t was the thirtieth of April, and today she was eighty years old.

She awakened early, as was usual, and as she lay in her bed, shaking off the residue of sleep, she thought: Today is a special day, isn't it? And then instantly she remembered why this day was different from others. It was her birthday.

Emma had an aversion to lying in bed once she was awake, and she pushed herself up and brought her feet to the floor, half smiling to herself as she padded across the carpet to the windows. She had made it. She had never imagined she would live so long. Why, she was eleven years older than this century. In 1889, in that small cottage in Top Fold in Fairley village, her mother Elizabeth Harte had brought her into the world.

Drawing the draperies, she peered out. Her smile widened. It was a gorgeous day, full of sunshine and a startling brilliance. The sky was a crystalline blue and cloudless, and the trees below her in Belgrave Square were full blown and brightly green, their heavily laden branches undulating with shimmering light under the breeze. She had been born on such a day as this, a balmy spring day, her mother had once told her, a day that was unusually warm for this time of year, especially in the cool northern climes of Yorkshire.

Emma stretched. She felt alert and refreshed after a good night's rest, and as vigorous as she had ever been. Full of piss and vinegar, she thought, and immediately an image of her brother Winston flashed into her mind. That had been his favorite expression to describe her, when she had been revved up and bubbling over with enthusiasm, energy, and drive. She wished he were still alive, and her younger brother Frank, too. Sudden sadness streamed through her, but it was fleeting. Today was not a day for feeling sorry for herself, for missing those whom she had so dearly loved and who had departed this world. Today was a day for positive thoughts. A day for celebration. A day for looking to the future, concentrating on the younger generation... her grandchildren.

If all of her children except Daisy were lost to her, at least she had the immense satisfaction of knowing that their offspring would carry her bright banner forward, continue the great dynasty she had created, preserve her mighty business empire.

She stopped abruptly, paused in her progress across the room, and asked herself if it was a ferocious personal vanity that had fostered the dynastic impulse in her. A desire for immortality perhaps? She was not certain. But she did comprehend one thing—to produce a dynasty such as she had done, it was absolutely necessary to view ambition on the grandest of scales, to imbue it in others.

Emma laughed out loud. It was just conceivable that she had always envisioned herself as being larger than life, different, and so truly indomitable that she was not mortal at all. Egotism, she thought, and once more her rippling laughter filled the silent bedroom. Her enemies had frequently labeled her the total and supreme egotist. But why not? It was the truth, indeed it was. And without her enormous ego, surely she would never have done the things she had done, accomplished all that she had. That ego, that belief in herself, had given her courage and self-confidence, had propelled her forward and upward, right to the top. To the glittering pinnacle of success.

Well, she didn't have time to waste this morning, contemplating her motives, analyzing the internal forces that had driven her all the days of her life. She had done what she felt had to be done, and very simply that was that. She walked purposefully into the bathroom to prepare herself for the day facing her, shoving to one side these thoughts, deeming them unimportant.

An hour later, after she had bathed, dressed, and breakfasted, Emma hurried downstairs to the second floor of her maisonette. She looked fresh and vitally alive, dressed in a crisply tailored light-wool dress in a shade of delphinium blue. She wore splendid jewelry with it—sapphire earrings and a matching brooch pinned onto one shoulder, a double strand of pearls, Paul's wedding ring, and Blackie's large diamond. Not one hair of her immaculate, gleaming silver head was out of place, her makeup was perfect, and the bounce in her step belied her great age.

Emma still lived in Belgrave Square, in the elegant, beautifully appointed mansion which Paul McGill had purchased for them in the late summer of 1925, soon after the birth of their daughter Daisy. At the time, catering to Emma's fear of vicious gossip, her reluctance to flaunt their relationship, and her overwhelming need to be discreet and circumspect, he had had the house remodeled into two flats. And he had spared no expense in the process. The noted architect he had engaged had designed small bachelor quarters on the ground floor for Paul; the three floors which soared above were transformed into the luxurious triplex flat for Emma, Daisy, the nanny, and the rest of the staff. To the outside observer, the bachelor apartment and the large airy flat spanning three floors were entirely separate, were two distinct, self-contained dwellings, each having its own entrance. However, the two were ingeniously linked by a private interior elevator, which ran between the small hall in Paul's bachelor quarters to the larger and more elegant foyer in Emma's flat on the next floor. Because of this lift, the dwellings operated efficiently as one house.

During the war years, immediately following Paul's crippling accident and tragic suicide in Australia in 1939, Emma ad closed up his bachelor flat. Unable to enter it without breaking down with uncontrollable grief and searing despair, she had turned her back on these rooms, ignoring them except for having them regularly cleaned. In 1948, when she was finally able to confront his possessions, she had had some of the rooms modernized and redecorated. Since then, she had utilized the smaller downstairs flat as guest quarters for visiting friends or her grandchildren.

