A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
‘I really don’t know, darling. I suppose because we began to talk about Edwin’s marriage and his happiness. If you say the story is not true, then Edwin can’t have anything on his conscience.’ Her eyes roved over Adam’s face searchingly. ‘And yet it has often crossed my mind that he does. Perhaps it’s the peculiar look in his eyes that troubles me, Adam.’
Adam frowned. ‘Now, come, my darling,’ he said softly. ‘You are being imaginative. Gerald told a pack of lies. I’m absolutely convinced of that. As for that look in Edwin’s eyes, well, maybe it simply springs from his disappointment in his marriage. 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.
THIRTY-SEVEN
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 agair st 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 rev
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 sleepfilled 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.
‘It’s a bit soon, isn’t it? We’ve only been at war a few days. Couldn’t he have waited?’
‘I begged him to change his mind but he wouldn’t listen. Now I have the two of them to worry about—’ She shivered and clutched the pillow, pressing back her incipient tears.
Joe became aware of her shivering. He moved closer to her. ‘Don’t worry, Emma,’ he murmured. ‘They’ll be all right. Anyhow, this mess will be over in a few months.’
Emma groaned, suppressing the anger that flared in her. Joe had no conception of the facts. She had been predicting the war for months. Her words had fallen on stony ground and she no longer bothered to argue with him. Joe touched her shoulder tentatively. His pressure increased and he pulled her over on her back. He raised himself on one elbow, peering into her face in the dim light. Emma felt his warm breath against her cheek and she instantly stiffened. He smelled faintly of onions, beer, and stale tobacco and she moved her head away from him, filled with distaste. Joe began to kiss her face and his free hand slid under the bedclothes to grasp her breast.
‘Joe, please. Not now!’
‘Don’t be cold to me, Emma,’ he muttered thickly.
‘I’m not being cold. I just don’t feel up to—’
‘You never do,’ he snapped.
‘That’s unfair and you know it,’ she said, bristling. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m upset about Frank. How can you be so inconsiderate? Anyway, you aren’t very careful these days. I don’t want to get pregnant again.’
‘I’ll be careful, Emma. I promise,’ he said in a wheedling tone. ‘Please, love. It’s been weeks.’
‘Ten days,’ Emma said flatly, infuriated by his insensitivity and selfishness.
‘But I want you,’ he moaned, and ignoring her protestations, he pulled her into his arms. ‘Please, Emma, don’t turn me away.’
Emma did not answer. Mistaking her silence for acquiescence, Joe fumbled with her silk nightgown, his breathing now rapid and belaboured. He began to explore her body, his hands roughly insistent as they roamed over her legs and thighs and breasts. Emma averted her head, avoiding his kisses. She closed her eyes, crushing down on the impulse to push him away. In the four years they had been married Emma had made a tremendous effort to accommodate Joe Lowther’s physical demands, and she knew she would yield yet again. It was easier than repulsing him and prevented violent quarrels later. Also, she had made a bargain with herself, to be a good wife to Joe, and she never reneged on a bargain. She had not reckoned with Joe’s unflagging sexual aggressiveness and his voracious appetite, which seemed to increase rather than lessen with time.
It was too late to pull away without creating an explosive scene and so Emma automatically let her body go limp. And then she detached her mind, thinking of other things, fleeing into her private world. She began to do complicated mathematical calculations pertaining to her latest financial ventures, seeking refuge in her business to block out the reality of the moment.
Joe rolled on top of her, panting, his pounding against her relentlessly sustained. Her body was his anvil. His momentum increased and rudely shattered her self-induced detachment, and just as she had known he would he lost all restraint, became utterly unconscious of her in his wild abandonment. He grasped her legs and roughly pushed them up against her chest and at that moment Emma thought her control would snap. She swallowed a scream of unexpected pain and rage and revulsion as he lunged at her time and time again, a charging bull mindlessly intent on its purpose.
He was still. Thank God he was finally still. Depleted, Joe fell against her, his breathing harsh but returning to normal slowly. Emma stretched out her cramped legs and moved her head wearily on the pillows, tears of humiliation seeping out of the corners, the taste of blood bitter in her mouth where she had bitten her inner lip. Unwanted sex was nauseating, was becoming unendurable, for Joe did not attract her physically and he aroused neither desire nor passion in her. Furthermore, he had never even tried to do so. Despite his own preoccupation with sex, or perhaps because of it, he was oblivious to her unresponsiveness. Perhaps if he had shown more consideration, had been sensitive and understanding of her female needs, the situation might have improved. As it was, Emma believed it was inexorably disintegrating. She did not truly know how long she could continue to tolerate his unremitting assaults on her body as she had done for so long. Joe seemed to be in a perpetual state of heightened potency and this frightened her.
