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The upstairs parlour of this ancient house was distinguished by a gentle beauty, refinement, and good taste. It was understated and unpretentious, yet this very simplicity was deceptive to any but the most experienced eye. It was a kind of understatement that could only be achieved by great expenditure of money and the most patient and skilful acquisition of the very best in furniture and furnishings. The dark polished floor gleamed against the exquisite Savonnerie carpet that splashed faded pastel colours into the centre of the room. The palest of yellows washed over the walls and gave the whole room a sunny, airy feeling and everywhere sparkling silver and crystal gleamed richly against the mellow patinas of the handsome Georgian tables, consoles, and cabinets and the large elegant desk.
Two long sofas, facing each other across a butler’s tray table in front of the fireplace, were as enveloping and as comfortable as deep feather beds. They were covered in a romantic chintz ablaze with clear vivid flowers of bright pink, yellow, blue, and red entwined amongst trailing green vines on a white ground. The Pembroke tables and small consoles all held rare porcelain bowls and vases filled with fresh spring hyacinths, jonquils, tulips, daffodils, and imported mimosa. The warmth of the fire had opened them up so that the air was aromatic with their mingled scents. A Chippendale cabinet, of great elegance and beauty, was filled with matchless Rose Medallion china, whilst side tables held priceless crystal and carved jade lamps with pale cream shades of the finest silk. In front of one of the soaring leaded windows, a Georgian rent table held a selection of the very latest books and a library table behind one of the sofas was piled high with all the current newspapers and magazines.
The bleached oak fireplace, where Emma stood regarding the room, was ornately carved and upon it reposed lovely old silver candlesticks holding white candles and in the centre rested a seventeenth-century carriage clock. The Turner landscape dominated the wall above the fireplace. Redolent with misty greens and clear blues, its romantic bucolic setting was evocative and poignant to Emma and it never failed to stir a nostalgic longing in her heart, as it did now as she turned to admire it.
Portraits of a young nobleman and his wife, by Reynolds, flanked the Chippendale cabinet and a collection of exquisitely rendered miniatures was grouped on the wall behind the desk. Emma’s unerring eye for colour and form and her skill at placing and arranging furniture were in evidence everywhere and yet this was not an overly feminine room, being devoid of useless clutter and bric-à-brac. It was a handsome and gracious parlour where a man could also feel at ease in the softly diffused beauty and great comfort.
When she felt warmed throughout, Emma went over to the small console that held a silver tray of drinks and crystal glasses. She poured out two sherries and carried them back to the fireplace. As she waited for Paula she glanced at the morning newspapers. Her own paper, the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, was looking much better since she had brought Jim Fairley in as managing director. He had made a great number of changes, all of which had improved the paper. He had revamped the format and the layout looked brighter and more modern, as did her evening paper, the Yorkshire Evening Standard, which was also under Jim’s control. Advertising revenue had increased, as had the circulation of both papers. He had done an excellent job and Emma was more than satisfied. Jim Fairley … Paula … She could no longer think of him without thinking of Paula, too. In Emma’s mind the girl was always fatefully in his shadow. She sighed. The door opened and Emma turned away from her introspection. She looked at Paula with fondness as she walked across the room. ‘I have a sherry here for you, my dear,’ she said, gesturing towards the table.
Paula was smiling cheerfully, having decided in the privacy of her own room to be her most charming self to every one of her unpleasant relatives this weekend. It was the only thing she could do, and under the circumstances her grandmother needed as much support as she could get with the leeches around, as Paula called them, although this was mostly said to herself or her cousins Alexander and Emily, who shared her views.
‘I thought I would go riding this afternoon, if you don’t mind, Grandy,’ she said as she joined Emma by the fire. ‘It’s such a beautiful day even though it is cold.’
Emma nodded, delighted. She wanted to be alone after lunch and she had contemplated sending Paula into Leeds on some invented errand. Now that was not necessary. ‘Yes, you should, darling. It will do you good. But wrap up warmly. I intend to take it easy myself. I have to plan the seating arrangement for the family dinner tomorrow night and then I shall rest.’
‘When are the others coming?’ Paula asked, keeping her voice purposely light and casual.
‘I expect some of them will come tonight. The others tomorrow.’ Emma’s tone was as mild as Paula’s for she had sensed the girl’s unhappiness about the weekend and she did not want her to be more distressed than she already was.
