mputate!’ Emma cried, her face turning deathly white. ‘But he has been so well for the last few days.’

‘No, he hasn’t. Your brother has been hiding the facts from you, Mrs Lowther. He has also been refusing to have the operation. Despite our warnings he has been fighting us. But you can’t fight gangrene. It’s virulent, and ultimately deadly.’

Emma sat down abruptly, her eyes pinned on the doctor. ‘Isn’t there an alternative?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘No, there isn’t. Unless you want to call death an alternative.’ Seeing the fear registering on her face, the doctor seated himself next to her and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be brutal. But circumstances necessitate honesty, even bluntness, I’m afraid. Time is of the essence.’

‘What happened, Doctor? I thought you had been able to remove all the shrapnel from his foot and calf.’

‘We did, but the gangrene set in several days ago and it travels rapidly. It’s already above his knee. You must sign the papers giving us permission to operate. Otherwise—’ He lifted his hands helplessly, his face grave.

Emma swallowed. ‘But—but—Winston has to make that decision—’

‘Mrs Lowther, don’t you understand? Your brother is incapable of making the decision in his present state of mind. You must take the responsibility. Now. Today. Tomorrow will be too late.’

Emma bit her lip and nodded. Her heart was heavy as she said, ‘Give me the papers, please.’

The doctor stepped to his desk, returned with the documents, and handed them to her with the pen. ‘You are doing the right thing, Mrs Lowther. The only thing you can do. Your brother will be grateful to you for the rest of his life. Please believe that.’

Emma looked at him sombrely but made no comment. She signed, and although she was quivering inside, her hand was steady. ‘May I see my brother now?’ she asked dully.

‘Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him right away,’ the doctor said. His face was sympathetic as he led her out of the office.

Winston was in a ward with other sailors who had been wounded. Screens had been placed around him, and as Emma walked past them and approached the bed she saw that his eyes were glazed over with pain and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. She leaned down to kiss him and he let out a stifled scream, his eyes febrile. Emma pulled back in alarm. ‘Whatever is it, Winston, dear?’

‘You touched the bed,’ he moaned. ‘I can’t stand the slightest movement. The pain is excruciating.’ He drew in his breath sharply and closed his eyes.

Emma watched him with consternation. After a moment she said with the utmost quiet, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had gangrene, Winston?’

He opened his eyes and glared at her, the old bravado of childhood momentarily invading his face. ‘I’m not having it off, Emma!’ he cried vehemently. ‘I’m not going to be a cripple for the rest of my life!’

Emma sat down on the chair near the bed and nodded, her heart aching for him. ‘I know how you must feel, dear. It’s a terrible thing to have to face. But if they don’t amputate you’ll—you’ll die.’

‘Then I’ll die!’ he shouted, defiance now supplanting the feverishness in his blue eyes. ‘I might just as well be dead with only one leg! I’m a young man, Emma, and my life will be over. Finished.’

‘No, it won’t, darling. You will be incapacitated to a certain extent, I realize that. And the prospects must seem terrifying to you right now. But isn’t amputation preferable to not being here at all?’

‘I’m not having my leg off,’ he mumbled in a tired voice.

Emma’s tone was pleading as she continued, ‘Winston, listen to me. You must have the operation. You must, dear. And immediately. If you delay any longer your whole system will be poisoned.’ Her voice broke at this thought. ‘If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Please! Please, Winston!’ she begged. ‘I love you very much. Apart from the children, you and Frank are the only family I have—’ She groped in her bag for a handkerchief, pulled it out, and blew her nose, attempting to control herself. ‘I’ve had too many losses in the last few years, Winston. Mam, Dad, Joe, and Laura. And then Aunt Lily only last week. I don’t think I could endure the loss of another loved one. I just couldn’t. It would kill me.’ Tears filled her eyes, and she finished tremulously, ‘I just couldn’t stand it if you died, too, love.’

‘Don’t cry, Emma. Please don’t cry, pet.’ A spasm of pain streaked through him like a ripping knife and he flinched, his face ashen and sweating more profusely now. He sighed. ‘All right, then, let them cut it off. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I can take the pain much longer.’ A faint smile touched his white lips. ‘Half a loaf is better than no bread at all, I suppose. You’d better sign the papers and get it over with, Emma.’

‘I already did.’

He mustered a grin. ‘I might have known. Old Miss Bossy Knickers.’

Emma smiled weakly. ‘It’s going to be fine, Winston. I know it is. The doctor is preparing the operating theatre now. In a few minutes the nurses will be coming in to get you ready.’ She stood up. ‘I have to go. The doctor said I must make it brief. Every minute counts now.’

