A Woman of Substance (80 page)

Later that afternoon, when Winston had left, she moved covertly in the direction of the Fairleys and struck a deadly blow at their business enterprises. Her strategy was simple: she manipulated a weak and foolish man, who blithely, if unwittingly, put Gerald Fairley exactly where Emma wanted him—in her clutches.

This development had not occurred by accident. One of the first purchases the Emeremm Company had made in 1917 was Procter and Procter, a wholesale cloth warehouse in Bradford. Emma bought it for several reasons. It was a sound investment, even though it had been mismanaged over the years. Also, the sprawling warehouse sat on a prime piece of land in the
centre of Bradford, and Emma knew this land could only increase in value over the years. But aside from the company’s potential, Alan Procter, the owner, was a crony of Gerald Fairley’s and Emma had recognized that here was a conduit to her sworn enemy, a source of vital information about the latter’s activities.

At first Alan Procter had been reluctant to sell, despite the fact that he had run the company into the ground, had innumerable creditors and personal debts, many of them due to his inveterate gambling. However, the Emeremm Company’s terms were so appealing they inevitably won Procter. Emma had made the terms irresistible. The purchase price was fair without being so excessive as to create suspicion. More importantly to Procter, he was offered a contract to remain as chairman of the board at a salary he could not afford to dismiss. There was one clause—Procter must not reveal the change of ownership of his company. If he did his contract would be instantly terminated.

Seeing his problems miraculously disappearing before his eyes, the venal and exigent Procter had not bothered to question the necessity for this secrecy. In fact, he had rather welcomed it, envisioning a means of continuing to run his company, at the same time solving his personal and business debts and saving face in Bradford. He sold, signed the employment contract with its secrecy-of-ownership clause, and in so doing became the property of Emma Harte. Emma had instructed Ted Jones to put an Emeremm man inside Procter and Procter. ‘Procter is merely a front. I want his hands tied so that he cannot do any further damage to the business. And whoever you put in must ingratiate himself with Procter. Become his confidant.’

Her scheme worked. Procter had a loose tongue, especially after it had been well oiled over splendid luncheons with the new managing director—the Emeremm man. All manner of useful information came filtering in to Emma about Procter’s associates in Leeds and Bradford, many of them her competititors, and prominent amongst it was a great deal about the Fairleys.

Through Procter Emma learned early in 1918 that Gerald
Fairley was in dire straits with Thompson’s mill and wanted to sell. ‘Buy it for as little as possible,’ she coldly told Ted Jones. Using Procter and Procter as the purchaser, the Emeremm Company acquired Thompson’s. Believing he was selling to Alan Procter, an old and trusted friend, and because of his strained financial situation, Gerald Fairley had accepted a quarter of the mill’s true value, to Emma’s immense satisfaction.

Now a piece of new information had landed on Emma’s desk that very morning, and it had brought her head up with a jolt. Gerald Fairley had lost heavily at cards and had gone running to Alan Procter. He wanted to borrow two hundred thousand pounds. Procter had blabbed to the Emeremm man and had inquired about the possibility of making a corporate loan to Gerald Fairley.

Emma’s vivid eyes rested on the memorandum again and a curious glint entered them. She recognized that here was the opportunity she had been waiting for and she seized it, moving with her usual swiftness. She picked up the telephone and spoke to Ted Jones at the Emeremm Company in London. ‘You can inform Alan Procter he can make that corporate loan to Fairley.’

‘What are the terms, Mrs Harte?’

‘I want a noncontestable one-hundred-eighty-day note. But I want the note collateralized.’

‘What kind of collateral, Mrs Harte?’

‘The deeds to the Fairley mills in Armley and Stanningley Bottom.’

Ted Jones sucked in his breath. ‘Rather steep terms, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Those are my terms,’ Emma said icily. ‘Gerald Fairley can take them or leave them. It’s no skin off my nose either way. He won’t be able to raise the money anywhere else. He’s in too deep with the banks. I also happen to know he has borrowed heavily from some of his father’s old business associates. He owes Procter money personally as well.’ She laughed dryly. ‘Where is Mr Gerald Fairley going to go, Ted?’

‘You have a point there. I’ll pass on the terms to our man at Procter and Procter and he can relay them to Alan. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.’

‘I’m in no hurry, Ted. I’m not in trouble. It’s Fairley who is sinking.’

‘Yes, he is. The damned fool. It takes some sort of genius for ineptness to suffer losses in wartime when every other cloth manufacturer has made a fortune from government contracts.’

That’s very true. Goodbye, Ted,’ She hung up.

