her face was serene. Sleeping Beauty. Waiting to be awakened, Adam said to himself, instantly astonished that such an extraordinary thought should have entered his mind.
He caught Olivia’s eye. She was smiling at him warmly and she inclined her head towards the dining-room door. He nodded, understanding that she thought the meal should now be terminated.
Adam gestured to Murgatroyd, who hastened to his side. ‘I assume you have put out liqueurs and cigars in the library, Murgatroyd.’
‘Oh, yes, Squire. The best French cognacs, port, and Bénédictine. Also the usual Scotch and Irish. Mrs Wainright instructed me to put a tray of drinks in the drawing room for the ladies as well.’
‘Excellent, Murgatroyd.’ Adam turned to the female guests seated nearest to him. ‘I know you will excuse us if we gentlemen leave you to your own devices for a short while,’ he said with a smile. He pushed back his chair and looked around the table. ‘Shall we adjourn, gentlemen?’ he continued, standing up. With murmured assents the other men followed suit and filed out of the dining room, chatting amongst themselves.
A Woman of Substance Page 29