‘Emma—’

‘Yes, love?’

‘Will you—can you wait?’

‘Of course I’ll wait, dear. I wouldn’t dream of leaving until it’s all over.’ She blew him a kiss, not daring to approach the bed again.

Emma gazed out of the window of the waiting room of Chapel Allerton Naval Hospital, her thoughts with Winston, now undergoing surgery. How frightening for him to lose a leg. He who had taken such pride in his good looks, and his virility, who had loved sports and dancing and was so physical by nature. She acknowledged that he would indeed have a number of major readjustments to make, and in many ways he would have to start a new life. But, despite the restrictions the amputation of his right leg would impose, she was thankful he was alive. He had been wounded during a naval battle in the North Sea. His battleship had staggered into Hull half crippled, and it was nothing short of a miracle that the ship had made it to that great Humber port, so fortuitously close to Leeds and the naval hospital. Otherwise he might be dead by now.

Emma leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. In a few weeks she would be twenty-nine. Only twenty-nine and yet she felt like an old woman, weary and worn out from her responsibilities these days. A nurse thoughtfully brought her a cup of tea and Emma sat down to drink it—and to wait. That seemed to have become one of her chief occupations of late: waiting. Mostly she waited for letters from Paul, feeling crushed and apprehensive when she did not receive one, filled with soaring relief when there was a note, however brief and hastily written.

She took Paul’s last letter out of her handbag and read it again. It was worn from too much handling and some of the words had blurred from her tears. He had returned to France to rejoin Colonel Monash and the Australian Corps in the middle of February. Now it was the beginning of April. But he was still safe and well. When Paul had left he had taken an essential part of her with him and she felt incomplete, only half alive without him.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Almost two hours had passed since Winston had been wheeled down to the operating room. Had something gone wrong? Had they been too late? Quite unexpectedly, just when she thought she was going to scream from frustration, the doctor strode in. He was nodding and smiling. ‘He’s fine, Mrs Lowther.’

Emma closed her eyes and exhaled with relief. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely! He’s a little woozy from the anaesthetic, but he’s young, healthy, and strong. He’ll mend well.’ The doctor’s eyes clouded. ‘There is just one thing—’

‘What?’

‘We had to amputate very high. The gangrene was well above the knee and we had to cut a good four inches above that, to be certain we got it all.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’

‘It means there’s the possibility he might not be able to wear an artificial limb.’

‘My brother’s not going to spend the rest of his life on crutches,’ Emma cried. ‘Or in a wheelchair. He’s going to wear an artificial leg if—if I have to damn well design a special one myself! My brother is going to walk, Doctor!’

And walk he did. But it was a gruelling period for Emma. Winston’s mood swings were erratic and, not unnaturally, highly emotional. He plunged from relief in being alive to depression, from depression to rage, frustration, and self-pity, and then unexpectedly the euphoria returned, but soon to be replaced by foul black moods. Emma cajoled, threatened, screamed, implored, and challenged, using every ruse she knew to shatter the melancholia that engulfed him and lift him out of it, her only tools her stubborn belief in the indomitability of the human spirit and her conviction that anything was possible in life, if the will was strong enough. Slowly she made progress with Winston, badgering him relentlessly, and after several weeks she managed to instil in him the determination to lead a normal life. She gave him strength, and her optimism bolstered his own natural courage.

The Limb Fitting Centre at Chapel Allerton Hospital in Leeds was already renowned throughout England for the remarkable feats of rehabilitation accomplished there since the outset of the Great War. The doctors worked painstakingly with the men, especially those who had lost legs, endeavouring to get them ambulatory in the shortest possible time. Winston was no exception. His flesh healed quickly and within two months the doctors had him moving about on crutches. He was fitted for a leg, released from the hospital, and went to live with Emma during his recuperation period. To Emma’s relief, when the leg arrived he was able to wear it, in spite of the shortness of the stump. All that was required were two extra stump socks to cushion the stump against the metal. Three times a week he was driven to Chapel Allerton Hospital in one of the Harte vans, where he underwent physical therapy and wore the leg for half an hour at a stretch. And so he commenced the long and difficult task of adjustment to the artificial leg and learning to walk with it correctly.

One day in October, eight months after the amputation, Winston literally strolled into Emma’s office, self-confident, smiling, steady on his feet, and in absolute control of the leg, and it was one of the most gratifying moments of her life. His limp was negligible and he had taken her advice, proffered months before, to make the leg an integral part of him.

‘I can’t dance, but there’s not much else I can’t do,’ he informed her proudly. He placed his walking stick on a chair, moved across the room without it, and sat down. ‘I can certainly move with great speed if I have to and I can climb and descend stairs easily. Belive it or not, I can also swim. And now that I have the final release from the hospital I am going to look for a job.’

