Hold the Dream by Barbara Taylor Bradford
Emily said, ‘I spoke to Mummy in Paris. I told her she didn’t have to come until Sunday or Monday. I also talked to Robin and Kit. They’re here in Yorkshire, so there’s no problem. We managed to contact everyone on our list including Sarah and Jonathan. What about you, Winston?’
‘I got hold of Dad at the hotel in London. He’ll be on a train in the morning. Vivienne’s at Middleham, of course. Sally and Anthony were both at Clonloughlin. But Aunt Edwina is in Dublin. Anthony told me he’ll reach her later this evening. They’ll fly over on Sunday. You’re going to have a house full, Paula.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Winston said reflectively, ‘I think Emily and I ought to move in here with you for the next few days. What do – ’
Paula interjected. ‘Oh yes, please do. I’d appreciate it.’
Clearing his throat, Winston now asked in a muffled tone, ‘When are they bringing her body – I mean, bringing Aunt Emma back to Pennistone Royal?’
Paula blinked rapidly as her eyes moistened. ‘Tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to take the dress she wanted to wear to the undertaker in Leeds first thing in the morning.’ Paula turned her head, pressing back her tears with her fingertips. After a second, she went on, ‘Emily and I didn’t want to leave her there all alone for the next few days. It may sound silly, but we didn’t want – her to be lonely without us. And so her coffin will be brought here, to this house, her home, the one place she truly loved on this earth. We’ve decided to let the coffin stand in the Stone Hall. She liked the hall so much…’ Her voice trailed off.
Emily said, with a little burst of anger, ‘You wouldn’t believe how stupid the undertaker was, Winston! So bureaucratic. He actually tried to argue with us earlier this evening, when we insisted on accompanying Gran to – his place.’
‘Oh I know, darling,’ Winston murmured sympathetically. ‘There’s always a lot of stupid red tape. But you got your way, which is the main thing.’
‘You can bet your last shilling we did,’ Paula asserted. ‘By the way, Emily reached Merry just as she was leaving the office, to come to dinner here, and she went to tell Uncle Bryan about Emma. Apparently he was so heartbroken she had to drive him home to Wetherby.’
‘I’m sure he was, and is,’ Winston replied. ‘Aunt Emma was like a mother to Bryan when he was a child growing up.’
‘Merry rang us back at the office,’ Emily said. ‘The O’Neills are popping over at about nine o’clock to be with us.’
‘Incidentally, I tried to get hold of Shane. He was due back from Spain this afternoon.’ Winston fixed his eyes on Paula. ‘But when I rang the London office at six forty-five there was no reply. I guess I missed him – ’
‘I caught him there,’ Paula interrupted. ‘At six. He’d just walked in from the airport. He’s on his way to Yorkshire right now – driving. He’ll come straight here, and he should arrive about eleven.’
There was a knock on the door and Hilda walked into the parlour. ‘Excuse me, Miss Paula,’ she said. ‘But I’d already prepared the usual cold buffet for tonight, as I always do on Friday. You know, before you rang me about – ’ The housekeeper stopped, covered her mouth with her hand. She took a breath, and her voice wobbled as she finished, ‘About Mrs Harte passing away.’ She stared at Paula helplessly, unable to utter another word.
‘I’m sorry, Hilda, but I don’t feel like eating.’ Paula glanced at Emily and Winston. ‘Do either of you?’ They both shook their heads, and Paula added, ‘I think we’d better skip dinner tonight, thanks anyway, Hilda.’
‘Oh I understand, Miss Paula,’ Hilda made a face. ‘I can’t eat either. To tell you the truth, I’d choke on the food,’ she muttered and disappeared.
‘Blunt as ever, Hilda is,’ Winston said. ‘But I know what she means. I feel the same way.’ He rose and went to the console, where he poured himself another scotch and soda. He turned suddenly, looked first at his wife and then at Paula. He said thoughtfully, ‘This may seem like a peculiar thing to say, rather far-fetched even, but now that Aunt Emma’s dead I feel her presence more acutely than ever. I don’t mean because I’m here in this room, which was her favourite, but in general. She’s – well, she’s just with me. I’ve felt her closeness ever since you called me at our Harrogate office to tell me that she’d died.’
Emily nodded and emphatically so. ‘It’s not far-fetched, Winston. Paula and I discussed that very thing when we were driving back here tonight.’
For a moment Paula sat silently reflecting and then she said in a quiet voice, ‘We all feel her presence because she is here with us, Winston. She’s all around us. And inside us. She made us what we are, gave us so much of herself that we’re full of her.’ A sudden and lovely warm smile spread across Paula’s tired face. ‘Grandy will be with each one of us for all of our days. And so, in a sense, she’ll never really be dead. Emma Harte will live on forever through us.’
Emma Harte’s funeral was held in Ripon Cathedral, as she had requested. It took place at one o’clock on the Tuesday following her death.
Her entire family was present, along with friends, colleagues, employees and most of the inhabitants of the village of Pennistone Royal, where she had lived for well over thirty years. The cathedral was packed to overflowing and if there were some present who were dry eyed, they were far outnumbered by those who were tearful and sorrowing.
