‘I can imagine.’ Shane laughed, marvelling at the two of them. What an extraordinary pair they were, and the love and friendship they felt for each other was a most enviable thing. Sighing under his breath, he reached for his scotch, peered into the amber liquid, reflecting. After a swallow he turned to Emma. ‘But getting back to Ross Nelson, what kind of a chap is he?’
‘Unusual in many ways,’ Emma said slowly, staring into space, as if visualizing Ross Nelson in her mind’s eye. ‘Ross is deceptive. He has a certain charm, and he appears to be very friendly. On the surface. I’ve always thought there was an innate coldness in him, and a curious kind of calculation, as if he stands apart from himself, watching the effect he has on people. There’s a terrific ego there, and especially when it comes to women. He’s something of a ladies’ man, and has just been divorced for the second time. Not that this is significant: on the other hand, it’s frequently struck me that he might be unscrupulous…in his private life.’
She paused, brought her eyes to meet Shane’s, and added, ‘But that has nothing to do with you or me. As far as business is concerned, I deem Ross to be trustworthy. You have no cause to worry in that respect. But be warned, he’s clever, razor sharp, and he has the need to get his own way – that monumental ego rears up constantly.’
‘Quite a picture you’ve painted, Aunt Emma. Obviously I’ll have to have my wits about me.’
‘That’s always wise, Shane, whoever you’re dealing with.’ She smiled faintly. ‘On the other hand, you’re going to Ross for advice, not pitting yourself against him in a business deal. You’ll be able to handle Ross Nelson very nicely. In fact, I think you’ll get along with him just fine. Don’t forget, he owes me a few favours, so he’ll bend over backwards to be co-operative and helpful.’
‘I know your judgement is never flawed, always spot on,’ Shane replied. He rose, walked around the sofa to fix himself another drink, thinking of the characterization she had drawn in her thumbnail sketch. He was anxious to meet the man. It was obvious that Nelson was going to be invaluable. And he was impatient to get the ball rolling with the New York hotel. He needed to submerge himself in business, to take his mind off troubling personal matters. Ross Nelson might possibly be a pain in the neck in his private life, but who cared about his philandering. As long as he was smart, shrewd, trustworthy, and willing to help, that was all that mattered.
Blackie’s eyes flicked briefly to his grandson, and then settled on Emma. ‘I’m not so sure I like the sound of this Ross Nelson fellow,’ he began.
Emma cut him off with a laugh. ‘My money’s on Shane. He’s a grown lad who knows how to take care of himself very well. Very well indeed, Blackie. I’ll even go as far as to say that Ross Nelson might have met his match in Shane.’ This observation seemed to entertain her, and she continued to laugh.
Shane grinned, but made no comment.
He was looking forward to meeting Mr Ross Nelson more than ever. The banker would add spice to the New York venture.
CHAPTER 9
They sat in front of the blazing fire in the library – just the two of them.
Blackie nursed a snifter of aged Napoleon cognac, and Emma sipped a cup of tea with lemon. He had poured her a small glass of Bonnie Prince Charlie, her favourite Drambuie liqueur, but it remained untouched on the Sheraton side table next to her chair.
They were quiet, lost in their diverse thoughts, relaxing after Mrs Padgett’s fine dinner. Shane had left, and, as much as they both loved him in their individual ways, they were content to have this time alone together.
The firelight flickered and danced across the bleachedpine panelled walls which had taken on a mellow amber cast in the warm roseate glow emanating from the hearth. In the garden beyond the French doors, the towering old oak creaked and rustled and swayed under the force of the wind that had turned into a roaring gale in the last hour. The door and the windows rattled, and the rain was flung against the glass in an unrelenting stream, beating a steady staccato rhythm, and it was difficult to see out through this curtain of falling water. But in the fine old room all was warmth, cosiness and comfort. The logs crackled and hissed and spurted from time to time, and the grandfather clock, an ancient sentinel in the corner, ticked away in unison.
His eyes had been focused on her for a while.