‘It will be quite a houseful, Grandy. We haven’t all been gathered here for years.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Is Aunt Elizabeth bringing her husband?’
‘Does she have one at the moment?’ Emma asked with not a little malice.
‘Oh you are terrible, Grandy!’ Paula laughed. ‘You know very well she does. The Italian count. Gianni.’
‘Humph! He’s as much a count as I’m the Pope,’ Emma retorted disparagingly. ‘More like an Italian waiter to my mind.’ She sipped her sherry. Her green eyes glittered above the glass.
‘Grandy! He’s very nice. Much too nice to cope with Aunt Elizabeth.’
‘You’re right! This one has lasted longer than the others, come to think of it. I’m surprised she hasn’t done a bolt before now. Isn’t it about time?’
Paula laughed again. ‘I don’t know. Who does with her? Anyway, perhaps this marriage will work better than the last.’
‘And all the others before the last,’ Emma commented dryly.
Paula was amused. ‘You’ve had several husbands yourself, Grandmother.’
‘Not as many as Elizabeth and furthermore I didn’t divorce them one after the other. Nor did mine get younger and younger as I got older,’ Emma pointed out. But she had the good grace to laugh. ‘Poor Elizabeth. She has such an idealistic attitude towards love and marriage. She’s as romantic now as she was when she was sixteen. I just wish she’d settle down.’
‘And grow up, Grandy. Anyway, I suppose she will bring Gianni and the twins with her. Emily was at the Bradford store this past week, so I guess she will drive over tonight.’
‘Yes, she’s going to do that. I spoke to her yesterday and she …’
Hilda knocked on the door and bounced into the room. ‘Lunch is ready, madame,’ she announced, and added proudly, ‘Cook has made all your favourite dishes, madame.’
Emma smiled. ‘We’ll be right down, Hilda.’ She was fond of the housekeeper who had been with her for thirty years and with whom, in all that time, she had never exchanged one cross word. Most of Hilda’s life had been devoted to running Pennistone Royal, which she did unobtrusively and with great efficiency, pride, and love.
‘What were you saying about Emily, Grandmother?’ Paula asked as they followed Hilda out of the room.
‘Oh, yes, I spoke to her yesterday and she said she would drive over in time to have dinner with us, and that perhaps Alexander would come with her. Otherwise he will drive over later.’
Hilda was standing in the hall, outside the dining-room door. She held it open for them and followed them into the room. ‘Cook has made that fresh vegetable soup you like, madame, and done a lovely fried plaice.’ She bustled over to the sideboard to serve them, adding, ‘Chips, too. I know you said no more fried food because of your diet, but just this once won’t hurt, madame,’ she said, ladling out the soup into Royal Worcester bowls.
‘If you say so, Hilda.’ Emma laughed, and winked at Paula, who was so startled by this unexpected facial movement in her grandmother she almost dropped the glass of water she was holding.
That afternoon, whilst Paula went riding on the moors, Emma sat upstairs in her parlour, where she always worked and went over all the legal documents which had been prepared by her solicitors before she was taken ill. She spent some time studying them thoughtfully and when she had finished she called Henry Rossiter in London.
She dispensed with the preliminary greetings quickly, as she always did, and said briskly, ‘Henry, where do we now stand on the liquidation of those personal assets of mine?’
‘I have all the papers in front of me, Emma. I was just going over them,’ he replied, clearing his throat.
To Emma his voice sounded suddenly quavering and tired. My dear old friend is getting old, she thought sadly. I shall miss him when he retires. Emma herself had no intention of retiring. She would die upright, sitting behind her desk.
‘Ah, yes. I have them all now, Emma. Everything has been sold and the prices were very good. Excellent, in fact. We realized just under nine million pounds. Not bad, eh?’
‘That’s marvellous, Henry! Where is the money?’
‘Why, right here in the bank. Where did you think it was, my dear?’ He sounded startled, even a little affronted, and Emma smiled to herself.
‘I know it’s in the bank, Henry, but which account is it deposited in?’ she asked patiently.
‘I placed it in your own private business account, E.H. Incorporated.’
‘Please transfer it today, Henry. To my current account. My personal current account.’
