A Woman of Substance (84 page)

As Arthur contemplated his appearance, Emma climbed out of the bath and dried herself briskly. She stood for a moment in front of one of the mirrored panels, gazing at her body with detached interest. Her full breasts were high and firm, her thighs gently rounded, her stomach flat. She had kept her figure; considering she would be thirty-four next month, and had borne four children, she looked amazingly youthful. There was nothing matronly about her shape, thanks to her busy schedule and her singular distaste for rich foods that sprang from the deprivations of her spartan childhood. Turning away, she put on the silk robe and padded into the bedroom.

Seating herself at the dressing table, Emma picked up a silver monogrammed hairbrush, her head held on one side. She was delighted she had decided to cut off all her hair last week. She liked this new bob that was all the rage. The style suited her and was absolutely perfect with her new haute couture clothes from Vionnet and Chanel. There was a sudden loud knock and Emma swung around as Arthur strode in. Emma stared at her husband, surprised by his unexpected appearance. She pulled the robe around her swiftly and suppressed a stab of impatience, resenting the intrusion. She was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a cordial front with him these days.

‘Really, Arthur, you quite startled me.’

‘Did I just!’

Emma’s eyes lighted on the drink in his hand. ‘You’re starting a bit early, aren’t you?’ she said, striving to hide her annoyance.

‘For God’s sake, don’t start that again!’ he cried, walking over to the yellow velvet sofa. He draped himself on it and
threw her a scathing look. ‘You can be such a crashing bore, my dear. A real killjoy, as a matter of fact.’

Emma sighed, recognizing his mood. ‘We are facing a long evening, Arthur. I don’t want you to—’

‘Get drunk and disgrace you, my pet,’ Arthur interjected. ‘Emma must never be upset. God forbid that should happen,’ he snapped with a flash of arrogance. ‘What am I supposed to do all evening? Tread in the Queen’s shadow?’

Ignoring the jibe, Emma turned to the dressing table and picked up a bottle of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleu. She dabbed the crystal stopper behind her ears and, not wanting to provoke a quarrel, she changed the subject. ‘I had a sweet letter from Kit today. He sends his love. He’s enjoying school. I’m so glad I sent him to Rugby. He’s in his element.’

‘Yes, that was a good idea of
mine
, wasn’t it?’ Arthur smirked. ‘I do have quite a lot of them, you know, if only you would give me half a chance. Instead you treat me like an idiot.’

After a moment’s silence, Emma said, ‘I have to finish dressing. Did you come in for something in particular, Arthur?’

‘Oh yes, I did, by Jove!’ Arthur answered, looking up. ‘I thought I had better glance at the guest list. Refresh my memory.’

‘It’s on my desk.’ Emma shifted in the chair and took a pair of superb teardrop diamond earrings out of a jewel case and screwed them on absently.

‘Rather a distinguished crowd we’re having,’ Arthur remarked, scanning the list and noting the names of a number of beautiful and possibly acquiescent ladies amongst the guests. Wanting suddenly to make his escape, he threw the list on the desk and edged to the door. ‘I think I’ll go downstairs and take a look around.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘It’s nine-thirty. I’ll leave you now so that you can dress.’

‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’ Emma watched him saunter out. She shook her head, pondering on Arthur. If he was a fool, then she was surely a monumental fool. This mess was all her fault. How curious it was that she never made the same mistake twice in business, yet continually repeated them in her personal life. Loving David Kallinski, she had deliber
ately married Joe…loving Paul McGill, she had plunged into matrimony with Arthur. But the circumstances were different, she told herself. David had been forbidden to her because of the Orthdoxy of his mother. Paul had abandoned her because he did not want her. Still, it seemed that she had a penchant for picking the wrong men as husbands. Joe was decent, though, she mused, whereas Arthur is worthless. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’ she said, remembering her brother’s words of warning. Damn my stubbornness, she muttered.

Emma stood up purposefully. She could not dwell on this disastrous marriage tonight. She would think about it later. Tomorrow. She hurried to finish dressing and stood staring at herself in the mirror of the armoire. Her gown was a long slender sheath of turquoise silk encrusted with thousands of tiny bugle beads in shades of pale blue and emerald green. When she moved, however slightly, it undulated and changed colour in the way a summer sea ripples from blue to green to aquamarine. The gown emphasized her svelte figure and brought out the colour of her incomparable eyes. With her diamonds and pearls she was the epitome of elegance. If outward appearances counted for aught, then apparently she had everything. A handsome husband, lovely children, good looks, wealth and power. The world envied her.

