hey 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 favorite 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 bleached-pine-paneled 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, coziness 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 accompaniment.

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 forbid-, ding in the flattering light. Her hair held the luster 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 spreckles 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 to 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 toward 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 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 racehorse 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 honor-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, 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 the year 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 traveled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweler, 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? What ever 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 overextending 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 afterward, 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, mavoumeen. 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 afterward." 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 that he was speechless for a few seconds. Slowly a shamefaced look crept onto 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 favor. Besides—" He gave her a boyish grin that brought his dimples out. "I would have made you happy."

"Yes, Blackie, I believe you would."

This was said rapidly, and there was a sudden urgency in her manner as she leaned forward anxiously, needing to clarify the past, to make him understand the reasons which had motivated her and Paul, quite aside from their great love. "Don't forget," she began, intent on jogging his memory, "my marriage to Arthur Ainsley was on the rocks long before 'Paul McGill returned to this country. I was on the verge of divorce when Paul showed up. Besides, and this is most important, Blackie, Paul wouldn't have intruded, wouldn't have sought me out if I'd been happily married. It was only because Frank had told him I was miserable and separated from Ainsley that he arrived on my doorstep."

She paused, settled back in the chair, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "I know I would not have seen hide nor hair of Paul ever again if my life had been on an even keel. He told me that himself. He came searching for me because he was aware I was unhappy—and also available. He most certainly wouldn't have done that if I'd been married to you. Have you forgotten how much he liked and respected you?"

"No, I haven't. And you're correct in what you say... Yes, Paul was a fine and honorable man. I always had a lot of time for him."

Blackie now rose.

"Well," he said, "that's all water under an old and decrepit bridge, my girl. There's no point rehashing our troubles of half a century ago. And maybe it was meant to be..." He lifted his hands and shoulders in a brief shrug. "... exactly the way it is. But I would like you to have the ring. It's always been yours, you know."

He bent over her. She looked up at him and then at the black leather box in his hands. He lifted the lid, turned the box to her.

Emma gasped.

The ring was exquisite, throwing off the most brilliant prisms of light and sparkling with life and fire against the lack velvet. The central diamond was round, multifaceted, and very large, at least twenty carats, and it was surrounded by smaller stones which were equally as lovely and superbly cut, and these formed a circle at the base of the mounting.

Even Emma, accustomed to magnificent jewelry, was awestruck, and she found herself blinking, truly taken aback by its size and beauty. "It's stunning, Blackie," she said a im breathlessly, "and one of the most beautiful rings I've ever seen."

His joy at her words was evident. "It's an old setting, of course, the original, and perhaps it's even a bit outdated, But I didn't want to have it reset. Here, slip it on, mavourneen."

She shook her head. "No, you do it, my fine black Irishman." She offered him her left hand. "Put it on the third finger, next to my wedding ring."

He did so.

Emma held out her small, strong hand, her head on one side, admiring the ring glittering so brightly in the fire's glow. And then she glanced up at him, her expression unmistakably mischievous. "Are we finally, engaged to be married then?" she teased in a flirtatious voice and offered him a smile that was decidedly coy.

Blackie laughed with delight, hugely amused. He'd always enjoyed her sense of humor.

Bending closer to her, he kissed her cheek. "Let's just say we're engaged to be—to be the dearest and closest friends and companions for the rest of the time we have on this earth."

"Oh, Blackie, that's such a lovely thing to say, and thank you for my beautiful ring." She caught his hand and held on to it and pressed it tightly and looked up at him again; then she smiled that incomparable smile that filled her face with radiance. "My dear old friend, you're so very, very special to me," she said.

"As you are to me, my Emma."

He stepped away from her chair as if heading to his own, and then he paused and swung his white head. "I hope you're going to wear the ring," he remarked offhandedly, but his glance remained riveted intently on hers. "I sincerely hope you're not going to put it away in that safe of yours."

"Certainly not. How could you think such a thing. I'm never going to take it off... ever again."

He touched her shoulder and returned to his seat, smiling to himself. "I'm glad I gave you your ring, me darlin. I've thought about doing so many times, and I've often wondered what you'd say. I know I'm always accusing you of being a sentimentalist in your old age, but I do believe I've become a sentimental old man myself."

