A Woman of Substance (65 page)

Gerald heaved himself off the bed. ‘I must say, I like a tiger, Emma. Makes it more exciting. I’ll be back, my girl. And next time you’ll be more co-operative.’ He nonchalantly flicked the collar of her dress. ‘This will be off and everything else. You’ll be ready and waiting for me. I want to savour that beautiful body of yours, enjoy a bit of working-class rutting. I hear you’re all like rabbits.’ He grinned. ‘What’s good enough for the handsome Edwin is certainly good enough for me!’

Emma had the most overwhelming impulse to spit in his face, but she exercised restraint, not wishing to lower herself to his level. ‘Leave my house immediately, Gerald Fairley, and don’t ever come back—unless you want to encounter real trouble.’

He swung around, stumbling down the stairs, laughing raucously. Emma followed him, her rage fulminating. She stood at the top of the stairs and watched him descend, ponderously dragging his immense weight. She flung the scissors after him angrily and they rattled on the stone steps, landing at his feet. He looked up, leering at her. ‘That’s not polite,’ he said.

‘You’re not worth swinging for, Gerald Fairley!’ she screamed. Emma now sped down the stairs, propelled by her mounting fury. When she reached the bottom step she stared up at him, utterly fearless and totally in command of herself, her hatred blazing on her face.

She took a step nearer and said with deadly coldness, ‘But I will ruin you! All of you! The Fairleys will rue the day they ever heard the name Emma Harte. Do you hear me? I will ruin you! I swear I will!’

‘You ruin us! You? A whoring little tramp? Fat chance you have.’ Gerald chucked her under the chin lightly and, infuriated, Emma struck out at him. Her nails clawed his face and brought blood.

‘Why, you bloody little bitch!’ Gerald shouted, and then he threw back his hideous head and laughed. ‘I like a tiger,
Mrs
Harte, as I said before. Don’t forget, I’ll be back. I’m always in the vicinity. I’ll pop in one afternoon for a bit of fun.’

‘Get out! Get out!’

The moment the door banged behind him Emma turned the key and drew the bolts hurriedly. She went into the parlour and closed the curtains and washed the disgusting stain off her dress, scrubbing it with a cloth until it was spotless. Then she sat down in front of the fire, her body convulsed by dry heaving sobs. She felt sick and shaken and apprehensive. For the first time in years she was once again afraid of the Fairleys. Thank God Edwina was in Ripon. Gerald would never find her there. But he was just stupid enough to come back here and the idea petrified her.

The world’s a jungle, she said, shivering in a huddle before the dying fire. And I’m still vulnerable to the animals in it. I do not have enough money yet with which to build a wall around Edwina and myself. We are painfully exposed. I need protection. She thought then of David with longing and despair. What she needed was a husband. That was most palpably obvious to her now. But David, her darling David, was forbidden to her. As much as they loved each other the objections of his family would drive a wedge between them. Her mind raced. Where could she find a husband who would protect her and Edwina? Whom could she marry? It came to her in a flash. Joe Lowther! She knew he loved her. The problem was,
she
did not love Joe. She liked him. How could she not? He was decent and kind and dependable. If she married Joe she would be cheating him of that most important of all things in a marriage—love. She also had to face the fact that she would have to share his bed, submit to his sexual advances, and bear his children. She went cold at this prospect. How could she willingly give herself to another man when David filled her heart and her soul? And yet she had no alternative. Emma began to weep, her sobs reverberating in the stillness of the little parlour.

‘Forgive me, David,’ she cried. ‘Forgive me for what I’m about to do, my darling.’

Life always gets harder towards the summit—the cold increases, responsibility increases.

—F
RIEDRICH
N
IETZSCHE

The boardroom of the
Yorkshire Morning Gazette
, oak-panelled walls hung with antique engravings of renowned English authors, mahogany furniture polished to a ferocious glassy sheen, was smoke-filled and vibrating with tension. Adam Fairley and Lord Jocelyn Sydney sat opposite each other on either side of the immense conference table, their faces morose, their eyes grave as they chain-smoked in brooding silence, the crystal ashtrays in front of them littered with stubbed-out butts that bespoke hours of waiting and strain.