Her coffin was borne down the central nave and through the great chancel to the altar by the six pallbearers she herself had chosen. Three of them were her grandsons: Philip McGill Amory, Alexander Barkstone and Anthony Standish, Earl of Dunvale. The other three were her great-nephew Winston Harte, Shane O’Neill and Michael Kallinski, the grandsons of her two dear friends from her youth.
Although her coffin was not heavy, the six young men walked at a slow, measured pace, their steps keeping time with the organ music that swelled to the rafters of the ancient cathedral. Finally the pallbearers came to a stop in front of the magnificent altar and it was here that they rested Emma’s coffin amidst a profusion of exquisite floral bouquets and wreaths. The central area where the coffin stood was bathed in light from the many flickering candles and the sunlight pouring in through the jewel-coloured stained glass windows.
The family occupied all of the front pews. Paula sat between Jim and her mother. Her father was on Daisy’s other side. He, in turn, had Emily on his right side. She was mothering Amanda and Francesca, who cried continuously into their damp handkerchiefs. Although Emily was as distressed as her sisters, she somehow managed to keep a firm grip on herself, endeavouring to comfort the heartbroken teenagers.
Once the pallbearers had been seated with the rest of the mourners, the Dean of Ripon, the Very Reverend Edwin LeGrice, began the short service. He spoke beautifully about Emma, his words eloquent and moving, and when he eventually stepped down from the pulpit ten minutes later, his place was taken by Emma’s nephew Randolph Harte.
Randolph gave the sole eulogy. He had difficulty at times, his strong voice cracking with emotion and he choked on some of his sentences, his sorrow and sense of loss rising to the surface frequently. Randolph’s words about his aunt were very simple and loving, spoken from the heart and with genuine feeling. His eulogizing of Emma was limited to a recital of her attributes as a human being. He made no mention of her business career as one of the world’s greatest merchant princes. Instead he touched on her generosity of spirit, her kind nature, her understanding heart, her great acts of charity, her loyalty as a friend and relative, her extraordinary qualities as a woman of remarkable character and strength and indomitable will.
After the eulogy, which had caused many to weep, the Ripon Cathedral choir rose and gave their beautiful harmonized rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers, one of the two hymns Emma had learned as a child, and which she had wanted sung today.
As the choir sat down, the Dean of Ripon returned to the pulpit. He led the mourners in a single prayer, before offering up his own brief prayer for Emma Harte’s so
Paula, her head bowed, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but the tears seeped out anyway and dripped on to her clasped hands. The cathedral was perfectly still now, its peacefulness enveloping them all. But occasionally the silent hallowed space echoed with a muffled sob, a small gasp of grief or a strangled cough.
And then suddenly his voice rang out, so true and clear and pure Paula thought her heart was going to burst. She had known Shane was going to sing Jerusalem, since this was one of Emma’s last wishes, but nevertheless she was startled. She brought her handkerchief up to her face, wondering how she could ever bear this part of the service.
Shane O’Neill stood alone in a far corner of the cathedral and he sang William Blake’s old hymn without accompaniment, his rich full baritone echoing to every corner of the church.
As he came to the end of the first verse and commenced the second Paula experienced a sudden and extraordinary feeling of peace and release as the words washed over her. He held her enthralled.
Shane’s lilting voice reached out to touch everyone present as he now sang:
‘Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.’
As Shane’s voice faded away, Paula unexpectedly understood the need, the significance and the importance of the ritual and ceremony of death. Somehow they were helping her to endure her sorrow. The prayers, brief though they had been, the choir boys and then Shane singing so melodiously, the masses of flowers and the extraordinary beauty of this ancient cathedral had given her a degree of ease from her overwhelming pain. The presence of the Dean, whom she had known for years, was calming, comforting to her. It suddenly struck her that when grief could be shared in this way the burden of the heartbreak became slightly lighter to bear. She knew the service had been a shade more elaborate than her grandmother had intended, but somehow she felt it had been extremely consoling to those who genuinely cared about Emma and mourned her truly. We did her honour, we gave her a wonderful tribute as she leaves this earthly life, Paula thought. It has been our way of saying our loving goodbyes. Paula felt a new strength flowing through her as she lifted her head.
Instantly she became conscious of her mother’s terrible anguish. Daisy was sobbing unrestrainedly against David’s shoulder. Paula put her hand on her mother’s arm, whispered, ‘It’s all right, Mummy. Draw comfort from knowing that she’s safe at last. She’s gone to your father, to Paul, and now they’re together for all time, for eternity.’
‘Yes,’ Daisy gasped. ‘I know, darling, I know. But I shall miss her so much. She was the best. The very, very best there is in this world.’
The organ music began again and rose to a crescendo as her coffin was lifted by the pallbearers. They brought it back through the chancel and down the nave and out of Ripon Cathedral. Emma’s immediate family walked behind her coffin and then they stood outside, watching as it was placed in the hearse and covered with a blanket of flowers for her last journey.
