rank Harte left El Vino’s bar and walked down Fleet Street towards the Daily Express, reflecting on the piece he had written earlier that evening. It still sat on his desk, for he had wanted an hour away from the office to think about the tone of it.

The hour in El Vino’s had not been restful. The bar had been jammed with reporters from all the newspapers, their faces grim, their voices sombre as they had talked about the political situation, which was worsening, and reviewing the depressing news flooding in from all parts of Europe. Now he asked himself if he had been excessive as he considered the piece, written for the Editorial Opinion page. But that fool Neville Chamberlain should be kicked out of office. Winston Churchill was, without doubt, the man they needed as Prime Minister, with war an inevitability. He knew the Old Man agreed with him on that issue. Beaverbrook and Churchill were long-time friends.

Frank crossed Fleet Street and looked up at the Daily Express, a shimmering sliver of black glass and steel and blazing lights, the modern architecture incongruous, juxtaposed against the time-worn buildings that flanked it on all sides. It was as if the Old Man had deliberately cocked a snook at tradition when he had built the Express, and yet nobody was more traditional than Lord Beaverbrook, tireless defender of the British Empire and all that it entailed. Jealous competitors considered the building to be an eyesore, an offence to the historic Street of Ink, but Frank loved it. He saw it as a tribute to modern journalism and the changing times. The Old Man had been right to build it, for it was certainly the most striking landmark on Fleet Street.

Pushing through the swinging doors of the Express, Frank traversed the lobby and took the lift up to his office. He threw his hat on a chair, sat down, picked up the column, and propped his feet on the desk. He read his words with as critical an eye as possible. It was good, damned good, even though he said so himself. He would let it stand. He jumped up and took it in to Arthur Christiansen.

Chris, young editor of the Daily Express, was the boy wonder of Fleet Street. Beaverbrook’s star protégé, he was the man responsible for changing the look and tenor of English popular journalism. In his shirt sleeves, his face flushed, his hair rumpled, he looked harassed but was obviously in total control behind the paper-strewn desk. He gave Frank a cheery grin. ‘I wondered what had happened to you. I was just about to send a copy boy over to El Vino’s to get you.’

Frank handed him the column. ‘I wanted time to think this over. I thought I might have been too strong.’

Chris’s bright, probing eyes focused on the pages of copy. He read them quickly. ‘Good man. It’s damned clever, Frank. We’ll run it as it stands. No changes necessary. If you tone it down it will lose its impact. The Old Man will like this. You’ve struck just the right note, as usual.’

‘You’re sure it’s not excessive?’

Chris grinned again. ‘I am. It’s very balanced, in fact. But then everything you’ve been writing about the world situation lately has been thoughtful. And damn it all, let’s face it, you are dealing with facts. Nobody can deny that.’ Chris wrote on the first page: Set as is. No changes. ‘Boy!’ he called, motioning to a copy boy loitering near the door of his office. ‘Run this down to the chief sub.’

Frank said, ‘If you don’t need me, I’ll get off. My sister’s expecting me. You have her number if anything comes up.’

Chris nodded. ‘Fine, Frank.’ He picked up one of the telephones, which was ringing loudly. ‘Christiansen here. Good evening, sir.’ He covered the mouthpiece and said to Frank, ‘It’s Lord Beaverbrook calling from Cherkley. Excuse me, Frank.’

Frank collected his hat from his office and strolled through the newsroom, as always lingering there for a moment. The bustle and activity had reached fever pitch as the deadline for the first edition of Monday’s paper approached and the noise was deafening. There was a sense of immediacy in the atmosphere, and the air was pungent with the smell of damp newsprint and wet ink from the page proofs, which always sent a thrill of excitement coursing through Frank’s veins. Popular and successful novelist though he had become over the years, he could no more abandon journalism than he could stop breathing. It was in his blood. And there was no other place quite like the offices of a daily newspaper at this hour, just before the giant presses rolled. It was the pulse, the very heartbeat of the world.

