Just Rewards (Harte Family Saga)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  A smile crossed his face, obliterating his scowls. He had a soft spot for India’s grandmother Edwina. She was quite a card, undoubtedly her own woman, and certainly a bit of a martinet. Yet she was kind, thoughtful, and it was she who had managed to ease and eventually obliterate his discomfort about India’s parents being titled aristocrats.

  “This is all nonsense, balderdash. In your head,” she had begun one evening and stopped when he held up his hand in a peremptory way.

  “Listen!” he exclaimed, “I’m not ashamed of my background, or where I come from. I’m a working-class boy from the suburbs of Leeds. I’ve never pretended to be anything else. And I’m proud of that, proud of what I’ve made of myself. I’m not in the least impressed with titles or aristocrats, I think that kind of attitude is … nonsense, balderdash, to use your own words.”

  “I understand. So what’s it all about then?” Edwina had demanded, peering at him across his dinner table at Willows Hall, the Palladian mansion he was inordinately proud of. His stately home.

  “I guess I associate aristocrats and titles with a bygone age. With snobbery and class injustices in the past. Centuries of them, actually. This is Cool Britannia now, not Rule Britannia. Talent talks to everyone, from Tony Blair to the average man. That’s how it is in this new century.”

  Edwina understood him perfectly; most of his words sprang from his upbringing, even though he might not admit that. Whatever he believed, his background got in the way—well, at least a little bit. She told him her thoughts very bluntly, and he listened patiently.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said when she’d finished, no longer concerned, or interested in fact. “Let’s move on.”

  Edwina, Countess of Dunvale, firstborn child of Emma Harte, was not having any of that. Instead she said, “Listen to me now, my young friend. My mother, Emma Harte, was born a poor girl in a mill village on the Yorkshire moors. When she discovered she was pregnant, she came to Leeds, where she was helped by her old friend Blackie O’Neill, at that time a navvy on the Leeds canals and a bricklayer, and by Abraham Kallinski, a Jewish clothing manufacturer and a refugee from the pogroms in Russia. I was that child she was carrying when she was no more than sixteen herself, and I was born illegitimate. Edwin Fairley had made her pregnant; he was the son of Squire Fairley of Fairley Hall, where she had worked as a maid. When I was only six months old, my mother packed me off to live with her cousin Freda in Ripon, so that she could work, make money, lots of it, and so protect me. Emma said money made you safe, that it was power, and she was right. It’s always been that way, hasn’t it?

  “Eventually, I was sent to boarding school, a very good one, and later I completed my education at a finishing school in Switzerland. At that time I returned to London, where I became a debutante, because by then my mother was a successful woman. The Emma Harte. And she had the money and standing in society to bring me out. I met Jeremy Standish, the Earl of Dunvale, almost at once, and he fell in love with me. Head over heels, that was the way he put it. And so we were married. We had one son, Anthony, who is India’s father. If there were any aristocrats around, Dusty, they were all Dunvales, not Hartes, I can assure you of that.”

  She laughed then, and he laughed with her, and he sat back in the chair, scrutinizing her carefully, wondering if she had loved the earl the way he had loved her. And then, much to his surprise, he asked her, point-blank, and she answered him without a minute’s hesitation.

  “I adored him, Dusty. Jeremy was my ideal. You know, I worshiped him in a sense. Wrong to do that perhaps, but I did. He was older than I was, over twenty years older, and I think that’s one of the reasons I loved him so much. There were moments, when I was a young woman, that I truly felt the need for a father figure, and Jeremy was very protective, indulgent, kind, and in a way rather fatherly. Don’t misunderstand me, it was a love match, very much so, and we had an extremely sexual marriage. We were mad for each other; in fact, I was always surprised we never had any more children. We were always making love.”

