nd yet, the order of the acts has been schemed and plotted, and nothing can avert the final curtain’s fall.

I stand alone. All else is swamped by Pharisaism.

To live life to the end is not a childish task.

—BORIS PASTERNAK,!!!Doctor Zhivago

Emma sat at her desk in the lovely, upstairs parlour at Pennistone Royal, going over the legal documents spread out before her, her sharp eyes flicking swiftly across the pages. She eventually nodded with satisfaction, returned the papers to her briefcase, snapped it shut, and placed it on the floor next to the desk. Half smiling, she stood up and glided over to a small Georgian table, where she paused briefly to pour herself a sherry. She carried it to the fireplace and stood as usual with her back to the flames, endeavouring to warm her icy limbs.

Emma Harte Lowther Ainsley was seventy-eight years old. At the end of April, just a month away, she would celebrate her seventy-ninth birthday. And yet in old age, as in youth, her looks were still so arresting they startled with their vividness and clarity. Years before, she had stopped tinting her hair and it was a blaze of pure silver around her oval face, immaculately coiffeured and waved, the prominent widow’s peak protruding on to her wide brow as dramatically as always. Those once incomparable green eyes seemed smaller, hooded now by the ancient wrinkled lids, and they were more penetratingly observing than ever, and they missed nothing. Her face was lined and scored by the years, there were folds and creases in her neck, but her excellent bone structure had not blurred with time and her pink-and-white complexion was as translucent as it had been when she was a young woman. Her adherence to a simple diet had enabled her to keep her slender figure: she easily passed for a woman in her early sixties, without consciously wishing to do so, for vanity had never been one of her frailties.

This evening she wore a stunning black chiffon gown by Balmain, cut on loose flowing lines like a kaftan and with long wide sleeves. Emeralds threw off prisms of intense colour at her neck and ears and on her narrow wrists, and the huge square-cut McGill emerald blazed like green fire on her small left hand. In the past ten years she had acquired a different kind of beauty, a beauty that was austere and autocratic, and she looked exactly what she had become—a woman of immense power and substance. She was the true matriarch in every sense, and if she was demanding and imperious, she was also understanding, and even her enemies grudgingly acknowledged she was one of the most extraordinary women of her time. Eleven years older than the century, there was almost nothing she had not seen or experienced. She was a living legend.

She took a sip of the sherry, turned and placed the glass on the mantelshelf, and looked down into the fire reflectively, musing on the evening that stretched ahead. Her children and her grandchildren had all arrived, either last night or earlier that day, summoned by her to Pennistone Royal, ostensibly for a family weekend after her bout of pneumonia, but in actuality for the confrontation she had been planning for several weeks. Her face changed, and the light in her eyes dulled as she thought wearily of her children or, more accurately, of the first four she had borne—Edwina, Kit, Robin, and Elizabeth. The plotters caught red-handed in their scheming, but as yet unaware that she had been apprised of their duplicity and disloyalty, or that she had already circumvented them.

When her secretary, Gaye, had revealed her children’s plotting to her in New York in January, Emma had been shocked. But she had not permitted emotions to obscure intelligence, for it was her vivid intelligence which had saved Emma from disaster many times in her life. She had immediately seen everything with objectivity and without sentiment, and she had moved with speed and with consummate resourcefulness, as was her way when she was facing opponents. Whilst they were still fumbling around, inept in their intriguing, she had taken steps to render them powerless against her.

Emma shook her head sadly. She had lost the taste for battle after she had taken over the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, and had buried the sword years ago. She found it regrettable that her children had forced her to take it up again to protect all that which she had so doggedly built up over sixty long years of purpose and sacrifice. The scene which would be enacted that evening was one she did not relish, but her business and the dynasty she had founded must be preserved.

The door opened and Paula came in, interrupting Emma’s ruminations. Paula halted in the doorway, staring at Emma. She’s up to something, Paula thought. Despite Grandy’s reassurances to the contrary, this weekend was not planned for the reasons she gave me. She’s about to do battle. I know that look in her eyes only too well.

‘Why, Grandy, you look absolutely fabulous,’ Paula exclaimed. She kissed Emma and stood away, her expression admiring. ‘You’re really going to knock their eyes out in that gown and with your jewels.’

