n death, as in life, Emma Harte was in full command.

After summoning Doctor Hedley to the store, telephoning members of the family, and then accompanying Emma's body to the undertakers, Paula and Emily finally drove out to Pennistone Royal.

A tearful Hilda greeted them in the Stone Hall.

The housekeeper handed Paula a letter she was clutching. "Mrs. Harte gave this to me a few weeks ago. She asked me to hold it for you, Miss Paula, until her death." Hilda, who had worked for Emma for over thirty years, burst into tears again. "It doesn't seem possible that she's gone," Hilda said, wiping her eyes. "She looked so well this morning when she left for the store."

"Yes, she did," Paula murmured quietly. "And let's be glad she had her faculties until the end, and that her death was so peaceful, quite beautiful, really, Hilda." Paula and Emily spent the next few minutes comforting the sorrowful housekeeper, and gave her the full details of Emma's passing, which seemed to soothe her.

Finally pulling herself together, Hilda said, "I know you both must have a lot to do. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

"Thanks, Hilda," Paula said.-Slowly she walked across the Stone Hall and mounted the great staircase, clasping the letter to her chest. Emily trailed in her wake.

They went into Emma's upstairs parlor where a fire blazed and the lamps glowed. They sat down on the sofa together and it was with shaking hands that Paula opened the sealed envelope and read the four pages covered with Emma's neat yet elegant handwriting. The letter was neither maudlin nor sad, but brisk and matter-of-fact, and it contained Emma's instructions for her funeral. She wanted a short and simple service, only one prayer and two hymns, one of them to be sung by Shane O'Neill. She forbade a eulogy, but suggested that if Paula so wished there could be one. It had to be spoken by Randolph, her nephew, and no one else.

It was the very cheerfulness that brought the tears to Paula's eyes. Swallowing, she passed the letter to Emily. "These are Grandy's last wishes. She doesn't want the funeral service to be long or drawn out, and it mustn't be overly religious. We must do as she asks, Emily."

Emily also wept as she read the letter. After mopping her streaming eyes and blowing her nose, she asked in a quavering tone, "Whatever are we going to do without Grandy, Paula?"

Paula put her arm around Emily and "comforted her. After a while she said firmly, but with gentleness, "We are going to do what she wants.us to do, take charge, and bury her the way she requested. And from now on we are going to be strong, and very brave. She wouldn't expect less of us. After all, that's the way she raised us. She taught us to stand tall, as she did throughout her life, and so we must. We can't let her down. Not now. Not ever."

"Yes, you're right," Emily took a deep breath. "Sorry, I don't mean to be a burden to you. I know it's just as hard for you as it is for me." Emily frowned and then added, "Did you notice the date on the letter?"

"Yes. She wrote it a few days after Alexander's wedding— only a month ago."

"Do you think Grandy knew she was going to die soon?"

"Perhaps, but I can't be sure. Still, they say old people do see death approaching. Blackie going so suddenly shook her

up, as you know, and it made her feel vulnerable, even more conscious of her own mortality." Paula forced a watery smile.

"On the other hand, I'd like to believe that our Gran was just being her usual efficient self, thinking of every contingency 'when she wrote the letter. You know as well as I do that Emma Harte never left one single thing to chance."

These comments seemed to cheer Emily. "That's true. And at least Gran died the way she wanted to die—at the office, with

her boots on."

Both young women glanced around as the door opened suddenly.

Winston hurried into the parlor, his face grave, his eyes red-rimmed. "Sorry I'm late. I've been on the phone for ages," he said. He kissed his wife, squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, and then bent down and kissed Paula on the cheek. "You both look

as done in as I feel. How about a drink?"

"Thanks, Winston. I'll have a vodka and tonic," Paula said.

'The same for me, darling," Emily said.

He brought them their drinks, took a chair next to the fire ' and lit a cigarette.

Paula passed Emma's letter to him, explaining, "These are Emma's last instructions, her final wishes."

After reading it, he said, "Emma's been very explicit and precise. Thank God. It'll save a lot of family discussions and arguments about her funeral, especially with Robin. You know what he's like, so vociferous about everything, too bloody opinionated."

Paula looked across at him curiously. "I hardly think he would volunteer an opinion about his mother's funeral—not under the circumstances. Surely he wouldn't dare."

Winston grimaced. "He might, knowing him. But her letter spells it out and that's that."

"And you can be sure Grandy's funeral is going to be exactly the way she herself planned it," Paula exclaimed.

Winston nodded, asked, "What did Doctor Hedley say after he examined Aunt Emma?"