Frank paused at the Reuters wire machine and glanced with quickening interest at the stories coming in. The news was ominous, presaging war. A copy boy dodged past him, tore off the latest Reuters dispatches, and raced away. As he did, Frank’s eye caught a new story coming over the wire. His attention was riveted on it. He was motionless for a long time, reeling from the shock, and disbelieving, and then he roused himself and moved up to the Associated Press machine. After a moment he went to look at the United Press ticker. All the wire services were carrying the identical story and he groaned. There was undoubtedly no mistake. No mistake at all. He tore off the UP story and had a word with the chief sub about it, who acquiesced when Frank asked to take it with him. Pushing the piece of paper in his pocket, Frank walked out of the newsroom, benumbed and sick at heart.

Within seconds he was in the street and hailing a cab. Despite the muggy August weather, he shivered and his hands were unsteady as he lit a cigarette. He wondered how in God’s name he was going to find the strength to do what he must do.

Winston was in London on business and he was staying with Emma, as he always did. They were seated in the drawing room, drinking their after-dinner coffee, when the housekeeper showed Frank in a few minutes later.

Emma’s face lit up when she saw him, and she rose to embrace him. ‘We’d just about given you up!’ she exclaimed, hugging him.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ Frank murmured.

Emma said, ‘Let me get you a drink. What would you like, Frank?’

‘A brandy, please, Emma.’ He turned to Winston. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘A few days. Do you want to have lunch tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Emma handed Frank the drink and sat down in the chair opposite. She looked at him intently and then frowned. ‘You look awfully pale, Frank dear. You’re not sickening with something, are you?’

‘No, I’m just tired.’ He tossed down the brandy and stood up. ‘Mind if I have another? I need it tonight.’

‘Of course not.’ Emma’s eyes swivelled to Winston and one brow shot up quizzically.

Winston noticed his brother’s weary stance. ‘Are you sure you’re not ill, Frank? Emma’s quite right, you don’t seem to be your usual self.’

Frank swung around and managed a smile. ‘I suppose the situation is getting on top of me,’ he muttered, and returned to the chair. ‘The Nazis are about to move into Poland. We’re all convinced of that.’

Winston and Emma plied him with questions, and Frank responded automatically, attempting to sound coherent. Emma had been listening thoughtfully and she turned to face Winston, who was fixing himself a scotch and soda, and she said, ‘I expect we ought to start thinking about our various staffs. They will be badly depleted when the men get called up.’ She caught her breath and her hand flew to her throat nervously to finger her pearls. ‘And my God! What about the boys! Kit and Robin are bound to go. And Randolph, Winston. He’s also of age.’

‘Yes, he is. In fact, he wants to join the navy. Immediately.’ Winston’s mouth tightened. ‘He’s determined to do it. I won’t be able to stop him.’

Emma gave her older brother an anxious glance. His only son was the apple of his eye. ‘Randolph’s headstrong, I realize that, and so are my boys. They’re not going to listen to us. I don’t suppose there is anything we can do. They will ultimately get their papers.’ She now addressed Frank. ‘Well, at least your Simon is not old enough to be called up.’

‘For the moment,’ Frank said, and rose. He poured a large brandy and brought it to Emma. ‘You had better drink this. I think you are going to need it.’

Emma regarded him with puzzlement. ‘Why do you say that?’ She frowned. ‘And you know I don’t like brandy. It gives me heart palpitations.’

‘Please drink it,’ Frank said quietly.

Emma brought the brandy balloon up to her mouth and took a drop of it, wrinkling her nose with distaste. She put the glass down on the butler’s tray table in front of her, and focused her attention on Frank. Once more she noted his extraordinary pallor. And when she saw the apprehension, now so clearly etched on his sensitive face, it alarmed her. A dreadful feeling of impending disaster struck Emma and she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Something’s terribly wrong, isn’t it, Frank?’

Frank felt a dryness in his mouth and his voice was hoarse as he finally said, ‘I’ve had some very bad news. Just now, before I left the office.’ Despite the iron control he was exercising, his voice shook badly.