It was obvious to Emma that Henry was astounded. There was a silence for a few seconds and she heard him sucking in his breath. When he found his voice at last he said, ‘Emma, that’s ridiculous! Nobody puts nearly nine million pounds in a personal current account. You’ve got about two hundred thousand pounds in that account anyway. Look here, I know you said you needed about six million pounds for some personal project, but the remainder of the money from the sales should be working for you.’
‘I don’t want it working for me, Henry. I want it in my current account.’ She laughed and could not resist teasing him a little. ‘I might want to go shopping, Henry.’
‘Shopping!’ he exploded. ‘Come now, Emma! Not even you can spend that amount shopping! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard you say in all the years I’ve known you.’ He was furious.
‘I certainly can spend that amount of money shopping, Henry, depending, of course, on what exactly I’m buying,’ Emma said acidly, thinking to herself that Henry’s marvellous sense of humour always seemed to evaporate into thin air when he was discussing money. ‘Please, Henry, no more discussion. Deduct the bank’s fee for handling the sales, and the taxes to be paid, and put the rest in my personal current account.’
He sighed in exasperation. ‘Very well. I suppose you know what you’re doing. After all, it is your money, Emma.’
You’re damn right it is, Emma thought.
Emma worked on her seating plan for the family dinner on Saturday night and prepared a suggested menu for Hilda. Then, after locking the legal documents in her briefcase, she went into her bedroom to rest. It was going to be an extremely difficult weekend, of that she was absolutely sure. Yet she felt no apprehension or the slightest twinge of anxiety, simply a cold detachment and a natural distaste as she envisioned the scenes which were bound to ensue after the family dinner on Saturday night.
She had an abhorrence of scenes, which in their inherent violence and futility both repelled and irritated her, and she tried to avoid them at all cost, particularly with her children. In spite of her reassurances to Paula, she knew that a few altercations would be an inevitability during the next few days. She accepted this fact with resignation and steeled herself in preparation. She was not sure whether any of her children, other than Daisy, had lately developed enough inner strength to help them withstand a sudden crisis with a degree of fortitude. If they had, it would be a staggering surprise to her, but she would welcome this development because it might conceivably alleviate some of the unpleasantness. At the same time, she did not have to speculate on how they would at first respond to her news.
Emma understood all of them well enough to anticipate and gauge their reactions. Apart from Daisy, who was not involved, each one of them would, in turn, be shocked and infuriated by the news she would impart. She realized she was going to strike a swift and terrible blow, a blow which would affect all of their lives. But she felt no disquiet or pity, for it would be a blow from the sword they had forced her to take up and wield in defence, through their own foolhardy self-interest and avariciousness.
Neither did she suffer feelings of guilt about the innumerable plans she had made for the future. And she certainly did not have one iota of compassion for those who would be the most badly affected. There was only a heartbreaking sadness buried inside her that at times felt like a constricting steel band around her chest. It was a sadness that sprang from her hurt and her disappointment in her children, and from a chilling horror at the knowledge that they had cold-bloodedly plotted against her. Years ago Emma had ceased to expect their love and she no longer sought their approbation but, in spite of that, she had never imagined she would have reason to question their loyalty at any time. The devastating implications of their scheming had at first left her thunderstruck, but this initial reaction had rapidly been replaced by a numbing anger and finally she had felt only pure contempt. She smiled grimly as she reflected on their duplicity, a duplicity so ill-conceived and lacking in skill and imagination that she had known about it from its very inception.
At least she could have had a degree of respect for them if they had been less transparent and a little more adroit in their plotting. Emma had always had the ability to stand back and admire a strong and cunning adversary, however grudging that admiration was. As far as her children were concerned, she was appalled at their lack of judgement, and their ingenuousness, which had precipitated their reckless and fatal actions and which had apparently led them to underestimate her.
She frowned and turned her thoughts away from the dissident members of her family, focusing her love on Daisy, Paula, and all of her other grandchildren. Eventually the quiet calm was restored and she slept, a deep untroubled sleep.