The carriage clock on the mantelshelf chimed ten and roused Emma from her reflections. She left her bedroom and stood poised at the top of the curving staircase for a brief moment. And then she picked up one side of her skirt and swept down to greet the first of her guests, who were just arriving. Her famous smile was intact, but her heart was covered with a layer of frost.

The butler who opened the door of Fairley Hall was a middleaged man they did not know.

Blackie said, ‘Good afternoon. My name is O’Neill. I have an appointment with Mr Gerald Fairley.’

‘The Squire’s expecting you, sir,’ the butler replied, opening the door wider. ‘Please come this way.’ He led them across the huge gloomy entrance hall and showed them into the library. ‘He will be with you in a moment. Please make yourselves comfortable.’ He bowed and retreated.

When the door had closed Blackie said, ‘Murgatroyd must have retired.’

‘He’s dead,’ Emma said. ‘He died two years ago.’

‘And Cook?’ Blackie asked, remembering Elsie Turner with fondness.

‘She’s still alive. But she doesn’t work here anymore. She’s too old. She lives in the village.’

Blackie strolled over to the fireplace and stood with his back to the flames, warming himself. ‘Well, how does it feel—being back in this house after all these years?’

Emma threw him a swift glance. ‘Rather strange, I must admit.’ Her cool green gaze swept around the room and she laughed mirthlessly. ‘Do you know how many times I dusted this panelling, beat these carpets, and polished this furniture?’ She shook her head wonderingly, and her mouth unconsciously tightened into a grim line.

‘So many times I expect you’ve forgotten by now,’ Blackie said.

‘I never forget anything,’ Emma replied crisply.

She walked slowly around the library, regarding the furnishings with interest. She had once thought this room so impressive, but in comparison to the library in her house in Roundhay it looked dreary and there was an unmistakable air of dejection about it. April sunshine was flooding in through the tall win
dows and the bright light focused attention on the overall shabbiness. The Persian carpets were threadbare, their once vibrant red-and-blue jewel tones dimmed by time, and the velvet draperies at the windows were faded, the upholstery on the wing chairs badly worn. Even the ruby-coloured chesterfield was dark and muddy, and the leather was cracked. Emma recognized that the antiques were fine and obviously of value, as were the many leather-bound books and hunting prints, but withal the room’s dreadful neglect was patently obvious.

Emma shrugged and glided over to a window to look out. In the distance the wild implacable moors soared up before her eyes, a grim black line undulating beneath a clear spring sky, a sky the colour of her mother’s eyes. She had a sudden longing to go up to the moors, to climb that familiar path through the Baptist Field that led to Ramsden Crags and the Top of the World. The place her mother had loved the most, up there where the air was cool and bracing and filled with pale lavender tints and misty pinks and greys. That was not possible today. Innumerable memories assailed her, dragging her back into the past. She closed her eyes, and heard the sweet trilling of the larks, could almost smell the scent of the heather after rain, could feel the bracken brushing against her bare legs and the cool wind caressing her face…

From his position at the fireplace Blackie scrutinized Emma, held in the grips of his own memories. He thought of the day he had first met her, so long ago now. This imperious and distinguished woman standing before him bore no resemblance to his poverty-stricken colleen of the moors. He shook his head, marvelling at her and all she had become. At thirty-four, Emma Harte Ainsley was undoubtedly at the height of her beauty, a beauty so staggering it startled and bewitched everyone. Today she wore an expensive and fashionable silvergrey wool-crepe suit trimmed with sable and a smart sable hat. His emerald brooch gleamed on the collar of her grey silk blouse, matchless pearls cascaded from her slender neck, and the magnificent emerald earrings were just visible below her stylishly bobbed hair. She was not only elegant but cultivated and self-assured and she exuded an aura that bespoke un
deniable power.

Emma swung around unexpectedly and was immediately aware of Blackie’s eyes resting on her with such intensity. She laughed lightly. ‘Why are you staring at me? Is my slip showing?’

Blackie grinned. ‘No, I’m just admiring you, me darlin’. Just admiring you. And also remembering—so many things.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said slowly, a thoughtful look drifting on to her face. ‘This place does evoke all kinds of memories, doesn’t it?’ She smiled faintly, stepped to the desk in the corner, and placed her suede bag on it.

‘Aye, it does.’ Blackie lit a cigarette, drew on it, and shifted his stance. ‘Fairley’s taking his sweet time. I wonder what he’s trying to prove.’

