The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules

‘Oh, stuffy old Edwina’s in her room, reading or something. She wouldn’t play with me this morning. Oh well, who cares! I want to finish this painting, Mummy.’ Kit climbed back on to the chair, picked up the brush, and attacked the painting with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. A look of concentration settled on his freckled face. ‘I must get it just right for you, Mums. I think I’ll put a kangaroo in it. And a polar bear.’

‘Don’t you mean koala bear, Kit?’

‘Well, a bear, Mummy. Uncle Paul told me there were bears in Australia.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Emma said absently. ‘Lunch in half an hour, Kit. And don’t forget to tidy up before coming down.’ She rumpled his hair and hurried out to her own room, feeling the need to be alone to collect her scattered thoughts.

Winter sun was pouring in through the tall windows and the room was awash with rafts of pristine light. The deep peach walls and the matching carpet had taken on a golden hue and the pale green watered silk covering the bed, the sofa, and several small chairs held a faint shimmer as though shot through with silvery grey. Georgian antiques, their patinas mellow, punctuated the room with dark colour and the crystal lamps with their cream silk shades cast a warm glow against the rosy walls. A fire blazed in the white marble fire-place and the ambiance was cheerful. Emma hardly noticed her surroundings. She stood in front of the fire warming her hands, the old iciness of childhood trickling through her limbs. Her head throbbed and she felt more depressed than usual.

David’s declaration of his love for her and her subsequent rejection of him had served to underscore the searing torment Paul McGill had caused her. Always prominent in her mind, this feeling was now more rampant than ever, and she felt utterly defeated. After a moment she crossed to the chest of drawers and opened the bottom drawer. She pushed her hands under the silk nightgowns and lifted out the photograph of Paul. She had placed it there weeks ago, no longer able to bear the sight of it on her dressing table. Her eyes rested on that well-loved face, took in the direct gaze of the eyes underneath the thick brows, the smile on the wide mouth, and her lacerated heart ached. Unexpectedly, a furious anger invaded her and she hurled the photograph across the room with great force, her eyes blazing.

The moment it left her hand she regretted her immature action and ran to pick it up. The silver frame had been dented and the glass had shattered, but to her relief the photograph was undamaged. She knelt on the floor, gathering up the broken glass and placing it in the wastepaper basket. She sat down in the chair by the fire, hugging the photograph to her, thinking about Paul. The photograph had been taken the preceding January, just prior to his leaving England, when they were staying at the Ritz together. He was wearing his major’s uniform and looked incredibly handsome. She saw him then, in her mind’s eye, standing on the platform at Euston, before he boarded the boat train. He had tilted her face to his and looked deeply into her eyes, his own spilling with love. ‘I’ll come back, my dearest darling. I promise I will be back before you know I’m even gone,’ he had said. And she, imbecile that she was, had believed him.

She looked down at the picture. ‘Why didn’t you come back, Paul? You promised! You vowed nothing could keep you from me!’ Her question echoed hollowly around the room, and she had no answer for herself, once more baffled and racked with despair. Paul had written to her twice and she had replied immdiately. To her surprise he had never responded to her second letter. At the time, wondering if it had gone astray, she had written again. This letter had also remained unanswered. Finally, swallowing her immense pride, she had penned a circumspect note, and then had waited for word from him. The weeks had turned into months, and the silence had been absolute. In a state of bewilderment and shock, she had done nothing. She had lost her nerve. By October, Emma had miserably resigned herself to the fact that Paul was not man enough to write and tell her that he no longer loved her. That it was over. It was the only conceivable conclusion she could draw in her heartsick state. He simply has no further use for me, she thought. I served a purpose when he was alone in England. He has resumed his old life in Australia. He is a married man.

Emma leaned back, staring into space abstractedly, her face cold and set, her eyes wide and tearless. She had cried all the tears she would ever cry for Paul McGill, night after night for months past. Paul McGill did not want her and that was that. There was nothing she could do about it …

‘Mother, may I come in?’ Edwina asked, poking her head around the door.

‘Yes, darling,’ Emma said, slipping the photograph under the chair and forcing a smile. ‘Did you have a nice morning? I’m sorry I had to go to the factory on your day. It was an emergency.’

‘You work too hard, Mother,’ Edwina said reprovingly. She sat down in the opposite chair and smoothed her tartan kilt.