‘Frank dear, whatever is it?’ asked Emma, every one of her instincts alerted for trouble.

Winston said rapidly, ‘There’s nothing wrong at the paper, is there?’

‘No,’ Frank responded in a low voice. ‘It’s…it’s about Paul, actually.’

‘Paul! You’ve had bad news about Paul! What’s wrong with him?’ Emma demanded.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Emma—’ Frank stopped. After an awful moment of silence he finished in a faltering voice, ‘He’s—he’s—he’s passed away.’

Emma stared at her brother with stunned disbelief, and she shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, unable to digest his words. ‘I don’t understand what you are saying. I just had a letter from him. Yesterday. What are you saying to me?’ She had turned so deathly pale she looked as if she was going to faint and she was shaking.

Frank went to kneel at her feet. He looked up at her gravely and took her hand in his. He said with great gentleness, ‘Paul’s dead, Emma. The story came over the wires when I was on my way here.’

‘Paul,’ Emma whispered incredulously, and her expression was one of blank stupefaction mingled with fear. She cried in a tremulous voice, ‘Are you sure there is no mistake? There must be a mistake!’

Frank shook his head dismally. ‘All the wire services are carrying the same story. I checked them out.’

‘Oh my God,’ Emma groaned, her blood turning cold.

Winston, as grey as a ghost, managed, ‘How did Paul die, Frank?’

Frank gazed at Emma, bleakness washing over his face as he sought the appropriate words. But nothing would soften the blow. Frank found himself incapable of speech.

Now Emma tightened her grip, her fingers biting into his hand. ‘Did Paul—? Was it his injuries? Were they more serious than he told me?’ She sounded weak.

‘Well, yes, I believe they were much worse than he led you to understand—’

The trilling of the doorbell startled them all, and Emma’s eyes widened with apprehension and appealed to Winston. He nodded and pulled himself up out of the chair. As he left the drawing room he prayed it wasn’t the press wanting a statement. To Winston’s relief the housekeeper was admitting Henry Rossiter, a partner in the private merchant bank which handled all of Paul’s business in England, and much of Emma’s as well. Henry’s face was as dolorous as Winston’s. He shook Winston’s hand and asked, ‘Does she know?’ Winston inclined his head. ‘How is she taking it?’ Henry murmured.

Winston said, ‘She’s stunned. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. There will be a horrible delayed reaction, of course, Henry. I dread to contemplate it.’

Henry nodded his understanding. ‘Yes. They were so close. What a tragic, tragic thing to happen. How did Emma hear about it?’

Winston quickly explained and motioned to the drawing room. ‘We’d better go in, Henry. She needs us.’

Henry entered the living room and sat down next to Emma. ‘I’m sorry. So very sorry, my dear. I got here as quickly as I could. As soon as I knew.’

Emma’s throat worked and she passed her hand over her throbbing head. She said, ‘Did someone in Sydney contact you, Henry?’

‘Yes, Mel Harrison. He has been trying to get me all day. I was in the country, unfortunately.’

‘Why didn’t he attempt to reach me?’ she asked in a voice echoing with sorrow.

‘He wanted me to break the news to you in person, Emma. He didn’t want you to be alone when you heard—’

‘When did Paul die?’ she interrupted, her heart squeezing.

‘His body was found on Sunday night. It’s early Monday morning there now. Mel put in a call to me as soon as he arrived at the house. He realized he couldn’t hold off the press indefinitely, since the police have to—’

‘Police!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘What do you mean? Why were the police there?’

Henry looked at Frank with dismay. They exchanged worried glances and both men were silent. Frank now contemplated lying to Emma, but there was no point in dissembling. Better to get it over with. He said gently, ‘Paul took his own life, Emma.’

‘Oh my God! No! No! It’s not true! I don’t believe you! Paul wouldn’t do that. Never,’ Emma cried.

‘I’m afraid it’s true, darling,’ Frank said, and put his arm around her.

