‘No, I’m just teasing you, my dearest friend. Now, would you like champagne? Or a drop of Irish?’
‘I think I’ll be having a drop of whiskey, Emma love. And I can fix it meself, you know.’
‘No, I can do it for you. But perhaps you can open the bottle of champagne, please.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure, Emma. And isn’t it grand Bryan got leave, and the other lads. It’s a jolly Christmas night we’ll be havin’ with our families.’
A few minutes later he was pouring her a flute of champagne and handing it to her, and she gave him his Irish whiskey in a crystal glass.
‘Here’s to you, me darlin’ Emma, the most beautiful woman I know.’
‘And to you, Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, the young spalpeen who became a great gentleman and a toff and who has always been my best friend.’ She laughed. ‘You used to say to me years ago…“I’m going to be a toff one day.” And you are! And I’m so proud of you.’
They touched glasses and Emma hovered next to him in front of the fire, as they waited for her children and his son and her other guests to join them.
At one moment, after a short silence, Blackie said, ‘I’m glad Frank could come after all, he might have some news about the war…you know, inside stuff.’
‘He might, but I doubt very much that he’d tell us,’ Emma murmured. She knew Blackie liked to pick her brother’s brains, as she did herself, but Frank could be extremely close-mouthed. Above everything else, he was discreet and trustworthy, as his boss Lord Beaverbrook knew very well.
Emma looked towards the hallway as she heard running feet, and suddenly there was her daughter Daisy, rushing into the drawing room like a young colt, flying to her Uncle Blackie, who was one of her favourites.
‘A little decorum: walk, don’t run, Daisy,’ Emma admonished gently, but her eyes were loving, her smile benign.
‘And if it’s not me darlin’ little Daisy, the prettiest flower in the world,’ Blackie said, hugging her close, then holding her away. ‘You’ve sprung up in the last week, little one,’ he murmured with a frown.
Daisy, dark-haired and blue-eyed like her father Paul McGill, laughed uproariously. ‘Oh Uncle Blackie, don’t be silly! I’m wearing high heels.’ As she spoke she spun around, her dark blue velvet dress billowing out like a bell.
‘Aren’t I the foolish man!’ Blackie laughed, and then looked at the door as Elizabeth came in clutching the arm of her young husband, Tony Barkstone. She wore a red silk dress and pearls, and he was resplendent in his Royal Air Force blue uniform, and Blackie couldn’t help thinking what a handsome couple they made: Elizabeth, a stunning dark beauty; Tony a blond blue-eyed Englishman, the bloom of youth still on his handsome face. Why are they always so young, those who defend us? he wondered.
After greetings had been exchanged all around, Elizabeth went over to Emma and said, ‘Mummy, you look gorgeous.’ She stood staring admiringly at her mother’s red hair and perfect pink-and-white complexion, the vivid green eyes that matched the exquisite emeralds at her ears, on her shoulder and hands, and she found it hard to believe she was gazing at a woman of fifty-three. Emma looked so much younger. Leaning into her mother, Elizabeth whispered, ‘Mummy, you don’t look a day over thirty-nine.’
Emma threw back her head and laughed. She was happy this afternoon. In fact, she had not felt this happy in a very long time, not since Paul’s death almost four years ago. She knew it was because her children and family and friends would all be with her today. They gave her such joy and comfort, and she was proud of them.
In the distance, she heard the faint cry of the baby, and she hurried to the hallway as Kit and June came towards her. June was carrying the newest redhead in the family, little Sarah Lowther, not yet a year old but making her presence felt.
Emma kissed her baby granddaughter, touched her fat little cheek, then kissed her daughter-in-law June. Finally she turned to her eldest son, Kit, son of Joe Lowther, her first husband. She thought he looked a lot like Joe today: blond, fair of complexion, grey-eyed, a solid-looking young man wearing his army captain’s uniform proudly, grinning from ear to ear and showing his perfect white teeth and dimples.
Taking hold of Emma’s arm, Kit drew her towards him and hugged her tightly. He had always adored his mother, and now he said against her auburn hair, ‘I’m thrilled the baby looks like you, Mother, just in case you didn’t know.’