‘I wonder,’ Emma said. Her eyes settled on her favourite grandchild, became softer, and the obdurate look disappeared from her face. She nodded approvingly. Paula wore a deep violet-blue silk evening dress that perfectly matched the colour of her eyes and enhanced the translucency of her skin. Her coal-black hair tumbled loosely around her face, giving her a vulnerable quality that touched Emma. She said. ‘You look perfectly lovely, Paula. Like a bit of spring sky.’

‘Thank you, Grandy.’ Paula walked over to the Georgian table and filled a glass with white wine. ‘But just wait until you see Emily. She looks gorgeous in your red chiffon dress and diamond earrings. I noticed her mother eyeing those, and quite covetously.’

‘Elizabeth always was acquisitive,’ Emma said dryly, and picked up her glass of sherry. She took a sip and went on, ‘I suppose they have all assembled by now and are waiting for me to come down. Riddled with curiosity to see how the old woman is holding up.’ She laughed cynically. ‘I really think they thought I was going to kick the bucket this time. But I’m not pushing up daisies yet and it will be a long time before I do.’

Paula said, ‘Yes, they’re slowly straggling into the drawing room, where Uncle Blackie is holding court. It doesn’t seem possible he’s eighty-two and still going strong. He’s a miracle, isn’t he?’

‘He is indeed,’ Emma said. She was filled with a rush of warmth as she thought of Blackie. They had been friends for sixty-four years and he had always been there when she had needed him. ‘My dearest friend,’ Emma added almost to herself, and went on, ‘Has Jim arrived yet?’

‘Yes, he has. The aunts and uncles looked positively flabbergasted to see a Fairley in this house, and for a family gathering, no less. Especially Uncle Robin.’

‘I’m not surprised. He’s not particularly enamoured of Jim, you know. He thinks I’ve given him too much power in the newspaper company, that I let him have his head. I do, to a certain extent. But I’m not going to engage a man to run my papers and then manacle his hands.’ Emma’s eyes turned flinty. ‘Ever since your Uncle Robin has been Member of Parliament for South-East Leeds he has held the misconception that my papers should be vehicles for his socialistic viewpoints. But I’ve never espoused his politics and I have no intentions of doing so now. He misguidedly blames Jim for the Tory policy of the papers, not appreciating that I dictate policy. I always have and I always will. Anyway, Robin’s opinions don’t really interest me,’ she finished dismissively. ‘He’s too damned left-wing for my taste.’

‘Robin’s political pholosophy and his way of life don’t quite dovetail, though,’ Paula remarked. ‘Share and share alike is his motto to his constituents. But that only holds good as long as he doesn’t have to share what he has. He’s a hypocrite and an opportunist, if you want my opinion.’

Emma threw back her head and laughed uproariously. ‘Enough of Robin. Has Jim spoken to your father?’

‘He’s doing that right now. They’re in the library together. Jim said he’d like to see you privately before dinner, Grandy. Is that all right?’

‘Of course. He can come up shortly. I want to see your Aunt Edwina first, but what I have to say to her won’t take long. Now come, darling, sit here with me for a few minutes. There’s plenty of time, and anyway I’m in no hurry to go down.’ She smiled a trifle maliciously. ‘Let them wait.’

Paula joined Emma on the sofa, her violet eyes, so like Paul McGill’s, clouding over. ‘Is there something wrong, Grandmother? You sound serious.’

‘No,’ Emma said. ‘Don’t look so worried.’ She took Paula’s long tapering hand in her small strong one and her eyes swept over her granddaughter’s face searchingly. ‘You are happy now, aren’t you?’

‘Oh yes, Grandy! Very happy.’ Paula’s face was filled with radiance. ‘I do love Jim so much. Thank you for reversing your decision, for giving us permission to marry. You’ve changed my whole life, given me the one thing I truly want.’

‘I’m so glad, so very glad, darling,’ Emma murmured. ‘Your happiness is more important to me than anything else in this whole world. It was a small gift really, in view of what you mean to me. As I told you last night, I decided it was ridiculous, and yes, even wicked, to let the pride and bitterness of an old woman get in the way of your heart’s desire, your future.’ She looked deeply into Paula’s eyes. ‘The Fairley family have touched my life with pain since I was a girl of fourteen. Perhaps now the last of the Fairleys will touch it with joy.’ Emma shook her head bemusedly. ‘It’s odd, when I think about it. I went out of my way to protect my children from the Fairley family, to keep them well out of their orbit, and yet it never occurred to me to protect my grandchildren from them, particularly you. I suppose because there weren’t any Fairleys left, except Jim.’