Emma leaned back in her chair and a gloating smile settled on that beautiful face. It’s all happening sooner than I expected, she thought. It struck her then that she did not have to make a serious effort to destroy the Fairleys. Gerald was doing it for her. Ever since Adam Fairley had been felled by a stroke Gerald had been in total control of the mills and without his father’s guidance he was floundering. All I have to do now is sit back and watch him dig a pit so deep he will never climb out, Emma said to herself.

Later she acknowledged that Gerald would undoubtedly fight the Procter and Procter terms, but he would have to accept them eventually out of the necessity to save his skin. And he would never be able to raise the money to pay off the note on its due date. But she could afford to be generous. She would extend the note for a few months and thus lull Gerald Fairley into a greater sense of false security. When she was ready she would foreclose on the note and take over the Fairley mills. Emma laughed. She had Gerald Fairley cornered and he was in complete ignorance of the fact.

As she had suspected, Gerald Fairley at first balked at the terms and backed off from the proposition for longer than she had anticipated. To her considerable amusement she heard he was running around endeavouring to raise the money he required. He was miserably unsuccessful. After four days, panic-stricken and dealing from a position of increasing desperation, he finally slunk back to Alan Procter and signed the noncontestable corporate note to which he had been forced to attach the deeds of the two Fairley mills. He did so because, once again, he thought he was dealing with a friend whom he believed would never make a move to endanger the ownership of his mills.

One week later, when Emma placed the note and the deeds in her safe, her triumph was unalloyed.

David Kallinski pulled the car to a standstill outside Emma’s house, and turned to her. ‘Thanks for working this morning, Emma. It was good of you to give up part of your Sunday with the children.’

Emma smiled. ‘I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t, David. Actually I was glad to get the summer sketches for the Lady Hamilton line out of my hair, and I knew you were anxious to put them into work immediately.’ She opened the car door. ‘Are you sure you won’t come in for a drink?’

‘No. Thanks anyway, but I’ve got to be going. I promised my father I’d stop in to see him.’ He caught her arm abruptly. ‘Emma, there’s something I want to tell you.’

So intense was his voice Emma was alarmed. ‘Is there something wrong, David?’

‘I’m thinking of geting a divorce.’

Thunderstruck, Emma gaped at him in disbelief. ‘A divorce! My God, David!’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘Aren’t things quite right between you and Rebecca?’

‘No better than before the war.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m finding life intolerable since I came home. I might as well be honest with you—’ He broke off, staring at her closely. ‘I’m still in love with you, Emma. I thought if I was free—Well, I had hoped you would marry me.’

Emma stiffened, taken unawares, and shaken by his proposal. ‘Oh, David, David.’ She touched his hand clenched on the car wheel and said, ‘My dear, you know that’s not possible. I didn’t make that sacrifice nine years ago, when you were single, in order to create a catastrophe now that you are married. It would kill your mother. Besides, you have two young sons and I have two children. There are other people to think about, as well as Rebecca and yourself. I told you years ago that it’s not possible to build happiness on other people’s misery, and I know I’m right.’

‘But what about you and me, Emma?’ he asked, his eyes filling with pain.

‘There is no you and me, David.’ Sharply conscious of his disappointment, she said softly, ‘I hope I haven’t done anything to encourage you, David. Surely I haven’t built up your hopes, have I?’

He grinned ruefully. ‘No, of course you haven’t. And I haven’t spoken out before now because I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. Finally, last week, I knew I had to tell you how I felt. Being silent was accomplishing nothing. You see, I always thought you loved me, even after you married Joe. All through the war I believed that. It kept me going, kept me alive, in a sense. My feelings are exactly the same as they were and so I assumed yours were, too. But you don’t love me anymore, do you?’

‘Oh, David, darling, of course I do. As a dear friend. To be truthful, I
was
still in love with you when I married Joe. Now I have a different kind of love for you, and I am different. The vicissitudes of life do intrude and ultimately feelings change as well. I’ve come to understand that the only thing that is permanent is change.’

‘You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you?’ he exclaimed with a flash of intuition.

Emma did not answer. She dropped her eyes and clutched her handbag tightly and her mouth slipped into a thin line.

David said, ‘I know the answer to that, although you are silent. You don’t have to spare my feelings,’ he announced crisply but without rancour. ‘I ought to have guessed. Nine years is a long time. Are you going to marry him?’

‘No. He’s gone away. He doesn’t live in this country. I don’t think he will ever come back.’ Her voice was muffled.

David detected the sorrow and defeat in her, and despite his own hurt, sympathy surged up in him, for he truly loved her and had her welfare at heart. He put his hand on hers and squeezed it. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Emma.’

Emma looked at him through dulled eyes. ‘It’s all right. My wound is almost healed—I hope.’