Emma drew away from him, touched his cheek. ‘So am I, Kit darling.’
‘I’m not the last, am I?’ Robin cried, running down the stairs, walking swiftly across to join the small group in the hallway.
‘No, no, we’re still waiting for a few others,’ Emma murmured, smiling up at Robin. He was her favourite, but never once had she shown this. She had not believed in playing favourites in the family; had treated them all equally and in the fairest way she knew how.
As she watched Robin shaking hands with Kit, and kissing June, who had only arrived from Leeds a short while ago, Emma could not help thinking that Robin resembled her brother Winston more than he did his father, Arthur Ainsley. He was tall and dark-haired like Winston and his twin Elizabeth. Tonight he appeared more dashing than ever in his Royal Air Force blue. He was a pilot, and something of an ace flyer, and had recently been promoted to captain. She suspected he might be a daredevil and a risk-taker, and she worried excessively at times when she thought of him up there in his Hurricane flying over enemy territory. In order to keep her sanity, she tried not to think about what Robin did in the air.
Grasping her hand in his, Robin twirled her around, almost but not quite jitterbugging, and whistled, ‘Wow, Ma, you look like…a film star. If some of our chaps could see you now they’d be fighting over who got to be your escort.’
‘Indeed they would,’ David Amory said as he came down the stairs and stepped into the hall where they were still standing chatting.
‘Good evening, Mrs. Harte,’ he said, as he joined them.
‘Good evening, David,’ she responded, steeling herself, smiling warmly, trying not to stare too hard at him. It would take her a while to get used to this young man who bore an odd likeness to Paul McGill. She had been floored last night when he had arrived with Robin and Tony, and two other young pilots, all members of the IIIth Squadron stationed at Biggin Hill.
‘They’re going to bunk in here with us, Ma, is that all right?’ Robin had asked, and she had been happy to acquiesce. For several years now Robin had been bringing his squadron mates home, and she had willingly opened her door and her heart to these brave and dauntless young men who were constantly in danger defending their country.
But throw her off balance he did…because he reminded her of Paul. He was tall and dark, with a flashing smile and bright blue eyes. Yet David was not as outrageously handsome as Paul had been as a young man, nor did he have his massive size and audacious personality. But he certainly struck a chord in her memory of Paul as he had been in the First World War when they had met. David had an engaging manner, and last night he had charmed her at once. She was glad that he was staying with them for Christmas. However, she was also already concerned about his presence here: Daisy had seemed mesmerized last night. Her seventeen-year-old daughter had not been able to take her eyes off David, who was twenty-four and something of a war hero already, and a new addition at Biggin Hill. David had seemed taken with Daisy also.
‘Well, let’s not stand here,’ Emma now said, taking hold of David’s arm, leading him towards the drawing room. ‘And where are your friends?’ she asked, looking up at him.
‘They’ll be down in a few minutes, Mrs. Harte,’ he replied and, bending closer, he added softly, ‘They’re enjoying the luxury of your bathrooms, Mrs. Harte. They’re rather different from those in our billets.’
Emma laughed as they went into the drawing room together, where she introduced him to Blackie, and then watched as Daisy glided towards him looking as if she were floating on clouds.
June went to sit on
a sofa with baby Sarah, and Kit helped Robin to pour champagne, while Blackie engaged in a conversation with David Amory, whom he had instantly taken to and was chatting to like an old friend.
Emma swung around as Winston and Charlotte came into the drawing room, and hurried over to them. She was disappointed to see they were alone, but kept her expression neutral. After kissing first Charlotte and then her brother, she stepped back and said to her sister-in-law, ‘How lovely you look, Charlotte. The deep burgundy velvet is so becoming on you.’
‘Thank you, Emma, and I must say you’re as elegant as always.’ The two women, who were good friends, smiled at each other warmly and then Winston said, ‘But where are Randolph and Georgina? Haven’t they arrived yet?’
‘No, they haven’t,’ Emma answered, relieved to hear her nephew had been given leave after all; Winston would have been glum company otherwise, and so would Charlotte.
