he butler who opened the door of Fairley Hall was a middleaged man they did not know.

Blackie said, ‘Good afternoon. My name is O’Neill. I have an appointment with Mr Gerald Fairley.’

‘The Squire’s expecting you, sir,’ the butler replied, opening the door wider. ‘Please come this way.’ He led them across the huge gloomy entrance hall and showed them into the library. ‘He will be with you in a moment. Please make yourselves comfortable.’ He bowed and retreated.

When the door had closed Blackie said, ‘Murgatroyd must have retired.’

‘He’s dead,’ Emma said. ‘He died two years ago.’

‘And Cook?’ Blackie asked, remembering Elsie Turner with fondness.

‘She’s still alive. But she doesn’t work here anymore. She’s too old. She lives in the village.’

Blackie strolled over to the fireplace and stood with his back to the flames, warming himself. ‘Well, how does it feel—being back in this house after all these years?’

Emma threw him a swift glance. ‘Rather strange, I must admit.’ Her cool green gaze swept around the room and she laughed mirthlessly. ‘Do you know how many times I dusted this panelling, beat these carpets, and polished this furniture?’ She shook her head wonderingly, and her mouth unconsciously tightened into a grim line.

‘So many times I expect you’ve forgotten by now,’ Blackie said.

‘I never forget anything,’ Emma replied crisply.

She walked slowly around the library, regarding the furnishings with interest. She had once thought this room so impressive, but in comparison to the library in her house in Roundhay it looked dreary and there was an unmistakable air of dejection about it. April sunshine was flooding in through the tall windows and the bright light focused attention on the overall shabbiness. The Persian carpets were threadbare, their once vibrant red-and-blue jewel tones dimmed by time, and the velvet draperies at the windows were faded, the upholstery on the wing chairs badly worn. Even the ruby-coloured chesterfield was dark and muddy, and the leather was cracked. Emma recognized that the antiques were fine and obviously of value, as were the many leather-bound books and hunting prints, but withal the room’s dreadful neglect was patently obvious.

Emma shrugged and glided over to a window to look out. In the distance the wild implacable moors soared up before her eyes, a grim black line undulating beneath a clear spring sky, a sky the colour of her mother’s eyes. She had a sudden longing to go up to the moors, to climb that familiar path through the Baptist Field that led to Ramsden Crags and the Top of the World. The place her mother had loved the most, up there where the air was cool and bracing and filled with pale lavender tints and misty pinks and greys. That was not possible today. Innumerable memories assailed her, dragging her back into the past. She closed her eyes, and heard the sweet trilling of the larks, could almost smell the scent of the heather after rain, could feel the bracken brushing against her bare legs and the cool wind caressing her face…

From his position at the fireplace Blackie scrutinized Emma, held in the grips of his own memories. He thought of the day he had first met her, so long ago now. This imperious and distinguished woman standing before him bore no resemblance to his poverty-stricken colleen of the moors. He shook his head, marvelling at her and all she had become. At thirty-four, Emma Harte Ainsley was undoubtedly at the height of her beauty, a beauty so staggering it startled and bewitched everyone. Today she wore an expensive and fashionable silvergrey wool-crepe suit trimmed with sable and a smart sable hat. His emerald brooch gleamed on the collar of her grey silk blouse, matchless pearls cascaded from her slender neck, and the magnificent emerald earrings were just visible below her stylishly bobbed hair. She was not only elegant but cultivated and self-assured and she exuded an aura that bespoke undeniable power.

Emma swung around unexpectedly and was immediately aware of Blackie’s eyes resting on her with such intensity. She laughed lightly. ‘Why are you staring at me? Is my slip showing?’

Blackie grinned. ‘No, I’m just admiring you, me darlin’. Just admiring you. And also remembering—so many things.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said slowly, a thoughtful look drifting on to her face. ‘This place does evoke all kinds of memories, doesn’t it?’ She smiled faintly, stepped to the desk in the corner, and placed her suede bag on it.

‘Aye, it does.’ Blackie lit a cigarette, drew on it, and shifted his stance. ‘Fairley’s taking his sweet time. I wonder what he’s trying to prove.’

