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Henry Rossiter pressed the telephone closer to his ear, as if better to hear the woman’s voice, concentrating on her words, straining and attentive, for although Emma Harte’s voice was well modulated as always, she spoke more softly than usual.
‘And so, Henry, I would appreciate it if you would come over to the store at about eleven-thirty this morning. I thought we could chat for about an hour and then have lunch here in the boardroom. If you are free, of course.’
He hesitated and it was almost imperceptible, but he knew Emma had caught it and he said quickly, ‘That’s fine, my dear, I shall be glad to come over.’
‘Do you have another appointment, Henry? I would hate to inconvenience you.’
He did, and it was an important luncheon date that had been arranged for some time, but he was hardly going to offend his most important client, who also happened to be one of the richest women in England, possibly in the world, since it was hard to truly estimate her real worth. He knew that she was astute enough to realize he would have a previous appointment, so he refrained from the tiny white lie and, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Yes, I do, but it is easy for me to cancel it, if you wish, my dear.’
‘Good. I appreciate it, Henry. I will see you at eleven-thirty then. Goodbye, Henry.’
‘Goodbye, Emma,’ he murmured, but she had already hung up.
Henry had known Emma Harte for almost forty years, long enough to fully understand that there was always an imperious demand beneath her soft-spoken requests, that they were really commands uttered in the most dulcet of tones and the most charming manner. That inbred charm had carried her a long way, as Henry was the first to acknowledge.
She had said nothing unusual and he had been unable to detect any undertones of disquiet or anger in her voice, and yet a peculiar sense of foreboding had descended upon him as they talked. Henry was not without perception, and, being the ultimate banker, he was always carefully attuned to his clients, fully conscious of their basic characteristics, the quirks and foibles of their personalities. He had to be, since he was handling their money and usually much of their business, and he had come to realize years ago that the very rich could also be very difficult, especially about their money.
It struck him suddenly that it was Emma’s unexpected invitation to lunch which puzzled him. It was unprecedented and therefore, to him, somewhat alarming. Emma, as he knew only too well, was a creature of habit. She rarely had luncheon dates and when she did they were carefully planned days before. This digression from her normal routine was decidedly odd and the more he pondered on this, the more Henry was convinced something was amiss. And yet he had spoken to her three times since her return from New York a week ago and she had been her usual self, brisk and businesslike and, on the surface, seemingly untroubled.
He took off his glasses, leaned back in his chair, and wondered if she was dissatisfied about the way the bank was handling her business. Henry had always been predisposed to worry, especially about the bank, and lately this had developed into a chronic condition. ‘There’s probably a simple explanation for the invitation. I’m just imagining something is wrong,’ he muttered aloud with a degree of irritation; none the less, he pressed the intercom and told his secretary to ask Osborne to come in and see him immediately.
Tony Osborne, and two other officers of the private bank, supervised Emma Harte’s business affairs in England, both corporate and personal. All of them were answerable to him and he reviewed Emma’s affairs twice and sometimes three times a week. Osborne often chided him for using so much physical manpower and was continually insisting they should use computers to deal with the Harte holdings. But Henry did not trust computers, being conservative, even old-fashioned, in his ways. Furthermore, he thought that the supervision of something in the region of three hundred million pounds, give or take a few million, was worth any amount of manpower it might cost the bank. Emma was demanding and she was shrewd, probably shrewder, in fact, than any banker he knew, including himself. Henry needed to be absolutely sure they could answer any questions at any time, which is why the accounts were under daily surveillance. Henry wanted all that salient information right at his fingertips, night as well as day, if necessary.
Osborne interrupted his thoughts as he knocked on the door and glided into the room. Conceited young pup, he’s too egotistical and ambitious by far, and too smooth, Henry thought, regarding the immaculately tailored young man before him. But what can you expect from a boy with a scholarship from Eton.
‘Good morning, Henry.’
‘Morning, Osborne.’
‘Quite a beautiful day, isn’t it? I think spring is going to be early this year, Henry. Don’t you agree?’
‘I’m not a weather vane,’ Henry murmured.
Osborne missed the snub or chose to ignore it. However, his manner became a little more businesslike and his voice was a shade cooler. ‘I want to talk to you about the Rowe account—’ Tony began.
Henry held up his hand and shook his head. ‘Not now, Osborne. I called you in because I have just spoken to Mrs Harte. She asked me to go over to the store later this morning. Is everything in order? No problems?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Osborne was emphatic in his surprise. ‘Everything is under control.’
‘I assume you have been keeping an eye on her foreign holdings. Did you go over them yesterday?’ Henry played with the pen on his desk, still somewhat beset by worry.
