Edwina snuffed out the disturbing image of Sally Harte and concentrated her attention on the old woman sitting opposite her, who in turn was observing her acutely and with sternness. Always ready and willing to brand her mother a manipulator, a schemer who contrived to control them and run all of their lives, Edwina decided that in this instance Emma Harte had indeed been an innocent bystander. As much as she wanted to blame her for this…this disaster, she could not. She had the most dreadful conviction that it was her son’s doing, and his alone. Anthony would be unable to resist that lovely, laughing, bewitching face, which she had been so struck by herself. It was his pattern, after all…falling for beautiful features and a shapely figure. Yes, once again, Anthony had managed to get himself involved with the wrong sort of woman, and all because of sex.
With a little shiver, Edwina drew herself up, and said in a clipped voice, ‘Well, Mother, I must admit you’ve convinced me that you’ve not been a party to this unfortunate relationship. I give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Emma said.
‘Nonetheless,’ Edwina continued purposefully, her face set, ‘I must voice my disapproval of this match, or I should say mismatch, to my son. Sally is not cut out to be his wife. She is most unsuitable. For one thing, she is dedicated to her career. Her painting will always come first with her. Consequently, she most certainly won’t fit into his life at Clonloughlin, a life that revolves around the estate, the local gentry and their country pursuits. He is making a terrible mistake, one he will live to regret for the rest of his life. So, therefore, I intend to put a stop to this affair at once.’
How could I have ever given birth to such a pig-headed fool? Emma asked herself. She stood up and said, with great firmness, her manner conclusive, ‘I must leave. Shane will be here any minute. But before I go I have two statements to make, and I want you to listen most carefully. The first concerns Sally. You cannot point a finger at her, since she is beyond reproach and her reputation is impeccable in every sense. As for her career, well, she can just as easily paint at Clonloughlin as she can here. I might also remind you, silly snob that you are, that she is not only accepted by those ridiculous nitwits in so-called high society, whom you have the desire to kowtow to constantly, but is assiduously courted by them. Thank God she has more sense than you, and hasn’t fallen for all that worthless, high-falutin clap trap.’
‘As usual, you’re being insulting, Mother,’ Edwina snapped.
Emma shook her silvered head disbelievingly, her lips pursing. Trust Edwina to interrupt a serious conversation because her sensibilities were offended. She said with a small, very cold smile, ‘Old people believe that age gives them the licence to say exactly what they think, without being concerned that they may be giving offence. I don’t mince my words these days, Edwina. I speak the truth. And I will continue to do so until the day I die. Anything else is a waste of time. But getting back to Sally, I would like to remind you that she is an artist of some repute, also, in case you’d forgotten, she is an heiress in her own right, since my brother Winston left his grandchildren a great fortune. Mind you, I’ll give you your due, I know money isn’t particularly interesting to you, or Anthony, for that matter. Still, that doesn’t change the facts, and you’re making yourself look ridiculous by saying she is unsuitable. Poppycock! Sally is ideal for him. And let’s not dismiss their feelings for each other. They are in love, Edwina, and that’s the most important consideration of all.’
‘Love? Sex, you mean,’ Edwina began, and then stopped, seeing the look of disapproval in Emma’s eyes. ‘Well, you are correct about one thing, Mother, money doesn’t matter to the Dunvale family,’ Edwina finished, looking as if she had just smelled something rotten.
Emma said with cool authority, ‘Anthony is his own man, and for that I will be eternally grateful. He will do as he wishes. And if this relationship is a mistake, then it will be his own mistake to make. Not yours, not mine. Anthony is a man of thirty-three, not a snot-nosed boy in short pants. It would behove you to stop treating him as such.’
Abruptly Emma swung away from Edwina and crossed to the desk in front of the window. She stood behind it, regarding her daughter intently. ‘And so, my dear Edwina, if you do speak to Anthony, I suggest you restrict your conversation to motherly words of love and concern for his well being. And I want you to restrain yourself when he mentions Sally, as no doubt he will. I don’t believe he will tolerate any criticism of her, or his future plans.’
A horn hooted outside the window, startling both women. Emma glanced over her shoulder, saw Shane getting out of his bright red Ferrari. Turning back to Edwina she lifted the address book off the desk and waved it at her. ‘You will find Randolph’s number in here. Anthony is staying at Allington Hall. Take my advice, call your son and make up with him.’ Emma paused, added with finality, ‘Before it is too late.’
Edwina sat rigidly in the chair and not one word passed her white and trembling mouth.
Emma gave her only a cursory glance as she passed the chair, picked up the jacket and evening bag, and left the library. Closing the door quietly behind her she reassured herself she had tried her very best to solve this troublesome family problem and make friends with Edwina at the same time. But she and Edwina did not matter. They would live with their armed truce as they had always done. Only Anthony and Sally were important in the scheme of things.