Adam, impeccably tailored in a dark blue suit, shifted restlessly in the black leather chair and ran his hand through his silver-streaked fair hair. His mouth, ringed with fatigue, suddenly tightened and his grey-blue eyes fixedly regarded the clock ticking with relentless precision in the leaden stillness.

‘Damn it all!’ he exclaimed, no longer able to control his temper. He swung to face Jocelyn. ‘It’s almost one o’clock. If Parker doesn’t hurry up we’ll miss the first edition. He’s been fiddling with that lead story for a good twenty minutes. What on earth can the fool be doing, for Christ’s sake!’

Jocelyn peered at Adam through the smoke. ‘Pondering every word, shouldn’t doubt! You ought to know that by now, old boy.’

‘I’ll give Parker five more minutes and then I’m going up to see him—’ Adam broke off as a copy boy burst in. The heavy oak door swung back on its hinges and the activity and noise of a newspaper in the heat of production rolled into the quiet boardroom.

‘Here’s the proof of the front page, sir. And the editor says ter tell yer he’s starting the presses in five minutes.’ The boy slapped the damp newsprint dripping with wet ink on to the table in front of Adam and disappeared. The door banged behind him and silence was fully restored. Jocelyn hurried across the room. Placing one hand on Adam’s broad shoulder,
he bent down and looked at the proof. The banner headline, set in giant-sized type, was black and stark and it leapt across the page.

BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY

Two pairs of eyes quickly scanned the smaller crossheads on the broadsheet:
The Great Conflict Begun. British Minelayer Sunk. Belgium Invaded. Two New Battleships for Our Navy. Government Takes Control of Railways. Securing Food Supply. State Guarantee War Risk at Sea.

Jocelyn tapped the lead story with one finger. ‘How has Parker handled this, Adam? In my haste to get here tonight I forgot my spectacles and I can’t read the small print.’

Adam read the proof quickly and said, ‘I think Parker covered everything of importance.’ He looked up at Jocelyn. ‘I’ve dreaded and feared this war for years. But we’re in the conflict now and there’s no turning back.’

Jocelyn fixed Adam with a glassy stare. ‘Did you really mean what you said earlier this evening—that it will be a prolonged war?’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Adam tersely. ‘Contrary to what some of the experts in London are saying, I believe it will last several years. Two at least.’

Jocelyn’s jaw sagged. ‘As long as that!’

Adam nodded, his face grim. ‘Yes. And it will be a war of attrition. A bloody holocaust the likes of which the world has never seen. Mark my words, Jocelyn.’

‘Oh God, Adam, I pray you are wrong! I sincerely do!’

Adam did not answer. He lit a cigarette and gazed reflectively into space, envisioning the terrible consequences of Britain’s entry into the war.

‘We both need a stiff drink,’ Jocelyn announced after a few moments. He hurried to the sideboard and his hands trembled as he prepared two brandy-and-sodas and carried them to the table. He handed one to Adam and sat down heavily in the next chair. Neither man bothered to toast the other on this sombre occasion, and they sipped their drinks in silence, preoccupied with their own thoughts.

Adam Fairley, newly appointed chairman of the board of the
Yorkshire Morning Gazette
, had kept up a tireless vigil at the newspaper for the past four days, sifting through the stories pouring in from the London office and Reuters, studying the grave news, watching Britain being inexorably drawn into the European crisis. His old friend Jocelyn Sydney had been a constant visitor, prowling up and down the boardroom yet insisting that as long as peace lasted the folly of war could be avoided. Adam had met Jocelyn’s inherent optimism with an absolute pessimism that reflected his clarity of vision and an understanding of the facts, pronouncing that it was far too late to avert onrushing disaster.

That pessimism was apparent in Adam’s voice as he suddenly roused himself and said, ‘We’re not as well prepared for this war as the Government would have us believe, Jocelyn.’

Astonishment mingled with alarm spread across Jocelyn’s face. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak Adam said hurriedly, in an effort to assuage Jocelyn’s burgeoning fears, ‘Except for the navy, of course. Thank God Winston Churchill has been First Lord of the Admiralty for the past three years. Only he and a few other enlightened men saw the menace of approaching war and tried to make ready for it.’ Adam’s tone became guarded as he continued, ‘I know Churchill has never been a favourite of yours, Jocelyn, but you must admit he had the foresight to recognize the increasing threat of German sea power as early as 1911, when he set about reorganizing the Fleet. Good job, too. By withdrawing our ships from China and the Mediterranean and concentrating the Home Fleet and the Battle Fleet in the North Sea, he has increased our strength immeasurably.’

