ove is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,

Where that comes in that shall not go again;

Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate.

‘Love’: RUPERT BROOKE (1913)

A rush of warm memories flooded Emma when she saw the postmark on the letter. WALES. Instantly she knew who it was from, because she also recognized the handwriting. She opened it eagerly, filled with anticipation, and read it swiftly.!!!May 27th, 1950!!!Dear Mrs Harte,!!!I’m here in the Rhondda visiting my family in the Valleys. It’s been wonderful seeing everyone, and now I’m planning to come up to London for a visit. I do hope you’ll have time to have lunch with me, or a cup of tea. I will be staying at the Hyde Park Hotel and I expect to be there towards the end of next week.!!!Love from Glynnis.

Without hesitation, smiling, Emma slipped the letter back into its envelope, reached for a piece of her personal stationery and wrote back.!!!June 1st, 1950!!!Dearest Glynnis,!!!What a lovely surprise to hear from you. I’m thrilled to know you’re on our shores, and it will be so nice to see you after all these years. Actually, I can’t wait. Please phone me as soon as you arrive in London, and we’ll arrange to have lunch.!!!With much affection, E.H.

After folding the letter in half, Emma put it in an envelope, addressed it and added a postage stamp. She propped the envelope against the lamp, stared at it for a moment, another smile spreading across her face. To see Glynnis again would be such a treat; she’d missed her former secretary…missed her beauty, her glamour, her lovely charm and grace, her pretty, lilting Welsh voice. Emma couldn’t help wondering how Glynnis looked these days. She hadn’t sent any photographs lately.

Pushing back her chair, Emma rose, walked across to the large window which faced the moorland, stood looking out. It was such a glorious day today, sunny and warm, and the sky was as blue as speedwells.

It was the first day of June. And if the weather was anything to go by, they would be in for a lovely summer. She hoped so. It had been quite rainy last year, and she’d felt as though she was living in the middle of a rain forest.

Emma was planning to spend as much time in Yorkshire as she could this year, although she was aware she had to go to the Villa Faviola in the south of France. It was a necessity.

Even though the war had been now over for the last five years, the villa still needed much work. Wartime neglect and its occupation by Nazi officers for quite a long period of time had created a great deal of damage. Some of it she had attended to last year, but there were a number of areas which still required her attention and much work.

Perhaps she could go over there in August or September; Blackie had promised to make the trip with her, and she knew full well that she needed the benefit of his good eyes, his expertise and skill. She often teased him, said he was still a bricklayer at heart, just as he had been when she had first met him over forty-five years ago. He always laughed with her, enjoyed her teasing; like her he remembered, with much nostalgia, their early days together: in those days they were both impoverished and eyeing their prospects in the world, wondering how to improve their lot in life.

Glancing at her watch, Emma saw that it was only eleven o’clock. There was time to go for a walk on the moors after all. Turning her back on the magnificent view, she walked across the upstairs parlour, sat down at her old Georgian desk once more, and finished going through her correspondence. After she had phoned the Leeds store and rung her secretary in London, she hurried into her bedroom and changed her shoes.

A short while later she was hurrying downstairs, crossing the Stone Hall and heading for the kitchen.

Hilda glanced around with a start when the door flew open, and she exclaimed, ‘Oh goodness me! You did make me jump, Mrs H. Gave me a right start, that you did.’

‘I’m sorry, Hilda. I just wanted to tell you I’m going for a walk. I need a bit of fresh air. I thought I’d have lunch around one-thirty. Is that all right with you?’

‘It is, madame. I’d planned on making you some luverly plaice and chips, with fresh summer peas, and cauliflower from the garden, steamed that way you like it, and a right grand parsley sauce. Do you fancy that, Mrs Harte?’

‘It sounds delicious, Hilda. And when I come back we can plan tomorrow’s dinner if you like. Mr O’Neill’s coming, as he always does on Fridays, and I think you should consider making a few of his favourites. Miss Daisy’s going to be here with Mr Amory and little Paula.’

Hilda’s entire face became one huge happy smile. ‘Oooh, madame, she’s a right bonny snippet, that she is. We all luv her, Mrs H.’

‘Yes, there’s no doubt she’s the most adorable child, Hilda, I’ll grant you that. But she knows it, you know.’

Hilda laughed, and turned back to her pots and pans, thinking about tomorrow’s dinner and the menu.

As she walked towards her beloved moors, which she had claimed as her own when she was only a child of ten, Emma glanced around, taking in the cool, solitary beauty of this land. There were those who thought it bleak and unwelcoming, but she saw it through different eyes, found the solitariness consoling and restful. It was from the implacability of this land that she drew her strength and determination. She never felt lonely or alone up here, and she was always at peace amongst these rolling hills, for it was from here that she came.