Emma threw back her shoulders and drew herself to her full height, striking out across the Stone Hall to the front door. And she hoped against hope that Edwina would come to her senses about her son and give him her blessing.
CHAPTER 8
Blackie O’Neill had a plan.
Now, this plan vastly entertained him whenever he thought about it, which had been frequently in the last few days. He was mostly amused because he had never come up with a plan in his entire life.
It had always been Emma who had had a plan. When she had been a little snippet of a girl in patched clothes and worn-out button boots there had been her Plan with a capital P. That had been a plan so grand it had left no room for doubt, and when she had set it finally in motion it had carried her away from Fairley and out into the wide world to seek her fame and fortune. Later she had devised innumerable other plans – for her first shop, her second and her third; then she had created plans to acquire the Gregson Warehouse, the Fairley mills, and yet another for the creation of the Lady Hamilton line of fashions with David Kallinski. And of course there had been her Building Plan, which she tended to pronounce as if this, too, were capitalized. He had been very much a part of that most grandiose plan of all, drawing the architectural blueprints and building her enormous store in Knightsbridge. And this great edifice still stood and it was a proud testament to her most extraordinary achievements.
Yes, his Emma had lived with one kind of plan or another for as long as he had known her, and each one had been put into operation with determination and carried through with consummate skill in her inimitable way. And with every success she would give him a tiny smile of cold triumph and say, ‘You see, I told you it would work.’ He would throw back his head and roar, and congratulate her, and insist they celebrate, and her face would soften and he knew that she was giddy with excitement inside, even if she did not really want to show it.
But he had never made a plan before.
In fact, almost everything that had happened to Blackie O’Neill in his long life had been by sheer happenstance.
When he had first come over from Ireland as a young spalpeen, to work on the Leeds canals with his Uncle Pat, he had never imagined in his wildest fantasies that he would become a millionaire many times over. Oh, he had boasted that he was going to be a rich ‘toff’ to young Emma, when she had been a servant at Fairley Hall, but at that time it had seemed unlikely ever to come true. It had been something of an idle boast, and he had laughed at himself in secret. His boasting had proved not to be so idle after all.
Over the years, Emma had often teased him
and said that he had the luck of the Irish, and this was true in many respects. He had had to work hard; on the other hand, he had also carried Lady Luck in his breast pocket, and great and good fortune had continually blessed him. There had been times of terrible sadness in his personal life, and sorrow too. For one thing, he had lost his lovely Laura far too young, but she had given him his son, and he considered Bryan to be his best bit of luck of all. As a child Bryan had been warm and loving, and they had stayed close, enjoyed a unique relationship to this day. Bryan had a shrewd, sharp brain, was inspired and fearless in business, a genius really, and together they had parlayed O’Neill Construction into one of the biggest and most important building companies in Europe. When Bryan’s wife, Geraldine, had inherited two hotels from her father, Leonard Ingham, it was Bryan who had had the foresight and brains to hang on to them. Those little hotels in Scarborough and Bridlington, catering to family holidaymakers, had become the nucleus for the great O’Neill chain, which was now an international concern, and a public company trading on the London Stock Exchange.
But had Blackie planned all this? No, never. It had simply come about by chance, through the most marvellous serendipity. Of course he had been smart enough to recognize his train when it had come rolling through his station, and he had jumped on it with alacrity, and he had used every opportunity that presented itself to his advantage. In so doing, he had, like Emma, created an empire, and founded a dynasty of his own.
These thoughts ran through Blackie’s head as he dressed for dinner, and he chuckled to himself from time to time as he contemplated his first Plan, also with a capital P. Not unnaturally, it involved Emma, with whom he spent a great deal of time these days. He had decided to take her on a trip around the world. When he had first suggested this a few weeks ago, she had looked at him askance, scoffed at the idea, and told him she was far too busy and preoccupied with her affairs to go gallivanting off on a holiday in foreign parts. His smooth Irish tongue and persuasive manner had seemingly had no effect. Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to get his own way. After a great deal of thought, and pacing the floor racking his brains, he had devised a plan – and the key to it was Australia. Blackie knew that Emma secretly itched to go to Sydney, to see her grandson Philip McGill Amory, who was being trained to take over the vast McGill holdings. He was also aware that Emma had balked at the thought of the long and exhausting trip to the other side of the world, and she was still vacillating about going.
So he would take her, and they would travel in style.
Naturally she would be unable to resist his invitation when he explained how comfortable, luxurious, leisurely and effortless their journey would be. First they would fly to New York and spend a week there, before going to San Francisco for another week. Once they were rested and refreshed they would hop over to Hong Kong and the Far East, and slowly head to their final destination in easy stages.