‘We always do on Monday. We checked her American and Australian interests, and all are steady. Sitex is doing well. There’s actually been a rise in the price since the new president went in there. Look here, Henry, is something wrong? What’s up?’ he asked.
Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing that I am aware of, Osborne. But I do like to be completely current and informed before I see her. I think I’ll take a look at her accounts with you. Let’s go to your office.’
After an hour and a half of concentrating on the most pertinent of the Harte accounts, Henry was totally satisfied that Osborne and his assistants had been both precise and diligent in their work. All of the English figures were current and the figures for the foreign Harte holdings were as up-to-date as they could be with the changing world markets, the different time zones, and the rise and fall of stock prices. At eleven sharp, for he was punctilious about time, Henry put on his black overcoat, picked up his bowler hat and umbrella, and left the office. He stood on the steps of the bank, sniffing the air for a moment. It was cold but crisp and sunny. Osborne was right, it was a beautiful day for January, spring-like in its clear freshness. He walked swiftly down the street, swinging his umbrella jauntily, a tall, handsome man in his early sixties, whose serious and dignified demeanour belied a sharp sense of humour and a flirtatious nature.
Henry Rossiter had a cool mind, which was also quite brilliant. A cultured man, he was an art connoisseur, a collector of rare first editions, a devotee of drama and music. He could also ride and shoot like the gentleman he was, and he was Master of the Hunt of the county where his ancestral home was located. The product of a rich and old Establishment family, landed gentry, in fact, he was today a curious amalgam of upper-class English conservative principles and international sophistication. He had been married twice and was currently divorced, which made him one of London’s most eligible bachelors, much in demand by chic hostesses, for he was entertaining, charming, and adept in all the social graces, and something of a bon vivant. In short, he was attractive and lethal, a success both in business and in society.
Henry hailed a cab at the corner and got in. Leaning forward, he said, ‘Harte’s, please,’ and sat back, relaxed and confident that Emma could have no complaints about the bank. Absolutely none whatsoever. He still could not fathom the reason for her sudden invitation, but he had shed his incipient worry. Women, he thought with fond exasperation, unpredictable creatures at the best of times! He truly believed all women were quite impossible, having been baffled, confused, and bewitched by them all of his life. But now he felt compelled to readjust his thinking, as far as Emma was concerned. He simply could not, in all honesty, label her unpredictable or even impossible. Headstrong, yes, and sometimes even stubborn to the point of rigidity. But mostly he knew Emma to be prudent and levelheaded, and circumspection was undoubtedly her most basic characteristic. No, ‘unpredictable’ was not a word he would ever associate with Emma.
As the cab pushed its way through the congested traffic towards Knightsbridge, Henry’s thoughts stayed with Emma Harte. They had been friends and business associates for many years and had enjoyed a compatible and mutually rewarding relationship. He had always found Emma easy to work with, for her mind was logical and direct. She did not think in that convoluted female way, nor was her mind cluttered up with the usual womanish nonsense. He smiled to himself. Once he had told her that she did not have a mind like a woman at all, that it was more like a man’s. ‘Oh, is there a difference!’ she had retorted with some asperity, but there had been an amused smile on her face. At the time he had been a trifle hurt, for he had meant it as a great compliment, in view of his disparaging opinions of women, or rather, their intellectual capacities.
He had been entranced by Emma from the first day they had met. Then he had thought her to be the most fascinating woman he had ever encountered and he still did. Once, long ago, he had even believed himself to be in love with her, although she had never been aware of his feelings. He had been twenty-four and she had been thirty-nine and that most desirable of all creatures, the experienced older woman. She had been extraordinarily striking in her appearance, with her luxuriant hair coming dramatically to a widow’s peak above a broad forehead and enormous vividly green eyes that were bright and alive. She was filled with a tremendous energy, a robust vitality that was infectious, and he was always buoyed up by her vivacity and her incredible optimism. She was a refreshing change from the insipid and constrained women he had been surrounded by all his life. Emma had a sardonic wit, a capacity for laughing both at herself and at her troubles, and an innate gaiety and zest for living that Henry found remarkable. From then, until this very day, he had been continually staggered by her intelligence, her prescience, and her unconquerable determination. And he had always been susceptible to that natural charm of hers, a charm which Henry knew had been consciously distilled over the years, and which she had learned to use with consummate skill, carefully exploiting its effects to the fullest for the most propitious results.