Parker, her butler, was busy sorting the morning mail when Emma walked into her study. This was a pleasant, airy room of medium size, comfortably furnished with country antiques.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Harte," said Parker, looking up and smiling. "Quite a heavy post this morning, madam."

"Oh my goodness, I see what you mean!" Emma exclaimed, The butler had stacked a staggering amount of mail on the chintz-covered sofa and was methodically opening envelopes with a paper knife, removing the birthday cards, and throwing the envelopes into the wastepaper basket.

Emma joined him in this task, but soon she had to keep breaking off to answer the phone, and then, not long after-

ward, the door bell began ringing as flowers and gifts arrived in a steady and continuing stream. Parker and Mrs. Ramsey, the housekeeper, had their hands full, and Emma was left alone to cope with the mail.

At about eleven-thirty, when the activity was at its height, Daisy McGill Amory walked in, unexpected and unannounced.

Emma's youngest daughter would be forty-four in May, but she did not look her age. She had a slender figure, softly curling black hair that framed her tranquil, unlined face, and luminous blue eyes that mirrored her lovely disposition and gentle nature. Unlike her daughter Paula, who favored a hard-edged chic and was extremely fashion-conscious, Daisy was more like Emma in her taste in clothes. She always chose soft, rather feminine outfits, arid this morning she wore a simple lilac wool suit and a matching blouse with a frilly jabot which fell down the front, gold jewelry, and black patent pumps and handbag.

"Happy happy birthday, Mother," Daisy said from the doorway, her expression loving, her eyes awash with tenderness.

Emma looked up from the pile of envelopes and broke into smiles. She was delighted to see Daisy and welcomed her calm presence. Springing up from behind the desk, Emma went to greet her with affection and warmth.

'This is from us... David and I do hope you like it, Mummy." She laughed. "You're awfully hard to buy for, you know^ You do have everything." She thrust a package at Emma.

"Thank you, Daisy, and since you have the best taste in the world, I'm sure it's going to be something quite lovely."

Sinking onto the sofa, Emma began to unwrap Daisy's gift. "All this fuss! And at my age!"

Daisy knew that her mother was enjoying every minute despite her protestations. She joined her on the sofa and said, "But Mummy, that's just the point. This is an important day... you must sit back, relax, and savor every minute of it."

"Perhaps you're right. But it certainly looks as if I'll never get to the store this morning."

Daisy stared at her, her bright blue eyes aghast. "You can't go to work this morning, darling, it—"

"Why ever not?" Emma interrupted. "I always go to work."

"Not today you're not! It wouldn't be appropriate." Daisy shook her head vigorously. "Besides," she paused, glanced at

her watch, and went on, "In a short while I'm going to take you off to lunch."

"But I—"

"No buts, my darling Mummy," Daisy said, her tone amused yet firm. "I'm not your daughter, and Paul McGill's, for nothing. I can be just as tough as he was and as you are,.when I want to be. And this is one of those days when I'm. putting my foot down. Hard. We haven't had lunch together for the longest time, and in a few days you'll be leaving with Uncle Blackie—and you'll be gone for months, from what I hear. Please don't disappoint me; I've been so looking forward to it, and I've already reserved a table at the Mirabelle."

Emma smiled at Daisy, who was her favorite, her best-loved child. She had always found it hard to refuse her anything. "All right," she said, relenting. "We'll have lunch together, and then I'll go to the store this afternoon. Oh, Daisy, this is lovely!" Emma now exclaimed, staring at the solid gold, handmade evening bag' she held in her hands. "Why, darling, it's simply beautiful." Her pleasure was apparent as she turned the bag around, opened it, looked inside, closed it. After examining it for a few seconds longer, she returned it to its protective black leather case, leaned over, and kissed her daughter. "Thank you, Daisy, this is stunning. And perfect for my trip, since it'll go with all my evening clothes."

Daisy nodded, pleased and relieved that the gift was a success. "That's what David and I thought, and we really racked our brains to come up with an unusual present. Are you sure you like the style? If you don't, Asprey's will be happy to send a salesperson over with two or three others for you to look at."

"No, no, I don't want to see anything else. I like this one," Emma assured her. "Actually, I shall carry it tonight."

The phone rang. "Shall I get that for you, Mummy?"

"Would you, darling, please?"

Daisy took the phone, answered crisply. There was a brief exchange of pleasantries and after a moment, Daisy said, "I'll see if she can come to the phone. It's a little hectic here this morning. Just a minute, please." Depressing the hold button. Daisy glanced at her mother. "It's Elizabeth. She's back in London. Do you want to speak to her? I think perhaps you should."