Afternoon tea had been a ritual at Pennistone Royal for years. It was a ritual Emma enjoyed, but even if she had not, Hilda would have not permitted it to be abandoned. ‘Over my dead body, madame,’ she had cried when Emma had suggested forgoing it a few years ago. Emma had shrugged and laughed helplessly. Hilda was a local woman who had come to work for Emma just after she had bought and restored Pennistone Royal and she was more like a member of the family than a paid servant. She was devoted to Emma, whom she described to anyone who would listen as ‘a good simple woman, with no fancy ideas’, adding with typical bluntness, ‘and a real lady whatever her beginnings were. More so than many who were born such, I can tell you!’ Emma was already a legend in the area, not only because of her power and wealth but for the many charitable deeds she had performed, quietly, with no fanfare and no desire for accolades, as was her way. But whenever Hilda had the opportunity she would proudly enumerate all of Emma’s good works yet again like a litany, not forgetting to mention that her Madame had put her own son Peter through university and had created a series of scholarships for the talented children of Pennistone and Fairley. ‘And what about her Foundation,’ she would continue, with a sniff, arching her neck and narrowing her eyes shrewdly. ‘Now, the Foundation gives away more money than I care to mention. Millions! Yes, millions. There is nothing tight-fisted about Emma Harte, that’s the truth. Which is more than I can say about some of the other rich folk around here. They wouldn’t give a blind man a light on a rainy night, never mind part with a few coppers for the needy.’ And when she wasn’t singing the praises of Emma she was proclaiming the virtues of Paula, whom she had helped to raise and whom she loved just as much as if she were her own daughter.
And so, promptly at four o’clock, Hilda came sailing into the parlour, carrying before her a great silver tea tray set with a beautiful Georgian silver tea service of exquisite design and delicate china which was translucent when held to the light. Following in her wake was one of the two young maids who came daily to work at the house, who also carried another gargantuan tray, this one laden with food painstakingly prepared by the cook.
‘Put that on the desk for a minute, Brenda,’ Hilda instructed, ‘and bring one of the small tables over here by the fire to hold it.’ She put her own tray down on the butler’s table and, puffing and blowing from exertion, she paused to catch her breath, motioning to Brenda where to position the second table for convenience. The two women carefully arranged the trays in front of the fire and then Brenda slipped out of the room, leaving Hilda to make the finishing touches. She surveyed Cook’s handiwork critically and then a smile of gratification slowly spread itself across her plump rosy face. There were hot buttered scones, thin slices of bread and butter, homemade strawberry jam, clotted cream, wafer-like sandwiches of cucumber, tomatoes, and smoked salmon, sweet biscuits, and a fruit cake decorated on the top with almonds. It was a real old-fashioned Yorkshire tea. Hilda carefully folded the fine lawn serviettes, put one on each plate with a small pearl-handled silver knife and fork, threw logs on to the fire, plumped the cushions, and then looked around. When she had reassured herself that everything was to her satisfaction she knocked on Emma’s bedroom door.
‘Are you awake, madame?’
‘Yes, Hilda. Come in,’ Emma called.
Hilda opened the door and poked her head around it, smiling. ‘Tea is ready!’ she announced. ‘And Miss Paula is back from her ride. She said to tell you she’ll be here in a few minutes. She’s changing out of her riding clothes.’
‘Thank you, Hilda. I’ll be there shortly.’
‘Ring if you need anything, madame,’ Hilda added, and then went down to the kitchen to have her own tea and give a word of praise to Cook.
When Paula came in a little while later she stood in the doorway and caught her breath, unexpectedly moved by the beauty of the parlour. It was hushed and still, as if time had passed it by. The only sound was the crackling of the fire that burned in the huge hearth. Sunshine filtered in through the tall leaded windows, dusky and golden, bathing the furniture and paintings in a mellow light, and the air, heavy with the perfume of hyacinths and spring flowers, flowed around her, enveloping her in its heady fragrance. There was something poignant about this great old room. Memories stirred within her, faintly elusive and nostalgic. She glided silently across the floor, almost afraid to move within that stillness, fearful that the rustling of her dress might disrupt and destroy that gentle peace. She sank on to one of the sofas and her eyes roamed around the room. Here it was easy to forget that there was a world outside, a world full of pain and ugliness and despair. She drifted gently on the edge of memory, recalling her childhood in this ancient place, the happy times she had spent here with her mother and father, her cousins and her young friends. And Grandy. Always Grandy. Her grandmother was never far away, always there to wipe away her tears, laugh at her childish pranks, admire her small achievements and to scold and cosset and love her. Her grandmother had made her what she was. It was Grandy who had told her she was clever and beautiful and special. Unique, she had said. It was Grandy who had given her inner security and confidence and strength, who had taught her to face the truth without fear and with a courageous heart …
She did not hear Emma come in, so soft was her step. Emma, too, paused to admire, but her attention was focused solely on Paula. How lovely she looks, Emma thought, like a figure from some old painting, remote and wistful, the maiden with the unicorn.