‘Yes, that’s quite true,’ Jocelyn conceded. ‘And Churchill has had one aim I’ve always found most worthy—reinforcing the invincibility of the Royal Navy.’

‘Yes, the navy is strong, but that’s the only service that is, Jocelyn. The army is not at all well organized and our air power is minimal, even though Churchill has endeavoured to boost it lately.’ Adam paused, drew on his cigarette, and concluded. ‘The War Office has always been grossly inefficient. Actually, what we need now is a new Secretary of State for War!’

‘Do you think Asquith will appoint one?’ Jocelyn asked.

‘I’m positive he will have to,’ Adam responded firmly. ‘He cannot function as Prime Minister and run the War Office as well, not in a time of crisis such as this. I’m certain, knowing Asquith the way I do, that he will have the good sense to recognize that. And I hope he will have the wisdom to pick Lord Kitchener for the job. That’s the man we need in our hour of peril. Not only for his tremendous ability but for the uplifting effect on public morale his appointment will have.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Jocelyn agreed. ‘After all, Kitchener is a national hero.’

‘He’s more than that, Jocelyn. He’s a national institution. He symbolizes success to the public. Every military engagement he undertakes comes off beautifully.’ Adam swirled his drink, pondering. ‘He will have to raise new armies, of course. The Territorial Army is not very large. In point of fact, whoever is appointed Secretary of State for War will have to embark on a campaign immediately to recruit single men to go to the front.’

Jocelyn’s pale face had greyed. ‘A campaign to recruit single men,’ he repeated shakily. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Since we don’t have a compulsory draft system, the country has to rely on volunteers—usually single men between the ages of eighteen and thirty.’ Adam stopped, aware of the sick expression on Jocelyn’s face. ‘Are you all right, old chap? You look positively ghastly.’

‘The boys,’ Jocelyn said in a whisper. ‘I’m not going to be able to restrain them, Adam. They’ll both volunteer immediately. You’re lucky, Adam. Gerald would never pass the physical and Edwin is married. Also,
he
has a sense of responsibility to you, and to Jane.’

‘I’m not so sure about Edwin, to be very honest with you. He’s also impulsive at times. Don’t think being a married man will stop him if he makes up his mind to go to war. Edwin will consider his responsibility is to his King and country and not the family, or even to Jane. I have a sneaking suspicion they will take precedence over everything else.’

Jocelyn bit his lip nervously. ‘This is a bloody foul messup, isn’t it? Who would have thought a few years ago that we
would be plunged into this disastrous situation, Adam.’

‘Bruce McGill warned me ten years ago that there would be a great war,’ Adam said quietly, his eyes brooding. ‘He was right. That was in 1904—’

‘Was it, by Jove!’ Jocelyn interjected. ‘I didn’t know old Bruce was a political pundit.’

‘I’m not sure that he is,’ Adam remarked. ‘But he does happen to be a tremendously rich and powerful man, and he has friends in high places. When Bruce was in London last year with his son Paul he was full of foreboding, and I ignored him. I’m beginning to think I’m an ostrich like everyone else.’ Adam stood up. ‘I presume you’re cancelling the shoot, Jocelyn.’

‘Naturally. I don’t expect anyone will be interested in grouse at a time like this,’ Jocelyn replied with a weak smile. ‘Thanks for inviting me down to the newspaper. I really appreciate it, old chap.’

‘I’ve been glad to have your company, Jocelyn. Now let’s be off. This room is beginning to suffocate me.’

An hour and a half later Adam’s new Daimler motorcar was pulling into the driveway of Fairley Hall. Adam bade the chauffeur a crisp good-night and bounded up the steps.

Murgatroyd was hovering in the dimly lit entrance hall. He hurried forward when he saw Adam, as obsequious as always. ‘Mrs Fairley came down ter the kitchen ter tell me and Cook that we was at war. Aye, it’s horrible news.’