For almost thirty years he had been her financial adviser. She always listened to him carefully and appreciated his suggestions and they had never quarrelled in all of this time. In a peculiar sort of proprietary way he was inordinately proud of Emma and what she had become. A great lady. An unparalleled business success. It was a well-established fact that Emma Harte’s London store surpassed any other in the world, not only in size but in the quality and variety of its merchandise. Not without reason was she known as one of the great merchant princes, although few knew, as Henry did, the enormous and crippling price she had paid for her success. He had always felt that the foundations of her immense retailing empire were compounded of her own self-sacrifice and dogged will power, her genius for selling, her instinctive understanding of the public’s whims, an unerring eye for recognizing trends, and nerve enough to gamble when necessary. He had once told Tony Osborne that the bricks and mortar of the store were wrought from her great vision, her amazing facility for finance, and her uncanny ability to rise from the most impossible situations to triumph. And he had meant it. As far as Henry was concerned, she had done it all alone, and the London store, of all the stores she owned, was a towering testimony to her invincible strength.
‘’Ere we are,’ the cab-driver said cheerily. Henry got out, paid the fare, and hurried down the side street to the staff entrance and the elevator that would take him to the top floor and Emma’s executive offices.
Gaye Sloane was talking to one of the secretaries in the outer reception office when Henry walked in. She greeted him warmly. ‘Mrs Harte is waiting for you,’ she said as she opened the door to Emma’s office and ushered him inside.
Emma was sitting at her desk, which was covered with papers. He thought she looked oddly frail behind it. She glanced up as he came in, took off her glasses, and stood up. He realized that her frailty had only been an illusion created by the large heavy desk, for she moved towards him swiftly, lightly, full of vitality, her face wreathed in smiles. She was elegantly dressed in a dark bottle-green velvet suit, with something white and silky at the throat caught in an emerald pin, and emerald earrings glittered at her ears.
‘Henry darling, how lovely to see you,’ she said as she took hold of his arm affectionately. He smiled and bent down to kiss her on the cheek and thought: She seems well enough. But he detected a drawn look around her eyes and she was paler than usual.
‘Let me look at you, Emma dear,’ he said, holding her away from him so that he could regard her more fully. He laughed and shook his head in mock bewilderment. ‘You’ll have to tell me your secret, darling. I don’t know how you do it, but you look positively blooming.’
Emma smiled. ‘Hard work, a clean life, and a clear conscience. And you shouldn’t complain, Henry. You look marvellous yourself. Come on, darling, let’s have a sherry and a chat.’ She led him over to the comfortable arrangement of chairs and a sofa in front of the fireplace, where a roaring fire blazed. They sat down opposite each other and Emma poured sherry into two crystal glasses.
‘Here’s to that great man whose name is Emma,’ he said, lifting his glass to touch hers before taking a sip.
Emma threw him a quick, surprised glance and laughed gaily. ‘Why, Henry!’ She laughed again and then said with some amusement, ‘With all due respect, I am not Catherine the Great and you’re not Voltaire. But thank you, anyway. I assume you meant that as a compliment.’
Henry smiled broadly. ‘Is there anything you don’t know, my dear? And yes, of course I meant it as a compliment.’
Emma was still laughing. ‘There’s a lot I don’t know, Henry. But one of my gallant grandsons got here before you. He said exactly the same thing to me yesterday. And when I complimented him on his compliment, he had the good grace to tell me the source. You’re a day too late, darling!’
Henry chuckled with her. ‘Well, we obviously think alike. And which grandson was it?’ he asked, always curious about Emma’s large and unorthodox family.
‘I do have a few, don’t I?’ Emma said with a fond smile. ‘It must get confusing. It was Alexander, Elizabeth’s son. He was here yesterday afternoon, down from Yorkshire and in a real uproar about his Uncle Kit, who was being extremely stubborn about putting new machinery into one of the mills. It is a costly move, but eventually it will save us a lot of money and step up production. Alexander was quite right and I sorted in out in the end, without too much of a bloodbath.’
‘He’s a bright boy and devoted to you, Emma. Incidentally, talking of Christopher …’ He paused and smiled. ‘Excuse me, Emma, I never could call him Kit. Anyway, to continue, I ran into Christopher a few weeks ago and I was somewhat surprised to see him with Edwina and Robin. They were dining at the Savoy.’
Emma had been relaxed, regarding Henry with affection, amused at his gallantry. Now she tensed, but she kept her face open and bland. ‘Oh, really. I’m glad to see my children are getting along together at last,’ she said lightly, while carefully storing that piece of information at the back of her mind.
Henry lit a cigarette and went on, ‘I was surprised because I didn’t realize Christopher was friendly with the other two. And frankly I didn’t know Robin was still thick with Edwina. I thought that was a temporary situation created when there was all that trouble about the take-over bid a few years back. Actually, I never did understand that liaison, Emma. I always thought those two detested each other until they became so chummy. Obviously it’s lasted.’