And he fully intended to make sure she had a little fun on their peregrinations. Blackie could no longer count the times he had asked himself if Emma had ever really had any honest-to-goodness fun in her life. Perhaps becoming one of the richest women in the world had been her way of enjoying herself. On the other hand, he was not sure how much pleasure she had derived from this consuming, backbreaking endeavour. In any event, he was planning all sorts of entertaining diversions, and young Philip was the tempting morsel he would dangle in front of her nose, and if he was not mistaken the trip would prove to be irresistible to her.
Blackie knotted his blue silk tie and stood away from the mirror, eyeing it critically.
It’s sober enough, I am thinking, he muttered, knowing Emma would make a sarcastic remark if he wore one of his gaudier numbers. Long, long ago Laura had curbed, at least to some extent, his exotic taste for colourful brocade waistcoats, elaborately-tailored suits and flashy jewellery; Emma had cured him completely. Well, almost. Occasionally Blackie could not resist the temptation to indulge himself in a few jazzy silk ties and handkerchiefs and ascots in florid patterns and brilliant colours, but he made certain never to wear them when he was seeing Emma. He reached for his dark blue jacket and put it on, smoothed the edge of his pristine white collar, and nodded at his reflection. I might be an old codger, but sure an’ I feel like a young spalpeen tonight, he thought with another chuckle.
Snowy-haired though he was, Blackie’s bright black eyes were still as merry and mischievous as they had been when he was a young man in his prime, and his bulk and size were undiminished by age. He was in remarkable health and looked more like a man in his seventies than one who was eighty-three. His mind was alert, agile and unimpaired, and senility was a foreign word to him, in much the same way as it was to Emma.
Pausing in the middle of the bedroom he dwelled momentarily on the evening ahead, the business matter he would discuss with Emma. He was glad Shane and he had decided to broach the subject to her. Once that was out of the way, and when they were alone, he would move gently into the conversation about the trip. It won’t be easy, he told himself, you know she’s the stubborn one. When he had first met Emma he had recognized at once that she had the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter, and it had only grown more inflexible over the years.
A scene flashed, transporting him back to the past. 1906. A bitter cold January day. Emma sitting next to him on the tramcar going to Armley, looking impossibly beautiful in a new black wool coat and the green-and-black scarf and tam-o’-shanter he had given her for Christmas. The green tones in the tartan bringing out the green depths in her eyes, the black showing off the flawlessness of her alabaster skin.
What a pallor her face had held that Sunday, nonetheless, it had not marred her loveliness, he ruminated, remembering every detail of that afternoon so clearly. She had been seventeen and carrying Edwina, and oh how rigid she had been in her obstinacy. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to manoeuvre her on to that tram. She had not wanted to go to Armley, nor to make the acquaintance of his dear friend, Laura Spencer. Still, when the two girls had met they had taken to each other instantly, and were the closest of loving friends until the day poor Laura died. Yes, Emma’s terrible burdens had eased, once she had moved into Laura’s snug little house, and he had experienced an enormous sense of relief, knowing Laura would mother her, watch over her. And he had won that day, as he fully intended to win with her now, sixty-three years later.
Opening the top drawer of the bureau at the other side of the room, he took out a small black leather jewel box, stared at it thoughtfully, and then slipped it in his pocket. Humming to himself he strode out and went downstairs.
Blackie O’Neill still lived in the grand mansion he had built for himself in Harrogate in 1919. A handsome wide staircase, so beautifully designed it appeared to float, curved down into a charming circular entrance hall of lovely dimensions, where walls painted a rich apricot acted as a counterpoint to the crisp black-and-white marble floor. The square marble slabs had been set down at an angle, so that they became diamond shapes, and they led the eye to the niches on either side of the front door. White marble statues, of the Greek goddesses Artemis and Hecate, graced these niches and were highlighted by hidden spots. An elegant Sheraton console, inlaid with exotic fruitwoods, stood against one wall underneath a gilt Georgian mirror, and was flanked on either side by Sheraton chairs upholstered in apricot velvet. Illuminating the hall was a huge antique crystal-and-bronze-dore chandelier which dropped down from the domed ceiling, and the setting had elegance without the slightest hint of ostentation.
Crossing the hall, Blackie went into the drawing room. Here a log fire burned cheerily in the Adam fireplace, and the silk-shaded lamps cast rafts of warming light on to the cool green walls, on the sofas and chairs covered in darker green silk. Splendid paintings, and Sheraton and Hepplewhite antiques, added to the graciousness of the room, which exemplified Blackie’s sense of style and colour and perspective in furniture and design.
He fussed with the bottle o
f champagne in the silver wine cooler, turning it several times, shifting the ice around, then he took a cigar from the humidor and went over to his favourite chair to wait. He had no sooner trimmed the cigar, and lighted it, than he heard them in the hall. He put the cigar in the ashtray,