‘Oh, who cares.’ Emma shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’re not in a hurry.’ She sat down at the desk, the desk which had once been Adam Fairley’s, and leaned back in the chair. She pulled off her grey suede gloves slowly, smiling to herself. She examined her hands. Small strong hands and certainly not the most beautiful in the world. But they were white and soft and the nails were polished to a soft pink sheen. They were no longer red and chapped from scrubbing and scouring and polishing…no longer the hands of the skivvy who had been in bondage in this grim house.

The door flew open and Gerald Fairley entered, dragging his great weight, his steps lumbering. He did not see Emma, who was in the shadows, and he hurried over to Blackie, his hand outstretched.

‘Good afternoon, Mr O’Neill.’ He looked Blackie over with unconcealed interest. ‘I thought your name was familiar when you made the appointment. Now I remember you. Surely you used to do repairs here when I was a boy.’

‘That’s correct,’ Blackie said, stepping forward and shaking Gerald’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you again, Mr Fairley.’ Not having set eyes on Gerald for many years, Blackie was astounded at the man’s hippopotamic body, his ruined face, and his apparent dissipation. Gerald was so physically repugnant Blackie shuddered with distaste.

‘Never forget a face,’ Gerald went on. ‘Now, may I offer you
a drink before we get down to business?’

‘No, thank you,’ Blackie declined politely.

‘I need a brandy myself. Always do after lunch.’ Gerald plodded over to the black-walnut chest and poured himself a generous measure of cognac. As he turned around, glass in hand, he spotted Emma seated at the desk. His porcine eyes opened wide and a look of disbelief spread itself across his blubbery face. ‘What the hell are
you
doing here?’ he bellowed.

‘I am with Mr O’Neill,’ Emma responded softly. Her face was without expression.

‘
You
bloody well know how to make yourself at home, don’t you!’ Gerald exploded, still incredulous. ‘How dare you take such a liberty! Sitting at my desk!’

‘I believe it is my desk now,’ Emma said in the softest voice, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Gerald.

‘Your desk! What the hell are you talking about?’ Gerald stamped into the middle of the room and swung to face Blackie, his manner bellicose. ‘What does she mean, O’Neill? What is the explanation for all this! I sold Fairley Hall to Deerfield Estates. You yourself told me on the telephone that you represented them, and had been engaged to do the renovations. So why in God’s name is
that
woman in my house? You had no right to bring
her
here.’ He did not wait for Blackie’s answer, but heaved his monstrous body to face Emma. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out, do you hear me! I will not tolerate your presence at this private meeting.’

Emma remained perfectly still. Not even an eyelash flickered. She smiled darkly. ‘I have no intentions of leaving. And I do have every right to be here,
Mr
Fairley,’ she pronounced with cold disdain. ‘You see,
I am Deerfield Estates.
’

For a moment Emma’s words did not sink into Gerald’s befuddled mind. He continued to glare at her uncomprehendingly, and then, as if a veil had been miraculously lifted, he stuttered, ‘Y-y-y-you are Deerfield Estates—’

‘I am indeed.’ Emma opened her purse and took out a piece of paper. She gave it a cursory glance and looked across at Gerald. ‘Yes, this desk is listed on the inventory, just as I thought. I purchased it along with some of the other contents. And, since you have already cashed the cheque from Deerfield
Estates, this is
my
desk, as this is undoubtedly
my
house. I have paid for them.’

Reeling, Gerald fell into one of the wing chairs. What had she said? That she was the owner of Fairley Hall? Emma Harte, the servant girl they had once employed! Never, not in a thousand years! The idea was unthinkable, outrageous. Gerald’s eyes swivelled to Blackie, standing calmly at the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, a faint amused smile playing on his mouth.

‘Is it true?’ Gerald asked, his voice unsure. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Blackie replied, endeavouring to keep his face straight. By God, he would not have missed this scene for the world.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she was coming with you when you made the appointment?’ Gerald now demanded in an accusatory tone.

‘It was not my prerogative to do so,’ Blackie said, taking out his cigarette case.

Gerald stared at the drink in his hand, all manner of vindictive thoughts flashing through his addled brain. Good Christ, if he had known this little tramp was connected with Deerfield Estates he would not have sold the house to them. He must cancel the sale at once. Yes, that was undoubtedly the right thing to do. And then sickeningly he recalled her words of a moment ago. He
had
cashed the cheque and spent all the money. He had used it to pay off some of his gambling debts. He was trapped. He lifted his shaking hand and tossed down the drink in one gulp.