"Of course I'll speak to her." Emma crossed to the desk. If she was surprised, she did not show it and said steadily, "Hello, Elizabeth." Sitting down, she leaned back in the chair and cradled the receiver on her shoulder, toying with the pen in the onyx inkstand.

"Thank you," she responded shortly, "yes, it is a grand age, but I don't feel eighty. More like fifty-eight! And I'm as fit as a fiddle." There was another pause. Emma focused her eyes on the wall opposite. They narrowed slightly, and suddenly she cut in peremptorily, "1 think Winston was simply being courteous when he asked my permission. It wasn't really necessary. I don't think I have to remind you that Emily is of age. She can do anything she wants. And no, I didn't speak to Tony. I thought it was up to Emily to break the news to her father."

Emma fell silent as her middle daughter talked incessantly at the other end of the phone. She looked across at Daisy, and made a face, rolled her eyes heavenward. Her patience began to dwindle, and she interrupted again. "I thought you phoned to wish me a happy birthday, Elizabeth, not to complain about Emily's engagement."

An ironic smile flitted across Emma's face as she listened to Elizabeth's protests that she was not complaining.

"I'm glad to hear you say so," Emma said into the receiver, "because that would be a waste of breath. Now, how was your trip to Haiti? And how's your new boyfriend—Marc Deboyne?"

Elizabeth gurgled ecstatically into Emma's ear for a few more minutes, and finally Emma brought their conversation to a close with a brisk, "Well, I'm glad you're happy, and thank you for calling and for the birthday present. I'm sure it will arrive here any minute. Goodbye, Elizabeth." She hung up..

Daisy asked, "Is she upset about Emily and Winston?"

Emma laughed with some acerbity. "Of course not. She's just making appropriate noises because she wasn't informed first, before me. You know Elizabeth as well as I do, she's very self-involved. But it was nice of her to ring up for my birthday." Emma walked back to the couch and sat down. She gave Daisy an odd. look and half shrugged. "Edwina phoned earlier, and so did Robin and Kit... I must say, I was very surprised to hear from my sons. I haven't heard a peep out of them since that debacle over the will last year.

Then today, they're as nice as pie and tell me they've sent me gifts too. Can you believe it?"

"Perhaps they're sorry, Mother, and regret their plotting—"

"I doubt it!" Emma exclaimed softly. "I'm far too cynical to think that either of them would have a change of heart. No, I'm sure their wives were behind the calls. June and Valerie have always been decent women. I can't imagine how they've managed to put up with my sons all these years. Kit plots, Robin schemes. Oh well—" Emma reached out now and took Daisy's hand in hers. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, darling. It's about this house.,, are you sure you don't want it?"

Daisy was startled, and she said in a surprised voice, "But you've left this house to Sarah, haven't you?"

"Yes. However, I only bequeathed it to her because you indicated that you weren't interested in owning it when we discussed the matter last year. But it should be yours or your children's. After all, your father did buy it for us."

"I know, and I've always adored this house. It holds so many special memories for'me... of my years growing up, of Daddy and you, and the lovely times the three of us had here. It is a little big, though, and—"

Emma held up a silencing hand. "Not if you think of it as two flats rather than one house. He did that for me, as you know. I did so want to keep up appearances..." Emma broke off and started to laugh. "Goodness, Daisy, how times have changed. People think nothing of living together quite openly these days. Anyway, getting back to the disposition of this house, I thought you mighi want to reconsider. You have grandchildren now. Philip's bound to marry one day and in the not too distant future, I expect. He'll have children; he may even want to send them to school in England. Two self-contained flats under one unifying roof is awfully useful."

"I'm not sure what to say, Mother. Your points are well taken, though."

"Think about it. I can always change my will."

"But you've left me so much... more than I'll ever need. It seems greedy, accepting this house."

"That's a load of cod's wallop, Daisy. By rights it should be yours. If you decline, then I think that perhaps I'd better leave it to Paula or Philip."

"But what about Sarah?"

"She's not a McGill."

Daisy pursed her lips thoughtfully. "All right, I'll do as you say—think about it. Look here, Mother, I know a woman of your immense wealth has to have her affairs in proper order at all times, but to tell you the truth, I do hate these discussions about your will and your death. They really make my stomach chum. Your death is certainly something I can't bear to think about, never mind discuss in this offhanded way. I get very upset."

Emma looked at Daisy and said nothing. She squeezed her hand, sat back, continuing to stare at her intently.

Daisy took a deep breath, exhaled, and forced a weak smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to speak to you so harshly. However, I do especially dislike talking about such things today of all days. It's your birthday, remember."

"I understand." There was a tiny silence, and eventually Emma said in the quietest voice, "I have been a good mother to you, haven't I, Daisy darling?"

