Barbara Taylor Bradford - To Be the Best

COPYRIGHT

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1988

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1988

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019 Cover photograph © Sandra Cunningham/Trevillion Images

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication .

Source ISBN: 9780586070345

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007363711

Version: 2019-09-19

DEDICATION

For Bob, who is,

with my love.

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

PART ONE Lovers & Strangers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PART TWO Saints & Sinners

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

PART THREE Winners & Losers

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

EPILOGUE

KEEP READING …

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

To be on my team, you’ve got to be the best. And to be the best, you’ve got to have character.

EMMA HARTE, in A Woman of Substance

Paula left Pennistone Royal just before dawn.

It was still dark as she eased the car out of the tall iron gates and turned left, heading for the moors. But as she came up onto the road which cut through the Pennine Chain of hills the sky was already beginning to change. Its blurred mass of anthracite greys was giving way to amethyst and pink and a cold and fading green; on the far horizon the first rays of the sun shimmered like shards of silver against the dark rim of the moors. It was an eerie hour, neither day nor night, and the silent spacious moors seemed emptier, more remote than ever. And then unexpectedly there was a sudden burst of radiance and that crystalline light so peculiar to the north of England filled the entire sky; day finally broke.

Paula rolled down the window and took a deep breath, then leaned back in the seat, relaxing as she pushed the car forward at a steady speed. The breeze that blew in was cool, but then it was always cool up here on the ‘tops’, whatever the time of year, and hardly the right place to gauge the weather. She knew it would be a scorching day again, and she was glad she had set out early.

It was the end of August when the heather always blooms in Yorkshire and the wild, untenanted moors were glorious. Grim and daunting for most of the year, they were breathtaking in their beauty this morning, a sea of violet and magenta rippling under the wind, rolling ahead as far as the eye could see. On an impulse Paula stopped the car and got out, glancing around, filling her eyes. The landscape was awesome … stunning. She felt her throat tighten with emotion. Grandy’s moors, she murmured, thinking of Emma Harte. I love them just as much as she did … as my own daughters Tessa and Linnet have grown to love them too.

Paula stood for a moment by the car, savouring her surroundings, looking and listening. She could hear the sharp trilling of the larks as they soared and wheeled high on the clouds and in the distance was the tinkling of water as a little beck rushed down over rocky crags, and on the cool air were the mingled scents of heather and bilberry, wild flowers and bracken. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering so many things, and then she lifted her head and looked up. The inverted bowl of a sky was China blue and filled with white puff-ball clouds and brilliant sunshine. The beginning of a pretty day, she thought, smiling. There is nowhere like the moors when the weather is beautiful, nowhere in the whole world. It was a long time since she had been up here. Too long really. My roots are here, just as Grandy’s were, she said under her breath, lingering a moment longer, the memories flooding her fully, carrying her back …

Abruptly, Paula turned away, got into her Aston Martin DB 2–4, and drove on, following the winding moorland road for another hour until it finally started its descent into the valley below, and Fairley. Because it was so early, the village still slumbered. The streets were entirely deserted. Paula parked in front of the ancient grey stone church with its square Norman tower and stained-glass windows, then she alighted, went around to the passenger door and opened it. She had wedged the cardboard box on the floor near the seat, and now she lifted the vase of summer flowers out of the box and closed the door with her knee.

Carrying the vase with both hands, she pushed through the lych-gate that led into the cemetery adjoining the church.

Her steps carried her down the flagged path until she came to the far corner, secluded, bosky, infinitely still. Here, near the ancient moss-covered stone wall and shaded by a gnarled old elm tree, was a cluster of graves. For a while she stood staring at one headstone.

Emma Harte was the name engraved upon the dark green marble, and below were the dates 1889–1970.

Eleven years ago, Paula thought. She died eleven years ago today. Whatever has happened to the time? It has spun away from me so fast … it seems only yesterday that she was alive and vigorous, running her business and ordering us all around.

Moving closer to her grandmother’s grave, Paula bent down, placed the flowers on it, then straightened and stood motionless with one hand resting on the headstone, staring out towards the distant hills. There was a reflective look in her eyes, and she was lost for a moment in the sweep of her thoughts.