‘And yet you gave him a job with the newspaper company, Grandy.’

Emma laughed wryly. ‘Yes, that I did. I must admit when he applied for the position I was thrown off balance, and then my curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see for myself what he was like. When he came up from Fleet Street for the interview I was impressed with his ability, despite my terrible prejudice. I knew he was the right man, the best of all the candidates. It would have been self-defeating to pass him over.’ Emma’s mouth twitched with amusement. ‘I also suspect I derived a great deal of satisfaction at the idea of a Fairley working for me. But in my wildest imaginings I never thought you two would meet, particularly since you have nothing to do with the publishing side of Harte Enterprises.’ Now Emma leaned forward. ‘How did you meet him? I’ve often wondered.’

‘I didn’t meet him in Leeds, Grandy, if that makes you feel any better. I met him on a plane coming back from Paris. I’d been covering the fashion shows for the stores, and he’d been on holiday.’ Paula grinned. ‘Actually he’d been eyeing me at the airport, and he went out of his way to get the seat next to me. I was aware of him and attracted to him at once. But when he told me his name, and who he worked for, I almost had a heart attack. It’s no great secret you’ve always hated the Fairleys, and I knew you wouldn’t approve if I went out with him. A Fairley in your employ is one thing, courting your grandchild quite another.’

Emma gave Paula a penetrating look. ‘You did go out with him, though, despite your misgivings. But then you’re as stubborn and as self-willed as I am, I suppose.’

Paula returned Emma’s look steadily. Just as you intended me to be, she thought. Aware of Emma’s continuing interest, she said, ‘Looking back, I think I fell in love with Jim the second time we met. He asked me to have dinner with him the following evening. I knew I shouldn’t, that it was asking for trouble, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see him again. And in all fairness to Jim, he didn’t know who I was. I had been rather evasive about myself. We dined at the Mirabelle and your favourite waiter, Louis, spotted me. Naturally he made quite a fuss of me and sang your praises to high heaven. He wanted to know when you would be in town and dining at the restaurant again. Jim became inquisitive about you. He wanted to know who my famous grandmother was.’

As she imagined the scene, Emma’s eyes twinkled. ‘And what did you say?’

Laughter bubbled in Paula. ‘I was a bit naughty, really. I couldn’t resist saying, “My grandmother is the chairman of the board of the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company and your boss.” Jim almost fell out of the chair. He stared at me dumbfounded and then he remarked about us both having a widow’s peak, and said that you must have looked like me when you were young. I know you don’t think we resemble each other physically, but I do. I’ve seen all those old photographs of you, and the likeness is there, Grandy.’

‘Your Uncle Blackie would agree with you, but I’m not so sure. Perhaps because I have always thought you take after your grandfather in appearance. Anyway, what happened after you had dinner together?’

‘I went on seeing Jim, against my better judgement. We couldn’t resist each other. When I realized how involved we were becoming, how serious Jim’s intentions were, I pulled away. You know the rest.’

Emma looked down at her hands, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘So it was a chance meeting. A meeting that would have happened whether Jim worked for me or not. I suppose not even I can control events. It was meant to be, perhaps.’

‘I think it was, Grandy. Jim is my destiny and I am his.’

Emma started and gave Paula a curious look. ‘It’s strange you should say that. Your grandfather told me I was his destiny fifty years ago.’

There was a knock on the door before Paula could respond, and Edwina walked in peremptorily, carrying a glass of scotch. ‘You wanted to see me, Mother,’ she said coldly, and gave Paula a curt, unsmiling nod.

‘I did indeed, Edwina. I see you already have a drink, so come and sit down. Please excuse us, Paula dear. Tell Jim I’ll see him shortly.’

‘Yes, Grandy,’ Paula murmured, and left.

Edwina, Dowager Countess of Dunvale, swept majestically into the parlour and seated herself opposite Emma, her antipathy thinly veiled. She stared at her mother, waiting expectantly, and there was a belligerent look on her face.

Emma regarded Edwina with quickening interest. She thought: If Adele Fairley had lived to be Edwina’s age this is exactly how she would have looked. Edwina was sixty-two and she had not worn as well as her mother. Her exquisite blonde beauty had been too delicate to weather the years, and her looks had faded long ago. Her hair was still a shimmering silver-gold, but its colour now came from a bottle, and the once-lovely argent eyes were dimmed and heavily lidded.