‘But Winston, I told you months ago you could come and work for me. Why don’t you?’

Winston frowned. ‘Here at the store? But what would I do?’

‘You’ve always liked figures. I could put you in bookkeeping until you get used to things, and then I would like you to become my assistant. I need somebody I can trust implicitly. Don’t forget, I have other businesses, Winston, as well as the store.’ Emma paused, eyeing him carefully, and finished, ‘For instance, there’s the Emeremm Company.’

‘What’s that? You’ve never mentioned it before.’ Winston looked at her with alertness.

‘It’s a holding and acquisition company, which I formed in 1917.’ Emma leaned forward. ‘I financed it myself and I own one hundred per cent of the shares, but it’s run for me by a man called Ted Jones. Apart from Ted, and the other directors, no one else knows I’m behind it. Except for you, now. I want to keep it that way, Winston. Not even Frank knows, so don’t ever discuss it with him.’

‘I would never talk about your business to anyone,’ he said quickly. ‘But why all the secrecy?’

‘Mostly because men don’t like doing business with a woman, especially in areas of high finance. There are other reasons, personal reasons, but they are not important for the moment.’

Winston grinned. ‘You are a dark horse!’ he exclaimed. ‘And even more successful than I realized. You know, I think I’d like to work for you, Emma. It sounds challenging.’

‘I’m delighted. You can start on Monday if you like. It’s up to you. However, there are a few things you should know about me, Winston, if you are going to work here. First of all, I don’t like surprises, especially nasty ones. So you must always tell me everything. And if you make any mistakes, don’t hide them. As long as I’m informed they can be corrected. Secondly, I want you to understand something else and this is imperative. I never deal from a position of fear. Only from strength, and if I don’t have that strength I make damned sure the world thinks I do. You will have to learn to do the same if you’re going to act on my behalf. Do you think you can?’

‘Yes, Emma.’

‘Good.’ Her eyes focused on him intently. ‘I believe the key to success in business is discipline, dedication, concentration, and patience. And I won’t tolerate temperament in business. It is immature. I am not suggesting you are temperamental, but I want you to comprehend that you must always keep a cool head and you must never let emotions get in the way.’ She smiled. ‘Any questions, Winston?’

‘Yes, quite a lot.’ He grinned engagingly. ‘But they can wait until later. Until I start working for you on Monday. Right now I have an appointment.’

‘Who with?’ she asked in surprise.

‘With one of the nurses from the hospital. That pretty brunette—Charlotte. I’m taking her out to tea.’

Emma laughed gaily. ‘You don’t waste much time, do you? But I’m glad to hear it. Now I know you’re really your old self.’

Emma had told Winston only half the truth about her attitude towards business. Over the years she had embraced a merciless philosophy—never show weakness, never lose face, never confide. She had also mastered the art of compromise and this instinct towards accommodation had served her well, permitting her to negotiate and manoeuvre with more flexibility than many of her competitors, who were rigid. Since she had a particular aversion to conflict and confrontation, she preferred always to move in roundabout ways and if necessary with stealth, and she was to acquire much of her power by stealth.

Later that afternoon, when Winston had left, she moved covertly in the direction of the Fairleys and struck a deadly blow at their business enterprises. Her strategy was simple: she manipulated a weak and foolish man, who blithely, if unwittingly, put Gerald Fairley exactly where Emma wanted him—in her clutches.

This development had not occurred by accident. One of the first purchases the Emeremm Company had made in 1917 was Procter and Procter, a wholesale cloth warehouse in Bradford. Emma bought it for several reasons. It was a sound investment, even though it had been mismanaged over the years. Also, the sprawling warehouse sat on a prime piece of land in the centre of Bradford, and Emma knew this land could only increase in value over the years. But aside from the company’s potential, Alan Procter, the owner, was a crony of Gerald Fairley’s and Emma had recognized that here was a conduit to her sworn enemy, a source of vital information about the latter’s activities.

At first Alan Procter had been reluctant to sell, despite the fact that he had run the company into the ground, had innumerable creditors and personal debts, many of them due to his inveterate gambling. However, the Emeremm Company’s terms were so appealing they inevitably won Procter. Emma had made the terms irresistible. The purchase price was fair without being so excessive as to create suspicion. More importantly to Procter, he was offered a contract to remain as chairman of the board at a salary he could not afford to dismiss. There was one clause—Procter must not reveal the change of ownership of his company. If he did his contract would be instantly terminated.

