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.
with her and the children and her brothers. The Great War had finally ended in November, and Paul had come to stay with them before returning to Australia to be demobilized. It had been a joyous Christmas, full of gaiety and love. Emma had been giddy with happiness, and more deeply in love with Paul than she had believed possible. She had felt as if everything she had always yearned for and desired was hers at last. Hers for ever. But now she had nothing … a broken heart and loneliness and despair. How foolish she had been to have believed it could be otherwise. Personal happiness always eluded her. And how different this Christmas would be. Her hand rested on the doorknob of the nursery. She thought: I must make an effort and be cheerful for the children’s sake.
Kit was seated at the table painting. His eyes lit up and he jumped down and skittered across the floor. He flung himself at Emma. ‘Mummy! Mummy! I’m so glad you’re home,’ he shouted, hugging Emma’s legs.
She kissed the top of his head. ‘Good gracious, Kit, whatever have you been doing? You seem to have more paint on yourself than there is on the paper. And what are you painting, sweetheart?’
‘You can’t see it! Not yet. It’s a picture. For you, Mummy. A Christmas present.’ Kit, who was now eight years old, looked up at Emma, wrinkling his nose and grinning. ‘You can have a peek if you want.’
‘Not if it’s meant to be a surprise.’
‘You might not like it, Mumsie. If you don’t, I can paint another one. It’s bestest you have a look, just in case. Come on.’ Kit grabbed Emma’s hand and dragged her across the room.
‘Best, not bestest, darling,’ Emma corrected, and looked down at the painting. It was childlike, awkwardly composed, out of perspective and splashed haphazardly with gaudy colours. It depicted a man in a uniform. Emma held her breath. There was no doubt in her mind who it was meant to be. Not with that thick black smudge across the upper lip and the bright blue eyes. ‘It’s very good, darling,’ Emma said, her face pensive.
‘It’s Uncle Paul. Can you tell? Does it look like him? Do you really like it, Mummy?’
‘I do indeed. Where’s your sister?’ Emma asked, changing the subject.
‘Oh, stuffy old Edwina’s in her room, reading or something. She wouldn’t play with me this morning. Oh well, who cares! I want to finish this painting, Mummy.’ Kit climbed back on to the chair, picked up the brush, and attacked the painting with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. A look of concentration settled on his freckled face. ‘I must get it just right for you, Mums. I think I’ll put a kangaroo in it. And a polar bear.’
‘Don’t you mean koala bear, Kit?’
‘Well, a bear, Mummy. Uncle Paul told me there were bears in Australia.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Emma said absently. ‘Lunch in half an hour, Kit. And don’t forget to tidy up before coming down.’ She rumpled his hair and hurried out to her own room, feeling the need to be alone to collect her scattered thoughts.
Winter sun was pouring in through the tall windows and the room was awash with rafts of pristine light. The deep peach walls and the matching carpet had taken on a golden hue and the pale green watered silk covering the bed, the sofa, and several small chairs held a faint shimmer as though shot through with silvery grey. Georgian antiques, their patinas mellow, punctuated the room with dark colour and the crystal lamps with their cream silk shades cast a warm glow against the rosy walls. A fire blazed in the white marble fire-place and the ambiance was cheerful. Emma hardly noticed her surroundings. She stood in front of the fire warming her hands, the old iciness of childhood trickling through her limbs. Her head throbbed and she felt more depressed than usual.
David’s declaration of his love for her and her subsequent rejection of him had served to underscore the searing torment Paul McGill had caused her. Always prominent in her mind, this feeling was now more rampant than ever, and she felt utterly defeated. After a moment she crossed to the chest of drawers and opened the bottom drawer. She pushed her hands under the silk nightgowns and lifted out the photograph of Paul. She had placed it there weeks ago, no longer able to bear the sight of it on her dressing table. Her eyes rested on that well-loved face, took in the direct gaze of the eyes underneath the thick brows, the smile on the wide mouth, and her lacerated heart ached. Unexpectedly, a furious anger invaded her and she hurled the photograph across the room with great force, her eyes blazing.
The moment it left her hand she regretted her immature action and ran to pick it up. The silver frame had been dented and the glass had shattered, but to her relief the photograph was undamaged. She knelt on the floor, gathering up the broken glass and placing it in the wastepaper basket. She sat down in the chair by the fire, hugging the photograph to her, thinking about Paul. The photograph had been taken the preceding January, just prior to his leaving England, when they were staying at the Ritz together. He was wearing his major’s uniform and looked incredibly handsome. She saw him then, in her mind’s eye, standing on the platform at Euston, before he boarded the boat train. He had tilted her face to his and looked deeply into her eyes, his own spilling with love. ‘I’ll come back, my dearest darling. I promise I will be back before you know I’m even gone,’ he had said. And she, imbecile that she was, had believed him.
She looked down at the picture. ‘Why didn’t you come back, Paul? You promised! You vowed nothing could keep you from me!’ Her question echoed hollowly around the room, and she had no answer for herself, once more baffled and racked with despair. Paul had written to her twice and she had replied immdiately. To her surprise he had never responded to her second letter. At the time, wondering if it had gone astray, she had written again. This letter had also remained unanswered. Finally, swallowing her immense pride, she had penned a circumspect note, and then had waited for word from him. The weeks had turned into months, and the silence had been absolute. In a state of bewilderment and shock, she had done nothing. She had lost her nerve. By October, Emma had miserably resigned herself to the fact that Paul was not man enough to write and tell her that he no longer loved her. That it was over. It was the only conceivable conclusion she could draw in her heartsick state. He simply has no further use for me, she thought. I served a purpose when he was alone in England. He has resumed his old life in Australia. He is a married man.
Emma leaned back, staring into space abstractedly, her face cold and set, her eyes wide and tearless. She had cried all the tears she would ever cry for Paul McGill, night after night for months past. Paul McGill did not want her and that was that. There was nothing she could do about it …
‘Mother, may I come in?’ Edwina asked, poking her head around the door.
‘Yes, darling,’ Emma said, slipping the photograph under the chair and forcing a smile. ‘Did you have a nice morning? I’m sorry I had to go to the factory on your day. It was an emergency.’
‘You work too hard, Mother,’ Edwina said reprovingly. She sat down in the opposite chair and smoothed her tartan kilt.
Emma disregarded the remark and the offensive tone and said cheerfully, ‘You haven’t told me yet what you would like for Christmas. Perhaps you would like to come to the store with me next week and look around, darling.’
‘I don’t know what I want for Christmas,’ Edwina said, her silvery eyes observing Emma. ‘But I would like to have my birth certificate, please, Mother.’
Emma froze in the chair. She kept her face bland. ‘Why do you want your birth certificate, Edwina?’ she asked, adopting a mild voice.
‘Because I need it to get a passport.’
‘Good heavens, why do you need a passport?’
‘Miss Matthews is taking the class to Switzerland next spring and I am going, too.’
Emma’s sweeping brows puckered together. ‘I notice you have simply assumed you are going. You haven’t asked my permission. I find that quite dismaying, Edwina.’
‘May I go, Mother?’
‘No, Edwina, you may not,’ Emma said firmly. ‘You are only thirteen. In my opinion that’s far too young