‘Oh, who cares.’ Emma shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’re not in a hurry.’ She sat down at the desk, the desk which had once been Adam Fairley’s, and leaned back in the chair. She pulled off her grey suede gloves slowly, smiling to herself. She examined her hands. Small strong hands and certainly not the most beautiful in the world. But they were white and soft and the nails were polished to a soft pink sheen. They were no longer red and chapped from scrubbing and scouring and polishing…no longer the hands of the skivvy who had been in bondage in this grim house.

The door flew open and Gerald Fairley entered, dragging his great weight, his steps lumbering. He did not see Emma, who was in the shadows, and he hurried over to Blackie, his hand outstretched.

‘Good afternoon, Mr O’Neill.’ He looked Blackie over with unconcealed interest. ‘I thought your name was familiar when you made the appointment. Now I remember you. Surely you used to do repairs here when I was a boy.’

‘That’s correct,’ Blackie said, stepping forward and shaking Gerald’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you again, Mr Fairley.’ Not having set eyes on Gerald for many years, Blackie was astounded at the man’s hippopotamic body, his ruined face, and his apparent dissipation. Gerald was so physically repugnant Blackie shuddered with distaste.

‘Never forget a face,’ Gerald went on. ‘Now, may I offer you a drink before we get down to business?’

‘No, thank you,’ Blackie declined politely.

‘I need a brandy myself. Always do after lunch.’ Gerald plodded over to the black-walnut chest and poured himself a generous measure of cognac. As he turned around, glass in hand, he spotted Emma seated at the desk. His porcine eyes opened wide and a look of disbelief spread itself across his blubbery face. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he bellowed.

‘I am with Mr O’Neill,’ Emma responded softly. Her face was without expression.

‘You bloody well know how to make yourself at home, don’t you!’ Gerald exploded, still incredulous. ‘How dare you take such a liberty! Sitting at my desk!’

‘I believe it is my desk now,’ Emma said in the softest voice, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Gerald.

‘Your desk! What the hell are you talking about?’ Gerald stamped into the middle of the room and swung to face Blackie, his manner bellicose. ‘What does she mean, O’Neill? What is the explanation for all this! I sold Fairley Hall to Deerfield Estates. You yourself told me on the telephone that you represented them, and had been engaged to do the renovations. So why in God’s name is that woman in my house? You had no right to bring her here.’ He did not wait for Blackie’s answer, but heaved his monstrous body to face Emma. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out, do you hear me! I will not tolerate your presence at this private meeting.’

Emma remained perfectly still. Not even an eyelash flickered. She smiled darkly. ‘I have no intentions of leaving. And I do have every right to be here, Mr Fairley,’ she pronounced with cold disdain. ‘You see, I am Deerfield Estates.’

For a moment Emma’s words did not sink into Gerald’s befuddled mind. He continued to glare at her uncomprehendingly, and then, as if a veil had been miraculously lifted, he stuttered, ‘Y-y-y-you are Deerfield Estates—’

‘I am indeed.’ Emma opened her purse and took out a piece of paper. She gave it a cursory glance and looked across at Gerald. ‘Yes, this desk is listed on the inventory, just as I thought. I purchased it along with some of the other contents. And, since you have already cashed the cheque from Deerfield Estates, this is my desk, as this is undoubtedly my house. I have paid for them.’

Reeling, Gerald fell into one of the wing chairs. What had she said? That she was the owner of Fairley Hall? Emma Harte, the servant girl they had once employed! Never, not in a thousand years! The idea was unthinkable, outrageous. Gerald’s eyes swivelled to Blackie, standing calmly at the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, a faint amused smile playing on his mouth.

‘Is it true?’ Gerald asked, his voice unsure. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Blackie replied, endeavouring to keep his face straight. By God, he would not have missed this scene for the world.

‘Why didn’t you tell me she was coming with you when you made the appointment?’ Gerald now demanded in an accusatory tone.

‘It was not my prerogative to do so,’ Blackie said, taking out his cigarette case.

Gerald stared at the drink in his hand, all manner of vindictive thoughts flashing through his addled brain. Good Christ, if he had known this little tramp was connected with Deerfield Estates he would not have sold the house to them. He must cancel the sale at once. Yes, that was undoubtedly the right thing to do. And then sickeningly he recalled her words of a moment ago. He had cashed the cheque and spent all the money. He had used it to pay off some of his gambling debts. He was trapped. He lifted his shaking hand and tossed down the drink in one gulp.