  Her blunt words threw him for a moment; it seemed ludicrous that this lady of ninety-five years was talking to him about sex. Then he looked at her intently yet again with those penetrating artist’s eyes of his, and he saw at once beyond the wrinkles, the great age, saw her as he knew she must have been. A great beauty. He knew without question that she had looked exactly like India did today.

  As he walked on, ruminating to himself, he suddenly wondered whether he should stop off at Harte’s, have a cup of tea in the restaurant, then decided against it. Instead he went into the first coffee shop he spotted.

  Dusty slid into a booth, ordered a pot of tea, leaned into the corner, waiting for the waitress to return with his order.

  Within seconds he became conscious of his dreary surroundings, was assailed by a mixture of old, familiar smells, troubling smells associated with his youth: burnt pans, cabbage on the boil, bacon frying, a whiff of gas from a leaking ring, and overall a faint odor of dampness, of wet washing. And decay. Poverty. Mean streets.

  He could not bear it. Too many unhappy memories rushed at him, and he leapt to his feet with such energy, the waitresses all turned to stare at him. Without a word he threw five pounds on the table and rushed out, not looking back. Gagging.

  He struck out in the direction of City Square, walking rapidly, breathing deeply, blocking out the past, the childhood days that brought such pain. Remembering was a burden.

  What a relief it was to be outside, damp and bitter cold as it was.

  In no time at all, Dusty was crossing the road, hurrying into City Square. When he came to the statues in the center, he paused, stood looking, thinking how banal they appeared to him now. When he was a child, they had seemed magnificent, looming high above him. Now they were scaled down to size in his eyes.

  The scantily clad nymphs who stood on plinths holding up torches which became electric lights at night seemed utterly ridiculous as companions to the statue in the center of the square. Edward, the Black Prince, in his armor, seated on a black horse, beloved son of Edward III, a warrior like his father, one of England’s greatest kings. Why were the nymphs there at all?

  Dusty was unaware of the sudden icy wind blowing up as he stood there staring; he was momentarily mesmerized by that statue, which he had thought so magnificent when he was a little boy.

  Time shattered.

  The present fell away.

  The past was all there was left.

  Memories flooded him, memories long ago shut off. Now he lived within them … here in the city of his birth.

  “Who’s the man on the horse, Dad?” Dusty asked, staring up at his father, tugging at his hand when Will Rhodes did not immediately respond.

  Looking down at his boy, his only child, his adored son, Will smiled and said in his usual gentle way, “That’s a statue of Edward, the Black Prince. A brave prince he was, too.”

  “Why’s he called the Black Prince then?”

  “Because of his black armor. At least, I thinks that’s the reason, Russell.”

  “It’s a right big horse, in’t it, Dad?”

  “Aye, lad, it is, and black as coal.”

  Coal.

  Black dust.

  Black dust inhaled for years.

  Silicosis.

  Death.

  Dusty turned away from the statue of Edward, the Black Prince, on his coal-black horse, and crossed the main road to the Queen’s Hotel.

  He was thinking of his father as he walked. Will Rhodes had been a miner, had gone down the pits in Castleford for years. All his life really; he had been a pit lad when he was very young.

  And it was the pits that had killed him. His lungs had been destroyed by the work he did to support his little family—his lovely wife, Alice, and his beloved boy, Russell. The boy who would never go down the pits. Will would never allow that. Never. The boy who would be an artist. A great artist. The boy whose talent “shone like the brightest moon in midsummer,” that was the way hi
s father always put it.

  His father had died young. Only forty. Amazing he had lasted that long.

  Dusty had known when his father was going to die. It was because of his strange manner, what he had said to him. It was a kind of … premonition. “Take care of your mam, lad. Take care of my Alice.” Will had seemed perfectly well when he said that, out of the blue, but he must have known death was knocking on his door. He was dead and gone within the month.

  Silicosis. That was the cause of death. Black dust had stolen the life out of Will Rhodes. A man far too young to die.