"How could you ever think otherwise!" Daisy cried, her face ringed with concern. Her large and brilliant eyes of the deepest cornflower blue widened considerably, unexpectedly filled. "You've been the most wonderful mother anyone could ever have wished for, always so loving and understanding." Daisy returned Emma's steadfast gaze unblinkingly, and as she looked deeply into that wrinkled face, her heart clenched with the most profound love for this remarkable woman who had borne her. She knew that the forbidding demeanor and the permanently stern expression were only surface characteristics, camouflage for a vast reservoir of emotion and compassion. Emma Harte was a complex, many-faceted person, and contrary to what some believed, she was much more vulnerable and sensitive than most.

Daisy's gentle face underwent another change as her adoration and loyalty to her mother rose up in her. "You're so very special, Mummy." Daisy stopped, searched Emma's face, and shook her head wonderingly. "You're the most honorable and loving person I've ever known. I've been so very lucky to have you all these years. Really blessed."

Emma was deeply moved. "Thank you, Daisy, for saying those beautiful things." She looked into the distance, then murmured in a saddened voice, "I've failed miserably with your half brothers and half sisters. I couldn't bear to think that I'd also failed with you or that I'd ever let you down in any way and not given you my best and dearest love."

"You've given me everything... why I couldn't begin to tell you what I owe you. And I don't believe you've failed the others. Not in the slightest. Didn't my father say once that each of us is the author of our own lives? That we are responsible for what we are? For the deeds, both good and baa, that we do?"

'He did."

"Then believe it, Mother. It's true!"

"If you say so, darling."

Emma fell into momentary silence, reflecting on her daughter's words. She was proud of Daisy, of the woman she had become. For all her sweetness, her soft manners, and her intrinsic charm, Daisy had a strong, even tough inner core, and immense resilience and fortitude. Emma knew that when she chose to be, her Daisy was as immovable as a mountain and unwavering in her resoluteness. This was especially true if her convictions and principles were involved. Daisy, so young-looking, was also inordinately youthful in her attitudes. She had a gaiety, a joyousness about life that was infectious, and she was of that rare breed of women who are liked by their own sex as well as by men. In fact Emma was well aware that most people found it difficult, if not indeed impossible, to dislike Daisy. She was so full of integrity, so honorable, so beyond reproach, yet so truly human and caring that she towered above everyone. If her half brothers and half sisters were jealous of her, even resented her slightly, they were nevertheless rendered helpless under the force of her warm personality and extraordinary sincerity. It was her goodness, purity, and sense of fair play that also kept them off balance and at bay. She was the conscience of the family.

"You've got a faraway look on your face, Mother. Are you daydreaming? You seem so intense all of a sudden, what are you thinking about?" Daisy leaned closer to Emma, searching her face and touching her cheek lightly.

"Oh, nothing much." Emma shook off her introspection, gave Daisy's clothes an appraising glance. "Perhaps I ought to go and change, since we're going to the Mirabelle for lunch."

"You don t have to, darling. Don't bother struggling into something else."

"Albright, I won't. But what about tonight? Blackie tells me he's wearing a dinner jacket. You don't think he actually wants me to wear a long frock, do you? I mean, after all, we're only going to be eight."

Oh my God, Daisy thought, wait until she finds out it's closer to sixty. She wondered if her mother would be annoyed with them for giving the surprise party. Clearing her throat, praying that she sounded ofihand, Daisy remarked, "But Uncle Blackie wants this to be a festive evening, extra special. As he said to me the other day, 'How often is your mother going to be eighty?" So naturally I agreed with him that we should dress. Still, you don't have to be that grand, wearing a long frock, I mean. I've decided on a peacock-blue faille cocktail dress myself. Look, I'd wear one of those lovely chiffons of yours, if I were you."

"That's a relief. I have the green chiffon, it'll do quite nicely. Oh dear, there's the door bell again11 do hope it's not more flowers. This place is beginning to resemble a funeral parlor."

"Mother! What an awful analogy!"

Daisy sprang up,- moved swiftly across the floor, said over her shoulder, "Perhaps it's the gift Elizabeth sent or the ones from Kit and Robin. I'll go and ask Parker."

Before Emma had a chance to blink, Daisy returned. "It is a gift, Mother." She glanced into the foyer, nodded, then took up a position near the fireplace, standing under the portrait in oils of Paul McGill.

Emma, acute as ever, peered at her suspiciously. "What's going on? You look exactly like your father did when he had something up his sleeve." Her eyes strayed to Paul's portrait and then back to Daisy. There was no doubt whose daughter she was. Her likeness to him was more pronounced than ever today... the same bright blue eyes, the black hair, the cleft in the chin. "Come on, what are you hiding?"

