A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
‘I’m going to the office. I’m behind with some of the ledgers for the properties,’ he said offhandedly, and stood up. ‘Then I’m meeting Blackie for lunch at the Metropole. I want to talk to him about putting new roofing on the tannery and reinforcing the top floor. He’s been too overwhelmed with building contracts to attend to the work before now, but both jobs are long overdue.’
‘Give him my love and tell him I’ll come to see Laura on Sunday.’ Emma’s face changed, softening as she spoke of her friend. ‘I’m worried about Laura, Joe. She hasn’t seemed at all strong since the last miscarriage. She needs building up. I wish there was something I could do to—’
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Joe exclaimed. ‘That’s Blackie’s problem. He should exercise a little self-control and stop getting her—’ He bit off his sentence, flushing.
‘In the family way,’ Emma finished for him with chilly disdain. ‘Look who’s talking!’
Joe dismissed this dig with a wave of his hand, although his flush deepened. ‘Besides, you do enough for Laura as it is, Emma. Why, the way you dote on that woman anybody would think she’s a member of the family.’
‘She is!’ Emma snapped. ‘She’s like my sister, my dearest friend. I would do anything for Laura. Anything in this world.’
‘That I know!’ He strode to the door. ‘I’ll see you at home, Emma. Bye.’
‘Goodbye, Joe.’
After he had left, Emma stared at the door he had so harshly banged behind him, shaking her head. He’s got a bee in his bonnet this morning, she thought wearily. She did not have time to worry about Joe and his infantile bursts of petulance. She picked up the ledgers and carried them to the safe where she always kept them and locked them away securely. She walked back to her desk, a spring in her step, her head held high. She was about to become a millowner and stick a knife in Gerald Fairley’s back at the same time. She laughed aloud. The idea of being able to enhance her business enterprises whilst damaging the Fairleys appealed to her sense of irony. She looked at the photograph of her eight-year-old daughter reposing in a silver frame on her desk. ‘That’s called poetic justice, Edwina,’ she said to the photograph. ‘Justice for both of us. And it’s just the beginning.’
Emma rested her head against the chair. Once again she contemplated the war, endeavouring to gauge the effect it would have on commerce and industry. Her considered reflections prompted her to make a sudden decision. She would definitely discontinue selling certain types of merchandise to other retailers. She was undoubtedly going to need most of the warehouse stock for Harte’s in time, and she had no alternative but curtail the activities of the two remaining commercial travellers to a degree, and enforce limitations on their supplies. She began to selectively tick off the goods she could readily dispose of in her own store. Good old Gregson’s, she muttered under her breath. It’s the best investment I ever made.
And indeed it was. In 1910, a few months after her marriage to Joe, Emma had learned that the Gregson Warehouse, a wholesale company acting as the middleman between the manufacturers and the retailers was in in trouble and up for sale for a song.
Emma wanted it. More accurately, she craved it passionately. And she determined to have it, recognizing its enormous potential as a moneymaker of no mean proportions. It was also the vehicle she had been seeking, one that would enable her to implement two of her most potent schemes—rapid expansion for a small investment and volume buying from the manufacturers to obtain quality merchandise at low prices. She purchased Gregson’s for two thousand pounds and, with her own brand of initiative and expediency, smartly divested herself of its dated and second-rate goods with lightning speed. Her technique was simple but foolproof. She slashed prices drastically and sold everything to local stores that were in constant need of bargains for their semi-annual sales.
As she had shrewdly suspected, she actually made money from the stocks. With this money, and by persuading the manufacturers to give her extended credit, she bought in bulk. Some of the smaller clothing manufacturers even began to produce solely for her; consequently much of her merchandise was exclusive as well as reasonably priced. Utilizing the services of four veteran commercial travellers, who worked on a commission basis, she then became a wholesale vendor to retailers in London, Scotland, and Lancashire. Emma was also now in the enviable position of being able to stock her own three shops at no cost to herself, and by cannily supplying stores located in distant areas she kept her wares select and suffered no competition.
Early in 1911, when Gregson’s was operating smoothly, Emma had asked Joe to sell her the three shops she rented from him and the other five he owned. He had not wanted to sell to her, even though she had offered him five thousand pounds. Since he received a trifling annual income of fifty pounds from each shop, she had pointedly remarked he was making an immediate profit, and from his own wife.
‘I don’t want to make a profit at all,’ Joe had rejoined defensively, going on to grouse that he was disinclined to sell, preferring the income.
‘But I’m willing to give you the equivalent of ten years’ rent for each shop, plus an extra thousand pounds,’ Emma had cried, on the verge of losing her temper.
Joe was adamant, being reluctant to diminish his property holdings. But as a compromise, and in order to restore tranquillity to their home life and appease her, he had suggested she could rent the five other shops, leaving ownership in his hands. This was a lacklustre alternative to Emma, who had her own motives for wanting the shops, and she flatly refused to consider the proposition.