Emma moved her head wildly from side to side, denying Frank. She seemed to shrink in the chair. ‘How did he—’ She could not continue.

Frank bit his lip. ‘He—he shot himself.’ He did not add that Paul shot himself through the heart. He could not bring himself to tell her that.

‘No!’ she shrieked, losing control. ‘It’s not true!’ she gasped. A tearing sob strangled in her throat and she twisted her hands agitatedly. Her eyes, brimming with shock, focused on Henry.

He nodded sadly. ‘It is true, Emma.’

‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘Oh my God! Paul! Paul! Oh, my darling. Why?’ Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. She pushed Frank aside and stood up, moving to the centre of the room. She stretched out her arms, clutching blindly at the empty air, as if seeking Paul, to hold him to her.

Frank sprang up and took her arm, leading her back to the sofa. ‘Sit down, Emma. Please, darling.’

Winston rose unsteadily and walked across the room, anxiety dulling his eyes, and he wondered desperately where she was going to find the strength to bear this tragedy. He picked up the glass of brandy. ‘Drink this, our Emma. Drink it, love. We’re here. We’ll stay with you.’

She took the glass from him with both hands, which were trembling, and she gulped it down quickly. ‘I must know everything. Please, Frank, you must tell me everything. I must know it all. For my own sanity.’

Frank was alarmed. ‘I have the UP story with me, Emma, but I don’t think I should—’

‘Yes, you should. You must. I beg of you.’

‘I think you had better give Emma the facts, Frank,’ Winston interceded, adopting a calmness he did not feel. ‘She won’t rest until she knows all the details. However painful they are to hear, you must tell her.’

Frank nodded and pulled the piece of paper out. In a slow, saddened voice he read:!!!‘Paul McGill, Australia’s most renowned industrialist, was found shot to death on Sunday night at his home in Sydney. Mr McGill, who was fifty-nine years old, was in a serious automobile accident four months ago, which paralysed him from the waist downward. One side of his face was also badly shattered. Mr McGill had been confined to a wheelchair since his release from the hospital and his doctors believe he took his own life in a moment of acute depression, undoubtedly caused by his condition. No note was found. Mr McGill, who had resided mostly in London for the past sixteen years, was the only son of Bruce McGill and the grandson of Andrew McGill, founding father of the famous Australian family, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. It was Andrew McGill, a Scottish sea captain, who began the family sheep station, Dunoon, in Coonamble, in 1852. One of the biggest and most prosperous in New South Wales, the sheep station was inherited by Paul McGill upon his father’s death in 1919. Mr McGill, believed to be one of the richest men in the world, was chairman of the board of numerous Australian companies, including the McGill Corporation, which operated the sheep station, McGill and Smythson Real Estate, the McGill Mining Corporation, and the McGill Coal Company. He was also chairman of the board of the Sitex Oil Corporation of America, headquartered in Texas, and president and chief executive officer of McGill-Marriott Maritime, which owns and operates one of the world’s largest oil-tanker fleets.’

Frank stopped. ‘There’s a lot more about the business, the family, Paul’s war record, and his education. Do you want to go on, Emma?’

‘No,’ she whispered. She turned to Henry miserably. ‘Why didn’t he tell me about the paralysis? His face? I would have gone to him immediately. He should have told me, Henry.’ Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes and trickled silently down her cheeks. ‘Did he think his condition would have made any difference to me? And I should have been with him.’ She began to sob brokenly. ‘I loved him.’

Henry’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Mel wanted him to send for you. But you know how stubborn and proud Paul was. He was adamant, it seems. According to Mel, he didn’t want you to see him that way, or know the seriousness of his injuries, or to be burdened with him.’

Emma was speechless. Not to be burdened with him, she thought. But I loved him more than life itself. Oh, Paul, why did you keep me away from you when you needed me the most? She envisaged Paul’s pain and the terrible despair which had prompted his action, and an overwhelming sorrow engulfed her.