‘There’s no chance for me, is there, Emma? Even with him out of the picture.’

‘That’s true, David. And I will always tell you the truth, although it is often distressing to hear. I would not intentionally hurt you for the world, and there’s very little I can say to comfort you, I suppose. Please forgive me, David.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, Emma. I can’t condemn you for not being in love with me anymore.’ His eyes were soft. ‘I hope you find peace yourself, Emma darling.’

‘I hope so, too.’ She opened the door. ‘No, please don’t get out.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Think carefully before you do anything rash about Rebecca and your marriage. She is a good person and she does love you. And remember that you are very special to me, David. I’m your friend and I’m always here if you need me.’

‘Thank you for that. And I’m your devoted friend, too, Emma, and if there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you, now or later, you know I will.’ He smiled. ‘It seems we’re both crossed in love. If you need a strong shoulder—well, it’s here.’

‘Thank you for being so kind and understanding.’ She attempted to smile. ‘I’ll see you at the factory as usual next week. Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Emma darling.’

Emma walked up the garden path without looking back, her feet crunching on the hard snow, her head bent. She was filled with compassion for David, conscious of his dejection, and his suffering was her own. Her face was stark in the bleak winter light as her thoughts swung abruptly to Paul. She stopped at the front door, and took a deep breath before going inside. She took off her coat and hat in the hall, looked in on Mrs Fenton, who was preparing Sunday lunch in the kitchen, and then wearily climbed the staircase to the nursery.

It was the week before Christmas in the year 1919. Exactly twelve months ago Paul McGill had been in this house with her and the children and her brothers. The Great War had finally ended in November, and Paul had come to stay with them before returning to Australia to be demobilized. It had been a joyous Christmas, full of gaiety and love. Emma had been giddy with happiness, and more deeply in love with Paul than she had believed possible. She had felt as if every
thing she had always yearned for and desired was hers at last. Hers for ever. But now she had nothing…a broken heart and loneliness and despair. How foolish she had been to have believed it could be otherwise. Personal happiness always eluded her. And how different this Christmas would be. Her hand rested on the doorknob of the nursery. She thought: I
must
make an effort and be cheerful for the children’s sake.

Kit was seated at the table painting. His eyes lit up and he jumped down and skittered across the floor. He flung himself at Emma. ‘Mummy! Mummy! I’m so glad you’re home,’ he shouted, hugging Emma’s legs.

She kissed the top of his head. ‘Good gracious, Kit, whatever have you been doing? You seem to have more paint on yourself than there is on the paper. And what are you painting, sweetheart?’

‘You can’t see it! Not yet. It’s a picture. For you, Mummy. A Christmas present.’ Kit, who was now eight years old, looked up at Emma, wrinkling his nose and grinning. ‘You can have a peek if you want.’

‘Not if it’s meant to be a surprise.’

‘You might not like it, Mumsie. If you don’t, I can paint another one. It’s bestest you have a look, just in case. Come on.’ Kit grabbed Emma’s hand and dragged her across the room.

‘Best, not bestest, darling,’ Emma corrected, and looked down at the painting. It was childlike, awkwardly composed, out of perspective and splashed haphazardly with gaudy colours. It depicted a man in a uniform. Emma held her breath. There was no doubt in her mind who it was meant to be. Not with that thick black smudge across the upper lip and the bright blue eyes. ‘It’s very good, darling,’ Emma said, her face pensive.

‘It’s Uncle Paul. Can you tell? Does it look like him? Do you really like it, Mummy?’

‘I do indeed. Where’s your sister?’ Emma asked, changing the subject.

‘Oh, stuffy old Edwina’s in her room, reading or something. She wouldn’t play with me this morning. Oh well, who cares! I want to finish this painting, Mummy.’ Kit climbed back on to the chair, picked up the brush, and attacked the painting
with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. A look of concentration settled on his freckled face. ‘I must get it just right for you, Mums. I think I’ll put a kangaroo in it. And a polar bear.’

‘Don’t you mean koala bear, Kit?’

‘Well, a
bear
, Mummy. Uncle Paul told me there were bears in Australia.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Emma said absently. ‘Lunch in half an hour, Kit. And don’t forget to tidy up before coming down.’ She rumpled his hair and hurried out to her own room, feeling the need to be alone to collect her scattered thoughts.