Seeing his problems miraculously disappearing before his eyes, the venal and exigent Procter had not bothered to question the necessity for this secrecy. In fact, he had rather welcomed it, envisioning a means of continuing to run his company, at the same time solving his personal and business debts and saving face in Bradford. He sold, signed the employment contract with its secrecy-of-ownership clause, and in so doing became the property of Emma Harte. Emma had instructed Ted Jones to put an Emeremm man inside Procter and Procter. ‘Procter is merely a front. I want his hands tied so that he cannot do any further damage to the business. And whoever you put in must ingratiate himself with Procter. Become his confidant.’

Her scheme worked. Procter had a loose tongue, especially after it had been well oiled over splendid luncheons with the new managing director—the Emeremm man. All manner of useful information came filtering in to Emma about Procter’s associates in Leeds and Bradford, many of them her competititors, and prominent amongst it was a great deal about the Fairleys.

Through Procter Emma learned early in 1918 that Gerald Fairley was in dire straits with Thompson’s mill and wanted to sell. ‘Buy it for as little as possible,’ she coldly told Ted Jones. Using Procter and Procter as the purchaser, the Emeremm Company acquired Thompson’s. Believing he was selling to Alan Procter, an old and trusted friend, and because of his strained financial situation, Gerald Fairley had accepted a quarter of the mill’s true value, to Emma’s immense satisfaction.

Now a piece of new information had landed on Emma’s desk that very morning, and it had brought her head up with a jolt. Gerald Fairley had lost heavily at cards and had gone running to Alan Procter. He wanted to borrow two hundred thousand pounds. Procter had blabbed to the Emeremm man and had inquired about the possibility of making a corporate loan to Gerald Fairley.

Emma’s vivid eyes rested on the memorandum again and a curious glint entered them. She recognized that here was the opportunity she had been waiting for and she seized it, moving with her usual swiftness. She picked up the telephone and spoke to Ted Jones at the Emeremm Company in London. ‘You can inform Alan Procter he can make that corporate loan to Fairley.’

‘What are the terms, Mrs Harte?’

‘I want a noncontestable one-hundred-eighty-day note. But I want the note collateralized.’

‘What kind of collateral, Mrs Harte?’

‘The deeds to the Fairley mills in Armley and Stanningley Bottom.’

Ted Jones sucked in his breath. ‘Rather steep terms, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Those are my terms,’ Emma said icily. ‘Gerald Fairley can take them or leave them. It’s no skin off my nose either way. He won’t be able to raise the money anywhere else. He’s in too deep with the banks. I also happen to know he has borrowed heavily from some of his father’s old business associates. He owes Procter money personally as well.’ She laughed dryly. ‘Where is Mr Gerald Fairley going to go, Ted?’

‘You have a point there. I’ll pass on the terms to our man at Procter and Procter and he can relay them to Alan. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.’

‘I’m in no hurry, Ted. I’m not in trouble. It’s Fairley who is sinking.’

‘Yes, he is. The damned fool. It takes some sort of genius for ineptness to suffer losses in wartime when every other cloth manufacturer has made a fortune from government contracts.’

That’s very true. Goodbye, Ted,’ She hung up.

Emma leaned back in her chair and a gloating smile settled on that beautiful face. It’s all happening sooner than I expected, she thought. It struck her then that she did not have to make a serious effort to destroy the Fairleys. Gerald was doing it for her. Ever since Adam Fairley had been felled by a stroke Gerald had been in total control of the mills and without his father’s guidance he was floundering. All I have to do now is sit back and watch him dig a pit so deep he will never climb out, Emma said to herself.

Later she acknowledged that Gerald would undoubtedly fight the Procter and Procter terms, but he would have to accept them eventually out of the necessity to save his skin. And he would never be able to raise the money to pay off the note on its due date. But she could afford to be generous. She would extend the note for a few months and thus lull Gerald Fairley into a greater sense of false security. When she was ready she would foreclose on the note and take over the Fairley mills. Emma laughed. She had Gerald Fairley cornered and he was in complete ignorance of the fact.

As she had suspected, Gerald Fairley at first balked at the terms and backed off from the proposition for longer than she had anticipated. To her considerable amusement she heard he was running around endeavouring to raise the money he required. He was miserably unsuccessful. After four days, panic-stricken and dealing from a position of increasing desperation, he finally slunk back to Alan Procter and signed the noncontestable corporate note to which he had been forced to attach the deeds of the two Fairley mills. He did so because, once again, he thought he was dealing with a friend whom he believed would never make a move to endanger the ownership of his mills.

One week later, when Emma placed the note and the deeds in her safe, her triumph was unalloyed.