Daisy looked expectantly at the door and beckoned. On cue Amanda and Francesca walked in, doing their level best to be sedate and grown-up. They came to a halt in the center of the floor, focused on Emma.

"Happy birthday to you, dear Grandma, happy birthday to you," they chorused, sounding enthusiastic if slightly off-key.

Sarah, Emily, and Paula had followed them into the study, stood behind their young cousins. They echoed, "Happy birthday. Grandma," gazing at her lovingly.

"Good heavens, what's all this!" Emma cried, truly taken by surprise. She gaped at her granddaughters; then, addressing the twins, askea, "And what are you two doing here? It's not half-term, is it?"

Daisy cut in, "1 took them out of school for a couple of days, Mother. They're staying with me and David. After all, it is your birthday.'

"I knew somebody was cooking up something," Emma said, giving Daisy a sharp penetrating look. "To tell you the truth, I thought you and Blackie were conniving together, Daisy. I suspected that you'd planned some sort of celebration for tonight."

Daisy managed to keep her face neutral. But before she got the opportunity to say anything, Emily came forward purposefully. She handed a beautifully wrapped package to Fran-cesca and touched Amanda's shoulder lightly. "You haven't forgotten your speech, have you?"

"Course not," Amanda hissed back indignantly, reached for Francesca's hand, and gave her twin a little tug, drew them both nearer to Emma.

Taking a deep breath, the fifteen-year-old said carefully, enunciating each word clearly, "Grandy, this gift is from all of your grandchildren—from Philip, Anthony, Alexander, Jonathan, Paula, Sarah, Emily, Francesca, and me. Each one of us has contributed to it, so that we could present you with something special on this, your eightieth birthday. We give it to you with our very dearest love always."

Amanda went to Emma, bent down, and kissed her; Francesca followed suit, then handed her the present.

"Thank you, girls," Emma said to the twins. "And your little speech was very nicely rendered, Amanda. Well done." She looked over at their sister and cousins. "My thanks to all of you."

Emma sat for a moment without moving, holding the present on her lap. She let her eyes rest on each one of her elder granddaughters who were grouped together, and she smiled at them individually, nodding to herself, thinking how pretty and charming they looked. Tears welled unexpectedly, and she blinked them back, glanced down at the package, endeavoring to conceal her emotional reaction to this unexpected family scene. To her astonishment her hands shook as she untied the purple ribbon and lifted the object from its box.

The gift was a clock in" the shape of an egg, made of the most translucent blue enamel she had ever set eyes on. A miniature cockerel, enameled and delicately worked, was mounted on top of the egg, heavily bejeweled with dia-

monds, rubies, and sapphires. Emma marveled at the design and craftsmanship, which were exquisite, and she recognized the clock for the precious work of art it truly was.

"It's by Faberge, isn't it?" she managed at last, her voice hardly audible.

"Yes," Emily said. "Actually, Gran, it's an Imperial Easter egg which Faberge' made for the Empress Marie Fedorovna of Russia. Her son, Nicholas II, the last Tsar, ordered it for her."

"How on earth did you manage to find something as rare and valuable as this?" Emma asked, awed. As an art collector of discernment, she was aware that such pieces by Faberg£ were becoming increasingly scarce.

"Paula heard about the clock through Henry Rossiter," Emily volunteered. "He had learned it was' going to be auctioned last week at Sotheby's."

"And Henry went to the auction for you?"

"No, Grandy. We all went en masse, except for the twins, who were at school, of course. Henry did come with us, though. Paula had called us, and we got together for a confab. We each agreed at once that we should try to buy the clock for you—as a collective gift from us. It was terribly exciting! We almost lost it several times, but we just kept on going, topping other bids. And suddenly we had it. We were so thrilled, Grandma!"

"And so am I, my darlings." Her eyes encompassed them all.

Parker suddenly appeared; also on cue from Daisy, bringing in a tray of glasses brimming with sparkling champagne. When each of them had a drink, they clustered around Emma, wished her a happy birthday again, and toasted her health.

Once things had calmed down, 'Emma turned to Daisy and said, "Are we really going to lunch at the Mirabelle? Or was that a ruse to prevent me from going to the store?"

Daisy grinned. "Of course we're going to lunch—all of us who are present, in fact. Anthony, Alexander, Jonathan, and David will be joining us. So you can forget about going to work today, Mother.'

Emma was about to assert herself on this point, but she recognized the look on Daisy's face. Since it forbade argument, she held her tongue.:

It was dusk.

Emma walked across the entrance foyer, so bosky and still at this hour, her step light as she entered her study.

She was dressed for the dinner party Blackie was giving at the Ritz, wearing a short dress made of layers and layers of pale and dark green chiffon, simply cut with long floating Mandarin sleeves. The magnificent McGill emeralds, blazing at her throat, on her ears, arms, and hand, looked stunning against the mingled greens of the delicate fabric, the fire, depth, and brilliance of the gems intensified by the repetition of their color.

