Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

Blackie did not reply. He put his arm around her shoulders and gazed down at her. To his relief that cold and implacable mask had been discarded, had been replaced by the sweetest of expressions, and the hard glint in her emerald eyes had disappeared. A thought struck him. ‘And what of Edwin Fairley?’ Blackie asked curiously. ‘Do you have something special in store for him?’

‘You will have to wait and see,’ Emma said cryptically, and smiled. ‘Anyway, don’t think Edwin won’t be upset by all this, because he will. For one thing, he will be mortified by the scandal, the terrible disgrace. Gerald is practically bankrupt and the whole of Yorkshire’s business community knows it. Furthermore, Edwin’s income is going to be most seriously affected. He had an interest in the Fairley mills, under his father’s will. Now that’s gone up in a puff of smoke,’ she finished triumphantly and with an eloquent wave of her hand.

Blackie said softly, ‘Is there anything you don’t know about their affairs?’

‘Nothing.’

Blackie shook his head. ‘You’re an amazing woman, Emma.’

‘Aren’t I, just. I amaze myself sometimes.’ Emma laughed. ‘Well, let’s do what we came here to do and make our grand tour of Fairley Hall.’

They went out into the entrance hall and slowly mounted the great staircase washed in the eerie light sifting in through the huge stained-glass window that soared high above the central landing. They walked down the endless dusky corridors that reeked faintly of wax and gas and dust and that peculiar mustiness that seeped out of the walls, and the wood creaked and the wind moaned in the eaves and the light dimmed, and it seemed to Emma that the ancient house was expiring all around them. They looked in on various rooms where grimy dust sheets draped the furniture and then moved on into the main corridor of bedrooms.

Emma paused at the door of the Blue Suite and glanced back at Blackie standing behind her. ‘These were Adele Fairley’s rooms,’ she remarked, and hesitated, her hand resting on the knob. And then she braced herself, flung open the door, and went in purposefully. Motes of dust rose up from the carpet in eddying whirls and danced in the sunlit air as they disturbed the room, which had obviously been unused for years and held an aura of neglect more pronounced than the library. Although Emma had never liked this room as a child, she had been awed by the quality of the antiques and some of the other furnishings. Now she saw it through the eyes of the connoisseur she had become, and she grimaced. Here poor Adele Fairley had lived out her life in her introverted world, isolated from her family and escaping reality by fleeing down the neck of a bottle. Emma had long ago acknowledged that Adele had been an alcoholic. But was she also mad? She pushed aside the troubling thought of inherited insanity and drifted through into the adjoining bedroom, pausing by the huge four-poster bed swathed in faded green silk. The silence was overwhelming and, in the way the imagination can play queer tricks, Emma heard Adele’s tinkling laughter and the rustling of her peignoir, caught a faint whiff of her Jasmine perfume. She blinked rapidly and gooseflesh spreckled her arms. She laughed at herself and then swung around and hurriedly returned to the sitting room.

Blackie followed her, assessing everything as he did. ‘These are fine rooms, Emma,’ he said, peering about. ‘Beautifully proportioned. They have a lot of potential. Of course, you’ll have to get rid of most of this junk Adele Fairley collected.’

‘Yes, I will,’ Emma said, and thought: What a pathetic memorial to Adele Fairley. She who was so beautiful.

Emma inspected the other bedrooms perfunctorily yet with a degree of curiosity. She hovered in front of the dressing table in the Grey Room, once occupied by Olivia Wainright Fairley, musing on her. Unexpectedly, a wave of reluctant affection surfaced in her. Olivia had been kind; had eased her burdens in this terrible house. She wondered if her empathy for Olivia had been unconsciously engendered by that woman’s marked resemblance to her mother. Perhaps. Emma’s face softened and she turned and left the Grey Room. But her expression changed radically when she pushed open the door of the Master’s Room. Her eyes were stony as she surveyed the austere furnishings, thinking of Adam Fairley. And Emma remembered anew all that had happened to her at Fairley Hall and she felt no compunction about what she had done. Her revenge had had a long gestation period, but it had been surely worth it.

Fifteen minutes later Emma and Blackie descended the main staircase and quickly traversed the reception rooms on the ground floor. All the while Blackie chatted enthusiastically about the renovations he would make, and outlined his plans for transforming Fairley Hall into an elegant home for her. Emma listened and nodded but said little. At one moment, when they were viewing the drawing room, she touched Blackie’s arm and asked, ‘Why was I so frightened of this house when I was a child?’

Blackie squeezed her hand lovingly. ‘You weren’t afraid of the house, Emma. You were afraid of the people in it.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she replied softly. ‘And now those people are just ghosts.’

‘Yes, me darlin’, just ghosts. And this is only a house, after all. I once told you it could never harm you.’

‘I know you did.’ Emma took Blackie’s arm. ‘Let’s go outside and look at the grounds. It’s chilly in here, and rather depressing.’

Emma blinked when they stepped out into the bright sunlight. ‘Do you know, it’s warmer out here than it is in there,’ she remarked, and stared up at the grim edifice soaring in front of her. Emma’s face became introspective as she walked along the flagged terrace, regarding Fairley Hall from time to time. This daunting house was enduring-and inescapable; a bastion of wealth and privilege, a monument to a society long outmoded, to a cruel class system she detested, and it sorely offended her.

Inclining her head towards the house, she murmured, ‘My father used to call this Fairley’s Folly.’

‘And so it is.’

‘Tear it down,’ Emma said with cool deliberation.

‘Tear it down!’ Blackie echoed, gazing at her incredulously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. I want you to tear it down. Brick by brick by brick, until there is nothing left standing.’

‘But I thought you were going to live in it,’ Blackie exclaimed, still flabbergasted.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever really intended to do that. You once said it was a monstrosity and that’s a decided understatement. There is no place in this world for monstrosities. I want it wiped off the face of the earth as if it never existed.’

‘And the furniture?’

‘Sell it. Give it away. Do as you wish. I know I don’t want one piece of it. You can take anything you like, Blackie.’ She smiled. ‘You might consider keeping Adam Fairley’s desk. It is quite valuable, you know.’

‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll think about it.’ Blackie rubbed his chin. ‘Are you sure about this decision? You did pay a lot for the house.’

‘I am very sure.’ Emma swivelled and tripped lightly down the terrace steps until she stood at the entrance to the rose garden. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a young and desperate girl, and she recalled the day she had told Edwin she was pregnant, and remembered his repudiation of her as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

‘And destroy this garden,’ she said icily. ‘Demolish it completely. I don’t want one rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’

The villagers were agog at the news that Emma Harte, Big Jack’s daughter, was now the owner of Fairley Hall and the mill. It was a reversal of circumstances so unlikely it staggered the imagination, and, in turn, they were stunned, astonished, and finally wryly amused at the ironic justice so inherent in the turn of events, which were quite unexpected. Hidebound as they were by tradition and prejudice, and trapped in a rigid caste system that kept the workers in their place, they nevertheless marvelled at her audacity in daring to defy that system and break all the rules set down by the Establishment for centuries.