A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
Emma started and gave Paula a curious look. ‘It’s strange you should say that. Your grandfather told me I was his destiny fifty years ago.’
There was a knock on the door before Paula could respond, and Edwina walked in peremptorily, carrying a glass of scotch. ‘You wanted to see me, Mother,’ she said coldly, and gave Paula a curt, unsmiling nod.
‘I did indeed, Edwina. I see you already have a drink, so come and sit down. Please excuse us, Paula dear. Tell Jim I’ll see him shortly.’
‘Yes, Grandy,’ Paula murmured, and left.
Edwina, Dowager Countess of Dunvale, swept majestically into the parlour and seated herself opposite Emma, her antipathy thinly veiled. She stared at her mother, waiting expectantly, and there was a belligerent look on her face.
Emma regarded Edwina with quickening interest. She thought: If Adele Fairley had lived to be Edwina’s age this is exactly how she would have looked. Edwina was sixty-two and she had not worn as well as her mother. Her exquisite blonde beauty had been too delicate to weather the years, and her looks had faded long ago. Her hair was still a shimmering silver-gold, but its colour now came from a bottle, and the once-lovely argent eyes were dimmed and heavily lidded.
‘That’s a lovely gown, Edwina,’ Emma said, and took a sip of her sherry, peering at her eldest daughter above the glass.
‘Why did you want to see me, Mother?’ Edwina responded with icy disdain. ‘I’m quite certain you didn’t ask me to come up here to compliment me on my dress.’
‘That’s perfectly true,’ Emma said. She smiled faintly. Edwina had not softened with age. ‘Let me ask you a question before I answer yours. Why did you accept my invitation to come here for the weekend?’
‘Invitation!’ Edwina exclaimed, her eyes filling with hostility. ‘It was a command, as usual, Mother. And none of us ever ignores your commands, do we? I was ambivalent about coming. But you said you wanted to see Anthony, too, and when I told him, he insisted we make the trip.’ Edwina threw Emma a baleful glance. ‘My son adores you. Neither his mother’s wishes nor wild horses could have kept him away from this little gathering. He was also worried about your health. And so, since I love my son and wish to please him, I acquiesced. If it had not been for Anthony I would not have come, let me assure you of that.’
Emma sighed audibly. ‘When your Uncle Winston effected a reconciliation between us in 1951, I hoped we could become friends. But it’s always been an armed truce, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Mother. And if you want to know the truth, it was Jeremy who persuaded me to see you again. My husband always did have great family feelings. He felt we should make peace.’
‘Such as it is,’ Emma retorted. ‘But let us not bicker. I wanted to see you alone because I have something important to tell you. I wish to speak to you about your father.’
Edwina’s face stiffened. ‘I can’t imagine what you could possibly have to say about him,’ she snapped, deep colour flooding her face. ‘He’s sitting downstairs at this very moment, behaving like the grand seigneur. Frankly, I don’t know how you could be so thoughtless as to have him here in my presence, or in the presence of my son, who is, after all, a peer of the realm. That intolerable man makes me feel uncomfortable. But then I suspect you enjoy making us all squirm, don’t you, Mother? You are addicted to manipulating people.’
‘You never did know me very well, Edwina,’ Emma sighed. ‘And there is no reason why Blackie O’Neill should make you feel awkward or cause you discomfiture, because he is not your father.’
Edwina’s jaw dropped. She gaped at Emma, but said nothing. Recovering her speech, she cried quickly, ‘But his name is on my birth certificate!’
‘That’s true, but for quite different reasons than you believe. Blackie was my only friend when I was sixteen, alone, almost penniless, and carrying you. He asked me to marry him, out of friendship, I think. I refused. He insisted I name him as your father because he thought the phrase “father unknown” would be yet another stigma for you to bear. He also thought it would protect us to a certain extent, and in a way it did,’ Emma finished, thinking of how it had given her the courage to deny Edwina’s paternity, indeed her existence, to Gerald Fairley.
‘Then who was, or is, my father?’ Edwina demanded.
‘Your father was Edwin Fairley.’
Edwina leaned forward alertly. ‘Do you mean Sir Edwin Fairley? The famous criminal lawyer who died last year? One of the Fairleys from Fairley village?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Emma said quietly.
