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.
smile, a deliquescent smile that softened her cold young face and brought a hint of warmth to those enormous argent eyes.
Emma, observing Edwina intently, felt her heart miss a beat. There it was again. That smile. That melting smile she remembered only too well. She dropped her eyes, aware that a flicker of fear had entered them, and nervously straightened the coverlet. ‘We’ll make plans for your Uncle Winston’s visit tomorrow,’ she said in a low voice, and stood up abruptly. Bending down, she kissed Edwina fleetingly, afraid of being repulsed, and went on, ‘Good night, darling. Sleep tight.’
‘Good night, Mother,’ Edwina responded dutifully in a stiff tone, and returned to her book without giving Emma a second glance or a second thought. Her mother, this woman whom everyone claimed was beautiful and charming and clever, hardly existed for the ten-year-old girl. Edwina lived in a world entirely of her own making and she did not permit anything or anyone to penetrate it, and the only two people she loved were Joe and her Cousin Freda in Ripon.
The child was an enigma to Emma. She ran lightly down the stairs, Edwina’s smile lingering in her mind as she entered the study. She grows to look more like her every day, Emma thought with a stab of acute discomfort. But it’s only a physical resemblance, she reassured herself, hurriedly dismissing those characteristics which were becoming more pronounced in her daughter and which disturbed her from time to time. The desk was covered with a pile of papers that needed Emma’s immediate attention and she sat down, determined to wade through them that evening. After half an hour she realized her powers of concentration had fled and she put down her pen in irritation and leaned back in the chair, wondering what ailed her. Strain? Tiredness? She had felt distracted and restless that morning, feelings unprecedented for her. But they had persisted throughout the day and she had left the store earlier than usual, conscious of needing to break loose from the fetters of her business and assailed by a desperate longing to be at home with her children.
It was the housekeeper’s day off and Emma had shooed Clara, the devoted nursemaid, out of the kitchen and prepared the dinner herself. Emma had enjoyed the simple pleasure of working with the food and using her hands instead of her brain for once, and this brief domestic sojourn had refreshed her. Later she had joined Clara and the children for their evening meal in the nursery, and she had experienced such a profound sense of serenity in their untroubled world her own cares had disappeared.
It was a lovely interlude, Emma said to herself, and vowed she would stop depriving herself of her children’s company as she had done so often lately. She was not going to allow business to interfere so relentlessly with her hours with them. This time in their lives was precious and she wanted to share it. Even Edwina was warmer in disposition and more outgoing than usual during supper, Emma reflected with genuine pleasure, and the child’s sudden declaration of her liking for Winston was quite remarkable in view of her dismaying lack of feeling for most people. It had been a revelation to Emma, and she was hopeful that it signalled a change for the better.
Emma’s drifting thoughts settled on her daughter. She’s a Fairley through and through and there’s no mistaking that. Emma had long recognized the striking likeness Edwina bore to her grandmother on the paternal side. She was a faithful reproduction – a mirror image – of Adele. Have Winston and Frank ever detected it? she wondered. They had never passed one comment. Blackie, on the other hand, was a wholly different matter. Emma suspected he had arrived at the truth years ago, although he, too, had been discreetly silent on the subject and had never displayed even the slightest hint of his suspicions, either by a knowing look or by a careless reference.
Emma thought then of Edwin Fairley. Her hatred for him remained constant, yet it had changed in nature and now sprang from her intellect and not from her heart. Consequently, it was deadlier than before, for it had objectivity and thus direction.
Even if she wanted to forget the Fairley family, Emma would have found that virtually impossible, since the Yorkshire Morning Gazette consistently reported their activities, social or otherwise. She knew a great deal about Edwin. He was a captain in the army and had been awarded the Victoria Cross ‘for bravery above and beyond the call of duty’. Bravery indeed, she thought, her lip curling with contempt. She had also seen the announcement of his son’s birth in the paper only yesterday. His wife, the Lady Jane Fairley, daughter of the Earl of Carlesmoor, had been delivered of a seven-pound boy, to be baptized Roderick Adam in honour of his two grandfathers.
But Edwin Fairley’s life was of no concern to her – at the present time. Adam and Gerald Fairley were her primary targets and for a simple reason: they controlled the Fairley mills and therefore the Fairley fortune. The family’s destiny was in their hands. Over the years Emma had come to understand that the most potent way to strike back at them was through business. She had already created immense problems for them at Thompson’s mill, because they found it practically impossible to replace the work force she had stolen. There was nothing she did not know about their holdings and the general state of their commercial affairs. Her information had been acquired with limitless patience, incalculable diligence, and in the utmost secrecy, and she was already formulating her plans for the future.
They were exposed and vulnerable to her and they did not know it! Adam Fairley, always negligent about business, had become excessively so of late. Olivia Wainright Fairley had recently been struck down by some strange illness and he rarely, if ever, came to Yorkshire. The reins were in Gerald Fairley’s hands, and he was a bumbling fool. He was the weak link in the iron chain which she intended to dismantle and cast to one side, just as her father and her daughter and she herself had been cast aside by them. And it was mainly on Gerald Fairley that her vivid green eyes rested with virulent loathing. No woman ever expunged the terrifying memory of the man who had attempted rape on her and Emma was no exception. Yes, Gerald was the key to their downfall. All she had to do was stick out her foot and trip him and the others would come tumbling behind. There were no doubts in her mind about the final outcome. Once she had set herself a goal nothing could deter her from achieving it.
The doorbell rang, echoing through the silent house. It brought Emma up with a start and pulled her away from her contemplation of the Fairleys. She rose and went into the hall, her silk dress swishing as she moved with her usual rapidity. She opened the front door, wondering who could be calling at this hour, to be confronted by a telegraph boy.
‘Evening, missis,’ he said, deferentially touching his cap. He handed her the telegram, touched his cap again, and ran down the steps. Emma closed the door and glanced at the yellow envelope. It was undoubtedly from Winston, announcing his arrival.
Emma glided into the centre of the hall and stood under the crystal chandelier where the light was brighter and ripped it open. Her eyes travelled quickly across the top line and they widened and widened, and the smile on her face faded as she read:
‘It is with deep regret and the greatest sympathy that the War Office must inform you that your husband Private Joseph Daniel Lowther of the 1st Battalion of the Seaforth Highlanders was killed in action on July 14 in France …’
The remaining words blurred and ran together and, recoiling, Emma sat down on the hall chair with a thud, stunned and for a moment disbelieving. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, the light in her eyes dulled, her mouth trembling. Eventually she brought her reluctant gaze back to the telegram crumpled in a ball between her clenched fingers. She straightened it out and read it again. The devastating words slowly sank in and her heart plunged.
It can’t be true! There has been a mistake! A ghastly error! Emma cried inwardly, moving her head from side to side, denying the words. Joe could not be dead. Her throat thickened as reality struck at her, and she sat frozen in the chair, as rigid as stone, held in the grips of the most paralysing shock.
After what seemed like an eternity to Emma she pushed herself up out of the chair, forcing her shaking legs to move forward, blindly making her way to the stairs. She held on to the banister to steady herself, a sensation of fainting weakness trickling through her entire body. She manoeuvred herself up the staircase, dragging one leaden foot after the other, moving with laborious care like an old woman crippled by arthritic pain. She stumbled into her bedroom, collapsed on to the bed, and lay motionless,