  Dusty swallowed hard as he approached the hotel. He always got a lump in his throat when he thought of his father. He had loved him so much, but he had never told Will that, which was something he had regretted ever since. You must always tell those you love that you do love them. He never had. Never told anyone. Until he had finally said it to India Standish. His fiancée, soon to be his wife. In June. In Ireland. At Clonloughlin. Lady India Standish, the girl of his dreams.

  The moment he set foot in the lobby of the hotel, which was the best in Leeds, they surrounded him respectfully. They all wanted to help him, to please him. He was their hero, the local boy made good. Bloody good. Famous. Rich. A celebrity. Whatever that meant.

  He smiled and thanked them, was scrupulously polite, and managed to get himself into the lounge, where he took off his sheepskin coat.

  The waiter came immediately, took his order for a pot of tea, and departed. Dusty settled himself on the sofa, glancing around as he did. He hadn’t been inside the hotel for years, and he noticed at once that it had been refurbished. The surroundings were pleasant, comfortable, tasteful, and there was a welcoming warmth in the lounge. Dusty began to thaw out, and he realized how chilled he had become standing in City Square, although he had been too lost in memories to notice it then.

  The past was immutable. It was always there. You carried it around with you. Some people referred to it as baggage; he did not. The past was the sum total of himself. It made him who he was.

  Dusty’s thoughts went back to his father.

  He had been sixteen when Will had died. It was just after he had started to attend Leeds College of Art; his father had seen that happen, at least, and he had been proud. “No pits for you, my lad,” Will had said, full of smiles after Dusty’s first day at the college. “You’re going somewhere, aye, you are that.” And his mother, always quick on the draw, had exclaimed, “Yes, he is. To the Royal College of Art in London. When he’s eighteen.”

  Dusty remembered now, so very clearly, the huge, proud smile on his father’s face, the unexpected sparkle in those deep blue eyes. He had inherited his father’s eyes and his dark hair, but there the resemblance stopped. Dusty was much broader than his father had been, and he had a craggy, almost rough-hewn face, while Will Rhodes had been slightly built, thin, with refined, almost delicate features. Dusty took after his mother’s side of the family, was built like her twin brothers, Ron and Ray, who had his type of muscular torso, wide shoulders, and smoldering good looks.

  Leaning back against the sofa, Dusty closed his eyes for a moment, and captured behind his lids the image of his father’s face.

  Will was smiling; he was happy because his only child had won a scholarship to Leeds College of Art, and in Will’s considered estimation, and Alice’s, there was no reason why their brilliantly talented son wouldn’t win yet another scholarship to the Royal College of Art in London. And he had done so. But his father was dead and buried by then.

  The rattling of china brought Dusty up with a start, and he nodded to the waiter when asked if the tea should be poured, then thanked him as the cup was passed.

  Sipping the tea, finding it refreshing, Dusty suddenly wondered if people who knew they were dying tried to warn loved ones, those who would be left behind to grieve. Or prepare them, if not exactly warn them.

  His father had instructed him to look after his mother a month before he had passed on. And Gram, his father’s mother, had done the same thing only a year later. Unexpectedly, she had told Dusty he must never forget who he was, where he came from, and what he was all about. “And always stay close to your mam, lad. Be there for her, take care of her. She’s the bravest, the kindest woman I’ve ever known. Don’t you ever forget that, Russell. Stand by her.”

  Did people get a feeling they were soon to die? He did not know. But his mother had known, certainly she had, because she had told him. “I’m dying, Dusty,” she had murmured ten years ago, and on seeing him turn pale, falter as he walked across the sitting room toward her, she had smiled bravely and said, “It can’t be helped, love. It’s the cancer. It eats away at you, and I’m getting weaker. It’s better you know; then I don’t have to pretend with you.”