In repose, as it was now, Emma’s face was gentle, the firm jaw and determined chin and stern mouth softer, less forbidding in the flattering light. Her hair held the lustre of the purest silver, and she seemed, to him, to be a lovely dainty doll, sitting there so sedately, perfectly groomed and dressed as always, elegance and refinement apparent in every line of her slender body.
She had not changed really.
Oh, he was aware that when the flames blazed more brightly, he would notice the wrinkles and the hooded lids and the faint brown speckles of age on her hands. But he knew, deep in his soul, that she was still the same girl inside.
She would always be his wild young colleen of the moors, that little starveling creature he had come across early one morning in 1904, when she had been tramping so bravely to Fairley Hall to scrub and clean in order to earn a few miserable coppers to help her impoverished family. His destination had been the same place, for Squire Adam Fairley had hired him to do bricklaying at the Hall, and then he had stupidly gone and lost himself in the mist on those bleak and empty Godforsaken hills…so long ago…but not so long to him. He had never forgotten that day.
Blackie’s gaze lingered on Emma.
He had loved this woman from the first moment he had met her and all the days of his life thereafter. He had been eighteen, that day on the lonely moors, and she had been a fourteen-year-old waif, all skin and bones and huge emerald eyes, and she had touched his heart like no one else before or after, and bound him to her forever without even trying.
Once he had asked her to marry him.
She, believing it was out of kindness and friendship, and the goodness of his heart, had refused him. She had thanked him sweetly, her face wet with tears, and explained that she and the child she was carrying, by another man, would only be burdens to him. And she would not inflict such a terrible load on her dearest friend Blackie, she had said.
Eventually, he had married Laura Spencer, and he had loved her well and true. And yet he had never stopped loving his bonny mavourneen, even though at times he was hard pressed to explain that unique love to himself, or articulate it to her, or anyone else for that matter.
There was a time when he had half expected Emma to marry David Kallinski, but once again she had turned down a splendid, upright young man. Later, she had confided the reason to him. She had not wanted to create trouble between David and his family, who were Jewish. Although Mrs Kallinski was motherly towards her, Emma said she had long realized that as a Gentile she would not be considered appropriate as a daughter-in-law by Janessa Kallinski, who was Orthodox and expected her son to marry in the Faith.
Then one day, Joe Lowther had come riding by, metaphorically speaking, and to Blackie’s astonishment – and not inconsiderable bewilderment – Emma had plunged into holy matrimony with Joe. He had never been able to fully comprehend their union. In his opinion, it was difficult, if not downright impossible, to hitch a race horse and a cart horse to the same wagon. But Joe had been a kindly man, if plodding and dull and not particularly brilliant or engaging. Still, he and Blackie had liked each other well enough and had gone off to fight a war together. And he had seen Joe Lowther killed in the muddy trenches of the bloody, battle-torn Somme, and had wept real tears for him, for Joe had been too young a man to die. And he had never been able to talk about Joe’s ghastly death, to tell her that he had seen Joe blown to smithereens. Only years later did he learn from Emma that she had married Joe, who adored her, to protect herself and her baby daughter Edwina from the Fairleys, after Gerald Fairley had attempted to rape her one night at her little shop in Armley. ‘It wasn’t as calculating as it sounds,’ she had gone on. ‘I liked Joe, cared
for him, and because he was a good man I felt honour-bound to be a good wife.’ And she had been devoted, he knew that.
The second time he had wanted to marry Emma he had truly believed his timing was perfect, that he had every chance of being accepted, and he was buoyed up with soaring hopes and anticipation. It was a short while after the First World War when they were both widowed. In the end, though, uncertain of her true feelings for him, and filled with sudden nervousness about Emma’s astonishing achievements in comparison to his own, he had lost his nerve, and his tongue, and so he had not spoken up. Regrettably. And she had unexpectedly gone off and married Arthur Ainsley, a man not good enough to lick her boots, and had suffered all kinds of pain and humiliation at Ainsley’s hands. Finally, in the 1920s, as he was biding his time and waiting for the propitious moment, Paul McGill had come back to England to claim her at last for himself.
And he had lost his chance again.