"Heart failure," Emily volunteered. She gulped. "Gran's poor old heart just gave out, stopped beating."

Winston drew on his cigarette and looked away, his eyes suddenly swimming. There was a tremor in his voice as he remarked, "Grandfather Winston always used to tell me that his sister had a heart as big as a paving stone, and Emma did, she surely did." He sighed softly. "At least she went peacefully, and for that we must all be grateful." He brought his eyes back to Paula. "

When is the funeral? Have you decided yet?"

"I'm afraid we can't have it until Tuesday at the earliest. Mainly because of Philip's getting here from Australia," Paula told him. "Fortunately Pip was in Sydney, not out at the sheep station in Coonamble, when I rang him tonight. He said he'd leave first thing in the morning. Very early. He's chartering a private jet. He thinks it'll be quicker than taking a commercial flight. I also spoke to my mother. Naturally she was as devastated as we are, and she wants to get home as quickly as possible. So she, my father, and Jim are flying from Nice directly to Manchester tomorrow morning. Alexander and Maggie will be arriving then, too."

Emily said, "I spoke to Mummy in Paris. I told her she didn't have to come until Sunday or Monday. I also talked to Robin and Kit. They're here in Yorkshire, so there's no problem. We managed to contact 'everyone on our list, including Sarah and Jonathan. What about you, Winston?"

"I got hold of Dad at the hotel in London. He'll be on a train in the morning. Vivienne's at Middleham, of course. Sally and Anthony were both at Clonloughlin. But Aunt Edwina is in Dublin; Anthony told me he'll reach her later this evening. They'll fly over on Sunday. You're going to have a house full, Paula.

"Yes, I know."

Winston said reflectively, "I think Emily and I ought to move in here with you for the next few days. What do—"

Paula interjected. "Oh yes, please do. I'd appreciate it."

Clearing his throat, Winston now asked in a muffled tone, "When are they bringing her body—I mean, bringing Aunt Emma back to Pennistone Royal?"

Paula blinked rapidly as her eves moistened. "Tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to take the dress she wanted to wear to the undertaker in Leeds first thing in the morning." Paula turned her head, pressing back her tears with her fingertips. After a second, she went on, "Emily and I didn't want to leave her there all alone for the next few days. It may sound silly, but we didn't want—her to be lonely without us. And so her coffin will be brought here, to this house, her home, the one place she truly loved on this earth. We've decided to let the coffin stand in the Stone Hall. She liked the hall so much..."Her voice trailed off.

Emily said, with a little burst of anger, "You wouldn't believe how stupid the undertaker was, Winston! So bureaucratic. He actually tried to argue with us earlier this evening, when we insisted on accompanying Gran to—his place."

"Oh, I know, darling," Winston murmured sympathetically. "There's always a lot of stupid red tape. But you got your way, which is the main thing."

"You can bet your last shilling we did," Paula asserted. "By the way, Emily reached Merry just as she was leaving the office, to come to dinner here, and she went to tejl Uncle Bryan about Emma. Apparently he was so heartbroken she had to drive him home to Wetherby."

"I'm sure he was, and is," Winston replied. "Aunt Emma was like a mother to Bryan when he was a child growing up."

"Merry rang us back at the office," Emily said. "The O'Neills are popping over at about nine o'clock to be with us."

"Incidentally, I tried to get hold of Shane. He was due back from Spain this afternoon." Winston fixed his eyes on Paula. "But when I rang the London office at six forty-five there was no reply. I guess I missed him—"

"I caught him there," Paula interrupted. "At six. He'd just walked in from the airport. He's on his way to Yorkshire right now—driving.- He'll come straight here, and he should arrive about eleven."

There was a knock on the door and Hilda walked into the parlor. "Excuse me, Miss Paula," she said, "but I'd already prepared the usual cold bufiet for tonight, as I always do on Friday. You know, before you rang me about—" The housekeeper stopped, covered her mouth with her hand. She took a breath, and her voice wobbled as she finished, "About Mrs. Harte passing away." She stared at Paula helplessly, unable to utter another word.

"I'm sorry, Hilda, but I don't feel like eating." Paula glanced at Emily and Winston. "Do either of you?" They both shook their heads, and Paula added, "I think we'd better skip dinner tonight. Thanks anyway, Hilda."

"Oh, I understand, Miss Paula." Hilda made a face. "I can't eat either. To tell you the truth, I'd choke on the food," she muttered and disappeared.