Paula noticed that Edwina was as stricken and tearful as her mother and impulsively she went over, placed her hand on her aunt’s arm. ‘I’m glad you made your peace with Grandy,’ Paula said in a shaky voice. ‘Really glad, Aunt Edwina.’
Edwina turned to Paula, her light grey eyes brimming. ‘It was too late. I should have done it years ago. I was wrong. So very wrong, Paula dear.’
Paula said, ‘She understood. She always understood everything, that was the beauty of Emma Harte. And she was so pleased you and she became friends – overjoyed, if you want to know the truth.’
‘That helps a little,’ Edwina said softly. ‘And you and I, Paula, we must be friends too. Can you forgive me?’
‘Yes,’ Paula said very simply, and bent forward and kissed Edwina’s wet cheek.
A long line of cars followed the cortège out of Ripon and on to Harrogate. They soon left the bucolic Dales behind, passed through the city of Leeds, the seat of Emma’s power, and travelled through the grimy industrial valleys of the West Riding. But eventually the procession came up on to the high moorland road that cut through the great Pennine chain of hills.
On this sunlit afternoon in early September those grim and savage Yorkshire moors had lost their blackened and daunting aspects that could so appal the eye. Dark and implacable for most of the year, they now blazed with sudden and glorious splendour. As it always did at the end of the summer, wave upon wave of purple and magenta heather undulated across the great sweep of wild, untenanted moors. It was as if a cloth of royal purple had been rolled out, and it rippled gently under the light breeze. High above floated a resplendent sky that was as blue as speedwells and brilliant with that incredible clarity of light so peculiar to the North of England. The air was pure and bracing. Larks and linnets wheeled and turned with a rush and fluttering of wings and their sweet trillings pierced the silence, and there was the fragrant scent of harebells and wild flowers and heather on the lucent air.
Finally the cortège began its downward descent, leaving the moorland behind, and several hours after its departure from Ripon it progressed slowly into the village of Fairley. The hearse came to a standstill outside the quaint Norman church where eighty-one years ago she had been christened.
Her six young pallbearers, representing the three clans, shouldered her coffin for the last time. Moving at a slow pace and with great care, they carried her through the lych-gate into the cemetery, where the vicar, the Reverend Huntley, was waiting at the graveside.
Against the drystone walls and under the blowing trees and along the winding paths stood the villagers of Fairley. They were silent and grieving, the men with their caps in their hands, the women and children holding sprays of wild flowers, and heather, for remembrance, and all had their heads bowed and most of them were weeping quietly. They had come out of love to pay their last respects, to say farewell to this woman who was one of their own, she who had risen so high in the world but had never once forgotten them.
After a brief ceremony under that wide and shimmering sky which she had believed to be unique, Emma Harte was buried in the benign earth which had for so long sheltered her loved ones. Her grave was between those of her mother and Winston, her final resting place overshadowed by the moors she had so loved and wandered over as a child, and where she had never felt lonely or alone in her solitude.
Tycoon
‘Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth, and set down as gain each day that Fortune grants.’
HORACE
CHAPTER 44
‘I still think there’s something fishy going on,’ Alexander muttered, pacing the floor of Paula’s office at the London store.
‘So do I,’ she agreed, her eyes following him as he progressed up and down between the fireplace and her desk. ‘But having suspicions is simply not good enough. We need concrete evidence of some kind before we can make a move against Jonathan. And Sarah perhaps. I’m still not certain whether she is being treacherous or not.’
‘Neither am I. But we do need to get the goods on him, you’re quite right. Until then our hands are tied.’ Alexander rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful. He came to a stop in front of Paula’s desk and levelled his gaze at her. ‘My gut instinct tells me that Jonathan’s double dealing is staring me in the face, and you can bet it’s going to hit me in the face one day very soon.’ He shook his head. ‘And to borrow a phrase of Grandy’s, I don’t like unpleasant surprises.’
‘Who does?’ Paula sighed, her worrying growing more acute. She knew Alexander was the most conservative of men and not prone to e
‘Naturally he is, and you know he’s always been bloody devious. He doesn’t let his right hand know what his left is doing, for God’s sake. He hasn’t changed much over the years.’ Alexander gave her a pained look. ‘Don Littleton thinks I’m stark raving mad. If I’ve made him go over the books once, I’ve had him do it a dozen times.’ Alexander lifted his shoulder in a helpless shrug. ‘Don and two of the other accountants with his firm put the real estate division under a microscope. There’s nothing untoward – not a single thing that seems suspicious. At least, not as far as money matters are concerned.’
Paula leaned forward, rested her elbows on her desk, propped her chin in her hands. ‘He wouldn’t be stupid enough to steal, Sandy, and he’s smart. He’d cover his tracks wherever they led. I wish we could think of some way to lure him out into the open, get him to show his hand…’ Her sentence remained unfinished as she considered this idea, racked her brains for likely possibilities.
Her brother Philip, who sat on the sofa at the other side of the room, had been listening intently for the last fifteen minutes. Finally breaking his silence, he said, ‘The only way you’ll ever trap our dear cousin is to set him up as a target.’
Alexander pivoted on his heels. ‘How?’ he asked.