It seemed to Emma that the whole world had abruptly stopped. There was no sound in the room, except for the faint ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelshelf. She looked down at the great McGill emerald glittering on her finger, and at the wedding ring Paul had given her when Daisy was born, and her unchecked tears fell on her hands and splashed against the rings. And she remembered the words he had spoken that day: ‘Until death do us part,’ he had said. Her heart twisted inside her. She lifted her head and glanced about, and a terrible aching numbness entered her body. She felt as though she, too, was paralysed and would be quite unable to move ever again. The pain was beginning, and she understood with a flash of clarity that she would never be free of it. She thought: I cannot live without him. He was my life. There is nothing left now. Only the empty years ahead to endure until I, too, die.

Winston and Frank were helpless in their despair. Winston could not stand to see her suffering, and telephoned the family doctor, who arrived fifteen minutes later. Emma was given a sedative and the housekeeper helped her to bed. But racking sobs continued to convulse her and they did not cease for over two hours, when the sedative finally lulled her into a more tranquil state.

Her two brothers, Henry Rossiter, and the doctor stayed with Emma until she finally fell into a drugged sleep. As they left the bedroom, Winston said, ‘Her sorrow is only just beginning.’

Tragedy had struck at Emma many times in her life. It had caused her to falter, but it had never brought her to her knees. Paul’s death felled her with one swift blow.

All of her children, except Edwina, came home to be with her. They had loved and admired Paul, and they were aghast and grief-stricken, most especially Daisy, who had been the closest to him. Each one in their own way tried to comfort their mother, but their efforts were in vain.

Frank’s wife, Natalie, came immediately; Charlotte, Winston’s wife, and their son, Randolph, travelled up to London from Leeds with Blackie and his son Bryan, the four of them accompanied by David Kallinski and his sons, Ronnie and Mark. None of them could reach Emma and, after a brief visit with her in her bedroom, they assembled in the library, their faces clouded with anxiety.

Blackie attempted to alleviate their worry. He said, ‘Even the strongest heart can be broken, you know. But a strong heart always mends. I put my money on Emma any day. She’s a born survivor and she’ll survive this. Also, I think it’s much better she gets her grief out. I know she’ll be all right.’ And he meant every word, for he knew the stern stuff she was made of.

But for days Emma lay prostrate, half crazed and incoherent with grief. She became so debilitated at one point Winston seriously contemplated hospitalizing her. The dawn hours were the worst for Emma. She would lie motionless in her bed, bereft and without hope, watching the cold grey light creeping in, waiting for the beginning of a new endless empty day, staring vacantly into space like a blind woman. But her vivid and active mind was for ever in a turmoil, filled with conflicting and troublesome thoughts. She wondered if she had failed Paul in some way. Failed to properly convey over the years the depth and sincerity of her love for him. She castigated herself for not having gone to Australia when he had first had the accident, believing she could have prevented him from lifting that fateful gun. If she had not listened to him she could have saved his life, of that she was absolutely convinced. The weight of her guilt was heavy to bear, and her despondency and wretchedness only increased.

Henry Rossiter had told her of the doctors’ dismal prognosis, and slowly, as the shock receded, she began to dimly understand that a man like Paul, so virile, so powerful, would regard suicide as the only viable solution to his awful predicament, and yet sometimes she felt utterly abandoned and betrayed by him. However, mostly she was able to dismiss these feelings as manifestations of self-pity, a curious anger, which was baffling, and her own sense of powerlessness. It was also incomprehensible to her that Paul had not written, for she was unable to accept the fact that he would kill himself without one last word to her, and every day she looked for a letter, which did not come.

Winston, who had taken charge of the household and the Knightsbridge store, decided to keep Daisy at home from boarding school after the rest of the family departed. It was she who eventually reached Emma and brought her a measure of relief. Emma’s youngest child was surprisingly mature for a fourteen-year-old, and understanding beyond her years. Her own sorrow was acute, but she carefully strove to conceal this most of the time, and she finally achieved a real breakthrough with her mother. She persuaded Emma to eat a little every day, and gradually helped to stem the flow of tears with her loving presence. Occasionally Emma would look intently at Daisy and she would see Paul so clearly reflected in the child’s face her tears would start afresh, and she would cling to their daughter, calling for Paul. Daisy would wipe away the tears and calm her with soothing words, rocking her in her arms as if she were the mother and Emma the daughter.