"Blunt as ever, Hilda is," Winston said. "But I know what she means. I feel the same way." He rose and went to the console, where he poured himself another scotch and soda. He turned suddenly, looked first at his wife and then at Paula. He said thoughtfully, "This may seem like a peculiar thing to say, rather farfetched even, but now that Aunt Emma's dead I feel her presence more acutely than ever. I don't mean because I'm here in this room, which was her favorite, but in general. She's—well, she's just with me. I've felt her closeness ever since you called me at our Harrogate office to tell me that she'd died."

Emily nodded and emphatically so. "It's not farfetched, Winston. Paula and I discussed that very thing when we were driving back here tonight."

For a moment Paula sat silently reflecting, and then she said in a quiet voice, "We all feel her presence because she is here with us, Winston. She's all around us. And inside us. She made us what we are, gave us so much of herself that we're full of her." A sudden and lovely warm smile spread across Paula's tired face. "Grandy will be with each one of us for all of our days. And so, in a sense, she'll never really be dead. Emma Harte will live on forever through us."

Emma Harte's funeral was held in Ripon Cathedral, as she had requested. It took place at one o'clock on the Tuesday following her death.

Her entire family was present, along with friends, colleagues, employees, and most of the inhabitants of the village of Pennistone Royal, where she had lived for well over thirty years. The cathedral was packed to overflowing and if there were some present who were dry-eyed, they were far outnumbered by those who were tearful and sorrowing.

Her coffin was borne down the nave and through the great chancel to the altar by the six pallbearers she herself had chosen. Three of them were her grandsons, Philip McGill Amory, Alexander Barkstone, and Anthony Standish, the Earl of Dunvale. The other three were her great-nephew Winston Harte and Shane O'Neill and Michael Kallinski, the grandsons of her two dear friends from her youth.

Although her coffin was not heavy, the six young men walked at a slow, measured pace, their steps keeping time with the organ music that swelled to the rafters of the ancient cathedral. Finally the pallbearers came to a stop in front of the magnificent altar and it was here that they rested Emma's coffin amidst a profusion of exquisite floral bouquets and wreaths. The central area where the coffin stood was bathed in light from the many flickering candles and the sunlight pouring in through the jewel-colored stained-glass windows.

The family occupied all of the front pews. Paula sat between Jim and her mother. Her father was on Daisy's other side. He,

in turn, had Emily on his right side. She was mothering Amanda and Francesca, who cried continuously into their damp handkerchiefs. Although Emily was as distressed as her sisters, she somehow managed to keep a firm grip on herself, endeavoring to comfort the heartbroken teenagers.

Once the pallbearers had been seated with the rest of the mourners, the Dean of Ripon, the Very Reverend Edwin LeGrice, began the short service. He spoke beautifully about Emma, his words eloquent and moving, and when he stepped down from the pulpit ten minutes later, his place was taken by Emma's nephew Randolph Harte.

Randolph gave the sole eulogy. He had difficulty at times, his strong voice cracking with emotion, and he choked on some of his sentences, his sorrow and sense of loss rising to the surface. Randolph's words about his aunt were very simple and loving, spoken from the heart and with genuine feeling. His eulogizing of Emma was limited to a recital of her attributes as a human being. He made no mention of her business career as one of the world's greatest merchant princes. Instead, he touched on her generosity of spirit, her kind nature, her understanding heart, her great acts of charity, her loyalty as a friend and relative, her extraordinary qualities as a woman of remarkable character and strength and indomitable will.

After the eulogy, which had caused many to weep, the Ripon Cathedral choir rose and gave their beautiful harmonized rendition of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," one of the two hymns Emma had learned as a child, and which she had wanted sung today.

As the choir sat down, the Dean of Ripon returned to the pulpit. He led the mourners in a single prayer, before offering up his own brief prayer for Emma Harte's soul and for her eternal life. When he brought this to a close he asked all of those present to say their own personal and private prayers for Emma during the next few minutes of absolute silence.

Paula, her head bowed, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but the tears seeped out anyway and dripped onto her clasped hands. The cathedral was perfectly still now, its peacefulness enveloping them all. But occasionally the silent hallowed space echoed with a muffled sob, a small gasp of grief, or a strangled cough.

And then suddenly his voice rang out, so true and clear and pure Paula thought her heart was going to burst. She had known Shane was going to sing "Jerusalem," since this was one of Emma's last wishes, but nevertheless she was startled. She brought her handkerchief up to her face, wondering how she could ever bear this part of the service.

Shane O'Neill stood alone in a far comer of the cathedral and he sang William Blake's old hymn without accompaniment, his rich full baritone echoing to every corner of the church.

As he came to the end of the first verse and commenced the second, Paula experienced a sudden and extraordinary feeling of peace and release as the words washed over her. He held her enthralled.