Yes, it was a good choice, Emma decided as she passed the one mirror in the room and caught a fleeting glimpse of herself. She did not stop but continued across the floor, the only sound the swishing of her dress as she moved with her usual briskness.

When she reached the console where some of her many birthday presents were stacked, she picked up the Imperial Easter egg and carried it back to the drawing room.

Placing it on an antique occasional table near the fireplace, she stood back, admiring it again. It was undoubtedly one of the loveliest things she had ever been given, and she could not wait to show it to Blackie.

The sharp trilling of the bell made her start, and in rapid succession she heard Parker's footsteps resounding in the foyer, the front door banging, and muffled voices.

A moment later Blackie was striding into the room, splendidly attired in a superbly cut tuxedo, the wide grin on his face competing with the sparkle in his black eyes, and he was obviously buoyed up with excitement.

"Happy birthday, me darlin'," he boomed, and drawing to a standstill he swept her up into his arms. Then he released his grip, stepped away, and caught her hands in his, looked down into her face, repeating the gestures practiced on her for years.

"You look bonnier than ever tonight, Emma," he said beaming and bent to kiss her.

"Thank you, Blackie." Emma returned his smile and moved toward the sofa. "Did you tell Parker what you wanted to drink?"

"Sure and I did. My usual." He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, his large frame filling it completely. "I don't want you to think I've come empty-handed—your birthday present is outside. I'll go and get it—"

The butler's discreet knock interrupted him, and Parker came in with a tumbler of neat Irish whiskey for Blackie and a goblet of white wine for Emma.

As soon as they were alone, Blackie raised his glass. "Here's to you, mavourneen. And may we celebrate many, many more of our birthdays together."

"1 know we will," Emma laughed. "And here's to our trip, Blackie dear."

"To the trip." After only one sip, Blackie sprang up. "Don't move," he instructed, "and when I tell you to close your eyes, I want you to do just that, and no cheating, mind you."

She Sat waiting for him to come back, guessed he had enlisted Parker's help when she heard the low murmur of the butler's voice, Blackie's response, then the sound of paper being ripped.

"Close your eyes," Blackie ordered from the doorway several seconds later. "Remember what I said, no peeking, Emma!"

"I won't," she reassured him, laughter bringing a lilt to her voice. She sat perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap, and she suddenly felt like a young girl again, like the little starveling girl who had received her first real present wrapped in silver paper and tied with silver ribbon. It had been from him—had been that cheap little green glass brooch which she had cherished all of her life. She still had it tucked away in her jewel case, alongside the fine replica he had eventually had made in emeralds. And once, long ago, that bit of green glass had been her most treasured and valuable possession.

"Now!" Blackie cried.

Slowly Emma opened her eyes, and as she looked at the painting he was holding in front of her she instantly recognized the work of her great-niece, Sally Harte. Emma gasped in astonished delight, and then she filled with a swift and piercing pain 'of poignant nostalgia as haunting memories rippled through her. Her throat tightened. She focused her eyes, took in every detail, every brushstroke, and she could only gaze at the painting's evocative beauty, unable to say a word.

"Oh, Blackie," she said at last, "it's perfectly lovely... the moors above Fairley. My moors, where we first met."

"Look a bit closer, me darlin'."

"I don't have to, I can see it's the Top of the World." She raised her eyes and shook her head in wonderment. "What a truly meaningful gift this is, my dear old friend. The painting is extraordinary. Why, I feel as though I can reach out and pick a bunch ofth.it heather, as I used to do for my mother." She let one finger rest lightly against the canvas, barely touching it. "I can hear the tinkle of this little beck, here in the corner, and the sound of its crystal water tumbling down over the polished stones. It's so... so real, I can even smell the scent of bilberry' and bracken and the heather. Oh, Blackie darling..."

Emma looked up at him and smiled her incomparable smile, then swiftly brought her gaze back to the painting. "It's a real Yorkshire sky, isn't it? So full of clarity and shimmering radiance. What immense talent that girl has, and only Turner and Van Gogh have ever been able to capture the true quality of light on canvas in such a way. Yes, Sally has surpassed herself with this."

Gratification and pleasure shone on his craggy, expressive face. "I took Sally over there myself, showed her the exact spot. And she kept going back, time and time again. She wanted perfection for you, Emma, as I did, and I think she got the painting just right in the end."

"She most certainly did. Thank you, thank you so much for thinking of such an unusual present."

Blackie said softly, "I had her write this on the back. In paint. He turned the painting around, indicated the neat lettering. "You won't be able to read what it says without your glasses, so I shall tell you what I asked her to put. It says, To Emma Harte on reaching her eightieth birthday with love from her life-long friend, Blackie O'Neill.' Then there's the date underneath.'