Frank and Natalie, with their daughter Rosamunde and son Simon, arrived on the heels of Winston, and once more greetings were exchanged, compliments given. Emma then led her brothers and their wives into the drawing room, and said to Frank in a low voice, ‘I did manage to get extra staff today, but not really enough. So could you help Robin and Kit with the drinks, darling?’
‘No sooner said than done,’ Frank murmured, and went to join his nephews at the console.
Emma took hold of Natalie’s arm and led her over to the fireplace to introduce her to David Amory. Frank’s wife was lovely: rather delicate and ethereal looking, with a finely drawn face, swan-like neck and very slender figure. Her hair had turned colour years ago, and she was prematurely white, but the silver tone suited her and somehow did not age her.
‘I’d like to introduce you to my sister-in-law,’ Emma said, smiling at David, who turned to greet Natalie and gave her the benefit of his considerable charm.
Blackie drew Emma away from the fireplace, and said in a worried voice, ‘I can’t imagine what happened to Bryan and Geraldine. I told them to be here by five, and it’s almost twenty past.’
‘Since he’s already in London you know they’re coming, Blackie, so do relax, darling. It’s not as though he had to come from Scapa Flow like Randolph.’
‘I believe Randolph got here in the early hours of the morning,’ Blackie informed her. ‘So Bryan told me.’ Once again Blackie looked towards the hallway and suddenly began to laugh. ‘And speaking of the two young devils, here they are,’ he added, clasping her hand in his, leading her out into the hallway at the top of the stairs.
‘There you are, lads, just in time for a drop of the Irish before dinner,’ Blackie said, throwing his son an affectionate look and embracing Randolph, of whom he was exceptionally fond. He then went to kiss his daughter-in-law Geraldine who had baby Shane in her arms. Turning to Randolph’s wife Georgina, he kissed her also, and glanced at the little boy in her arms…Winston the second, they called him.
‘Now come along, ladies, and you too, Bryan, Randolph. You all look a bit nithered; what you’ll be needing now is a drink and your backs to the fire for ten minutes. It’s hellish cold out there today.’
‘I’m just going to pop into the kitchen to make sure everything’s all right,’ Emma murmured to Blackie, and glided away. He watched her go, his love and adoration of her written all over his face for all the world to see. Then he marched across to the console table and filled two crystal glasses with Irish whiskey, saying to Frank as he did, ‘Anything new? What’s happening in the world today, Frank?’
‘Not a lot, thank heavens,’ Frank answered, and gave Blackie a knowing look. ‘And I hope it stays that way, at least for Christmas Day. Oh look, Blackie, here’s David and the boys.’
As soon as they spotted Blackie and Frank, David and his sons came over to greet them, and a moment later Robin was dashing across the room to welcome the two young pilots from Biggin Hill, whom he had invited to spend Christmas with them.
Leading them around the drawing room, Robin introduced Matthew Hall and Charlie Cox to everyone present before going to get them both glasses of champagne.
A few minutes later, when Emma finally returned to the drawing room, she first went to greet David, Ronnie and Mark Kallinski, and then floated over to talk to the two young pilots, wanting to make them feel welcome and at home.
Frank, watching her from the sidelines, as always the astute observer, could not help admiring her. His sister was charming and gracious this afternoon, not to mention staggeringly beautiful, and he was proud of her, proud of everything she had become. To Frank, Emma was, at fifty-three, a great lady…soignée, sophisticated, knowledgeable about countless things, exceedingly intelligent, a fountain of information about everything from haute couture and jewels to great art, eighteenth-century French furniture, porcelain and silver and Georgian antiques.
When he thought about their early years, so poverty-stricken and isolated in Fairley, it was miraculous to him that she had become this most extraordinary woman. She was also a tycoon par excellence, renowned in international business circles, and a power to be reckoned with. In certain ways it beggared belief; she was, to him, a phenomenon.
He shifted his eyes from Emma, who was busy being the perfect hostess, and let them roam around the drawing room. Frank thought it was one of the most beautiful rooms he had ever seen, and she had designed and decorated it herself, just as she had her other homes.