Emma flashed a glance at Blackie and her green eyes below the curving golden brows sparkled. She rose and walked sedately over to the chesterfield. She sat down, gracefully crossed her legs, and studied Gerald. ‘Under the terms of the sales contract you should have vacated this house by now,’ she said in a light, clear voice. ‘I will give you one more week to do so.’

Gerald blinked and shook his head so vigorously his chins wobbled. ‘That’s not long enough,’ he whined. ‘You’ve got to give me more time.’

‘One week,’ Emma repeated. She paused and her gleaming eyes narrowed. ‘Furthermore, I must insist you remove all of your personal belongings from your office at the Fairley mill immediately. Today. By five o’clock, in fact. Otherwise they will be packed in cardboard boxes and deposited in the mill yard to be retrieved by you at your convenience. By five o’clock today.’

Gerald was jolted upright in the wing chair, and he stared at Emma thunderstruck. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, so undone was he. He sat gaping stupidly, paralysed by his spiralling fear.

Emma continued icily, ‘I am not wrong in thinking you sold the Fairley mill two weeks ago, am I? To the General Retail Trading Company.’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’ Gerald spluttered, rousing himself. He was obviously perplexed as he added, ‘General Retail Trading is a division of Procter and Procter, which is owned by my friend Alan Procter.’

‘I am well aware of General Retail Trading’s connection with Procter and Procter,’ Emma said. ‘However, you are slightly misinformed. Procter and Procter is, in turn, a subsidiary of the Emeremm Company. It does not belong to Alan Procter. It has not belonged to him for some years. He is merely an employee of the parent company.’ She sat back, watching him.

‘Alan Procter never mentioned that to me,’ Gerald muttered. A most terrible and unacceptable thought now entered his swimming head. He asked haltingly, ‘Who owns the Emeremm Company?’

‘I do,’ Emma said, smiling thinly and enjoying the expression on Gerald’s face. ‘Consequently, I control Procter and Procter and the General Retail Trading Company, as well as Deerfield Estates.’ She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. ‘Therefore, I now own all of your mills, as well as Fairley Hall.’

‘You!’ Gerald screamed, half rising. ‘It was you!’ He fell back into the chair, seized by an uncontrollable shaking, and then he experienced a stab of pain in his chest, one so acute it knocked the breath out of him. He clutched his chest and the shaking increased. He thought he might be having a seizure. Suddenly the reality of her revelations overwhelmed him and with dawning horror he recognized the ghastly truth. Emma Harte now possessed all that had been his. Most of the Fairley enterprises were in her hands. And so was his family home. His ancestral home. She had smashed his life. All he had left were a few shares in the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the brickyard, neither of which he gave a damn about. He shuddered and dropped his head into his hands.

Blackie gazed dispassionately at Gerald. He saw a devastated and broken man and yet Blackie felt no sympathy for him. He turned and glanced at Emma, who sat poised and calm on the sofa, in command of herself and the situation, and then he sucked in his breath. Her beautiful face was a bronze mask, her eyes as deadly as steel, and his hackles rose. There was power and stealth in this room, and a ruthlessness so tangible the air seemed to vibrate with it. And it emanated solely from Emma. Blackie swallowed and looked away, finally truly understanding what a force she was to be reckoned with.

Gerald lifted his head slowly and glared at Emma venomously. ‘You conniving bloody bitch!’ he hissed from between clenched teeth. ‘You have been behind all the dreadful things that have happened to me. Why, you deliberately set out to steal my mills. You ruined me!’

Emma laughed sardonically and for the first time that day her virulent loathing for Gerald was fully revealed. ‘Did you think I made an idle threat that day, thirteen years ago, when you tried to rape me? I will never forget that day. And now, neither will you. It will haunt you as long as you live, Gerald Fairley.’ She gave him a curious icy smile. ‘Yes, I set out to ruin you, as I vowed I would when you forced your way into my house and attacked me. But you were my willing ally. You made it very easy for me. If the truth be known, you really ruined yourself. I simply helped you along the way.’

Gerald’s monumental fury and humiliation pushed aside all reason. He stood up unsteadily. He wanted to put his hands around her neck and squeeze and squeeze until she had no life left in her. He must destroy her. He stepped towards Emma, his hatred blazing, his eyes bulging in his twisted face. He raised his hand as if to strike her.