For the second time that day, Emma was greatly moved. She could not speak, and she turned away quickly so that he would not see her misty eyes. She sat down, took a sip of her drink, composed herself, and finally murmured, "That's lovely, just lovely, darling."

After propping the painting against a console table and making sure it was in her direct line of vision, he returned to his seat and lifted his own glass. "And it is a lifetime, too, Emma. Sixty-six years to be precise." He nodded at the painting. "Aye, the Top of the World—your mother's name for Ramsden Crags. I'll never forget the day you found me lost on the moors, and we came up out of the Ghyll, and I saw the Crags for the first time."

Emma followed the direction of his eyes. Over six decades dropped away, and she saw herself as she had been at fourteen. A poor little servant girl... trudging across the moors at dawn in her brokendown button boots and the old patched coat Cook had given her. That coat had been a treasured item too, even though it had been small and tight and threadbare. It had hardly protected her from the rain and snow and bitter north wind.

Now she stared fully at Blackie, seeing him as he was tonight but remembering how he had looked in his rough, drab workman's clothes and his cheap cloth cap worn at such a cheeky angle, carrying his sack of tools slung over his broad shoulder. Disreputable, Cook had called the dirty old burlap bag that contained his most treasured possessions—his hammers and trowels and mortar board.

Emma said slowly, "Who would have thought that we would both live to such great ages... that we would acquire so much in our lifetimes... immense power, immeasurable wealth... that we would become what we are today."

Blackie gave her an odd look, then chuckled at the amazement ringing in her voice. "1 for one never doubted our rosy futures," he announced, his voice underscored by a bubbling merriment. "I told you I was going to be a toff, a real millionaire, and that you would be a grand lady. Mind you, me darlin', 111 be confessing to you now that I never suspected you'd be quite as grand as you are."

They both smiled, their wise old eyes holding, secure in their love and friendship, revelling in the knowledge that they truly understood each other as no other person alive did. So many years... so many experiences shared welded them. The bonds between them were like steel and so strong they were unbreakable.

The silence drifted along for a while.

Eventually Blackie roused himself. "Now, mavoumeen mine, tell me about your busy day."

"One thing surprised me, Blackie. They called. The plotters. I was startled to hear from my sons and Elizabeth, I don't mind telling you. She's back in London of course. No doubt with the French boyfriend. Edwina gave me a ring this morning, and she was pleasant, believe it or not. Perhaps she's mended her ways finally. And I had two other most wonderful calls... they really touched me." Her eyes lit up. "Philip rang from Sydney, and your Shane from New York.

Wasn't that nice?" He nodded, smiling, and she continued, "It seems that your grandson and mine are planning birthday parties for me when we arrive in their cities, so be prepared. As for my day, well, you can see for yourself what it's brought." Emma waved her hand around, her eyes sweeping the room. "Flowers, cards, and so many gifts. And I had lunch with Daisy, David, and my grandchildren at the Mirabelle."

She proceeded to recount every detail of the luncheon party, then told him how they had whisked her away from the restaurant at three-thirty and taken her to her store in Knightsbridge. Marched by her grandchildren into her boardroom, she had been greeted by her top executives, who were awaiting her arrival at the special reception they had arranged for her.

When she had finished this somewhat breathless recital, Emma rose and picked up the Imperial Easter egg, said confidingly. "This is what my grandchildren gave me, and like your painting it is a most meaningful gift. I shall treasure them both always."

"So you had a lovely day—I'm glad. That's the way it should always be." Blackie stood up. "Come along, I think we'd better be on our way. We're meeting in Bryan's suite at the Ritz for a drop of bubbly before we go down to dinner."

Ten minutes later, when they arrived at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly, Blackie ushered Emma up the steps. He paused briefly at the reception desk, asked the young man behind it to announce his arrival to his son, Mr. Bryan O'Neill, and gave the number of the suite.

"Of course, Mr. O'Neill." The young assistant manager smiled at Emma. "Good evening, Mrs. Harte." - Emma acknowledged his greeting pleasantly, and after Blackie had expressed his thanks they proceeded through the lobby, unaware of how striking they looked and of the heads turned to watch them.

Emma remained silent as they rode up in the lift, and Blackie stole several surreptitious looks at her, wondering if she had any inkling about the party which had been planned with such secrecy. He could not hazard a guess. Her face, as always, was inscrutable. He believed Emma would not be angry, despite Daisy's prediction that her mother might easily react adversely. He knew his Emma, understood that she was like a child at times. She enjoyed surprises and gifts and special occasions, particularly when those occasions revolved around her.

