Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

‘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.’

Emma blinked back her tears. ‘Poor Edwin. Poor Edwin,’ she said in a voice that quavered. ‘I think perhaps your grandfather suffered more than I did, after all.’

‘Yes, I believe he did,’ Jim said. His face became intense. ‘You do forgive the Fairleys, don’t you, Mrs Harte? And Grandfather in particular.’

‘I forgive them, Jim. All of them, and most especially Edwin.’ She touched Jim’s face lightly, and with affection. But it was Edwin she now saw kneeling before her. I’ve spent a lifetime seeking revenge for what you did to me, she thought. But it wasn’t really necessary. Your own conscience did my work for me. If only I had known. What a lot of pain and effort it would have saved. You wanted me to win. It was a salve for your overwhelming guilt. That’s why you looked so relieved when I stole the Gazette from you. You knew the vendetta was finally over.

‘Mrs Harte, are you all right?’ Jim asked anxiously.

Emma blinked and stared at him. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Now be good enough to lend me your handkerchief. I can’t go downstairs to announce your engagement with tears streaming down my face, now can I?’

‘As far as I’m concerned you can do anything you want,’ Jim said as he handed her his handkerchief.

Emma blew her nose and said, ‘I was going to tell you tonight that I had borne your grandfather’s child, Jim. I wanted you to know. My eldest daughter, the Countess of Dunvale, is your Aunt Edwina. Or rather, your half aunt.’

‘I guessed as much when I met her this evening.’ Jim grinned. ‘She looks like a Fairley, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

Emma chuckled. ‘She does indeed. She used to be the spitting image of your great-grandmother, Adele, when she was younger. Now, give an old woman your arm and escort me downstairs to greet my family.’

‘I will be honoured,’ Jim said.

The dinner had been in progress for some time. Emma sat at the head of the long mahogany table in her splendidly appointed Adam dining room, surrounded by her children, their spouses, and her grandchildren. The food was superb, the wines were excellent, and now a certain conviviality prevailed. Everyone appeared to be relaxed, their jealousies, hatreds, and differences buried or well concealed behind their smiling facades.

All the clowns wear masks, Emma thought, borrowing a line from a poem she had once read, for she detected an undercurrent of tension in the atmosphere, although to a degree it was less pronounced than when she had arrived in the drawing room earlier, on the arm of Jim Fairley. Her grandchildren, who loved her dearly and were fiercely loyal to her, had greeted her with enthusiasm and great affection, the camaraderie they shared most apparent. Her children had been amiable enough, if somewhat reserved, but Emma had been conscious of a cautiousness in some, veiled hostility in others, a wariness in them all, with the exception of Daisy.

She had been sardonically amused to see that the four conspirators had assiduously avoided each other. However, she had not missed the apprehensive glances Kit and Robin had occasionally exchanged when they thought they were unobserved, yet they, too, had remained aloof from one another. Even Elizabeth, who was as close to Robin as ever, had adroitly sidestepped her twin, hovering attentively over Blackie, fawning and flattering him. Edwina had remained by the side of her son all through the cocktail hour. The engagement had been announced, champagne toasts given, congratulations effusively offered, and despite their obvious surprise when they learned she had accepted a Fairley into the bosom of her family, her children’s expressions had hardly slipped.

Now, in the flickering candlelight, as she toyed with the dessert on her plate, Emma looked up from time to time, surreptitiously regarding the four culprits, her green eyes watchful beneath the hooded lids. She had the advantage. A lifetime’s experience in dealing with people had augmented her natural ability to assess her children’s individual capacities and handicaps. She had discovered their flaws long ago and they no longer baffled or surprised her. She could read each one like an open book. After tonight she would not have to bother. The book would be closed.

Her eyes rested briefly on Kit. How like Joe Lowther he had become over the years Plodding, phlegmatic, and lacking in imagination or initiative. And what a monumental fool he had been to throw his lot in with Robin, who would double-cross him at the drop of a hat. She shifted her glance to the latter. How handsome Robin looks tonight, she thought, and experienced a twinge of pain. Robin had always been her favourite son and the knowledge that he had been the instigator of the plot hurt more than she had realized. He was urbane and suave, the true dyed-in-the-wool politician, facile of tongue, the deal maker. Unfortunately, like his father, Arthur Ainsley, his overweening vanity was his fatal flaw, and it constantly obscured his judgements.

In many ways his twin sister was much shrewder than he, except that she rarely bothered to exercise that capacity. Emma glanced at Elizabeth, swathed in silver lamé and turquoise chiffon and dripping diamonds. Her problem was a desire to pursue pleasure to the exclusion of all else. Just like her father, too.

At forty-seven Elizabeth was still stunning, the real beauty of the family, but she was more highly strung than in her youth, brittle, and immature in innumerable ways. Emma thought: She’s a dreadfully unhappy woman. But then, when was Elizabeth ever happy? And how many husbands had she had since she divorced Tony Barkstone, father of Alexander and Emily? Emma had almost lost count. There had been Michael Villiers and then Derek Linde, by whom she had had the twins, Amanda and Francesca. After their birth Elizabeth had lost the taste for Englishmen, and had sought out more exotic fare. A Polish prince with an unpronounceable name, to be followed in quick succession by the Italian count, who was a good fifteen years younger. Some count, Emma thought dryly. More like a gigolo.

Emma now observed that the count was being excessively attentive to Edwina, who in turn was playing the role of the Dowager Countess of Dunvale to the hilt, acting condescendingly and with a display of superiority that was nauseating. How transparent Edwina was. After tonight, with the information she now had about her paternity, she would really feel obliged to turn up her snooty nose at the world.