"And tell me, Blackie O'Neill, what's, wrong with sentiment? It's a pity there isn't more of it in this world," she said, her eyes unexpectedly moist. "It might be a better place to live in, for one thing.'

"Aye," was all he said.

After a short while Blackie cleared his throat and remarked, "Now, what about that little proposition of mine, Emma? This morning you said you were doubtful that it would work, but I can't agree."

"Do you know," she exclaimed brightly in an enthusiastic voice, "I was thinking about it again this afternoon. Emily's moved in with me, and it suddenly struck me that the only way I'll get a bit of peace and quiet is to accept your generous invitation."

"Then you'll come with me! Ah, me darlin', this news warms the cockles of me heart, sure an' it does." He beamed at her, happiness and excitement welling inside him. He lifted his brandy balloon high. "Come along, take a sip of your Bonnie Prince Charlie, Emma. This calls for a toast, it does indeed."

She held up her hand instead. "Wait a minute! I didn't actually say yes. I can't accept—at least not just yet. I am seriously thinking about the trip, but you'll have to give me a few more weeks to settle things, to adjust to the idea of being absent for several months."

Biting down on his disappointment, he said, "All right, I'll be patient. However, I will have to start making the arrangements soon, so please don't delay your answer for too long."

"I'll let you know as quickly as possible. I promise."

He sipped his cognac, savoring it, and slowly a sly gleam entered his eyes. He was wrapped in thought for a minute or two longer and said finally, "By the way, Emma, I've recently. made a plan, as no doubt you II be surprised to hear. I think of it as my Plan with a capital P, since it happens to be the first plan I've ever made." He was unable, to contain himself and let out a throaty chortle, and his eyes became merry and teasing. "Do you remember that first plan of yours?"

"Goodness me, I'd forgotten all about that.'

"I never did. And I even recall the day you confided it in me. Such a small slip of a thing you were, too, and I was most impressed. Anyway, if you've got a few minutes, I'd like to tell you about mine. It's a most marvelous plan, me darlin', even though I say so myself. And I'll bet my last quid it's going to intrigue you, sure an' I know it will."

Amusement touched her mouth. "I'd love to hear about your plan, Blackie dear."

He sat back expansively, nodding to himself, and began, "Well, it's like this. There is this woman I know, and she's the most stubborn creature I've met in all my bom days. It just so happens that this stubborn, contrary, maddening, but quite adorable woman has a grandson living in Australia. I know she wants to go and see him, and I thought it would be a wonderful treat for her if I took her out there to see him myself. And so I've made a very special plan, and this is how it goes..."

Emily had fallen asleep on one of the huge sofas in the upstairs parlor.

To Emma, standing over her, she looked small and defenseless and innocent, wrapped in a white toweling robe and curled up in a ball against the pile of cushions. A feeling of infinite tenderness swept through Emma. She bent down and gently moved a strand of pale blond hair away from Emily's eyes and brushed her lips against the girl's smooth young cheek. She straightened up, wondering whether to awaken her or not, decided to get ready for bed herself first, and tiptoed into the adjoining bedroom.

Emma hung up her sable jacket, took off her pearl choker and matching earrings, and placed them on the dressing table. After removing her watch and the McGill emerald, she started to pull on Blackie's ring, then stopped and looked down at it. This ring had lain in a vault waiting for her for fifty years, and she had promised Blackie she would never take it off. She pushed the ring back on her finger, next to Paul's platinum wedding band, and finished undressing. She had just put on her nightgown when there was a tap on the door and Emily's smiling face appeared around it.

"There you are, Grandy. I waited up for you."

"So I noticed, darling. But you didn't have to, you know."

"I wanted to, Gran. But to be honest, I didn't think you'd be as late as this. It's turned twelve-thirty!"

"I'm well aware of the time, Emily. And look here, if you're going to live with me, you mustn't start monitoring my comings and goings. And I don't need mothering either. I get enough of that from Paula at the store," Emma remarked

evenly, putting on her silk dressing gown and knotting the belt.