One night, after Emma had collapsed again, Daisy tenderly cajoled her into a more peaceful state of mind, and for the first time Emma fell into a natural sleep that was heavy and deep. When she awakened several hours later she felt rested and had even acquired a degree of composure. She at once noticed Daisy curled up on the chaise dozing. And she suddenly saw her daughter objectively. With a flash of insight Emma recognized she had been burdening Daisy with her own grief when the child herself needed love and support. With a supreme effort she roused herself from her lethargy, and some of that strength, always formidable, began to trickle back into her weary body.

Emma got out of bed unaided and moved slowly to the chaise, her legs shaking and unsteady. Daisy woke up instantly and when she saw her mother bending over her she took hold of her hand swiftly, her eyes apprehensive. ‘Mummy, what is it? Do you feel ill again?’

‘No, darling. In fact, I think I’m a bit better.’ Emma took Daisy in her arms and held her close, stroking her glossy black hair. ‘I’ve been very wrong, Daisy, putting the burden of my grief on you. So wrong. Please forgive me, darling. Now, I want you to get ready for bed and have a really good night’s sleep. And I don’t want you to worry about me any more. I will be fine. And tomorrow I am going to send you back to boarding school.’

Daisy pulled away and stared at Emma in surprise, and her vivid blue eyes were brilliant with tears. ‘But I want to stay with you, Mummy. To look after you. Paul would want that. He really would. He wouldn’t want you to be alone, Mummy.’

Emma smiled gently. ‘You’ve been looking after me very well, and now it’s my turn to look after you. I am going to be all right, darling. Truly I am.’

Daisy began to cry and she buried her head on Emma’s breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Hush, darling. Hush,’ Emma murmured. ‘We must be strong and brave, and help each other in the coming months.’

‘I’ve been so afraid, Mummy.’ Daisy sobbed, her tears drenching Emma’s crumpled nightgown. ‘I thought you were going to die, too.’

Emma said, in a voice that was surprisingly steady, ‘I am not going to die, Daisy, I have you to live for now.’

It was a glorious afternoon in late September, sunny and warm and with a cloudless sky that was radiant with light. But Emma shivered as she walked wearily across the drawing room. She huddled in a chair in front of the fire, warming herself, her thoughts on her sons. War had been declared on September 3, and although she had been too bereaved to pay attention then, the situation could no longer be ignored. Britain was mobilizing with the same speed and efficiency it had displayed in her youth, and she knew that they would be in for a long siege.

Feeling warmer, she shifted in the chair. As she did a shaft of bright sunlight illuminated the ravages her grief had wrought. She had shed pounds and looked painfully thin in the simple black wool dress, its severity unrelieved by jewellery. The only pieces she wore were Paul’s rings, and a watch. But her hair was bright and crackling with life.

‘Here I am, me darlin’,’ Blackie called from the doorway, startling her. She rose to greet him, managing a smile. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Blackie dear,’ Emma said, embracing him.

He enveloped her in his arms and held her tightly to his broad chest, and he choked up as he felt the fragility of her body. She was a bag of bones. He held her away, looked down into her face, and put his hand under her chin. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, mavourneen. It’s grand to see you up and about.’

They sat in front of the fire and talked for a while about the war and the probability that the boys would enlist imminently. ‘Bryan is in London with me,’ Blackie told her. ‘He wanted to come with me today, but I wasn’t sure you’d be up to it.’

‘Oh, Blackie, I am disappointed. I’d love to see him,’ she exclaimed, her face brightening. ‘Could he come tomorrow? You know how dear Bryan is to me.’

‘Sure and he can. I’ll bring him meself.’ Blackie now gave her a guarded look. ‘When do you think you’ll be fit enough to go back to the store?’