Blackie, astonished and enraged by what he had just heard, moved with swiftness, catching Gerald’s arm as it came down, neatly deflecting the blow. Although Gerald was huge, he was weak and his weight was cumbersome, and so he was no match for Blackie’s strength and speed. Blackie spun Gerald around roughly and grabbed him with both hands, pinning his arms to his sides. He increased his vice-like grip and forced Gerald down into the chair.

‘Don’t try that again, Fairley!’ Blackie cried, anger suffusing his face with dark colour. ‘If you so much as breathe on her I will give you the worst thrashing of your life!’

Foolishly disregarding Blackie’s warning, Gerald struggled upright mumbling foul imprecations. He heaved himself to his feet, sweating profusely, and glowered at Emma. He seemed about to attack her and then suddenly he changed his mind and lurched at Blackie. Blackie was prepared and stepped aside adroitly, swung his right fist, and caught Gerald a glancing blow on the jaw. A look of stunned surprise crossed Gerald’s purple face before he crumpled and collapsed in a heap at their feet, overturning a small mahogany table as he fell.

‘Oh my God!’ Emma exclaimed, rising.

‘That bastard asked for it!’ Blackie muttered, and gave her a sharp, puzzled glance. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he tried to rape you when it happened? I would have knocked the living daylights out of him! He would have been crippled for life, after I’d finished with him!’

‘I know. That’s why I never mentioned it, Blackie,’ Emma said quietly. ‘I thought it advisable to keep it to myself. I didn’t need any more trouble in those days. My life was difficult enough as it was.’ Emma righted the table and smiled wanly. ‘But thank you for interceding now. I really think he meant to hit me.’

Blackie looked at her askance, as always surprised at her fearlessness. ‘What do you mean, think he did? I know he intended you bodily harm. The nasty piece of work.’

Emma gestured at Gerald. ‘What are we going to do with him? We can’t just leave him lying there.’

A malicious gleam entered Blackie’s eyes. ‘I can think of a lot of things I’d like to do with him. But he’s not worth going to jail for, I can tell you that.’ Blackie spotted a jug of water on the walnut chest. He brought it over to Gerald and threw the contents on him unceremoniously. ‘There, that should do it!’ he exclaimed, and stood regarding Gerald coldly.

After a moment Gerald struggled into a sitting position, spluttering and wiping the water from his face. Blackie pulled him to his feet. ‘No more violence, Fairley. Do you understand me? Otherwise I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ Blackie said harshly, his manner threatening. He manoeuvred Gerald into the chair with a degree of roughness and hovered over him. ‘Now, let’s get down to the business at hand. You know why I came. Presumably you are going to permit us to make a tour of inspection. I don’t think you have any alternative under the circumstances, do you?’

Gerald ignored Blackie and snarled viciously at Emma, his enmity for her more palpable than ever. ‘I’ll get you for this!’ he shouted, shaking his fist at her. ‘You’re not going to get off scot-free,’ he blustered. ‘Or as easily as you think, Emma.’

‘Mrs Ainsley to you,’ Blackie said as Emma walked over to the desk.

Emma picked up her gloves and handbag and said, ‘Please leave us now. I believe you have something to attend to—removing your personal belongings from your office at the mill.’

Gerald stood up uncertainly. He held on to the back of the chair and his tone was venomous as he said, ‘I give you fair warning—’ His voice broke and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I am going to—’

‘You can do nothing,’ Emma said, and she turned away in disgust.

Blackie said firmly, ‘You heard the lady, Fairley. You had better do as she says and be quick about it. I think it would be rather embarrassing to find your stuff dumped in the mill yard.’

Gerald stumbled out of the library, his shoulders hunched in defeat. He slammed the door behind him and the wall sconces rattled in their sockets.

Emma, who abhorred violence, had been alarmed by the altercation, as brief as it was, but she had not lost her composure. She glanced across at Blackie and said dismissively, ‘So much for fools. Shall we look around the house?’

‘Why not? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

‘One of the reasons,’ Emma said.

Blackie’s eyes rested reflectively on Emma. Revenge generally came at a high price and, whilst he understood her motivations, he wondered, abstractly, if the price had been worth it to her. Superstitious Celt that he was, Blackie shivered unexpectedly. The desire for revenge was not unnatural, but it could curdle and embitter the soul, and it often destroyed the avenger. Was it not perhaps infinitely wiser to abjure the wicked and abandon them to the fates, and trust in God to make retribution in His own good time? He found himself saying, almost inaudibly, ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.’