Now it was too late for them to marry. Yet, in a sense, they had something akin to marriage and just as good, to his way of thinking…this friendship, this closeness, this total understanding. Yes, all were of immense and incalculable value. And Emma and he were perfectly attuned to each other in the twilight of their days, and what did the rest mean, or matter, at this stage in the game of life?
But he still had that ring…
Much to his own surprise, Blackie had kept the engagement ring he had bought for Emma so long ago. There had never been another woman to give it to – at least, not one he cared enough about; and for a reason he could not fathom, he had never wanted to sell it.
Tonight the ring had burned a hole in his pocket all through drinks and dinner, in much the same way his Plan with a capital P burned a hole in his head. Putting down his drink, he leaned closer to the hearth, lifted the poker and shoved the logs around in the grate, wondering if it was finally the right time to give it to her. Why not?
He heard the rustle of silk and a sigh that was hardly audible.
‘Did I startle you, Emma?’
‘No, Blackie.’
‘I have something for you.’
‘You do? What is it?’
He reached into his pocket and brought out the box, sat holding it in his large hands.
Emma asked curiously, ‘Is it my birthday present?’ and she gave him a warm little smile of obvious pleasure, laughter sparkling in her eyes.
‘Oh no, indeed it’s not. I intend to give you that on your birthday at the…’ He curbed himself. The elaborate party he and Daisy were planning was very hush-hush and meant to be a big surprise for Emma. ‘You’ll get your birthday gift at the end of the month, on the very day you’re eighty,’ he improvised adroitly. ‘No, this is something I bought for you…’ He had to laugh, as he added, ‘Fifty years ago, believe it or not.’
She threw him a startled look. ‘Fifty years! But why didn’t you give it to me before now?’
‘Ah, Emma, thereby hangs a long tale,’ he said, and fell silent as memories came unbidden.
How beautiful she had looked that night, with her red hair piled high on her head in an elaborate plaited coil, wearing a superb white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulders. Pinned to one of the small sleeves was the emerald bow he had had made for her thirtieth birthday, an exquisite replica of the cheap little green-glass brooch he had given her when she was fifteen. She had been touched and delighted that he had not forgotten his old promise, made to her in the kitchen of Fairley Hall. But on that particular Christmas night, in all her elegant finery, with McGill’s magnificent emeralds blazing on her ears, he had thought his emerald bow, costly though it had been, looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to those earrings…
Growing impatient, Emma frowned and exclaimed, ‘Well, are you going to tell me the tale or not?’
He pushed the past to one side, flashed her a smile. ‘Do you remember that first party I gave here? It was Christmas…’
‘Boxing Day night!’ Emma cried, her face lighting up. ‘You had just completed this house, finished furnishing it with all the lovely Sheraton and Hepplewhite pieces you’d scoured the country to find. And you were so proud of what you’d created all by yourself. Of course I remember the party, and very clearly. It was 1919.’
Blackie nodded, glanced down at the box, continuing to finger it. He raised his head. Unabashed love shone on his craggy, wrinkled face, giving it a more youthful appearance. ‘I’d bought this for you earlier that week. I’d travelled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweller, too. It was in the pocket of my tuxedo. I’d intended to give it to you at the party.’
‘But you never did…why not? Whatever made you change your mind, Blackie?’ She looked at him oddly, through eyes awash with perplexity.
‘I’d decided to have a talk first – with Winston. Why, it was here, in this very room, as a matter of fact.’ He looked about him, as if seeing that ancient scene being re-enacted in the shadows; seeing the ghost of Winston, as he had been as a young man, lurking there. He cleared his throat. ‘Your brother and I talked about you, and…’
‘What about me?’