Emma disregarded the remark and the offensive tone and said cheerfully, ‘You haven’t told me yet what you would like for Christmas. Perhaps you would like to come to the store with me next week and look around, darling.’

‘I don’t know what I want for Christmas,’ Edwina said, her silvery eyes observing Emma. ‘But I would like to have my birth certificate, please, Mother.’

Emma froze in the chair. She kept her face bland. ‘Why do you want your birth certificate, Edwina?’ she asked, adopting a mild voice.

‘Because I need it to get a passport.’

‘Good heavens, why do you need a passport?’

‘Miss Matthews is taking the class to Switzerland next spring and I am going, too.’

Emma’s sweeping brows puckered together. ‘I notice you have simply assumed you are going. You haven’t asked my permission. I find that quite dismaying, Edwina.’

‘May I go, Mother?’

‘No, Edwina, you may not,’ Emma said firmly. ‘You are only thirteen. In my opinion that’s far too young for you to be travelling to the Continent without me.’

‘But we will be chaperoned. Most of the girls are going. Why can’t I?’

‘I have told you why, dear. You are too young. Furthermore, I find it hard to believe that most of the girls are going. How many exactly will there be in the group?’

‘Eight.’

‘That’s more like it! Eight girls out of a class of twenty-four is merely a third. You are prone to exaggerate sometimes, Edwina.’

‘So I can’t go?’

‘Not this coming year. Perhaps in a couple of years. I will have to give it some careful thought. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you should have discussed it with me first. And my decision is quite final, Edwina.’

Knowing that it was useless to argue with her iron-willed mother, Edwina sighed theatrically and stood up. She hated her. If her father were alive he would have let her go abroad. She smiled at Emma, craftily concealing her dislike. ‘It’s not that important,’ she said, and glided across the room to Emma’s dressing table. Picking up the brush, she began to brush her waist-length silver-blonde hair, staring with total absorption in the mirror. Emma watched her with mounting annoyance, her eyes narrowing as she saw the self-gratified smile on her daughter’s face revealed in the glass.

‘You know, Edwina, for a little girl you are terribly vain. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone gaze into a mirror as often as you do.’

‘Now you’re exaggerating, Mother,’ Edwina countered haughtily.

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Emma said crossly. Her patience was worn thin this morning and her nerves were on edge. But regretting her flash of temper, she said in a lighter tone, ‘Your Uncle Winston is coming to tea today. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you, darling?’

‘Not particularly. He’s not the same since that woman got him.’

Emma suppressed a smile. ‘Your Aunt Charlotte hasn’t got him, Edwina, as you so curiously put it. She’s married to him. And she’s awfully nice. You know, too, that she is very fond of you.’

‘He’s still not the same,’ Edwina said stubbornly. She stood up. ‘I have to finish my homework, Mother. Please excuse me.’

‘Yes, dear.’

When Emma was alone she returned Paul’s photograph to the drawer, her mind preoccupied with Edwina’s request for her birth certificate, a disastrous development she had not anticipated. She ran downstairs to the study, closed the door firmly behind her, and telephoned Blackie in Harrogate.

‘Hello, me darlin’,’ Blackie said.

‘Blackie, something perfectly dreadful has happened!’

He heard the fear in her voice. ‘What’s wrong, Emma?’

‘Edwina just asked me for her birth certificate.’

‘Jaysus!’ He recovered himself swiftly. ‘Why does she suddenly want her birth certificate?’

‘To get a passport for a school trip to the Continent next year.’

‘You refused, I presume.’

‘Of course. But the day will come when I can’t stall her, Blackie. What am I going to do?’

‘You’ll have to give it to her. But not until she’s old enough to handle the situation, Emma.’ He sighed. ‘This was bound to happen one day.’

‘But how will I explain your name on the certificate? She thinks Joe was her father.’

‘You could let her think that I really am her father.’

‘But that’s such a responsibility for you, Blackie.’

He laughed. ‘I have a broad back, me darlin’. You should know that by now.’ His voice changed perceptibly, and he went on, ‘Of course, you could tell her who her real father is. But I don’t suppose you want to do that, do you, Emma?’

‘No, I definitely do not!’ Emma made a decision, drew in her breath, and plunged. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’