‘That’s a lovely gown, Edwina,’ Emma said, and took a sip of her sherry, peering at her eldest daughter above the glass.

‘Why did you want to see me, Mother?’ Edwina responded with icy disdain. ‘I’m quite certain you didn’t ask me to come up here to compliment me on my dress.’

‘That’s perfectly true,’ Emma said. She smiled faintly. Edwina had not softened with age. ‘Let me ask you a question before I answer yours. Why did you accept my invitation to come here for the weekend?’

‘Invitation!’ Edwina exclaimed, her eyes filling with hostility. ‘It was a command, as usual, Mother. And none of us ever ignores your commands, do we? I was ambivalent about coming. But you said you wanted to see Anthony, too, and when I told him, he insisted we make the trip.’ Edwina threw Emma a baleful glance. ‘My son adores you. Neither his mother’s wishes nor wild horses could have kept him away from this little gathering. He was also worried about your health. And so, since I love my son and wish to please him, I acquiesced. If it had not been for Anthony I would not have come, let me assure you of that.’

Emma sighed audibly. ‘When your Uncle Winston effected a reconciliation between us in 1951, I hoped we could become friends. But it’s always been an armed truce, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mother. And if you want to know the truth, it was Jeremy who persuaded me to see you again. My husband always did have great family feelings. He felt we should make peace.’

‘Such as it is,’ Emma retorted. ‘But let us not bicker. I wanted to see you alone because I have something important to tell you. I wish to speak to you about your father.’

Edwina’s face stiffened. ‘I can’t imagine what you could possibly have to say about him,’ she snapped, deep colour flooding her face. ‘He’s sitting downstairs at this very moment, behaving like the grand seigneur. Frankly, I don’t know how you could be so thoughtless as to have him here in my presence, or in the presence of my son, who is, after all, a peer of the realm. That intolerable man makes me feel uncomfortable. But then I suspect you enjoy making us all squirm, don’t you, Mother? You are addicted to manipulating people.’

‘You never did know me very well, Edwina,’ Emma sighed. ‘And there is no reason why Blackie O’Neill should make you feel awkward or cause you discomfiture, because he is not your father.’

Edwina’s jaw dropped. She gaped at Emma, but said nothing. Recovering her speech, she cried quickly, ‘But his name is on my birth certificate!’

‘That’s true, but for quite different reasons than you believe. Blackie was my only friend when I was sixteen, alone, almost penniless, and carrying you. He asked me to marry him, out of friendship, I think. I refused. He insisted I name him as your father because he thought the phrase “father unknown” would be yet another stigma for you to bear. He also thought it would protect us to a certain extent, and in a way it did,’ Emma finished, thinking of how it had given her the courage to deny Edwina’s paternity, indeed her existence, to Gerald Fairley.

‘Then who was, or is, my father?’ Edwina demanded.

‘Your father was Edwin Fairley.’

Edwina leaned forward alertly. ‘Do you mean Sir Edwin Fairley? The famous criminal lawyer who died last year? One of the Fairleys from Fairley village?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Emma said quietly.

‘Good God!’ Edwina sat back in stupefaction and took a long swallow of her drink. After a moment she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me this that day I showed you the copy of my birth certificate?’

‘You didn’t give me an opportunity to explain anything. You fled to Cousin Freda’s, if you remember. Besides, I’m not sure I would have revealed his identity then. I might have, but it’s doubtful. The Fairley family have caused me a great deal of heartache. I did not want you to suffer or to be exposed. I also—’

‘Why now? Why are you suddenly telling me now? What has prompted this unprecedented display of honesty on your part, and at this late date?’

‘Because tonight I am going to announce Paula’s engagement to Jim Fairley, your father’s only grandson. He will be a member of this family, and also you are his only living blood relative. His parents were killed in a plane crash in 1948. I thought he ought to know you are his aunt. I would also like to wipe the slate clean once and for all.’ A reflective look entered Emma’s eyes. ‘I want Paula and Jim to start their marriage in the right way. No skeletons in the cupboard. No ancient secrets to haunt them. But apart from that, I felt I owed it to you to tell you the truth, Edwina. It’s long overdue.’