She climbed steadily to the top, noticing how parched and dried-out patches of grass looked, but then it was always dun-coloured at this time of year. By late August the heather would be blooming, and even though it was only the plain ling, it nonetheless covered the hills like mantles of purple, was a sea of undulating brilliant colour under the late-summer breeze.

Finally, she came to her favourite spot at the top, and sat down on the big stone wedged into the niche created by two giant boulders. Above her soared great monoliths from the Ice Age which she had always marvelled at. Dropped here by nature millions of years ago, they resembled massive sculptures carved by some mighty omnipotent hand. And out in front of her stretched the breathtaking and familiar panorama she knew so well…the encircling moors and below them the green and verdant valley where the flowing river was a thin sliver of silver in the bright June sunlight.

Glancing around, Emma suddenly sniffed, caught the scent of the moorland flora…it filled her nostrils, carried her back to her childhood, and she closed her eyes, for a moment thinking of her mother who had also loved these moors. Most especially the Top of the World. One day she would go there again…where she had gone so many times with her mother, and with Edwin Fairley. So long ago…when she had been only a very young girl, inexperienced and far too trusting. She heard the faint buzzing of the bees as they danced around in the air above the yellow gorse and tiny moorland flowers, and when she glanced up she saw the linnets and larks wheeling and turning against the sun. It was a gorgeous balmy day, soft, enfolding.

Closing her eyes, she drifted, lost in her thoughts, thinking of Paul as she always did up here on the moors. But then she thought of him every day at some moment or other. He was in her heart forever. How much she missed him, missed his irreverent humour, his love and understanding, his charm, his devilishness…There never had been a man like him, and there never would be. He had been unique, and she missed him so much…more, sometimes, than she could bear.

And yet she was so lucky in her life. She had her devoted brothers Winston and Frank, and her beloved friend, Blackie O’Neill. And her children and grandchildren…even another grandchild now, her darling Paula. Named for Paul McGill, she was his granddaughter, and so like him in looks: dark, exotic, with those wonderful blue-violet eyes.

Emma’s mind suddenly went to her son Robin, and she felt a little flash of dismay when she considered his old romance with Glynnis. She must be very careful not to let him know Glynnis was in London. He might want to see her.

But then there was no problem, Emma reassured herself; Glynnis had told her long ago that she never wanted to see Robin Ainsley again. He had treated her so badly, and had broken her heart. Well, broken hearts did mend, in her opinion; but Glynnis obviously had no interest in Robin. She had married her GI–Richard Hughes–and he was bringing up Robin’s child as his own, and what more could a woman want than a good man, a loving husband who accepted her as she was, and adored her in the process. Glynnis was lucky, too.

‘You’ve never looked better, Blackie,’ Emma said, staring him fully in the face. ‘You’re quite…splendid. Yes, that’s exactly the right word to describe you. Or perhaps magnificent. That’s a beautiful suit you’re wearing.’

He threw back his head and laughed. After he recovered from his mirth, he peered at her and said, ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, mavourneen, and if I didn’t know you better, after all these long years, I’d be saying you were after something.’

‘Don’t be silly, of course I’m not.’

‘That’s what I just said, Emma, my sweet. But just so you know, you can have anything of mine that I have. Anything at all. You know how much I love you, Emm.’

‘And I love you, too, Blackie. Goodness, all these years we’ve been friends. All of my life, actually.’

‘Aye, and what a funny little snippet of a lass you were, all skin and bone, but so beautiful, even then, me darlin’. Like a precious flower growing among the weeds of Fairley Hall.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Aye, that was long ago now, almost fifty years.’ He eyed her carefully. ‘And I might say you’re looking pretty nifty yourself, Emma Harte. All dolled up for a party, eh?’

She smiled at him indulgently. ‘No, not a party. However, when you said you wanted to come early, I thought I’d better be dressed and ready for the rest of the day.’

‘You look as elegant as you always do, Emma. Now, I understand from Winston that congratulations are in order.’

She stared at him blandly, and her green eyes narrowed.

‘I was told by your brother that the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company has taken control of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. It’s yours now, Emma. You’ve finally bested Edwin Fairley. You’ve won, me darlin’.’

‘You always knew I would, didn’t you, Blackie O’Neill?’ she answered, sounding challenging, and there was an undercurrent of defiance in her tone. She sat up straighter in the chair.