‘Good God!’ Edwina sat back in stupefaction and took a long swallow of her drink. After a moment she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me this that day I showed you the copy of my birth certificate?’
‘You didn’t give me an opportunity to explain anything. You fled to Cousin Freda’s, if you remember. Besides, I’m not sure I would have revealed his identity then. I might have, but it’s doubtful. The Fairley family have caused me a great deal of heartache. I did not want you to suffer or to be exposed. I also—’
‘Why now? Why are you suddenly telling me now? What has prompted this unprecedented display of honesty on your part, and at this late date?’
‘Because tonight I am going to announce Paula’s engagement to Jim Fairley, your father’s only grandson. He will be a member of this family, and also you are his only living blood relative. His parents were killed in a plane crash in 1948. I thought he ought to know you are his aunt. I would also like to wipe the slate clean once and for all.’ A reflective look entered Emma’s eyes. ‘I want Paula and Jim to start their marriage in the right way. No skeletons in the cupboard. No ancient secrets to haunt them. But apart from that, I felt I owed it to you to tell you the truth, Edwina. It’s long overdue.’
The understatement of the year, Edwina thought bitterly. Finally, she said slowly, ‘Edwin Fairley was a brilliant barrister and renowned throughout the country, and, perhaps more importantly, he was a gentleman. He had breeding and lineage. I’m not ashamed to acknowledge him as my father. You may tell Jim if you want. In fact, I think I would like you to do so.’
‘Thank you, Edwina.’
Edwina stood up. ‘I wish you had been honest with me years ago, Mother. Things might have been different between us.’
I sincerely doubt that, Emma thought, but said, ‘Perhaps they would.’
Edwina walked to the door without another word and Emma was aware of the gratified look in her daughter’s eyes. She’s such a ridiculous snob, she said to herself. Her illegitimacy doesn’t matter to her anymore, now that she knows her father was gentry. Emma called after her, ‘Please ask Jim to come upstairs.’
Edwina swung around. ‘Yes, Mother.’ She hovered and said hesitantly, ‘You remarked that the Fairleys had caused you grief, and yet you—you named me after my father…’
‘A mere slip of the tongue, I’m afraid,’ Emma said pithily, ‘but then that’s another story.’
A few minutes later Jim Fairley walked in and Emma straightened up, smiling pleasantly. Jim, who was thirty, was about six feet one in height, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long legs. He had an attractive, rather sensitive face, although his mouth had a sensuality about it that contrasted markedly with his ascetic features and his soulful bluish-grey eyes. His light brown hair, streaked with blond, was brushed loosely across his shapely head and worn slightly longer than the vogue. His appearance was faultless, for he was always impeccably dressed, and he was the epitome of the perfect English gentleman right down to his handmade shoes. He wore a flawlessly tailored evening suit, Edwardian in cut, which was the current fashion, and his fine lawn evening shirt was ruffled down the front and punctuated with sapphire studs.
Jim might have stepped right out of another era into the present, and as he strode towards her, smiling engagingly, Emma was carried back in time to the elegant dinner at Fairley Hall which Olivia Wainright had given in 1904. I always believed Jim looked like Edwin, Emma thought. He drew to a standstill and she recogn
Emma felt unnerved for a second, but she brushed aside the peculiar feeling of déjà vu and said in a gracious voice, ‘Good evening, Jim.’ She rose and stretched out her hand. ‘Welcome to my house. Welcome to my family.’
Jim smiled warmly. He revered and almost worshipped this regal old woman grasping his hand, and his admiration was fully revealed on his face. ‘Good evening, Mrs Harte. And thank you. I am honoured to become a member of your family, and to be in your home.’ He held on to her fingers and looked down into her eyes. ‘I love Paula with all my heart. I will be a good husband to her.’
‘Yes, I believe you will, Jim,’ Emma said, extracting her hand. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ As she spoke she moved towards the Georgian table.
Restraining her, Jim said, ‘Thank you. I’ll have a glass of wine. But I’ll get it. Don’t trouble yourself.’