Joe put his arms around her and buried his head against her bosom. ‘That was wonderful, love,’ he said quietly in a voice that was oddly shy. ‘You’re too much for any man. I can’t get enough of it with you.’
Don’t I know, she thought angrily but made no comment. Joe moved away from her, turned his back, and within minutes was fast asleep. Why, he didn’t even say good night, Emma thought with a flare of irritation and she was mortified. She slid carefully out of bed and glided across the floor to the bathroom, her bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the fine Wilton carpet. She locked the door firmly behind her, threw off her crumpled nightgown, pinned up her hair, and stepped into the bath. Crouching in front of the taps she ran the water until it was steaming hot, almost too hot to bear, soaping her body generously, scrubbing energetically at her delicate white skin until it was bright red. And then she lay back in the water, hoping to soothe her aching body and calm her jangled nerves. After a while she began to feel relaxed and she climbed out of the bath and towelled herself dry. Moving across the elegantly appointed bathroom, Emma caught sight of herself in the mirror. She paused and looked at her face. There was not a trace of anguish or despair on that pale oval, but then there never was. Blackie was for ever telling her she had the inscrutable face of an Oriental and she was beginning to believe him. But then my inscrutability serves my purpose most admirably, she said to herself. She took a clean nightgown out of a chest of drawers, slipped it over her head, picked up her slippers, and hurried downstairs.
Emma went immediately into the small study next to the drawing room, intending to work for an hour. She was wide awake and restless, and she always retreated into work when she wanted to avoid dwelling on unpleasant matters. But moonlight was pouring in through the french doors and she stood staring at the garden, admiring its beauty.
Impulsively Emma pushed open the doors and stepped out on to the long flagged terrace that ran the entire length of this side of the house. It was a lovely August night, so still and balmy the soft air seemed to enfold her. Emma breathed deeply, feeling a sudden sense of release, an easing of her worries. She looked up. The sky was soaring and hollow, a deep pavonian blue, clear and without cloud, and the new moon was a perfect sphere whose glassy surface was unmarred, and its sharp radiance cast a silvery sheen on the trees and shrubs, the rolling lawn and the glorious flower beds that punctuated the perimeters of the garden in the dusky shadows of old stone walls matted with ivy.
Emma swept along the terrace and stood poised at the top of the flight of stone steps that led down into the garden, her hand resting on one of the great urns positioned at their edge. Her eyes roved over her garden, so typically English, pastoral in its gentle beauty and filled with tranquillity. It was hard to believe there was a war raging on the other side of the Channel or to accept the fact that thousands of young Englishmen were preparing to enter that grim and bloody battle.
Emma proceeded slowly to the bottom of the garden, heading for her own special spot, t
A splendid beech tree, huge and spreading with its branches dipping down to touch the ground, was a protective arch of interwoven greens above an old garden seat. ‘Mummy’s seat’, the children called it, for it was here that she always came when she wanted to escape the activities of her busy household, to think and to relax, and they had learned never to trespass on her solitude in this private place. Thoughts of Joe intruded into her mind, piercing her recently acquired composure. She stiffened as she recalled with dismay his arduous lovemaking. And then she found herself thinking: Poor Joe. He really can’t help himself. Her anger was evaporating so unexpectedly Emma was astonished at this change in her emotions.
Earlier, pinned under Joe and raging with resentment, Emma had contemplated leaving him. Now she reviewed this idea and faltered. A separation was unthinkable, not only because of the children and their loving attachment to Joe and his to them, but because she herself needed Joe for a number of good reasons. Furthermore, Joe would never let her go. He loved her to a point of distraction. Sometimes she wished Joe was a philanderer and that when she spurned him, on those rare occasions, he would seek solace in more responsive arms. She had come to realize this was perfectly ridiculous. Joe wanted only her. No other woman could satisfy his urgent needs because she was the sole object of his desire.
Emma sat back on the seat and considered her marriage with objectivity, finally admitting that she had no intentions of changing the circumstances of her life. The alternatives did not appeal to her, and whatever else Joe was, he was a buffer between her and those who might wish to hurt her or Edwina. Also, she had to acknowledge that despite her basic unhappiness in her marriage, she was fond of Joe. He was considerate most of the time and he had never interfered with her business enterprises. Of course, he was phlegmatic and opinionated, and often flew into tantrums if she thwarted him, or sulked for days about inconsequential things Yet despite these traits, which singularly irritated her, he was not a bad man.