‘Next week. The doctor was against it, actually. He thinks I should go to Yorkshire for a rest. But I simply can’t neglect the business any longer, and it’s just not fair to Winston. He’s carrying all the responsibility. Besides, he ought to go back to Leeds. We’ve a lot of reorganizing to do.’

‘I know what you mean. I’m facing the same problems. Anyway, Emma, I think it’s a good idea for you to get back into the harness again. You must keep your mind occupied, so that you don’t dwell on things.’

Her face clouded momentarily. ‘Yes, that’s true.’ The maid knocked and came in with the tea tray. Emma eyed the heavy Georgian teapot warily, wondering if she had the strength to lift it. For days she had been like a woman with the palsy, dropping and spilling things. She lifted it carefully and poured two cups, and to her relief her hands did not tremble for once.

She said, ‘I spoke to David yesterday. He sounded very down in the dumps. Ronnie and Mark have already joined up. He’s going to miss them terribly. They’ve been his whole life since Rebecca died.’

He observed the sudden mistiness in her eyes and said swiftly, ‘He’ll be all right, Emma. Tell you what, I’ll take him under my wing when I get back to Leeds. Get him out of that great mausoleum where he lives in such solitary splendour. It’ll do him good to start socializing again.’

‘I wish you would, darling. I do worry about him.’ Emma looked into the fire reflectively, and when she turned back to Blackie her expression was sorrowful. ‘How does one go on, Blackie? It’s so hard, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but not impossible, Emma. Not for someone with your courage.’

‘I haven’t been very strong these past few weeks,’ she said drearily.

‘You can’t rush it, Emma. You’ll have a lot of readjusting to do. You must give yourself time, darlin’.’

‘However did you manage after Laura died?’ she asked.

‘I sometimes wondered that myself at the time.’ He smiled faintly. ‘After I went back to the front I tried my damnedest to catch a bullet, to get myself killed. But the good Lord protected me from me own foolishness. After the war it took me a long time to forgive myself for being alive, but once I did I started to live again. I looked around and became aware of my responsibilities, my duty to Bryan. He was a great help, Emma. A great source of sustenance. As Daisy will be for you. That child, of all your children, is the most like you in character. She understands you and she worships you, mavourneen.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Emma responded quietly, and looked away again. ‘I just—just—just don’t know how I can go on without Paul.’

Blackie took her hand and held it tightly. ‘You can, darlin’. You will. The human soul has great fortitude.’ He paused and his black eyes swept over her piteous face. He said gently, ‘Do you remember what Laura said to you when she was dying? I’ve never forgotten the words since you repeated them to me, and they have helped me many times. Do you remember what she said about death, Emma?’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her words as if she had spoken them only yesterday. Laura said there was no such thing as death in her lexicon, and that as long as I lived and you lived she would live, too, for we would carry the memory of her in our hearts for ever.’

Blackie said, ‘Aye, mavourneen, and she was a wise lady, my Laura. She truly believed that, as I have come to believe it, and as you must. It will help you, I know. And just as I have Bryan, you have Paul’s daughter. She is part of his flesh, part of him, and you must cleave to that and take strength from it.’

His words seemed to give her comfort and so he continued. ‘You also told me Laura said God doesn’t give us a burden that is too heavy to bear. She was right, Emma. Think on that.’ He sighed under his breath. ‘I know you are heartbroken and that you feel lost and alone. But none of us are alone, Emma. We all have God, and God has helped me over the years. Why don’t you try Him on for size?’

Emma’s eyes widened. ‘You know I don’t believe in God.’

Observing the look on her face, Blackie refrained from making any further comments and wisely talked of other things.

But later, when he left Emma’s house, Blackie walked to the Brompton Oratory. He crossed himself on entering that fine old church, sat down in a pew, and lifted his face to the altar. And he prayed to God to give Emma comfort and courage in her crushing loss, and he prayed for her soul.