The understatement of the year, Edwina thought bitterly. Finally, she said slowly, ‘Edwin Fairley was a brilliant barrister and renowned throughout the country, and, perhaps more importantly, he was a gentleman. He had breeding and lineage. I’m not ashamed to acknowledge him as my father. You may tell Jim if you want. In fact, I think I would like you to do so.’

‘Thank you, Edwina.’

Edwina stood up. ‘I wish you had been honest with me years ago, Mother. Things might have been different between us.’

I sincerely doubt that, Emma thought, but said, ‘Perhaps they would.’

Edwina walked to the door without another word and Emma was aware of the gratified look in her daughter’s eyes. She’s such a ridiculous snob, she said to herself. Her illegitimacy doesn’t matter to her anymore, now that she knows her father was gentry. Emma called after her, ‘Please ask Jim to come upstairs.’

Edwina swung around. ‘Yes, Mother.’ She hovered and said hesitantly, ‘You remarked that the Fairleys had caused you grief, and yet you—you named me after my father…’

‘A mere slip of the tongue, I’m afraid,’ Emma said pithily, ‘but then that’s another story.’

A few minutes later Jim Fairley walked in and Emma straightened up, smiling pleasantly. Jim, who was thirty, was about six feet one in height, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long legs. He had an attractive, rather sensitive face, although his mouth had a sensuality about it that contrasted markedly with his ascetic features and his soulful bluish-grey eyes. His light brown hair, streaked with blond, was brushed loosely across his shapely head and worn slightly longer than the vogue. His appearance was faultless, for he was always impeccably dressed, and he was the epitome of the perfect English gentleman right down to his handmade shoes. He wore a flawlessly tailored evening suit, Edwardian in cut, which was the current fashion, and his fine lawn evening shirt was ruffled down the front and punctuated with sapphire studs.

Jim might have stepped right out of another era into the present, and as he strode towards her, smiling engagingly, Emma was carried back in time to the elegant dinner at Fairley Hall which Olivia Wainright had given in 1904. I always believed Jim looked like Edwin, Emma thought. He drew to a standstill and she recognized that it was Adam Fairley who stood before her tonight. James Arthur Fairley, the last of the line, was the reincarnation of his great-grandfather.

Emma felt unnerved for a second, but she brushed aside the peculiar feeling of déjà vu and said in a gracious voice, ‘Good evening, Jim.’ She rose and stretched out her hand. ‘Welcome to my house. Welcome to my family.’

Jim smiled warmly. He revered and almost worshipped this regal old woman grasping his hand, and his admiration was fully revealed on his face. ‘Good evening, Mrs Harte. And thank you. I am honoured to become a member of your family, and to be in your home.’ He held on to her fingers and looked down into her eyes. ‘I love Paula with all my heart. I will be a good husband to her.’

‘Yes, I believe you will, Jim,’ Emma said, extracting her hand. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ As she spoke she moved towards the Georgian table.

Restraining her, Jim said, ‘Thank you. I’ll have a glass of wine. But I’ll get it. Don’t trouble yourself.’

Emma watched him stride across the room with that easy grace that sprang from self-confidence engendered by breeding and background, and she saw him yet again through newly objective eyes, wondering why she had never detected his uncanny resemblance to Adam. Perhaps it’s more apparent because of the Edwardian evening clothes, she decided, and looked into the fire, filled with remembrances of things past.

Jim returned with his drink.

Emma lifted her glass. ‘I understand from Paula you want to speak to me.’

‘Yes, I do, Mrs Harte. But first I have something for you.’ He put down the drink and reached into his pocket. He took out a small silver cardboard box and handed it to her.

Emma looked up at Jim. ‘What is it?’

‘Open it,’ Jim said.

Emma did so quickly, her curiosity aroused. The box contained a silk handkerchief, its whiteness yellowed by time, and it had been carefully folded so that the initials E.F. were clearly visible. Her hands trembled as she lifted the corners. She caught her breath, staring down at the stone lying on the ancient silk. It was the flat pebble she and Edwin had found in the cave at the Top of the World, and upon which had been painted the miniature portrait of a woman. It was extraordinarily well preserved, the oils almost as vivid as they had been over half a century ago. She picked it up and gazed at it, and then lifted her eyes to Jim’s questioningly.

‘My grandfather gave it to me the day he died,’ Jim told her, watching her face. ‘He told me to bring it to you. He wanted you to have it.’

‘Why?’ Emma asked in a low voice. So Edwin Fairley had not forgotten her, after all. He had remembered her on his deathbed.