Emily giggled and skipped into the room, obviously wide awake and full of her usual joie de vivre. "It's not role reversal, if that's what.you're thinking. I'm not trying to mother you. I was merely commenting on the time." '

"Just bear in mind what I said."

"I will, Grandma." Emily hovered near the dressing table. She saw the jewelry strewn across it and her eyes darted to Emma's hand. She noticed the diamond at once, which shone with brilliance in the bright light from the lamps. "Aren't you going to show me Blackie's ring?" she asked.

Emma s brows shot up. "And how did you know about the ring?" The words had no sooner left her mouth than she wondered why she had even bothered to ask Emily, of all people, such a question.

"Merry and I were Blackie's conspirators," Emily explained. "About two weeks ago he asked her to ask me to,check your ring size. He thought your fingers might have shrunk."

"Did he indeed! I'll have to have a few strong words with him tomorrow. Does he think I've turned into a shriveled-up old crone," Emma exclaimed pithily.

Emily could not keep the laughter out of her voice as she said, "Nobody would think that about you, Gran, least of all Blackie. You're still beautiful."

No, I'm not. I am an old woman, Emma stated flatly. "But thank you for being nice, Emily. Of course," she added with a laugh, "everyone knows you're prejudiced." She held out her left hand. "Well, how do you like it?"

Emily took hold of Emma's hand, her bright green eyes huge and as round as saucers, her excitement apparent on her expressive, mobile face. "Gosh, Gran, I'd no idea it was going to be so big and such a beauty! It's fabulous!" She scrutinized the ring more closely and, with an expert's eye, lifted her head and nodded knowingly. "It's a perfect diamond, Gran. I bet it cost a fortune.'.." Her voice trailed off and she hesitated, then asked in an uncertain tone, "Does this mean you and Blackie are going to get married?"

Emma burst out laughing and extracted her hand. "Of course not, you silly goose. Whatever will you think of next." She touched Emily's face lovingly, "You're such a romantic girl," she murmured, sighing softly. "No, it wouldn't be appropriate. Not at our ages. As Blackie said, we're engaged to be the best of friends for the rest of our lives." Emma now became aware of the undisguised curiosity and interest lingering on Emily's face, and before she could stop herself, she said, "I'll tell you the story about the ring, if you like."

"Oh yes, I'd love to hear it, Grandy'. Let's go to the parlor, though. I have a thermos of hot chocolate waiting for you. Come along." She took hold of her grandmother's arm possessively and shepherded her next door, not realizing she was fussing and bustling like a mother hen. Emma merely smiled and allowed herself to be bullied, secretly amused.

After filling two mugs with chocolate and giving one to Emma, Emily curled up on the sofa she had so recently vacated, tucked her feet under her, and gleefully snuggled down into the cushions. Lifting her mug, she took a sip and cried with delight, 'This is such fun, it's like being back at boarding school and having midnight feasts."

Emma's mouth twitched. "Don't get carried away, Emily," she laughed. "We won't be doing this every night. I'm usually in bed by this time. And talking of bed, it's getting very late. I-'d better tell you the story quickly so that we can go to sleep. We have a hectic day tomorrow.'

"Yes, Gran." Emily gave her grandmother her rapt attention.

When the old story'was finally told, Emily said, "Oh Grandma, that's so lovely and.touching and a little^sad in a way. And imagine him keeping the ring all these years. Gosh, that's real devotion." A wistful look swept across her delicately pretty face and she shook her head. "And you're skeptical about unrequited love! This should prove you're absolutely wrong."

Emma smiled indulgently, made no comment.

Brightening, Emily rushed on in her breathy voice, "Just think, if you'd married Blackie instead of Awful Arthur all those years ago, your children would have been very different— it's all a matter of genes, you know. I wonder if the oldies would have been any nicer?" Emily tilted her head and pursed her lips, lost in thought, her mind racing. Several things occurred to her all at once, and she burst out, "What about your grandchildren? Paula, for instance. And me. Goodness, Grandy, I might not have been me at all. I could have been someone altogether different—"

Emma cut in, "But I would have loved you just as much, Emily, and Paula too."