Adam cleared his throat. ‘Yes, indeed it is, Murgatroyd. The days ahead are going to be difficult for us all. But we must pull together and be strong in the country’s hour of need.’ He noticed the light streaming out from the library. ‘Has Mrs Fairley not retired yet, Murgatroyd?’

‘No, sir. She’s been waiting for yer. I built up the fire and made her some hot chocolate a bit ago, being as how it’s a right nippy night.’

‘I see.’ Adam strode across the hall.

Olivia had heard Adam’s voice and she was halfway across the floor when he entered the library. ‘Oh, Adam, this is all quite dreadful,’ she cried as she flew into his arms.

He held her close for a moment, stroking her hair. ‘Yes, it is, my dear. However, we’ve been expecting it and we must be
courageous.’ He moved away from her and looked down into her face. ‘You shouldn’t have waited up for me. It’s awfully late, darling.’

She returned his smile. ‘I was terribly anxious to see you.’

‘I’m afraid I am a little done in.’

‘Perhaps a drink will help,’ she suggested.

‘It might indeed. I’ll have a nightcap before we go to bed. Brandy, please.’

Olivia gave him a soft loving look. Adam watched her gliding across the floor, his spirits lifting as they always did when he was with her, the war momentarily forgotten. She was wearing a deep blue crêpe de chine evening dress which flattered her lissome figure and reflected the colour of her eyes. Her face was still unlined and the white streak that shot through her dark luxuriant hair was most arresting. At fifty-four she was a striking woman, and in Adam’s opinion she grew more beautiful with age. They had been married for six years. In 1907 the Deceased Wife’s Sister Marriage Act, legalizing a man’s marriage to his sister-in-law, had been finally passed by Parliament after its defeat in 1901. Adam had convinced Olivia to become his wife in 1908, and they were so completely happy, so perfectly compatible no one else existed for them.

‘Incidentally, Edwin telephoned earlier. I told him about the grim developments,’ Olivia said, returning to the fireplace with the brandy.

Adam stiffened. ‘How did he react?’

‘With surprising mildness, I thought. He and Jane are driving over from Kirkby Malzeard tomorrow, to stay with us for a week as we had planned.’

‘Well, that is good news,’ Adam said. ‘Knowing Edwin, I had visions of him careering back to town to be in the thick of things. I’m glad they are coming. At least you will have some congenial company when I’m absent during the day.’

‘Do you think they are happy, Adam?’

‘I’m damned if I know. Why do you ask?’ It struck him then that perhaps Olivia had also noticed the curious lack of warmth between his son and daughter-in-law.

‘I can’t really put my finger on it,’ Olivia said thoughtfully. ‘There’s a distance between them. Oh, Edwin is outwardly
charming and most considerate. But not very affectionate. They don’t seem like a couple to me. And sometimes I have noticed the most awful empty look in Edwin’s eyes.’ Olivia paused and stared at Adam. When he made no response, she pressed, ‘Haven’t you noticed it, darling?’

Wary though he was of embarking on this discussion, Adam admitted, ‘Well, yes, I have, to be truthful. If there
is
anything wrong there it’s definitely to do with Edwin. He’s changed radically in the past few years. He devotes twenty-four hours a day to the law, or so it seems to me. He has no other interests and appears to be determined to become the most outstanding young barrister in England before he’s reached thirty. And I feel he neglects Jane frightfully.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Olivia agreed.

‘And yet he has every reason to be happy with her. Jane is charming and pretty and comports herself in the most mature and dignified manner. Pity they haven’t had a child. I must say, I was rather looking forward to having a grandchild. Expected one by now. After all, they’ve been married three years.’

Olivia stared into the fire and after a long moment turned to Adam. ‘Did you believe that nasty story Gerald told you a few years ago? The story about Edwin and Emma Harte?’

‘Certainly not!’ Adam exclaimed, wishing he meant his words. Intensely protective of Olivia, he did not wish to upset her tonight by dragging out old skeletons. And so for once in his life he lied to her. ‘Gerald has no regard for the truth. His story was not only preposterous but quite unfounded. It was undoubtedly engendered by his desire to denigrate Edwin in my eyes. You know Gerald has always been inordinately jealous of his brother.’

Olivia was not entirely placated. ‘I remember you made discreet inquiries at the time, about Emma and the child, but are you sure your information was correct, Adam?’