Shane's lilting voice reached out to touch everyone present as he now sang:

"Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my Arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In England's green and pleasant Land."

As Shane's voice faded away, Paula unexpectedly understood the need, the significance, and the importance of the ritual and ceremony of death. Somehow they were helping her to endure her sorrow. The prayers, brief though they had been, the choirboys and then Shane singing so melodiously, the masses of flowers, and the extraordinary beauty of this ancient cathedral had given her a degree of ease from her overwhelming pain. The presence of the Dean, whom she had known for years, was calming, comforting to her. It suddenly struck her that when grief could be shared in this way the burden of the heartbreak became slightly lighter to bear. She knew the service had been a shade more elaborate than her grandmother had intended, but somehow she felt it has been extremely consoling to those who genuinely cared about Emma and mourned her truly. We did her honor, we gave her a wonderful tribute as she leaves this earthly life, Paula thought. It has been our way of saying our loving good-byes. Paula felt a new strength flowing through her as she lifted her head.

Instantly she became conscious of her mother's terrible anguish. Daisy was sobbing unrestrainedly against David's shoulder. Paula put her hand on her mother's arm, whispered, "It's all right, Mummy. Draw comfort from knowing that she's safe at last. She's gone to your father, to Paul, and now they're together for all time, for eternity."

"Yes," Daisy gasped. "I know, darling, I know. But I shall miss her so much. She was the best. The very, very best there is in this world."

The organ music began again and rose to a crescendo as her coffin was lifted by the pallbearers. They brought it back through the chancel and down the nave and out of Ripon Cathedral. Emma's immediate family walked behind her coffin and then they stood outside, watching as it was placed in the hearse and covered with a blanket of flowers for her last journey.

Paula noticed that Edwina was as stricken and tearful as her mother and impulsively she went over, placed her hand on her aunt's arm. "I'm glad you made your peace with Grandy," Paula said in a shaky voice. "Really glad, Aunt Edwina."

Edwina turned to Paula, her light gray eyes brimming. "It was too late. I should have done it years ago. I was wrong. So very wrong, Paula dear."

Paula said, "She understood. She always understood everything, that was the beauty of Emma Harte. And she was so pleased you and she became friends—overjoyed, if you want.to know the truth."

"That helps a little," Edwina said softly. "And you and I, Paula, we must be friends too. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes,".Paula said very simply, and bent forward and kissed Edwina's wet cheek.

A long line of cars followed the cortege out of Ripon and on to Harrogate. They soon left the bucolic Dales behind, passed through the city of Leeds, the seat of Emma's power, and traveled through the grimy industrial valleys of the West Riding. But eventually the procession came up onto the high moorland road that cut through the great Pennine Chain of hills.

On this sunlit afternoon in early September, those grim and savage Yorkshire moors had lost their blackened and daunting aspects that could so appall the eye. Dark and implacable for most of the year, they now blazed with sudden and glorious splendor. As it always did at the end of the summer, wave upon wave of purple and magenta heather undulated across the great sweep of wild, untenanted moors. It was as if a cloth of royal purple had been rolled out, and it rippled gently under the light breeze. High above floated a resplendent sky that was as blue as speedwells and brilliant witn that incredible clarity of light so peculiar to the North of England. The air was pure and bracing. Larks and linnets wheeled and turned with a rush and fluttering of wings and their sweet trillings pierced the silence, and there was the fragrant scent of harebells and wildflowers and heather on the lucent air.

Finally the cortege began its descent, leaving the moorland "behind, and several hours after its departure from Ripon it progressed slowly into the village of Fairley. The hearse came to a standstill outside the quaint Norman church where, eighty-one years ago, Emma had been christened.

Her six young pallbearers, representing the three clans, shouldered her coffin for the last time. Moving at a slow pace and with great care, they carried her through the lych-gate into the cemetery, where the vicar, the Reverend Huntley, was waiting at the graveside.

Against the dry-stone walls and under the blowing trees and along the winding paths stood the villagers of Fairley. They were silent and grieving, the men with their caps in their hands, the women and children holding sprays of wild-flowers, and heather, for remembrance, and all had their heads bowed and most of them were weeping quietly. They had come out of love to pay their last respects, to say farewell to this.woman who was one of their own, she who had risen so high in the world but had never once forgotten them.

After a brief ceremony under that wide and shimmering sky which she had believed to be unique, Emma Harte was buried in the benign earth which had for so long sheltered

her loved ones. Her grave was between those of her mother and Winston, her final resting place overshadowed by the moors she had so loved and wandered over as a child, and where she had never felt lonely or alone in her solitude.