Emma flashed a glance at Blackie and her green eyes below the curving golden brows sparkled. She rose and walked sedately over to the chesterfield. She sat down, gracefully crossed her legs, and studied Gerald. ‘Under the terms of the sales contract you should have vacated this house by now,’ she said in a light, clear voice. ‘I will give you one more week to do so.’

Gerald blinked and shook his head so vigorously his chins wobbled. ‘That’s not long enough,’ he whined. ‘You’ve got to give me more time.’

‘One week,’ Emma repeated. She paused and her gleaming eyes narrowed. ‘Furthermore, I must insist you remove all of your personal belongings from your office at the Fairley mill immediately. Today. By five o’clock, in fact. Otherwise they will be packed in cardboard boxes and deposited in the mill yard to be retrieved by you at your convenience. By five o’clock today.’

Gerald was jolted upright in the wing chair, and he stared at Emma thunderstruck. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, so undone was he. He sat gaping stupidly, paralysed by his spiralling fear.

Emma continued icily, ‘I am not wrong in thinking you sold the Fairley mill two weeks ago, am I? To the General Retail Trading Company.’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’ Gerald spluttered, rousing himself. He was obviously perplexed as he added, ‘General Retail Trading is a division of Procter and Procter, which is owned by my friend Alan Procter.’

‘I am well aware of General Retail Trading’s connection with Procter and Procter,’ Emma said. ‘However, you are slightly misinformed. Procter and Procter is, in turn, a subsidiary of the Emeremm Company. It does not belong to Alan Procter. It has not belonged to him for some years. He is merely an employee of the parent company.’ She sat back, watching him.

‘Alan Procter never mentioned that to me,’ Gerald muttered. A most terrible and unacceptable thought now entered his swimming head. He asked haltingly, ‘Who owns the Emeremm Company?’

‘I do,’ Emma said, smiling thinly and enjoying the expression on Gerald’s face. ‘Consequently, I control Procter and Procter and the General Retail Trading Company, as well as Deerfield Estates.’ She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. ‘Therefore, I now own all of your mills, as well as Fairley Hall.’

‘You!’ Gerald screamed, half rising. ‘It was you!’ He fell back into the chair, seized by an uncontrollable shaking, and then he experienced a stab of pain in his chest, one so acute it knocked the breath out of him. He clutched his chest and the
shaking increased. He thought he might be having a seizure. Suddenly the reality of her revelations overwhelmed him and with dawning horror he recognized the ghastly truth. Emma Harte now possessed all that had been his. Most of the Fairley enterprises were in her hands. And so was his family home. His ancestral home. She had smashed his life. All he had left were a few shares in the
Yorkshire Morning Gazette
and the brickyard, neither of which he gave a damn about. He shuddered and dropped his head into his hands.

Blackie gazed dispassionately at Gerald. He saw a devastated and broken man and yet Blackie felt no sympathy for him. He turned and glanced at Emma, who sat poised and calm on the sofa, in command of herself and the situation, and then he sucked in his breath. Her beautiful face was a bronze mask, her eyes as deadly as steel, and his hackles rose. There was power and stealth in this room, and a ruthlessness so tangible the air seemed to vibrate with it. And it emanated solely from Emma. Blackie swallowed and looked away, finally truly understanding what a force she was to be reckoned with.

Gerald lifted his head slowly and glared at Emma venomously. ‘You conniving bloody bitch!’ he hissed from between clenched teeth. ‘You have been behind all the dreadful things that have happened to me. Why, you deliberately set out to steal my mills. You ruined me!’

Emma laughed sardonically and for the first time that day her virulent loathing for Gerald was fully revealed. ‘Did you think I made an idle threat that day, thirteen years ago, when you tried to rape me? I will never forget that day. And now, neither will you. It will haunt you as long as you live, Gerald Fairley.’ She gave him a curious icy smile. ‘Yes, I set out to ruin you, as I vowed I would when you forced your way into my house and attacked me. But you were my willing ally. You made it very easy for me. If the truth be known, you really ruined yourself. I simply helped you along the way.’

Gerald’s monumental fury and humiliation pushed aside all reason. He stood up unsteadily. He wanted to put his hands around her neck and squeeze and squeeze until she had no life left in her. He
must
destroy her. He stepped towards Emma, his hatred blazing, his eyes bulging in his twisted face. He
raised his hand as if to strike her.