Winter sun was pouring in through the tall windows and the room was awash with rafts of pristine light. The deep peach walls and the matching carpet had taken on a golden hue and the pale green watered silk covering the bed, the sofa, and several small chairs held a faint shimmer as though shot through with silvery grey. Georgian antiques, their patinas mellow, punctuated the room with dark colour and the crystal lamps with their cream silk shades cast a warm glow against the rosy walls. A fire blazed in the white marble fireplace and the ambiance was cheerful. Emma hardly noticed her surroundings. She stood in front of the fire warming her hands, the old iciness of childhood trickling through her limbs. Her head throbbed and she felt more depressed than usual.

David’s declaration of his love for her and her subsequent rejection of him had served to underscore the searing torment Paul McGill had caused her. Always prominent in her mind, this feeling was now more rampant than ever, and she felt utterly defeated. After a moment she crossed to the chest of drawers and opened the bottom drawer. She pushed her hands under the silk nightgowns and lifted out the photograph of Paul. She had placed it there weeks ago, no longer able to bear the sight of it on her dressing table. Her eyes rested on that well-loved face, took in the direct gaze of the eyes underneath the thick brows, the smile on the wide mouth, and her lacerated heart ached. Unexpectedly, a furious anger invaded her and she hurled the photograph across the room with great force, her eyes blazing.

The moment it left her hand she regretted her immature
action and ran to pick it up. The silver frame had been dented and the glass had shattered, but to her relief the photograph was undamaged. She knelt on the floor, gathering up the broken glass and placing it in the wastepaper basket. She sat down in the chair by the fire, hugging the photograph to her, thinking about Paul. The photograph had been taken the preceding January, just prior to his leaving England, when they were staying at the Ritz together. He was wearing his major’s uniform and looked incredibly handsome. She saw him then, in her mind’s eye, standing on the platform at Euston, before he boarded the boat train. He had tilted her face to his and looked deeply into her eyes, his own spilling with love. ‘I’ll come back, my dearest darling. I promise I will be back before you know I’m even gone,’ he had said. And she, imbecile that she was, had believed him.

She looked down at the picture. ‘Why didn’t you come back, Paul? You promised! You vowed nothing could keep you from me!’ Her question echoed hollowly around the room, and she had no answer for herself, once more baffled and racked with despair. Paul had written to her twice and she had replied immdiately. To her surprise he had never responded to her second letter. At the time, wondering if it had gone astray, she had written again. This letter had also remained unanswered. Finally, swallowing her immense pride, she had penned a circumspect note, and then had waited for word from him. The weeks had turned into months, and the silence had been absolute. In a state of bewilderment and shock, she had done nothing. She had lost her nerve. By October, Emma had miserably resigned herself to the fact that Paul was not man enough to write and tell her that he no longer loved her. That it was over. It was the only conceivable conclusion she could draw in her heartsick state. He simply has no further use for me, she thought. I served a purpose when he was alone in England. He has resumed his old life in Australia.
He is a married man.

Emma leaned back, staring into space abstractedly, her face cold and set, her eyes wide and tearless. She had cried all the tears she would ever cry for Paul McGill, night after night for months past. Paul McGill did not want her and that was that.
There was nothing she could do about it…

‘Mother, may I come in?’ Edwina asked, poking her head around the door.

‘Yes, darling,’ Emma said, slipping the photograph under the chair and forcing a smile. ‘Did you have a nice morning? I’m sorry I had to go to the factory on your day. It was an emergency.’

‘You work too hard, Mother,’ Edwina said reprovingly. She sat down in the opposite chair and smoothed her tartan kilt.

Emma disregarded the remark and the offensive tone and said cheerfully, ‘You haven’t told me yet what you would like for Christmas. Perhaps you would like to come to the store with me next week and look around, darling.’

‘I don’t know what I want for Christmas,’ Edwina said, her silvery eyes observing Emma. ‘But I would like to have my birth certificate, please, Mother.’

Emma froze in the chair. She kept her face bland. ‘Why do you want your birth certificate, Edwina?’ she asked, adopting a mild voice.

‘Because I need it to get a passport.’

‘Good heavens, why do you need a passport?’

‘Miss Matthews is taking the class to Switzerland next spring and I am going, too.’

Emma’s sweeping brows puckered together. ‘I notice you have simply assumed you are going. You haven’t asked my permission. I find that quite dismaying, Edwina.’

‘May I go, Mother?’

‘No, Edwina, you may not,’ Emma said firmly. ‘You are only thirteen. In my opinion that’s far too young for you to be travelling to the Continent without me.’

‘But we will be chaperoned. Most of the girls are going. Why can’t I?’

‘I have
told
you why, dear. You are too young. Furthermore, I find it hard to believe that most of the girls are going. How many exactly will there be in the group?’

‘Eight.’

‘That’s more like it! Eight girls out of a class of twenty-four is merely a third. You are prone to exaggerate sometimes, Edwina.’