"Oh yes, of course you would, I know that. But your family would nave been very—"

"Now you're speculating about things we'll never know. And it's all much too complicated for me, especially at this hour," Emma said with a dismissive yet kindly smile. "But speaking of my family, what happened here this evening? How was the dinner party?"

Instantly Emily's face underwent a change, became serious as she sat up abruptly, swung her feet to the floor, and leaned closer to Emma. Her manner was confiding as she said, "You're not going to believe this, but Edwina's behavior was quite extraordinary—"

"In what way?" Emma asked sharply, dreading the worst.

Seeing the apprehensive expression settling on her grandmother's face, Emily shook her head with some vehemence. "Don't look like that. It was all right. Edwina was nice... so nice I couldn't get over it, and neither could Paula. The Dowager Countess was charm personified. Well, that's not strictly true." Emily made a motie. "You know I have a tendency to exaggerate." Emily wrinkled her nose, went on, "She was sort of... cautious with Paula and me. She doesn't really like us. She was polite, though, and pleasant to everyone else. I can't imagine what you said to her earlier, Grandma, but it certainly had a drastic effect on her." Emily searched Emma's face and probed, "You must have given her an awful lecture. You did, didn't you?" A blond brow lifted quizzically.

Emma said nothing.

Emily volunteered, "I think Aunt Edwina had been crying before she came down for drinks. Her eyes were puffy and red, and so was her nose. She didn't want a drink. She asked me for aspirins and a glass of water. We'd only been alone together for a couple of minutes when Paula and Jim arrived with Aunt Daisy and Uncle David. Edwina attached herself to Daisy immediately—it's funny, she seems to have a thing about Daisy. Anyway she didn't say much to anyone else, not even Jim, during cocktails." Emily's shoulders hunched in a small offhanded shrug. "1 thought she seemed ever so subdued, and she was certainly abstemious. You know how incorrigible she and Mummy are, always tippling. They never know when they've had enough. Edwina didn't touch a drop all night though, not even wine with dinner." Flopping back against the cushions, regarding Emma more closely, she pressed, "What actually did you say to her, Gran?"

"Now, Emily, don't be so nosy. That's a private matter between Edwina and me. Anyway it's not important. What matters is that my words penetrated. Perhaps I drilled some sense into her after all."

"Oh I'm sure that's true," Emily agreed. "And there's something else—you'll never guess what she did before we went in to dinner."

"No, I'm certain I won't. So you might as well tell me, Emily."

"She asked Aunt Daisy if she could invite Anthony over for coffee later and then went to telephone him at Uncle Randolph's."

Emma stiffened and asked with a frown, "Did he come?"

"Oh yes." Emily grinned. "With cousin Sally. Oh, Gran, they're so much in love and super together."

"Sally came with him! How did Edwina treat her?"

"With cordiality. My eyes were popping, I can tell you that, and I wouldn't have missed that little scene for all the tea in China. 'Course Edwina was falling all over Anthony. She was a bit too obsequious, if you ask me—you know, Uriah Heepish—but then she's always fawned over her son." She gave Emma a huge smile and finished, "In a nutshell, Grandma, the dinner was a roaring success."

Emma was flabbergasted and temporarily rendered speechless. "Well," she said at last, "this is one for the books. I never expected Edwina to do such a volte-face." Privately she congratulated herself. Her dire warnings had frightened Edwina into behaving like a normal person seemingly. This is a major victory, she thought, and hoped that her daughter would not have a change of heart. Edwina was unpredictable. There was no telling what she might do in a moment of

Eique. Now, don't go begging for trouble, Emma cautioned erself. Relax.

Smiling brightly, filled with an enormous sense of relief, Emma propelled herself to her feet. "On that rather surprising but pleasant note, I think I'll get off to bed, darling girl." She leaned over and kissed Emily. "It looks as if everyone is going to behave with decorum tomorrow. Well, let's hope so. Goodnight, Emily."

Emily rose and hugged her tightly. "I do love you so much, Gran. And goodnight, sleep tight." She picked up the tray. "I suppose I'd better do the same. I've got to collect the twins from Harrogate College tomorrow, and I've thousands of other chores." She sucked in her breath. "Phew!" she exhaled, "1 never seem to have a minute to spare."