Emma smiled thinly. ‘You say you don’t understand their friendship, Henry, yet I discovered long ago that dark and desperate plots make for very peculiar bedmates. You’re right. Of course, they did dislike each other intensely, but they haven’t been out of each other’s pockets since that trouble with the conglomerate.’
‘Mmmm. It was a funny business, wasn’t it? But thank God it all blew over. Well, as I said, I thought it rather odd to see the three of them together,’ he finished, and sipped his sherry, totally oblivious of the disturbing thoughts he had stirred up in Emma.
She regarded him carefully, and said with great casualness, ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s so odd, Henry. To tell you the truth, I’ve heard on the family grapevine that the three of them are planning a gathering of the clan for my birthday,’ she lied blandly. ‘I suspect they were meeting to discuss the arrangements.’
‘I thought your birthday was at the end of April.’
‘It is, darling. But that’s only a couple of months away.’
‘I hope I get an invitation,’ he said. ‘After all, you’ll need an escort and I have been your most constant admirer for nigh on forty years.’
‘You will, darling,’ Emma replied, relieved that the awkward moment had been so easily bridged. ‘But I didn’t ask you here to chat about my offspring. I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things …’
The telephone rang and Emma stood up abruptly. ‘Excuse me, Henry. It must be Paula calling from Paris. That is the only call I told Gaye she could put through.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ he said, standing up also. She crossed the room to her desk and he sat down, relaxing in front of the fire, enjoying his sherry and his cigarette, his mind at ease. Emma looked tired, yet he could not detect any outward signs that she was troubled. In fact, he thought she seemed rather gay. He glanced around the room as she continued her telephone conversation. He envied Emma this office, which was more like a library in a stately home than a place of business. With its panelled walls, soaring shelves of books, magnificent English paintings, and handsome Georgian antiques it was a gracious retreat, one which he would have liked to own and work in himself.
Emma finished her call and he stood up as she rejoined him by the fire. She had a folder of papers in her hand which Henry could not fail to notice. She placed the folder on the table next to her chair and sat down. Henry settled back in his chair and lit another cigarette.
‘Paula sends her love, Henry. She’s in Paris, taking care of a few things at the store for me.’
‘Delightful girl,’ Henry responded, a note of admiration in his voice. ‘She’s so like Daisy, sweet and open and uncomplicated. When is she returning?’
Emma did not think Paula was uncomplicated at all, but she resisted any comment about her granddaughter. ‘On Thursday. Another sherry, Henry?’ she asked as she started to pour it into his glass.
‘Yes, thank you, darling. You said you wanted to talk to me about a few things, before you took Paula’s call.’ He eyed the folder curiously. ‘Anything serious?’
‘No, not at all. I would like to liquidate some of my personal assets and I thought you could handle it for me,’ Emma replied, her voice casual, her face relaxed. She sipped her drink slowly and waited, regarding Henry intently, knowing only too well how he would react.
In spite of his anxiety earlier, he was taken by surprise. He had not expected this at all. He put down his glass and leaned forward, a worried pucker creasing his brow. ‘Do you have problems, Emma?’ he asked quietly.
Emma met his gaze directly. ‘No, Henry. I told you I want to liquidate some of my own assets. For personal reasons. There are no problems. You should know that, darling. After all, you handle most of my banking business.’
Henry reflected for an instant, his mind rapidly reassembling all those figures he had seen that morning. Had he inadvertently missed something of vital importance? No. That was not possible. He breathed a little more easily, and cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, that’s true,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I looked over all of your accounts before I came over. Everything is in good order. Very good order. As a matter of fact, things have never looked better,’ he finished in all truthfulness.
‘I need a little cash, Henry. Ready cash. For personal reasons, as I said. So, rather than sell any shares, I thought I would get rid of some real estate, jewellery, and part of my art collection.’
Henry was so flabbergasted he was momentarily rendered speechless. Before he recovered sufficiently to make a comment she handed him the folder. He took out his glasses, put them on, and looked at the lists inside, startled and apprehensive. As his eyes ran down the assets he remembered his foreboding earlier in the morning. Perhaps his instincts had been correct.
‘Emma! All this doesn’t represent a little cash, as you casually call it. These assets represent millions of pounds!’
‘Oh, I know. I figured about seven or eight million pounds. What do you think, Henry dear?’ she asked calmly.
‘Good God! Emma! Why do you suddenly need seven or eight million pounds? And what do I think? you ask me. I think there is something wrong and that you are not telling me. You must have problems I can have no way of knowing about!’ His grey transparent eyes blazed as he endeavoured to control his anger. He was certain she was hiding something, and it annoyed him.