‘We discussed you and your business ventures. I was worried to death about you, Emma, distressed because of the way you had plunged into the commodities market, and recklessly, or so I thought. I was concerned about your rapid expansion of the stores in the North, your determination to keep on building, acquiring other holdings. I believed you were over-extending yourself, gambling…’
‘I’ve always been a gambler,’ she murmured softly. ‘In a way, that’s the secret of my success…being willing to take chances…’ She left the rest unsaid. He surely knew it all by now.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it is. Anyway, Winston explained that you’d stopped the commodities lark, after making a fortune speculating, and he told me you were not in over your head. Just the opposite. He told me you were a millionairess. And as he talked, and ever so proudly, I began to realize that you were a far, far bigger success than I’d ever dreamed, that you’d surpassed me, outstripped David Kallinski, left us both behind in business. It suddenly seemed to me that you were quite beyond my reach. That’s why I never gave you this ring…You see Emma, I was going to ask you to marry me that night.’
‘Oh Blackie, Blackie darling,’ was all she could manage to say, so stupefied was she. Tears pricked the back of Emma’s eyes as a variety of emotions seized her with some force. Her love and friendship for him rose up in her to mingle with a terrible sadness and a sense of regret for Blackie, as she envisioned the pain he must have suffered then and afterwards, perhaps. He had wanted her, and he had not said a word. That was his tragedy. At the party in 1919 she had believed Paul McGill was lost to her forever. How vulnerable and susceptible she would have been to her one true friend Blackie in her heartbreak, loneliness and despair. And if he had been more courageous how different their lives would have turned out. Her thoughts ran on endlessly. Why had she never suspected that he cared for her in that way…that he had marriage on his mind? She must have been blind or dense or too involved with business.
The silence between them drifted.
Blackie sat unmoving in the chair, staring into the fire, saying not a word, remembering so much himself. It’s odd, he thought suddenly, how things which happened to me when I was a young man have an extraordinary vividness these days. More so than events of last week, or even yesterday. I suspect that’s part of growing old.
Emma was the first to rouse herself.
She said, in a small, pained voice, Were you trying to tell me, a few minutes ago, that my success put you off? Prevented you from proposing? She studied that dear, familiar face with infinite compassion, thinking of the years he had wasted, the happiness he had let slip through his fingers, and all because of his love for her. A love unuttered.
Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose I am, mavourneen. I decided, there and then, that you could never be weaned away from your business because it was very much a part of you, was you, really
. In any event, I lost my confidence. After all, I wasn’t half as rich and successful as you in those days. I didn’t think you’d have me. My nerve failed me. Yes, that’s precisely what happened.’
A deep sigh trickled out of Emma, and slowly she shook her head. ‘How foolish you were, my dearest, dearest friend.’
Blackie gaped at her, his jaw slack with astonishment. ‘Are you saying that you would have married me, Emma Harte?’ he asked, unable to keep the shock and incredulity out of his voice.
‘Yes, I believe I would, Blackie O’Neill.’
Now it was Blackie who began to shake his head, and he did so in wonderment, trying to absorb her words. For a few minutes he could not speak as old emotions took hold of him, surprising him with the strength of their impact.
At last he said, ‘It does me good to hear that, even so long afterwards.’ His voice took on a quavering treble, as he added, ‘Perhaps it’s just as well we didn’t marry, Emma. I’d have been left high and dry, not to mention broken-hearted, when Paul swept you off your feet again.’
‘How can you say such a thing! What kind of woman do you think I am!’ she cried, her indignation flaring as she jerked herself up in the chair and glared at him with such unprecedented ferocity he flinched. ‘I would never have hurt you! I’ve always loved you, cared about your well being, and you know it. Apologize at once,’ she spluttered angrily, and added, as an afterthought, ‘or I’ll never speak to you again!’
He was so startled by her vehemence he was speechless for a few seconds. Slowly a shame-faced look crept on to his face. He said in a most tender and placating voice, ‘It’s sorry I am, Emma, I take back those words. I believe you. I don’t think you would have left me for Paul. And that’s not my ego talking. I know you…better than anyone does. No, you wouldn’t have betrayed me, you wouldn’t have given him the time of day if you’d been married to me. It’s not in you to be cruel to someone you love, and then there’s your morality and your loyalty and goodness and sense of responsibility. Those would have worked in my favour. Besides – ’ He gave her a boyish grin that brought his dimples out. ‘I would have made you happy.’