Emma swallowed a smile and disappeared into her bedroom before Emily decided to regale her with those chores she had planned for the following morning.

"Oh, Grandy," Emily called after her, "I'm glad you're not upset about the Aire Communications deal collapsing."

Emma came back to the doorway. "I'd venture to say that it's their loss, our gain."

"Yes, so Paula indicated when she mentioned it earlier." Emily glided to the door and muttered with a degree of terseness, "Sebastian Cross is simply dreadful. I thought Jonathan might make headway with him. Apparently he didn't, and if Jonathan couldn't succeed, then nobody could."

Emma stood perfectly still and said with the utmost care, "What are you chattering on about, Emily?"

Emily stopped in her tracks, swung to face Emma. "The Aire deal. You asked Jonathan to talk to Sebastian, didn't your.."

"No," Emma replied in the quietest of voices.

"Oh," Emily said, looking confused.

"What makes you think I propelled Jonathan into those particular negotiations?" As she spoke, Emma steadied herself against the door jamb, her astute eyes glinting darkly as they rested with fixity on her grandchild. All of her senses were alerted, and she remarked tersely, "Obviously something."

"Well, yes," Emily began and scowled. "On Tuesday, when I had dinner with Daddy in London, I saw the two of them in the bar of Les Ambassadeurs when we were leaving. We'd had an early dinner, you see, and Daddy was in a frightful stew about being late for a business meeting. He was in such a hurry I didn't get a chance to go over and speak to Jonathan."

"I see." Emma was thoughtful for a moment, asked, "Why did you suggest Jonathan would be able to influence young Cross?"

"Because of their old friendship... they were at Eton together. But then you know that, Gran. You once took me there with you when you went to visit Jonathan at half-term. Don't you remember?"

Yes. Naturally I also remember that Jonathan went to Eton. What I hadn't realized was that Cross was a pupil there

as well or that Jonathan and he had been friends in those days. I had—"

"I think they're still friends actually," Emily interrupted.

This bit of information chilled Emma to the bone, but she attempted a smile. "He probably wanted to surprise me. He might have realized the negotiations were going to be touchy and was endeavoring to smooth the way for Paula," she said, trying to convince herself this was the truth. But her intuition told her it was not. Emma gripped the door jamb more tightly, and, adopting a.meticulously casual tone, asked, "Did Jonathan see you in Les Ambassadeurs,.Emily?"

Emily shook her head. "He was in deep conversation with Cross." She pondered, asked swiftly, "Why? Is it important?"

"Not really. Did you mention this to Paula?"

"I didn't get an opportunity. She had just started to tell me about the Aire fiasco, as she called it, and Cross being horrid to her, when Hilda announced dinner." Emily bit her inner lip, frowning, beginning to wonder precisely what her grandmother was leading up to with her questions.

Emma nodded as though to herself, then remarked in that same lightly casual voice, "I'd prefer you not to say anything about this to Paula. I wouldn't want her to think he was interfering, queering her pitch. Unintentionally of course. And don't bother to bring it up with Jonathan either. I'll talk to him, find out what his aim was, if indeed he had an aim. It might have been a strictly social evening, you know, in view of their friendship."

"Yes, Grandy, whatever you say."

Emily stood rooted to the spot, studying her grandmother closely, filling with alarm. Emma's face had paled as they had been talking, and she noticed that the happy light in her eyes had fled. They were uncommonly dull, lifeless for once. Emily put down the tray hurriedly and flew across the room. She grasped Emma's arm, exclaimed with concern, "Are you all right, Gran darling?"

Emma made no response. Her mind was working with that razorsharp precision and vivid intelligence which were so integral to her great genius. Assessing and analyzing with her rare brand of shrewdness and perception, she suddenly saw things with a clarity, that shocked. For a split second she recoiled from the truth. I'm making assumptions, she thought, but then her ingrained pragmatism reminded her that she was rarely wrong. The truth was staring her in the face.

Becoming conscious of Emily's hand clutching her arm, her worry and anxiousness apparent, Emma dragged herself out of her disturbing thoughts. She patted the girl's hand, brought a smile to her face that was convincing, reassuring in its certitude. '

"I'm just tired," Emma said in a contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.