Barbara Taylor Bradford - A Woman of Substance

At least she could have had a degree of respect for them if they had been less transparent and a little more adroit in their plotting. Emma had always had the ability to stand back and admire a strong and cunning adversary, however grudging that admiration was. As far as her children were concerned, she was appalled at their lack of judgement, and their ingenuousness, which had precipitated their reckless and fatal actions and which had apparently led them to underestimate her.

She frowned and turned her thoughts away from the dissident members of her family, focusing her love on Daisy, Paula, and all of her other grandchildren. Eventually the quiet calm was restored and she slept, a deep untroubled sleep.

Afternoon tea had been a ritual at Pennistone Royal for years. It was a ritual Emma enjoyed, but even if she had not, Hilda would have not permitted it to be abandoned. ‘Over my dead body, madame,’ she had cried when Emma had suggested forgoing it a few years ago. Emma had shrugged and laughed helplessly. Hilda was a local woman who had come to work for Emma just after she had bought and restored Pennistone Royal and she was more like a member of the family than a paid servant. She was devoted to Emma, whom she described to anyone who would listen as ‘a good simple woman, with no fancy ideas’, adding with typical bluntness, ‘and a real lady whatever her beginnings were. More so than many who were born such, I can tell you!’ Emma was already a legend in the area, not only because of her power and wealth but for the many charitable deeds she had performed, quietly, with no fanfare and no desire for accolades, as was her way. But whenever Hilda had the opportunity she would proudly enumerate all of Emma’s good works yet again like a litany, not forgetting to mention that her Madame had put her own son Peter through university and had created a series of scholarships for the talented children of Pennistone and Fairley. ‘And what about her Foundation,’ she would continue, with a sniff, arching her neck and narrowing her eyes shrewdly. ‘Now, the Foundation gives away more money than I care to mention. Millions! Yes, millions. There is nothing tight-fisted about Emma Harte, that’s the truth. Which is more than I can say about some of the other rich folk around here. They wouldn’t give a blind man a light on a rainy night, never mind part with a few coppers for the needy.’ And when she wasn’t singing the praises of Emma she was proclaiming the virtues of Paula, whom she had helped to raise and whom she loved just as much as if she were her own daughter.

And so, promptly at four o’clock, Hilda came sailing into the parlour, carrying before her a great silver tea tray set with a beautiful Georgian silver tea service of exquisite design and delicate china which was translucent when held to the light. Following in her wake was one of the two young maids who came daily to work at the house, who also carried another gargantuan tray, this one laden with food painstakingly prepared by the cook.

‘Put that on the desk for a minute, Brenda,’ Hilda instructed, ‘and bring one of the small tables over here by the fire to hold it.’ She put her own tray down on the butler’s table and, puffing and blowing from exertion, she paused to catch her breath, motioning to Brenda where to position the second table for convenience. The two women carefully arranged the trays in front of the fire and then Brenda slipped out of the room, leaving Hilda to make the finishing touches. She surveyed Cook’s handiwork critically and then a smile of gratification slowly spread itself across her plump rosy face. There were hot buttered scones, thin slices of bread and butter, homemade strawberry jam, clotted cream, wafer-like sandwiches of cucumber, tomatoes, and smoked salmon, sweet biscuits, and a fruit cake decorated on the top with almonds. It was a real old-fashioned Yorkshire tea. Hilda carefully folded the fine lawn serviettes, put one on each plate with a small pearl-handled silver knife and fork, threw logs on to the fire, plumped the cushions, and then looked around. When she had reassured herself that everything was to her satisfaction she knocked on Emma’s bedroom door.

‘Are you awake, madame?’

‘Yes, Hilda. Come in,’ Emma called.

Hilda opened the door and poked her head around it, smiling. ‘Tea is ready!’ she announced. ‘And Miss Paula is back from her ride. She said to tell you she’ll be here in a few minutes. She’s changing out of her riding clothes.’

‘Thank you, Hilda. I’ll be there shortly.’

‘Ring if you need anything, madame,’ Hilda added, and then went down to the kitchen to have her own tea and give a word of praise to Cook.

When Paula came in a little while later she stood in the doorway and caught her breath, unexpectedly moved by the beauty of the parlour. It was hushed and still, as if time had passed it by. The only sound was the crackling of the fire that burned in the huge hearth. Sunshine filtered in through the tall leaded windows, dusky and golden, bathing the furniture and paintings in a mellow light, and the air, heavy with the perfume of hyacinths and spring flowers, flowed around her, enveloping her in its heady fragrance. There was something poignant about this great old room. Memories stirred within her, faintly elusive and nostalgic. She glided silently across the floor, almost afraid to move within that stillness, fearful that the rustling of her dress might disrupt and destroy that gentle peace. She sank on to one of the sofas and her eyes roamed around the room. Here it was easy to forget that there was a world outside, a world full of pain and ugliness and despair. She drifted gently on the edge of memory, recalling her childhood in this ancient place, the happy times she had spent here with her mother and father, her cousins and her young friends. And Grandy. Always Grandy. Her grandmother was never far away, always there to wipe away her tears, laugh at her childish pranks, admire her small achievements and to scold and cosset and love her. Her grandmother had made her what she was. It was Grandy who had told her she was clever and beautiful and special. Unique, she had said. It was Grandy who had given her inner security and confidence and strength, who had taught her to face the truth without fear and with a courageous heart …

She did not hear Emma come in, so soft was her step. Emma, too, paused to admire, but her attention was focused solely on Paula. How lovely she looks, Emma thought, like a figure from some old painting, remote and wistful, the maiden with the unicorn.

‘There you are, darling!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘You’re looking beautiful and refreshed after your ride.’

Paula glanced up swiftly, momentarily startled. ‘Oh, Grandy, you made me jump. I was miles away.’

As Emma seated herself opposite Paula her eyes lighted on the tea tray. ‘My goodness, look at all this food. Hilda is too much,’ she murmured, shaking her head in mild exasperation. ‘How can we eat all this! It’s only a few hours to dinner.’

Paula laughed. ‘I know! Perhaps she feels you need building up. You know how she fusses over you. But she’s really gone to town today. It’s like the nursery teas she used to make when I was small.’

‘I’m not hungry at all,’ Emma murmured, ‘and she’s going to be so hurt if we don’t eat anything.’

‘I’m ravenous, so don’t worry,’ Paula remarked, picking up a sandwich. ‘It was cold up there on the moors and I rode for miles. It’s given me quite an appetite.’ She bit into the sandwich as Emma looked on approvingly.

‘I’m glad to see you eating for once. You always seem to pick at your food. No wonder you’re so thin …’

The telephone on Emma’s desk rang. Paula jumped up. ‘Don’t disturb yourself, darling,’ she said, dashing across the room, ‘it’s probably only one of the family.’