Before she went to bed that night, Emma sat at the window in her bedroom for several hours, dwelling on those words of Laura’s. The sky was a peculiar cobalt blue, clear yet intense, and shining with hundreds of stars, and a pale silver moon rode high in the heavens. Its beauty was so perfectly revealed to her it made her catch her breath and she suddenly had the most overwhelming sense of the Infinite. It was a feeling she had never experienced before and she was strangely moved as she sat gazing at that incredible night sky. And then it seemed to her that Paul was with her in the room. And she thought: But of course he is, for he is in my heart always. And she drew strength from this knowledge, and that night she slept a deep and untroubled sleep.

Two days later Emma received a letter from Paul. It had been posted the day before his death and it had taken three weeks to arrive. She looked at it for a long time before she finally found the courage to slit open the envelope and take out the letter.!!!My dearest darling Emma:!!!You are my life. I cannot live without my life. But I cannot live with you. And so I must end my miserable existence, for there is no future for us together now. Lest you think my suicide an act of weakness, let me reassure you that it is not. It is an act of strength and of will, for by committing it I gratefully take back that control over myself which I have lost in the past few months. It is a final act of power over my own fate.

It is the only way out for me, my love, and I will die with your name on my lips, the image of you before my eyes, my love for you secure in my heart always. We have been lucky, Emma. We have had so many good years together and shared so much, and the happy memories are alive in me, as I know they are in you, and will be as long as you live. I thank you for giving me the best years of my life.

I did not send for you because I did not want you to be tied to a helpless cripple, if only for a few months at the most. Perhaps I was wrong. On the other hand, I want you to remember me as I was, and not what I have become since the accident. Pride? Maybe. But try to understand my reasons, and try, my darling, to find it in your heart to forgive me.!!!I have great faith in you, my dearest Emma. You are not faint of heart. You are strong and dauntless, and you will go on courageously. You must. For there is our child to consider. She is the embodiment of our love, and I know you will cherish and care for her, and bring her up to be as brave and as stalwart and as loving as you are yourself. I give her into your trust, my darling.

By the time you receive this I will be dead. But I will live on in Daisy. She is your future now, my Emma. And mine.!!!I love you with all my heart and soul and mind, and I pray to God that one day we will be reunited in Eternity.!!!I kiss you, my darling.

Emma was motionless in the chair, clutching the letter, the tears seeping out of her eyes and rolling silently down her pale cheeks. She saw him in her mind’s eye, tall and handsome, his deep violet eyes laughing, and she remembered him as he wanted her to remember him. She thought of the years and the joy and love he had given her. And she forgave him, now understanding, and with great compassion, both his dilemma and his motives.

At the beginning of October, Mel Harrison took a four-engined ‘C Class’ Qantas flying boat from Sydney to Karachi, and there boarded an English aeroplane that provided the link to Great Britain. Several days later he arrived in London. His purpose: to see Emma and present Paul McGill’s will to the solicitors who handled the McGill legal work in England and Europe.

Emma, austerely dressed in black, appeared wan and fragile, yet she was composed when she arrived at Price, Ellis, and Watson for the reading of Paul McGill’s last will and testament. Winston, Frank, and Henry Rossiter accompanied her.

‘Paul made you the executrix of his estate,’ Mel informed her as she sat down. She was taken by surprise, but she simply nodded, at a loss for words.

There were bequests to servants, to old and loyal employees, and a two-million-pound trust fund had been created to provide for his wife and son during their lifetimes. Upon their deaths it was to go to charity. His entire estate he had willed to Emma in perpetuity, passing to Daisy upon her death, and from Daisy to her progeny. To Emma’s astonishment Paul had left her everything he owned, holdings worth well over two hundred million pounds. He had made her one of the richest women in the world and their daughter the heiress to a great fortune. But the thing that moved Emma the most was the fact that Paul had accorded her the respect and consideration generally reserved for a man’s legal widow and not his common-law wife. In death, as in life, Paul had declared his devotion and love for her, had acknowledged her to the whole world. And into her hands had passed the McGill dynasty for safekeeping.