‘I’ll get to that in a moment, Mrs Harte. I’d like to explain something else first. My grandfather knew about my relationship with Paula. You see, I took her to meet him at his house in Harrogate, when we first started seeing each other. At the time I couldn’t understand why he looked as if he’d seen a ghost when she walked in. Anyway, over the months he grew to love her and he was enthusiastic about the match. It seemed to give him renewed energy. His dearest wish was that we should marry.’

Jim paused, lit a cigarette, drew on it, and went on, ‘Then Paula suddenly broke off with me, explaining that you would never accept a Fairley in the family, that you bore us a hatred she could not understand. She told me she would never do anything to cause you pain, because you had had too much pain and grief in your life. I argued with her, begged her to discuss it with you, or let me talk to you. But she became so hysterical at the mere suggestion of this, I decided to let her calm down, hoping she would have a change of heart. She didn’t, as you know.’

Emma nodded. ‘And you explained all this to your grandfather?’

‘I did. I implored him to enlighten me. Many times, in fact. He refused point-blank. I knew you had wrested control of the Gazette from him in 1950, and I asked him if your hatred towards our family sprang from business conflicts. Again he refused to answer me or discuss you. He seemed to go downhill when Paula left me. He brought me up, you know, and we were very close, but not even I could reach him. He grew awfully frail in the last few weeks of his life, and one day last December he sent for me. I think he knew he was dying—’

‘And he gave you this stone to give to me,’ Emma interrupted. ‘And he told you the whole story, didn’t he? He told you about me and what had happened between us when we were young,’ she finished in a faint voice.

‘Yes. He told me everything. He said he hoped you would relent and give us your blessing, but if you did not, I was to come to you with this stone. He said it was imperative that you knew it was a painting of your mother and not Olivia Wainright, as he had believed when he found it.’ Jim stopped and gazed at her, trying to gauge her emotions, but Emma’s face was a mask of inscrutability.

In point of fact, Emma was not surprised at his revelation. ‘I thought it was my mother,’ she murmured softly. ‘I think I always knew that. Adam Fairley painted it, did he not?’

‘That’s correct. Grandfather took the stone to his father after Olivia died, thinking he would want to have it for sentimental reasons. Apparently Grandfather had offered it to Adam before, and once again he wouldn’t accept it. My great-grandfather then explained why. He said it was a painting of your mother, and he told Grandfather they had been childhood sweethearts.’

Emma nodded her head slowly. ‘That was another thing I suspected years ago—that there had been a friendship between them.’

Jim took a deep breath. ‘Your mother and my great-grandfather were more than friends, Mrs Harte. They were lovers.’

Emma was jolted upright on the sofa and her fingers tightened on the stone. ‘Are you certain of that, Jim?’

‘Oh, yes. Great-grandfather explained it all to Grandfather very carefully and in detail. It seems Adam fell in love with your mother, Elizabeth, and she with him. She became pregnant by Adam and ran away from Fairley. He found her some weeks later in Ripon. He had decided to abandon his military career, defy his father, and emigrate to America with your mother. It was too late. She had miscarried. Adam did not know if it was a natural miscarriage or one induced by some quack midwife. Elizabeth was very ill. She almost died. And she would not countenance Adam’s idea of elopement. Eventually she recovered, returned to Fairley, and soon after she married your father, Jack Harte. And she never spoke to Adam Fairley again.’

Emma was silent, filled with a terrible aching sadness. I knew it always she thought. That was probably one of the reasons I hated Adam Fairley with such virulence. But how did I know? Did I overhear something as a child? A family quarrel? Recriminations between my parents? Local gossip? She searched her mind and found no answers.

Jim came and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘I hope I’m not upsetting you, Mrs Harte, opening old wounds that must be painful for you. However, I felt you ought to know Grandfather had confided in me, and I wanted you to have the stone, even though you had relented about Paula and me of your own accord.’

A wistful look flitted across Emma’s face. ‘No, you’re not upsetting me, Jim. I’m glad you followed your instincts. I loved my mother very much and I don’t have a photograph of her. I shall treasure the stone. Now, please continue. I’m sure there is more.’