‘There you are, darling!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘You’re looking beautiful and refreshed after your ride.’
Paula glanced up swiftly, momentarily startled. ‘Oh, Grandy, you made me jump. I was miles away.’
As Emma seated herself opposite Paula her eyes lighted on the tea tray. ‘My goodness, look at all this food. Hilda is too much,’ she murmured, shaking her head in mild exasperation. ‘How can we eat all this! It’s only a few hours to dinner.’
Paula laughed. ‘I know! Perhaps she feels you need building up. You know how she fusses over you. But she’s really gone to town today. It’s like the nursery teas she used to make when I was small.’
‘I’m not hungry at all,’ Emma murmured, ‘and she’s going to be so hurt if we don’t eat anything.’
‘I’m ravenous, so don’t worry,’ Paula remarked, picking up a sandwich. ‘It was cold up there on the moors and I rode for miles. It’s given me quite an appetite.’ She bit into the sandwich as Emma looked on approvingly.
‘I’m glad to see you eating for once. You always seem to pick at your food. No wonder you’re so thin …’
The telephone on Emma’s desk rang. Paula jumped up. ‘Don’t disturb yourself, darling,’ she said, dashing across the room, ‘it’s probably only one of the family.’
She picked up the phone. ‘Yes, Hilda. I’ll take it. Hello? It’s Paula. Do you want to speak to Grandmother?’ She listened briefly and said, ‘Oh, all right. Yes. Fine. Goodbye.’ Paula came back to her place on the sofa. ‘It was Aunt Elizabeth. She’s coming tomorrow morning and bringing the twins … and the husband!’
‘So now we know,’ Emma remarked with a chuckle. The telephone rang again. ‘Oh dear, I do hope they’re not all going to call and tell us when they are arriving. This could go on for the rest of the day,’ Emma exclaimed impatiently.
Paula hurried across the room and took the call, which as always was monitored first by Hilda. ‘Emily! How are you?’ she cried when she heard her cousin’s voice. They were close friends. ‘Yes, of course you can. She’s right here.’ Paula put the phone down on the desk and motioned to Emma. ‘It’s Emily, Grandy, she wants to talk to you.’
‘Knowing Emily, this could be quite an involved conversation,’ Emma said with a smile, and picking up her cup of tea, she took it with her to the desk. Sitting down, she lifted the phone and said briskly, ‘Hello, darling. How are …’
‘I’m fine, Grandmother,’ Emily interrupted in her young breathy voice, in a tremendous rush as always. ‘I can’t talk long! I’m in a frightful hurry! But I just wanted to tell you that Sarah is flying up from London this afternoon. I’m going to pick her up at Yeadon airport at six-thirty, so we’ll definitely be there for dinner. Oh, and Alexander said to tell you he might be late. Uncle Kit’s being truculent about that machinery. He’s had Alexander going over all the figures again. Alexander’s furious! Well, anyway, he thinks he can be at Pennistone by eight o’clock, if that isn’t too late. Also, Jonathan is taking the train up from London to Leeds. But he said not to send Smithers. He’ll get a taxi.’
All of this had issued forth in a steady uninterrupted stream, in Emily’s typical fashion, which Emma was quite accustomed to. She sat back comfortably, an amused glint in her eyes, listening attentively, occasionally sipping her tea. Emily was always pressed for time, even more so than she was herself, and it often occurred to Emma that her voluble and volatile young grand-daughter seemed to speak in a series of exclamation marks. Now she said teasingly, ‘For someone in a rush this seems to be a very long conversation, Emily dear.’
‘Grandy! Don’t be mean! I can’t help it if all your idiot grandchildren make me the repository of their messages. Ooh! I’ve one more. Philip is going to try and come with me; if not, he’ll drive over with Alexander. Grandy dear …’ Emily paused and her voice dropped, was suddenly soft and full of lilting charm. ‘Can I ask a favour?’