Emma watched him stride across the room with that easy grace that sprang from self-confidence engendered by breeding and background, and she saw him yet again through newly objective eyes, wondering why she had never detected his uncanny resemblance to Adam. Perhaps it’s more apparent because of the Edwardian evening clothes, she decided, and looked into the fire, filled with remembrances of things past.
Jim returned with his drink.
Emma lifted her glass. ‘I understand from Paula you want to speak to me.’
‘Yes, I do, Mrs Harte. But first I have something for you.’ He put down the drink and reached into his pocket. He took out a small silver cardboard box and handed it to her.
Emma looked up at Jim. ‘What is it?’
‘Open it,’ Jim said.
Emma did so quickly, her curiosity aroused. The box contained a silk handkerchief, its whiteness yellowed by time, and it had been carefully folded so that the initials E.F. were clearly visible. Her hands trembled as she lifted the corners. She caught her breath, staring down at the stone lying on the ancient silk. It was the flat pebble she and Edwin had found in the cave at the Top of the World, and upon which had been painted the miniature portrait of a woman. It was extraordinarily well preserved, the oils almost as vivid as they had been over half a century ago. She picked it up and gazed at it, and then lifted her eyes to Jim’s questioningly.
‘My grandfather gave it to me the day he died,’ Jim told her, watching her face. ‘He told me to bring it to you. He wanted you to have it.’
‘Why?’ Emma asked in a low voice. So Edwin Fairley had not forgotten her, after all. He had remembered her on his deathbed.
‘I’ll get to that in a moment, Mrs Harte. I’d like to explain something else first. My grandfather knew about my relationship with Paula. You see, I took her to meet him at his house in Harrogate, when we first started seeing each other. At the time I couldn’t understand why he looked as if he’d seen a ghost when she walked in. Anyway, over the months he grew to love her and he was enthusiastic about the match. It seemed to give him renewed energy. His dearest wish was that we should marry.’
Jim paused, lit a cigarette, drew on it, and went on, ‘Then Paula suddenly broke off with me, explaining that you would never accept a Fairley in the family, that you bore us a hatred she could not understand. She told me she would never do anything to cause you pain, because you had had too much pain and grief in your life. I argued with her, begged her to discuss it with you, or let me talk to you. But she became so hysterical at the mere suggestion of this, I decided to let her calm down, hoping she would have a change of heart. She didn’t, as you know.’
Emma nodded. ‘And you explained all this to your grandfather?’
‘I did. I implored him to enlighten me. Many times, in fact. He refused point-blank. I knew you had wrested control of the Gazette from him in 1950, and I asked him if your hatred towards our family sprang from business conflicts. Again he refused to answer me or discuss you. He seemed to go downhill when Paula left me. He brought me up, you know, and we were very close, but not even I could reach him. He grew awfully frail in the last few weeks of his life, and one day last December he sent for me. I think he knew he was dying—’
‘And he gave you this stone to give to me,’ Emma interrupted. ‘And he told you the whole story, didn’t he? He told you about me and what had happened between us when we were young,’ she finished in a faint voice.
‘Yes. He told me everything. He said he hoped you would relent and give us your blessing, but if you did not, I was to come to you with this stone. He said it was imperative that you knew it was a painting of your mother and not Olivia Wainright, as he had believed when he found it.’ Jim stopped and gazed at her, trying to gauge her emotions, but Emma’s face was a mask of inscrutability.
In point of fact, Emma was not surprised at his revelation. ‘I thought it was my mother,’ she murmured softly. ‘I think I always knew that. Adam Fairley painted it, did he not?’
‘That’s correct. Grandfather took the stone to his father after Olivia died, thinking he would want to have it for sentimental reasons. Apparently Grandfather had offered it to Adam before, and once again he wouldn’t accept it. My great-grandfather then explained why. He said it was a painting of your mother, and he told Grandfather they had been childhood sweethearts.’
Emma nodded her head slowly. ‘That was another thing I suspected years ago—that there had been a friendship between them.’
Jim took a deep breath. ‘Your mother and my great-grandfather were more than friends, Mrs Harte. They were lovers.’
Emma was jolted upright on the sofa and her fingers tightened on the stone. ‘Are you certain of that, Jim?’