  He had gone to sit with her on the sofa, taking her hand in his, staring into her gentle face, and as he had looked into her soft, gray-blue eyes, he had choked up. She had been his rock all his life; she had worked and slaved so that he could go to college in London. Even though he had won the coveted scholarship, there were all those extras to pay for, and even though he had a weekend job, he still needed money. And his mother provided it without a murmur. God knows how she had done it. But, thank God, he had been a success almost immediately after leaving college, and he had been able to give her the comforts and luxuries she deserved once he was established. Eventually he had bought her a small house in Leeds, insisted she stop working, and she had repaid him with her obvious happiness at her newfound financial security. Most of all, she was proud of him, and it pleased him that he had succeeded in fulfilling her dreams for him.

  “You’re the best, Dusty,” she had said to him for years, her eyes full of love. “And never forget who you are. You’re the best-loved son of Alice and Will Rhodes. And remember, you have it all. Talent, intelligence, and Looks with a capital L. Let’s not forget your handsome looks, Dusty. They’re important in this world, and don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

  He had remembered all the things they had told him: Will, Gram, and his mother. It was their love and devotion, their self-sacrifice that had put him where he stood today. That and their belief in him, their belief in his talent. That talent sometimes baffled him. He did not know where it came from, and there were times when he shook his head, marveling at it. It was the essence of him. That he had come to understand.

  He was forty-two, a mature man. Well, most of the time. He was about to marry; he must make her happy. He must be a good husband. And he must trust her, trust her judgment and her good sense. Ever since she had come back to him, after their painful quarrel and separation, he had managed to do that. He had even told her he loved her … a first for him.

  There was the child. His and Melinda’s. Molly had made him promise to bring her up. She had warned him—was that the right word?—not to let Melinda have her. Because of Melinda’s drug abuse? Or for some other reason?

  Molly had been preparing him. For her death.

  She knew she was going to die, just as his father, his grandmother, and his mother had known. They had prepared him. So it wouldn’t be too much of a shock when it happened. But it was always a shock when someone you loved died, even if you were expecting it.

  Molly Caldwell was going to die. She knew it. And now, so did he.

  Dusty leaned against the sofa cushions, taking a deep breath. A wave of sadness enveloped him, and he felt his throat closing with emotion. Molly Caldwell had been a good mother, and a good grandmother, and she hadn’t deserved to suffer the way she had because of her daughter. Melinda had led her a merry dance over the years …

  Dusty sat upright with a start. If Molly did die, there would be Melinda to contend with. She wouldn’t allow him to have custody of Atlanta. She would want the child for herself, to use as a weapon against him. That was the way she was made. He thought of Tessa Fairley and her battles with her ex-husband, Mark Longden. Was he going to go through the same thing?

  Probably, he answered himself. B
ut there was always a way to solve problems of this nature. Money talks. And Melinda did not have a savory reputation these days. Drunk. Drugged. In and out of many beds. In and out of detox clinics. Unfit mother? Unquestionably.

  Dusty sat quietly for another half hour, thinking of all the worst possibilities he might have to contend with. As he ruminated, one thing became crystal clear. He must confide in India tonight, explain his feelings about this situation, about his past with Melinda. And he must speak to her about his childhood. She had always wanted to know more about those early years, and he would never tell her.

  Tonight he would. He owed her that. She was going to be his wife. There should be no secrets.

  14

  The clock in the church tower began to strike.

  Inside the church, the noise was deafening. Startled from her reverie, Evan sat up with a jerk. The din continued for a few seconds longer, and then, much to her relief, all was quiet, the interior of the church peaceful once more.

  Evan settled back against the wooden pew, waiting for Gideon and the others to return. They had left her off at the church and driven around to the vicarage to see the vicar. She knew they would arrive at any moment; in the meantime, she was enjoying her sojourn alone. The church had a beautiful altar, and the three stained-glass windows set high above it were quite something to behold. Their jewel colors were stunning, and they sparkled brightly in the sunlight, creating rainbow reflections against the pale stone walls, which were nine hundred years old, dating back to Norman times. She knew the church was considered a local treasure.