The walls were a funny sort of colour–not quite blue, not quite pale green, but a mingling of both shot through with a hint of grey. The billowing silk taffeta draperies at the three tall windows were the identical colour, and this same shade was repeated in French chairs and a sofa, while a love seat was covered in pale blue; another series of four French chairs were in pale green. Jade and crystal lamps, shaded in cream silk, stood on various eighteenth-century French tables and chests, and the whole was pulled together by the faded antique Aubusson carpet underfoot.
Emma had acquired any number of beautiful objects, but the art was perhaps the most stunning element in the room: two Renoirs, a Sisley, and a Monet; all of them in pale pastel colours that added to the soft quality of the room awash in pale greens and blues, creating a misty effect.
She taught herself everything, he reminded himself. But she always had great taste.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jack Field and Dennis Scott, both single with no immediate family in London, and nowhere to go on Christmas Day, had been willing and happy to help Emma with her holiday dinner–flattered to be asked, in fact.
Promptly at six o’clock Grace came into the drawing room and whispered to Emma that the buffet table in the kitchen had been completed and the helpers were waiting to serve.
Emma, who was standing next to Blackie, asked him to announce that dinner was ready, and he did so, his deep voice booming out across the room. He repeated what Emma had just asked him to say, but of course it was in his own words.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, our Christmas fare awaits us in the kitchen. Emma has had everything set out on a grand buffet table, but you will take your places in the dining room once you have your food. Now, let’s be going into the kitchen before everything gets cold.’
Jack, Dennis, Grace and Mrs. Coddington, the cook, all stood behind the buffet table, which was grand indeed. Covered in a white damask cloth, it had two silver candelabra holding red candles at each end and was groaning with food: two large delicious-looking boiled hams from Yorkshire, three roast turkeys and three roast chickens, all browned to perfection and steaming, a selection of vegetables, also from Pennistone Royal, a huge platter of roast potatoes, bowls of sage-and-onion stuffing, smaller crystal bowls of relishes such as piccalilli and chutney, as well as the pickled beetroots and onions, all from Hilda’s larder, and several gravy boats of Emma’s special gravy.
Once everyone had been served, they trooped out, following Emma into the dining room, which looked very festive, filled with seasonal touches. Again she had used red candles in the silver candlesticks
on the long mahogany table, and in the centre was a large crystal bowl filled to overflowing with red, silver, gold and green Christmas tree baubles, which she had used instead of a floral arrangement. On the sideboard were matching crystal vases filled with red Christmas berries, sprigs of holly and mistletoe, flanked by more red candles in silver sticks; standing on a chest was an artificial Christmas tree glittering with gold and silver ornaments and big gold bows. Next to the chest Emma had placed a double crib for the baby boys, Winston II and Shane.
Everyone found their seats, thanks to Emma’s table plan. Kit, Robin, Bryan and Randolph were assigned the task of serving the red and white wines, which they promptly did, moving briskly around the table. Once they had finished and were seated, everyone began to eat.
As always, Emma ate sparingly, and as the meal progressed she was gratified to see that all of the young men were tucking in, relishing the wonderful home-cooked meal. Her eyes settled on each one of them in turn…
Tony, sitting next to his beloved Elizabeth, his face so open and easy to read, without guile, blessed with blond good looks, his air-force blue uniform echoing the colour of his eyes.
And Kit, on the other side of his sister Elizabeth, so proud in his army captain’s uniform, and adoring of June and their baby Sarah, who gurgled in the small crib Emma had placed against the wall, just behind June. He was the same type as Tony, fair skinned, with light brown hair and a pleasant, honest face. No mistaking his heritage either. He was true blue English.
Bryan, alongside Geraldine, also in air-force blue, and as proud as the others to be serving his country. He was the spitting image of Blackie, just like Blackie had been as a young man. Tall, broad of chest and shoulder, he had the same merry black eyes and a fine head of curly black hair. He looks exactly the way Blackie did the day I met him on the moors above Fairley, Emma thought, smiling inwardly. Bryan was her surrogate son, the child she had raised after Laura’s death when Blackie was away fighting, and she loved him like one of her own. Her eyes moved on.