Emma gave him a peculiar look, and then she laughed. There was a hint of irony in her voice as she retorted, ‘Don’t start getting mystical with me. You know I don’t believe in God. Besides, even if I did, I would still have taken matters into my own hands. You see, Blackie, I didn’t have time to wait for the Lord.’

‘And you also wanted the satisfaction of seeing Gerald Fairley’s face when he discovered you had been his adversary all these years,’ Blackie asserted.

‘Do you blame me?’ Emma asked, one eyebrow raised.

‘I don’t suppose I do,’ Blackie admitted, and regarded her for a long moment. ‘And tell me, Emma, how do you feel, now that you have accomplished what you set out to do?’

‘Why, I feel wonderful. Why shouldn’t I? I have waited twenty years to see the tables turned on the Fairleys. Twenty years, Blackie! And let me tell you something. Revenge is sweet. Very sweet indeed.’

Blackie did not reply. He put his arm around her shoulders and gazed down at her. To his relief that cold and implacable mask had been discarded, had been replaced by the sweetest of expressions, and the hard glint in her emerald eyes had disappeared. A thought struck him. ‘And what of Edwin Fairley?’ Blackie asked curiously. ‘Do you have something special in store for him?’

‘You will have to wait and see,’ Emma said cryptically, and smiled. ‘Anyway, don’t think Edwin won’t be upset by all this, because he will. For one thing, he will be mortified by the scandal, the terrible disgrace. Gerald is practically bankrupt and the whole of Yorkshire’s business community knows it. Furthermore, Edwin’s income is going to be most seriously affected. He had an interest in the Fairley mills, under his father’s will. Now that’s gone up in a puff of smoke,’ she finished triumphantly and with an eloquent wave of her hand.

Blackie said softly, ‘Is there anything you don’t know about their affairs?’

‘Nothing.’

Blackie shook his head. ‘You’re an amazing woman, Emma.’

‘Aren’t I, just. I amaze myself sometimes.’ Emma laughed. ‘Well, let’s do what we came here to do and make our grand tour of Fairley Hall.’

They went out into the entrance hall and slowly mounted the great staircase washed in the eerie light sifting in through the huge stained-glass window that soared high above the central landing. They walked down the endless dusky corridors that reeked faintly of wax and gas and dust and that peculiar mustiness that seeped out of the walls, and the wood creaked and the wind moaned in the eaves and the light dimmed, and it seemed to Emma that the ancient house was expiring all around them. They looked in on various rooms where grimy dust sheets draped the furniture and then moved on into the main corridor of bedrooms.

Emma paused at the door of the Blue Suite and glanced back at Blackie standing behind her. ‘These were Adele Fairley’s rooms,’ she remarked, and hesitated, her hand resting on the knob. And then she braced herself, flung open the door, and went in purposefully. Motes of dust rose up from the carpet in eddying whirls and danced in the sunlit air as they disturbed the room, which had obviously been unused for years and held an aura of neglect more pronounced than the library. Although Emma had never liked this room as a child, she had been awed by the quality of the antiques and some of the other furnishings. Now she saw it through the eyes of the connoisseur she had become, and she grimaced. Here poor Adele Fairley had lived out her life in her introverted world, isolated from her family and escaping reality by fleeing down the neck of a bottle. Emma had long ago acknowledged that Adele had been an alcoholic. But was she also mad? She pushed aside the troubling thought of inherited insanity and drifted through into the adjoining bedroom, pausing by the huge four-poster bed swathed in faded green silk. The silence was overwhelming and, in the way the imagination can play queer tricks, Emma heard Adele’s tinkling laughter and the rustling of her peignoir, caught a faint whiff of her Jasmine perfume. She blinked rapidly and gooseflesh spreckled her arms. She laughed at herself and then swung around and hurriedly returned to the sitting room.

Blackie followed her, assessing everything as he did. ‘These are fine rooms, Emma,’ he said, peering about. ‘Beautifully proportioned. They have a lot of potential. Of course, you’ll have to get rid of most of this junk Adele Fairley collected.’