The deadlock was broken by Frederick Ainsley, who, to Emma’s surprise, became her champion and backed her unstintingly. His remarkably persuasive talents and smooth tongue were fortunately not altogether lost on the recalcitrant Joe. ‘It is only because of Emma’s unflagging work that the three shops are such a success. They were failures and vacant half the time before she rented them from you, Joe,’ Ainsley had adroitly pointed out. ‘Under the circumstances, don’t you think she deserves to own what she has so assiduously built up? It’s her investment for the future. And what do you have to lose, Joe, my boy? She’s prepared to pay an excellent price, one that more than recompenses you for the income you would receive, whilst relieving you of the burden of maintenance and repairs. Do be a good chap and at least consider selling her the eight shops, Joe. It’s to your advantage. That five thousand could easily be invested in something more lucrative.’
Privately, Frederick Ainsley had expressed surprise that Joe had not offered to give her the deeds to the shops. ‘As a wedding present, perhaps,’ the courtly solicitor had gallantly murmured. He was much taken with Emma, being aware of her superior brain and her business acumen. Skill with finances and nerve to gamble were a redoubtable combination in his eyes. They added up to business genius.
Emma had shaken her head vigorously. ‘No! I want to buy them from him. Then I know they’re really mine and no one can ever dispute the fact!’ she had cried.
Frederick Ainsley, appreciating the sagacity of her comments, and accurately guessing her ultimate goal, had readily concurred. The solicitor had resorted to another tactic to help Emma attain her wish. He had simply presented Joe with several potential investments guaranteed to pay high dividends. ‘Think about selling to Emma. It’s an opportunity that doesn’t present itself every day,’ Ainsley had casually remarked. ‘And you could have that five thousand working for you most profitably.’
Joe thought and eventually sold, if somewhat reluctantly, feeling vaguely uneasy about the whole affair.
Emma had known she would have to mortgage Gregson’s to raise the money for the shops, but this did not deter her. And she wanted to pay Joe the total amount immediately. Six months later she had repaid the mortgage on the warehouse and within another twelve months she was ready to put the second and most ambitious part of her well-conceived plan into operation—the acquisition of a department store in Leeds.
To finance this venture Emma sold he
‘Nonsense!’ Emma had countered icily, infuriated by his accusatory tone. ‘I’m not selling the buildings only, as you did, Joe. I’m also selling large stocks of quality merchandise and enormous goodwill. And what about all the renovations I’ve made? Which I paid for.’
Joe had shrugged, disguising his disapproval behind a façade of studied indifference, and had announced he was washing his hands of the whole questionable business.
With the nerve and monumental self-assurance of a seasoned entrepreneur, Emma had taken out a new and far higher mortgage on the warehouse, borrowed from the bank by pledging the new store as collateral, thrown the twenty thousand into the kitty, and purchased Lister’s. She had redeemed her promissory notes from the bank in a relatively short space of time, anxious to have the title of the department store free and clear, and the mortgage on the warehouse had been paid off within a year.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted Emma’s careful examination of the inventory of Gregson’s current stock. She looked up.
Gladys came in. ‘It’s only me with a cup of nice hot tea. I thought you’d like one before you go down on the floor, Mrs Harte.’
‘That was thoughtful of you, Gladys. Thank you.’ Emma pushed her chair back, propped her elegantly shod feet on the desk, and sipped her tea, reviewing the Gregson inventory in her head. She could easily keep Harte’s well supplied for the duration of the war, she concluded, and with a little of her gambler’s luck she would survive without too many losses.
She recommenced her perusal of the last page of the inventory, wanting to complete her assessment before going down into the store. But thoughts of the mill intruded. She could not wait to get her hands on Layton’s. It was a potential gold mine. Then she pictured Gerald Fairley’s face when his manager, three foremen, and his best weavers walked out.
That bastard’s in for a real surprise, she thought, and with not a little vindictiveness.
THIRTY-NINE
Edwin Fairley loitered outside Harte’s department store, gazing into one of the windows, trying to summon up enough courage to go inside. It was always like this when he arrived on the doorstep. His nerve inevitably failed him for ten minutes or so, and sometimes altogether.
He pretended to be studying the chic evening gowns in the window, thinking of the first time he had walked past the store on Commercial Street. That had been over a year ago and he had stopped dead in his tracks, instantly struck by the name, staring in astonishment at the silvery metal letters which spelled out E. HARTE against the royal-blue woodwork over the door. Concluding that it was a coincidence, he had proceeded down the street and then suddenly retraced his steps, his curiosity whetted.
Edwin had approached the doorman and inquired about the ownership of this fine new establishment. The doorman had politely informed him that a Mrs Harte was the proprietor. A few more probing questions had supplied some startling answers, and he had hastened off, considerably shaken. There was no question in his mind, from the glowing description of Mrs Harte he had wrung out of the doorman, that this was indeed Emma’s store. Within a few hours he had received confirmation from Gerald, who had been unable to resist adding a vulgar warning to keep his trousers buttoned. Edwin had turned away in disgust, concealing his anger and repressing the violent urge to punch his brother on the nose.