‘Yes, there is. When Grandfather gave me the stone for you, he said that the Harte women had always held a fatal fascination for the Fairley men, but that they had been for ever crossed in love. “Doomed by circumstances of birth” was the phrase he used. He said, “Tell Emma to let it end now. Tell her to let this generation have the happiness she and I were denied, and which her mother and my father were denied. Tell her that in all good conscience she must end it, once and for all. Tell her it is she, and she alone, who can finally join our two families together in holy matrimony.” He was very emotional, Mrs Harte. I said I would do as he asked.’

Emma took Jim’s hand in hers, and her eyes, so old and wise, were moist. ‘Why didn’t you come to me before, Jim? Your grandfather has been dead three months.’

‘I was going to come to you in January, but then you and Paula left unexpectedly for America. When you returned, you fell ill. I intended to speak to you a few weeks ago, but you were so preoccupied I didn’t want to disturb you, particularly so soon after your illness.’ He smiled. ‘And then out of the blue you approached me and said you would approve of the marriage if we both still felt the same way.’

‘I’m glad I made the first move,’ Emma said. ‘Somehow it makes me feel better.’ She shook her head wonderingly. ‘It is strange, isn’t it, that three generations of Fairley men have fallen in love with Harte women and have always been thwarted until now. Three generations, Jim, spanning almost a hundred years.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Too long. And there has been too much heartbreak. Your grandfather was right. It must end now.’ She smiled. ‘Why, it has ended, hasn’t it, Jim?’

‘Yes. Thank God.’ To Emma’s surprise and astonishment Jim now knelt down on the floor at her feet and took her hands firmly between his. He looked up into her face, his eyes almost beseeching. ‘Grandfather asked me to do something else, Mrs Harte. Just before he died, he said, “When you have told Emma all this, I want you to get down on your bended knees and beg that woman’s forgiveness for everything the Fairleys have done to her. In particular, ask her to forgive me. Tell her I’ve never stopped loving her all the days of my life, and that without her my life has had no real meaning. A part of me died the day I repudiated Emma in the rose garden, and I have paid dearly for what I did.” I promised faithfully to do as he wished, Mrs Harte, but Grandfather suddenly became agitated, and made me promise over and over again. He also said, in the most sorrowing voice, “Jim, it will be an unquiet grave I lie in if Emma does not forgive me. Implore her to do so, Jim, so that my tortured soul can rest in peace.” I told him I knew you would forgive him, and eventually I managed to calm him. He fell asleep for a short while. When he opened his eyes he didn’t seem to see me. There was a faraway look on his face. He stared out of the window for a long time. When he lay back on the pillows I knew he was slipping away. Quite unexpectedly he smiled, and it was a triumphant, happy smile. He cried in the strongest voice, “Emma! Emma! I’m going back to the Top of the World,” and then he died peacefully in my arms.’

Emma blinked back her tears. ‘Poor Edwin. Poor Edwin,’ she said in a voice that quavered. ‘I think perhaps your grandfather suffered more than I did, after all.’

‘Yes, I believe he did,’ Jim said. His face became intense. ‘You do forgive the Fairleys, don’t you, Mrs Harte? And Grandfather in particular.’

‘I forgive them, Jim. All of them, and most especially Edwin.’ She touched Jim’s face lightly, and with affection. But it was Edwin she now saw kneeling before her. I’ve spent a lifetime seeking revenge for what you did to me, she thought. But it wasn’t really necessary. Your own conscience did my work for me. If only I had known. What a lot of pain and effort it would have saved. You wanted me to win. It was a salve for your overwhelming guilt. That’s why you looked so relieved when I stole the Gazette from you. You knew the vendetta was finally over.

‘Mrs Harte, are you all right?’ Jim asked anxiously.

Emma blinked and stared at him. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Now be good enough to lend me your handkerchief. I can’t go downstairs to announce your engagement with tears streaming down my face, now can I?’

‘As far as I’m concerned you can do anything you want,’ Jim said as he handed her his handkerchief.

Emma blew her nose and said, ‘I was going to tell you tonight that I had borne your grandfather’s child, Jim. I wanted you to know. My eldest daughter, the Countess of Dunvale, is your Aunt Edwina. Or rather, your half aunt.’

‘I guessed as much when I met her this evening.’ Jim grinned. ‘She looks like a Fairley, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

Emma chuckled. ‘She does indeed. She used to be the spitting image of your great-grandmother, Adele, when she was younger. Now, give an old woman your arm and escort me downstairs to greet my family.’

‘I will be honoured,’ Jim said.