‘Oh, yes. Great-grandfather explained it all to Grandfather very carefully and in detail. It seems Adam fell in love with your mother, Elizabeth, and she with him. She became pregnant by Adam and ran away from Fairley. He found her some weeks later in Ripon. He had decided to abandon his military career, defy his father, and emigrate to America with your mother. It was too late. She had miscarried. Adam did not know if it was a natural miscarriage or one induced by some quack midwife. Elizabeth was very ill. She almost died. And she would not countenance Adam’s idea of elopement. Eventually she recovered, returned to Fairley, and soon after she married your father, Jack Harte. And she never spoke to Adam Fairley again.’
Emma was silent, filled with a terrible aching sadness. I knew it always she thought. That was probably one of the reasons I hated Adam Fairley with such virulence. But how did I know? Did I overhear something as a child? A family quarrel? Recriminations between my parents? Local gossip? She searched her mind and found no answers.
Jim came and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘I hope I’m not upsetting you, Mrs Harte, opening old wounds that must be painful for you. However, I felt you ought to know Grandfather had confided in me, and I wanted you to have the stone, even though you had relented about Paula and me of your own accord.’
A wistful look flitted across Emma’s face. ‘No, you’re not upsetting me, Jim. I’m glad you followed your instincts. I loved my mother very much and I don’t have a photograph of her. I shall treasure the stone. Now, please continue. I’m sure there is more.’
‘Yes, there is. When Grandfather gave me the stone for you, he said that the Harte women had always held a fatal fascination for the Fairley men, but that they had been for ever crossed in love. “Doomed by circumstances of birth” was the phrase he used. He said, “Tell Emma to let it end now. Tell her to let this generation have the happiness she and I were denied, and which her mother and my father were denied. Tell her that in all good conscience she must end it, once and for all. Tell her it is she, and she alone, who can finally join our two families together in holy matrimony.” He was very emotional, Mrs Harte. I said I would do as he asked.’
Emma took Jim’s hand in hers, and her eyes, so old and wise, were moist. ‘Why didn’t you come to me before, Jim? Your grandfather has
‘I was going to come to you in January, but then you and Paula left unexpectedly for America. When you returned, you fell ill. I intended to speak to you a few weeks ago, but you were so preoccupied I didn’t want to disturb you, particularly so soon after your illness.’ He smiled. ‘And then out of the blue you approached me and said you would approve of the marriage if we both still felt the same way.’
‘I’m glad I made the first move,’ Emma said. ‘Somehow it makes me feel better.’ She shook her head wonderingly. ‘It is strange, isn’t it, that three generations of Fairley men have fallen in love with Harte women and have always been thwarted until now. Three generations, Jim, spanning almost a hundred years.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Too long. And there has been too much heartbreak. Your grandfather was right. It must end now.’ She smiled. ‘Why, it has ended, hasn’t it, Jim?’
‘Yes. Thank God.’ To Emma’s surprise and astonishment Jim now knelt down on the floor at her feet and took her hands firmly between his. He looked up into her face, his eyes almost beseeching. ‘Grandfather asked me to do something else, Mrs Harte. Just before he died, he said, “When you have told Emma all this, I want you to get down on your bended knees and beg that woman’s forgiveness for everything the Fairleys have done to her. In particular, ask her to forgive me. Tell her I’ve never stopped loving her all the days of my life, and that without her my life has had no real meaning. A part of me died the day I repudiated Emma in the rose garden, and I have paid dearly for what I did.” I promised faithfully to do as he wished, Mrs Harte, but Grandfather suddenly became agitated, and made me promise over and over again. He also said, in the most sorrowing voice, “Jim, it will be an unquiet grave I lie in if Emma does not forgive me. Implore her to do so, Jim, so that my tortured soul can rest in peace.” I told him I knew you would forgive him, and eventually I managed to calm him. He fell asleep for a short while. When he opened his eyes he didn’t seem to see me. There was a faraway look on his face. He stared out of the window for a long time. When he lay back on the pillows I knew he was slipping away. Quite unexpectedly he smiled, and it was a triumphant, happy smile. He cried in the strongest voice, “Emma! Emma! I’m going back to the Top of the World,” and then he died peacefully in my arms.’