And the store had attracted him like a magnet ever since. Whenever he visited Yorkshire he made an excuse to Jane to go into Leeds alone, automatically gravitating to Harte’s, propelled by a mixture of emotions. Eventually he had found the nerve to enter the store, and had been overwhelmed by the elegance of the interior and staggered at Emma’s singular achievement, which he considered awesome. And he had experienced a curious sense of pride in her. He had returned on several occasions afterwards, nervously walking around, wondering if he would catch sight of Emma. But he never had, and he cursed himself for his juvenile behaviour, always vowing never to torture himself in such a ridiculous manner again.
Still, here he was on this warm August Saturday, a day he should have been at Fairley with Jane and the family, longing to go inside, hoping for a brief glimpse of Emma Harte, yet, conversely, afraid he might bump into her. Fool, he muttered, filled with angry frustration at his own indecisiveness.
After several moments of window gazing Edwin took a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and pushed open the doors. Feeling ill at ease amongst the women shoppers thronging the main floor, he immediately headed for the men’s haberdashery.
In his haste and preoccupation he was unconscious of the admiring glances bestowed upon him by some of the ladies who stepped aside to let him pass. At twenty-six Edwin Fairley was a good-looking young man. Tall and firmly built, he had a dashing air and, since he had inherited his father’s penchant for elegant clothes, he was always impeccably dressed. But it was his face that caused many women to look twice and speculate. Finely drawn and ascetic, there was, nevertheless, a marked sensuality about his mouth, and his eyes held an indefinable expression that hinted of passion.
Arriving at the haberdashery, Edwin asked to see some silk cravats, examining them whilst surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, anxiously seeking that one incomparable woman in the crowd. He finally bought a grey silk tie he did not want, because he was embarrassed to walk away after the salesgirl had been so obliging. Declining to have it gift-wrapped, he paid, picked up the package, and moved on.
After making this initial purchase Edwin discovered he was beginning to relax, and he strolled through other departments with a degree of self-assurance, browsing to waste time. He halted at the perfumery counter and bought two bottles of expensive French scent for his wife and his aunt. In order to linger in Harte’s he asked to have them individually giftwrapped. The young woman nodded, smiled, and busied herself with this task. Edwin leaned nonchalantly against the counter, his light grey eyes scanning the main floor. He swung around and looked up at the main staircase.
And it was then that he saw her.
Emma was coming down the stairs. Edwin sucked in his breath. She was more beautiful than ever, fashionably dressed in black silk that fell in fluid lines around her shapely figure. He recognized at once that she had poise and distinction, and in young womanhood her loveliness was in full bloom. She paused at the turn of the stairs to speak to a customer, her face lighting up, full of vivacity. Edwin gazed at her with intensity, mesmerized by that exquisite oval face, unable to pull his eyes away, and his heart twisted inside him.
He had not set eyes on Emma Harte for nine years, but now, to Edwin, it might have only been yesterday that he had held her in his arms in the cave on the moors. He longed to rush over to her, to beg her forgiveness, to ask about their child. He dare not. He knew, with a sickening sense of despair, that she would repudiate him just as surely as he had repudiated her so long ago on that ghastly morning in the rose garden.
Emma continued to the bottom of the stairs and glided across the floor with infinite grace and aplomb, obviously in command of herself and her store. And then, to his immense horror, Edwin realized she was walking directly towards him. He was rooted to the spot, incapable of moving or even turning his head, and his heart was thundering in his chest. To his supreme relief she paused at another counter and became engaged in conversation with a sales assistant. At one moment she looked over her shoulder and stared right at him, or so it seemed. He stiffened. There was an engrossed expression on her face and her eyes swivelled to the jewellery department. She shook her head, leaned forward, and continued her discussion. Had she seen him or not? Or had she simply not recognized him? He dismissed this idea instantly. That was inconceivable. He had not changed very much and, in any case, his resemblance to his father was now so pronounced it was difficult for anyo
The salesgirl spoke to him. Startled, he pulled himself together and gave her his attention. She handed him the packages and the bill, all the while chatting to him pleasantly. He heard her voice faintly through the crashing noises reverberating in his head. It required all of his self-control to keep his hands from shaking as he reached for his wallet. From the corner of his eye he saw Emma approaching and he dropped his head, his heart in his mouth.
Emma brushed so close to him he could have touched her. He heard the soft swishing of the silk of her dress and caught the faint whiff of her perfume, something light and fresh like lily of the valley. His anguish was acute, and he had to suppress the urgent desire to reach out and take her arm.
And then she was gone. He watched her disappearing into another department, smiling and nodding graciously to customers.
He completed his business and stumbled out of the store without looking back, feeling sick and undone. He stood in the street experiencing that awful sense of loss again, and the gnawing hollowness in his heart, which never left him, was more chilling than ever.
Edwin walked towards City Square, moving blindly through the crowds, unaware of the traffic or the bustle, seeing nothing but her face. The face he would never forget as long as he lived. It was burned on his brain like a brand stamped on steel. By taking deep breaths Edwin managed at last to steady himself and he struck out determinedly towards the main post office, suddenly intent in his purpose. He had just made a decision and nothing would induce him to reverse it.
Within a short while his business in the post office was completed. He made another stop, attended to the matter at hand with remarkable swiftness, and left. He found the Daimler, parked near the railway station, told the chauffeur to take him home, and fell on to the back seat feeling wretched and depleted.