The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
You should know as well as I do that not all marriages are as happy as ours.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ she murmured, and sighed. ‘Poor Edwin. How terrible for him if he does not love Jane. It must be painful for her, too.’
Adam wanted to terminate the discussion and so he said firmly, ‘It’s very late, my darling. Let us go up to bed.’
As they left the library Adam acknowledged to himself that the state of Edwin’s marriage did not particularly concern him at this precise moment. His consuming worry was that Edwin would volunteer for the army, for Adam knew that the boy no longer put much store in personal safety. Tragically, that most human of all instincts had died in Edwin the day Jack Harte had died. Adam believed that his younger son did not care whether he lived or not, and this attitude, coupled with his strong sense of patriotic duty, would propel Edwin into military service.
Emma clutched the telephone tighter, and her heart began to beat more rapidly than usual. ‘I don’t want you to do this, Frank! You’re putting yourself in danger needlessly. It’s foolish and—’
‘No, it’s not,’ Frank interrupted, his voice echoing hollowly over the long-distance wire. ‘Look, Emma, I’d even toyed with the idea of joining up, but I know the army would never take me. Not with my poor eyesight and weak chest. But somebody’s got to report the war over there. I must go, Emma.’
‘But not you, Frank. You’re only a boy!’ Emma cried heatedly.
‘No, I’m not. I’ll be twenty-three next month.’ His tone became intense. ‘I want to go. Please try to understand, Emma. Also, the editor wants me to go. In a way, it’s a kind of honour.’
‘An honour!’ she gasped incredulously. ‘Well, in my opinion it’s an honour you can easily do without! You’ll be in the trenches. In the thick of the fighting. The conditions will be terrible, and you said yourself you’re not strong physically. Please, Frank, reconsider this. Think more carefully before you make a final decision!’ Emma implored.
‘I’ve already made up my mind,’ her brother said firmly. ‘Anyway, it’s too late. That’s why I’m ringing you now. I’m leaving for the front at five this morning.’
‘Oh, Frank! I wish you hadn’t done this without talking to me first,’ she remonstrated.
‘I’ll be fine, Emma. Honestly, I will. Don’t make it harder for me,’ he pleaded. ‘Now, take care of yourself and give my love to everyone. I’ll be in touch, when and if I can. You’ll know where I am from my dispatches in the Chronicle. Keep them for me, Emma, and try not to worry about me. Goodbye, love.’
‘Oh, Frank! Frankie!’ Her voice broke and she had to swallow hard to regain her control. ‘Goodbye, Frank. And take a raincoat and strong boots—’ She stopped, unable to continue.
‘I will. Bye.’
The telephone went dead. Her mind froze at the idea of Frank hurtling across the battlefields of Flanders. This development was the last thing she had anticipated and she was stunned by her brother’s news, and afraid for him. It was bad enough that Winston was somewhere with the Battle Fleet without Frank flinging himself into the fray. For the past few weeks she had consistently reassured herself that if England did go to war at least her younger brother was in no danger because of his frail constitution. And that would have been so if he had not made such a name for himself as a journalist. Frank, already a rising star in the newspaper firmament, was the type of young reporter editors sought out. He had an enormous command of the English language, was incisive and perceptive, a master of the descriptive phrase and matchless at capturing mood and atmosphere. Not only that, by nature he was romantic, adventurous, and oblivious to danger. She might have guessed he would want to be a war correspondent and now, as she reflected, she realized he had actually sounded excited about going.
Suddenly and quite irrationally, Emma wished that Frank was not so talented and then he would have been a failure. And safe. Indirectly perhaps it was all her fault, and if Frank was killed she would never forgive herself. I should have left him where he was – working on that nothing of a weekly newspaper in Shipley, where he would have stagnated, she said to herself angrily. But I had to go and interfere, because I was impressed with his ability, and ambitious for him. Too ambitious by far, she decided. She chided herself, but after a moment her natural pragmatism rose to the surface, as it generally did, for at twenty-five Emma was nothing if not practical, a characteristic that had been magnified in her over the years. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, recognizing that Frank would have been just as successful without her help. His kind of incandescent talent could never be held back for long; furthermore, he had always been perfectly sure of his own destiny. She had merely propelled him to the top a little faster and that was all. Her role had been of minor importance. She had simply engineered a job for him as a junior reporter on the Leeds Mercury, through her friendship with the assistant editor, Archie Clegg. There had been no holding Frank back after that. He had risen with meteoric swiftness, astonishing her as much as Archie and his colleagues. Of course, there was the matter of the book. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she had been instrumental in bringing it to the attention of the right people. But if she had not, Frank would have done so himself eventually. When he was twenty he had shown her a novel he had been working on for two years, shyly requesting that she read it and mumbling that it was ‘not very good, really’.
As busy as she was, Emma had stayed up all night reading it and had swooped down on Frank at the newspaper the following morning. ‘Why do you say it’s no good?’ she had cried, barely able to contain her excitement. ‘It’s marvellous! And it’s going to be published. Leave it to me.’ She had swept Archie Clegg off to an expensive lunch at the Metropole in Leeds and thereafter had badgered him relentlessly, and on a daily basis, until he had undertaken to send the book to a publisher friend in London. It was accepted by Hollis and Blake immediately and she herself had negotiated a favourable contract for Frank. When they brought it out some months later it was received with critical acclaim. More importantly, to Emma at least, the novel was also a resounding success commercially. Frank had become a celebrity overnight and several months after the book’s publication he had been offered a position on the Daily Chronicle and had departed for Fleet Street with Emma’s blessing. Today he was considered one of the most brilliant young writers in English journalism and his future was assured. Or rather, it had been until tonight.
‘Damn this rotten war!’ Emma cried aloud, filled with a helpless fury. She viewed it as a terrible inconvenience, for it had disrupted her most carefully made plans. Yet in spite of her single-minded preoccupation with her business, she was wise enough to recognize that it had graver consequences. The war would throw the world into a turmoil and shatter thousands of lives, a prospect that filled her with dread.
Abruptly she stood up. Reflecting on the past and morbidly anticipating the future was a waste of time, the most deplorable of sins to Emma. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened or control impending events obviously beyond her control. She pulled her blue silk dressing gown around her, shivering slightly, although the night was warm, and walked across the hall, her slippers clicking with a metallic ring against the marble floor, the sounds fading as she mounted the carpeted staircase. The grandfather clock, positioned at the turn of the stairs, struck two, its musical chimes reverberating loudly in the stillness of the sleeping house. Emma tiptoed into the bedroom, shrugged out of her dressing gown, and slipped into the great four-poster bed.
Joe stirred. ‘Emma?’
‘I’m sorry, Joe. Did I wake you?’ she whispered, pulling the covers over her.
‘No, the telephone did. Who was it?’ he asked in a sleep-filled voice.
‘Frank. He’s going to the front as a war correspondent. He’s leaving in a few hours. I couldn’t persuade him not to go, Joe. I’m so afraid for him,’ Emma said in a low voice.