‘Yes, I will,’ Emma said, and thought: What a pathetic memorial to Adele Fairley. She who was so beautiful.

Emma inspected the other bedrooms perfunctorily yet with a degree of curiosity. She hovered in front of the dressing table in the Grey Room, once occupied by Olivia Wainright Fairley, musing on her. Unexpectedly, a wave of reluctant affection surfaced in her. Olivia had been kind; had eased her burdens in this terrible house. She wondered if her empathy for Olivia had been unconsciously engendered by that woman’s marked resemblance to her mother. Perhaps. Emma’s face softened and she turned and left the Grey Room. But her expression changed radically when she pushed open the door of the Master’s Room. Her eyes were stony as she surveyed the austere furnishings, thinking of Adam Fairley. And Emma remembered anew all that had happened to her at Fairley Hall and she felt no compunction about what she had done. Her revenge had had a long gestation period, but it had been surely worth it.

Fifteen minutes later Emma and Blackie descended the main staircase and quickly traversed the reception rooms on the ground floor. All the while Blackie chatted enthusiastically about the renovations he would make, and outlined his plans for transforming Fairley Hall into an elegant home for her. Emma listened and nodded but said little. At one moment, when they were viewing the drawing room, she touched Blackie’s arm and asked, ‘Why was I so frightened of this house when I was a child?’

Blackie squeezed her hand lovingly. ‘You weren’t afraid of the house, Emma. You were afraid of the people in it.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she replied softly. ‘And now those people are just ghosts.’

‘Yes, me darlin’, just ghosts. And this is only a house, after all. I once told you it could never harm you.’

‘I know you did.’ Emma took Blackie’s arm. ‘Let’s go outside and look at the grounds. It’s chilly in here, and rather depressing.’

Emma blinked when they stepped out into the bright sunlight. ‘Do you know, it’s warmer out here than it is in there,’ she remarked, and stared up at the grim edifice soaring in front of her. Emma’s face became introspective as she walked along the flagged terrace, regarding Fairley Hall from time to time. This daunting house was enduring—and inescapable; a bastion of wealth and privilege, a monument to a society long outmoded, to a cruel class system she detested, and it sorely offended her.

Inclining her head towards the house, she murmured, ‘My father used to call this Fairley’s Folly.’

‘And so it is.’

‘Tear it down,’ Emma said with cool deliberation.

‘Tear it down!’ Blackie echoed, gazing at her incredulously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. I want you to tear it down. Brick by brick by brick, until there is nothing left standing.’

‘But I thought you were going to live in it,’ Blackie exclaimed, still flabbergasted.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever really intended to do that. You once said it was a monstrosity and that’s a decided understatement. There is no place in this world for monstrosities. I want it wiped off the face of the earth as if it never existed.’

‘And the furniture?’

‘Sell it. Give it away. Do as you wish. I know I don’t want one piece of it. You can take anything you like, Blackie.’ She smiled. ‘You might consider keeping Adam Fairley’s desk. It is quite valuable, you know.’

‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll think about it.’ Blackie rubbed his chin. ‘Are you sure about this decision? You did pay a lot for the house.’

‘I am very sure.’ Emma swivelled and tripped lightly down the terrace steps until she stood at the entrance to the rose garden. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a young and desperate girl, and she recalled the day she had told Edwin she was pregnant, and remembered his repudiation of her as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

‘And destroy this garden,’ she said icily. ‘Demolish it completely. I don’t want one rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’

The villagers were agog at the news that Emma Harte, Big Jack’s daughter, was now the owner of Fairley Hall and the mill. It was a reversal of circumstances so unlikely it staggered the imagination, and, in turn, they were stunned, astonished, and finally wryly amused at the ironic justice so inherent in the turn of events, which were quite unexpected. Hidebound as they were by tradition and prejudice, and trapped in a rigid caste system that kept the workers in their place, they nevertheless marvelled at her audacity in daring to defy that system and break all the rules set down by the Establishment for centuries.