‘I did. It seems to me you had set your mind to getting that paper, come hell or high water. So tell me…’

‘I’ve been very patient, and I had a weak adversary. My newspapers are the most successful in the north, and they’ve eaten up a lot of the Gazette’s circulation, as well as the circulation of a few other newspapers. To be honest, Blackie, the Gazette’s been losing money since the end of the war, and anyway, I ran the Gazette into the ground.’

‘Deliberately?’ Blackie took a puff on his cigar, sat studying her thoughtfully.

‘But of course. And without compunction. Edwin Fairley’s never been a good businessman. He’s a much better lawyer. He should have stuck to the law, in my considered opinion.’

‘Winston told me Edwin sold off a lot of his shares. That was obviously a foolish move. He weakened his position, didn’t he?’

Emma nodded. ‘He’s not been dealing from strength for a long time. But he stayed on as chairman, and that was really a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Because his situation was very tenuous, and the other shareholders were upset with him, but he paid no mind to them. He thought he was in the right. He didn’t understand and they weren’t loyal to him, only to their own bank balances. I made them a huge offer, volunteered to put new management in, but it was the money that did it. Naturally. Money talks, Blackie. You taught me that when I was still a bairn.’

He smiled at her, rose and walked over to the balustrade of the terrace, looking down the long stretch of lawn, his eyes reflective. Suddenly he turned and nodded, saying swiftly, ‘Winston said Edwin finally sold his shares to Harte Enterprises.’

‘He did. He had no alternative.’

‘Winston calls it a coup for you, and I agree with him. But I’m surprised you didn’t go to that board meeting.’

‘Why would I go? Winston was representing me.’

‘To witness Edwin’s defeat, Emm.’

Those beautiful green eyes turned flinty and cold, and there was a sudden iciness about Emma. She drew herself up in the chair, her head held proudly, and said in a voice that was glacial, ‘Forty-five years ago I told Edwin Fairley I never wanted to see him again as long as I lived, and I haven’t. You surely can’t think that I want to set eyes on him now, do you? Not you, Blackie? My one true friend.’

‘I don’t suppose you would,’ he murmured in a quiet tone, memories rushing at him. Once he’d been ready to horsewhip Edwin Fairley, because of his treatment of Emma. And for a long time, many years in fact, he had regretted that he hadn’t done so. Edwin had deserved it.

Emma said, ‘But all that’s water under the bridge. However, Winston told me something odd, that he thought Edwin looked gratified at the meeting. I thought that was a strange thing to say, and I told him that more than likely it was relief he saw on Edwin’s face.’

‘I can’t imagine he’d be gratified, Emma. The Gazette’s been in the Fairley family for three generations. Now he’s lost it to you.’

She began to laugh. ‘Relief, Blackie, I’ve lifted a burden from Edwin’s shoulders. For a second time.’

‘True, mavourneen,’ Blackie replied softly, his face bland. And then he thought that perhaps Edwin had indeed been relieved, but not for any reason Emma could conjure up.

‘Grandy, Grandy, Grandy! Here I am!’ Paula cried, the five-year-old child running along the terrace on her fat little legs, her summer frock billowing around her, her face full of smiles.

Emma jumped up, rushed forward to meet her granddaughter, exclaiming, ‘Not so fast, darling, I don’t want you to fall!’

Bending down, Emma caught hold of Paula, and hugged her to her. ‘You mustn’t run so fast, lovey.’

The child looked at her solemnly, and then she struggled free and ran to Blackie at the end of the terrace. ‘Uncle Blackie, hello, hello!’

Smiling in delight, Blackie bent over her, smoothing her dark curls gently with the palm of his hand. ‘And aren’t you just the most beautiful girl, mavourneen,’ he said softly, his black eyes full of love for this child.

‘Shane, I want Shane, Uncle Blackie. Where’s Shane?’ she demanded.

‘He’s at school, me darlin’.’

‘Can he come and play tomorrow?’

‘I’m sure he can, Paula.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Oh good.’

As Emma came towards them, Blackie looked up and his breath caught in his throat. From even this short distance she looked for a moment as she had when she was a girl…her red-gold hair shimmering in the sunlight. She was as beautiful to him now as she had been then…so many years ago when he had met his little starveling girl on those mist-filled moors, and followed her to that wretched house, Fairley Hall. An involuntary shiver ran through him as he thought of that time.

When Emma came to a stop she looked up into his face and said, with a frown, ‘You look so sorrowful, Blackie. Is something wrong?’

‘No, not anymore, mavourneen. Not anymore.’ He gave her a bright smile, leaned over the child and kissed Emma’s cheek. ‘But I just want you to know you’re still my young colleen of the moors. And you always will be ’til the day I die.’