That's because of the deprivations of her youth, he said to himself. In those days she had had nothing, nothing of any real value. No, that wasn't strictly true. She had had her startling looks, her brains, her stamina, her extraordinary health,- and her enormous courage. Not to mention that terrible pride of hers. Oh that pride and oh the shame she had experienced because of that pride and because she was poor. "But poverty's not a crime, even though people who're better off always try to make you feel like a criminal," she had once cried to him, her anger bringing a fierce dark gleam to her young eyes. Ah yes, he remembered everything... Emma had had more than her fair share of pain and sorrow and grief in her life. But she would not suffer again, nor ever be deprived again, and there would be no more pain. They were both far too old for tragedies... tragedies were for the young.

Finally they drew to a stop in front of the door to the suite. Blackie smiled inwardly. The phone call from reception had been the alert signal for Bryan and Daisy to keep the guests absolutely quiet. Obviously they had succeeded admirably. A pin dropping would have sounded like a gun going off in the silence permeating the corridor.

Giving Emma a final rapid glance, Blackie raised his hand and rapped. The door was opened almost at once by Daisy. "There you are, Mother, Uncle Blackie. We've been waiting for you. Do come in."

Blackie propelled Emma forward and stepped inside after her.

"Happy birthday!" fifty-eight people shrieked in unison.

"That Emma was thunderstruck was immediately evident to everyone present. She stared at the crowd made up of relatives and friends who had gathered together to celebrate her birthday, her expression startled, and she colored slightly, the blush rising from her neck to suffuse her face. Her eyes immediately swiveled to Blackie's, and she whispered, "You devill Why didn't you give me a hint, some warning at least?"

He grinned, gratified that the secret had obviously been well and truly kept. "I didn't dare. Daisy said she'd kill me. And don't start telling me you're annoyed, because I can see from your face that you're notl"

"That's true," she admitted and finally permitted herself to smile.

She swung her head, faced the packed room, and was momentarily rooted to the spot. The lingering smile slowly grew wider and wider as she noted the familiar faces smiling back at her in welcome.

Her two son's, Kit Lowther and Robin Ainsley, were there with their wives, June and Valerie; her daughters Edwina and Elizabeth flanked a distinguished-looking man who was outrageously handsome. She supposed this was the notorious Marc Deboyne—International White Trash, Emily had so succinctly labeled him. Still, he did have a rather fascinating smile and a glamorous aura. Elizabeth always went for the pretty ones, of course. Well, she was hardly the one to criticize. The men who had tenanted her life had had their fair share of good looks.

Daisy had slipped across the room, stood with her arm linked through David's,.and he in turn was positioned next to her sisters-in-law, the two old ladies Charlotte and Natalie, who were dressed to the nines and dripping with jewels. Paula and Jim hovered next to them; Winston was shepherding Emily, Amanda, and Francesca, and was apparently enjoying his role of protector."Emma's eyes automatically dropped to Emily's left hand, and she.winked at her granddaughter when she spotted the glittering emerald engagement ring.

She stared beyond them into the adjoining suite, saw^Jarah, Jonathan, Alexander, and his girlfriend Maggie Reynolds crowded together in the entrance. On their left was the entire Kallinski family, and edging up to them were Bryan, Geraldine, and Merry O'Neill. Positioned next to the latter were the rest of the Hartes. Randolph's beaming face peered out at her, just visible above the shoulders of his two daughters, Vivienne and Sally. Anthony, her grandson, smiled back at her from Sally's side.

Henry Rossiter was leaning against the fireplace" at the far end of the second suite. He looks better than ever, Emma thought, and eyed his current girlfriend, the noted model Jennifer Glenn. She was at least forty years younger. That's one way to ensure a heart attack, dear Henry, Emma thought to herself, her eyes amused. Gaye Sloane, her private secretary, graced Henry's right, and the remainder of the guests were made up of old friends as well as close business associ-

ates such as Len Harvey, who ran Genret, and his wife Monica.

Emma's initial stunned surprise had completely dissipated in the few minutes she had stood motionless surveying the gathering. Now she was again totally in command of herself, all those present, and this occasion. Looking autocratic, proud, dignified, and supremely elegant, she took a step forward and inclined her head.

"Well," she exclaimed, her strong clear voice ringing out as she broke the silence at last, "I never realized I knew so many people who were capable of keeping a secret. At least from me." Their laughter rippled around her as she glided forward into their midst, accepting their affectionate greetings and good wishes' with a graciousness that few could match.

Blackie edged over to Daisy, stood watching Emma circulating, dispensing her inimitable charm. And by the ladleful, he muttered under his breath. A huge grin suddenly illuminated his face, and his eyes crinkled with humor. He exclaimed to Daisy, "And you worried yourself to death, thinking she was going to be upset! Just look at her... she's in her element, handling them all with aplomb and behaving as if she's royalty."