The following morning women stood on doorsteps and leaned over garden gates, arms akimbo, shaking their heads and exclaiming about the remarkable success story of one of their own. That night in the White Horse, the men at the bar, most of whom worked at the mill, crowded together, speculating about the future of the mill and chuckling at the demise of the Fairleys’ power. Although Adam Fairley had not been particularly liked, because he was not of the same ilk as his bluff and hearty father, being too ‘fancy’ for their north-country tastes, he had been respected since the men recognized his basic integrity and fairness. However, Gerald, who was a tyrant and a fool, was loathed, and no one was unhappy to see his downfall, nor did they have a shred of pity for him. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’ was the phrase most often heard in the ensuing days as the villagers waited eagerly for the arrival of their new employer and the future mistress of Fairley Hall.

But Emma did not come to the village—at least not until Gerald Fairley had vacated Fairley Hall. Two days after his departure her silver-grey Rolls-Royce pulled up into the mill yard and she went into the mill to hold a meeting with the workers. The manager, Josh Wilson, son of Ernest, who had served Adam so well, assembled the men and women in the weaving shed. Emma, wearing a navy-blue tailored dress, a navy cloche, and pearls, cordially greeted some of the men she remembered from her childhood and then addressed the gathering.

She was direct: ‘As you are only too well aware, there has been a slump in the cloth business for almost eighteen months, ever since the price of wool hit??ock bottom, to be followed by the price of cloth. Due to?? inferior management of the previous owner, Fairley mil?? h?? been limping along and I know that many men were laid off over the past few months.’ Emma paused and cleared her throat. ‘I am afraid I cannot reinstate those men.’ She held up her hand as loud groans and mutterings rippled through the audience. ‘However, I am going to give a small pension to the men who have been laid off and who have not found work in the nearby towns. I would also like to say now, and most definitely, that I have no intention of closing the mill, as I believe many of you thought I would. But under the present circumstances, I must retrench, economize, reorganize, and decrease the staff. Therefore, all men of retiring age and close to it will be retired immediately. Each man will receive a pension. Younger men, especially those who are single, will be offered jobs in my other companies, if they are willing to leave Fairley and carve out a niche for themselves in the cities of Leeds and Bradford. Those who do not wish to take advantage of this offer may remain. Of course, I hope some of you will consider it, so that I can reduce the work force here in order to operate more economically. As I told Josh, I am going to sell the quality cloth we produce to the three Kallinski tailoring factories in Leeds, but even their orders will not be sufficient to keep the mill in full production. I have a solution to that problem. I am going to start making a lower-quality cloth immediately, to be sold at cheaper prices abroad, and I hope there will be a demand for it here, too.’

Emma smiled confidently. ‘I am fortunate in that I can afford to ride out this slump, and with a little luck, and your cooperation, I know we can turn this mill around and put it on a paying basis quickly. Let me say again, I am not going to close the mill, so I don’t want any of you to worry about your jobs. I don’t intend to let this village starve.’

They cheered her rousingly, and one by one, clutching their cloth caps, the men came to shake her hand, to thank her, and to welcome her back to Fairley. ‘I knew yer dad, love,’ one man told her, and another added, ‘By gum, Big Jack’d be right proud of yer, lass.’

After a meeting with Josh Wilson, Emma stepped into her Rolls and told the chauffeur to drive her to Fairley Hall. Blackie O’Neill’s workmen were already swarming all over the house, scrambling up ladders and across the roof. Windows were being removed, chimneys dismantled, and slates ripped off. Emma smiled to herself, and returned to Leeds.

At first the villagers believed the Hall was being renovated and they were excited about this development and looked forward to welcoming Emma Harte as the lady of the manor. But within the space of a week, they realized, to their shock, that the house was being slowly demolished, and they were baffled.

In the middle of May, Emma made a second trip to Fairley Hall. She walked along the terrace, which still remained intact, and regarded the great tract of rough bare ground where the house and stables had formerly stood. Not one brick was left and the rose garden, too, had disappeared. Emma felt an enormous surge of relief and an unexpected sense of liberation. Fairley Hall, that house where she had suffered such humiliation and heartache, might never have existed. It could no longer hurt her with the painful memories it evoked. She had exorcized all the ghosts of her childhood. She was free at last of the Fairleys.

Blackie, who arrived a few moments later, put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I followed your instructions down to the letter and removed the monstrosity, mavourneen. But like the whole of the village, I am eaten up with curiosity, Emma. Tell me, darlin’, what are you going to do with this land?’

Emma looked up at him and smiled. ‘I am going to turn it into a park. A beautiful park for the villagers of Fairley, and I am going to name it after my mother.’