‘Oh, come on, Henry,’ Emma clucked. ‘Don’t get so excited. Nothing’s wrong. Actually, I only need about six million for my … shall we call it my personal project? I prefer to sell these things, since I don’t need them anyway. I never wear that jewellery. You know I’m not overly fond of diamonds. And even when it’s sold I’ll still have more than enough that is decent for a woman of my age. The real estate is cumbersome. I don’t want that either, and I feel this is the perfect time to sell and make a profit. I’m being rather clever really,’ she finished on a self-congratulatory note, smiling pleasantly at Henry.
He gazed at her in astonishment. She had the knack of making all of her actions sound admirably pragmatic and it generally maddened him. ‘But the art collection, Emma! My dear, you put so much love and time and care into gathering these … these masterpieces. Are you sure you want to let them go?’ His voice had taken on a saddened, wistful tone. He glanced at the list in his hand. ‘Look what you’re listing here. Sisleys, Chagalls, Monets, Manets, Dalis, Renoirs, and Pissarros, and a Degas. Two, in fact. It’s a fabulous collection.’
‘Which you so generously helped me to acquire over the years, through your contacts in the art world. I am grateful to you for that, Henry. More than you will ever know. But I want to liquidate. As you say, it’s a fabulous collection and so it should bring a fabulous price,’ she said crisply.
‘Oh, indeed it will!’ Henry asserted, the banker in him suddenly taking over. ‘If you are absolutely certain you want me to sell the collection I can do so very easily.’ His voice became enthusiastic. ‘Actually I have a client in New York who would love to get his hands on these paintings. And he’ll pay the right price, too, my dear. But, Emma, really! I don’t know what to say. It seems such a shame …’ His voice trailed off weakly, for he suddenly recognized that she had manipulated him rather cleverly, and turned his attention away from her reasons for selling.
‘Good,’ Emma said hurriedly, seizing the opportunity to further promote Henry’s enthusiasm, his banker’s instincts. ‘What about the real estate in Leeds and London? I think the block of flats in Hampstead and the East End factory property will go for a good price.’
‘Yes, they will. So will the office block in the West End. You’re right, of course, it is a good time to sell.’ He concentrated on the various lists she had given him, making swift mental calculations. She had underestimated the overall worth, he decided. The paintings, the real estate, and the jewellery would bring about nine million pounds. He put the folder down, and lit a cigarette as his anxiety accelerated.
‘Emma, dear. You must tell me if you have problems. Who else is there to help you but me?’ He smiled at her and reached over and patted her arm fondly. He had never been able to remain angry with her for very long.
‘Henry, my darling Henry. I don’t have problems,’ Emma replied in her most conciliatory and reassuring manner. ‘You know I don’t. You said yourself things have never looked better.’ She went over and sat next to him on the sofa and took his hand. ‘Look here, Henry, I need this money for a personal reason. It has nothing to do with a problem. I promise you. Please believe me, Henry, I would tell you. We’ve been friends for so many years, and I’ve always trusted you, haven’t I?’ She smiled up at him, using the full force of her charm, her eyes crinkling with affection.
He returned her smile and tightened his hand over hers. ‘Yes. We have always trusted each other, in fact. As your banker, I realize you have no business or money problems as such, Emma. But I simply cannot understand why you need six million pounds and why you won’t tell me what it’s for. Can’t you, my dear?’
Her face became enigmatic. She shook her head. ‘No. I can’t tell you. Will you handle the liquidation of the assets for me?’ she asked in her most businesslike manner.
Henry sighed. ‘Of course, Emma. There was never any question about that, was there?’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Henry. How long will it take to liquidate?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. Probably several weeks. I am sure I can sell the art collection within the next week. I also think I have a client who would buy the jewellery privately, so we avoid a public sale. The real estate should move fairly easily, too. Yes, I would say a month at the most.’
‘Excellent!’ Emma exclaimed. She jumped up and moved over to the fireplace, standing with her back towards it. ‘Don’t look so miserable, darling. The bank is going to make money, too, you know. And the government, with all the taxes I shall have to pay!’
He laughed. ‘Sometimes I think you’re quite incorrigible, Emma Harte.’
‘I am! I’m the most incorrigible woman I know. Now, let’s go into the boardroom and have lunch, and you can tell me about all your latest lady friends and the exciting parties you’ve been to whilst I have been in New York.’
‘Splendid idea,’ he said, although he was still riddled by that strange apprehension as he followed her across the office.
The following day Emma began to feel unwell. The cough she had developed in New York still troubled her and there was a tightness in her chest. But it was a whole week before she succumbed, and for that entire week she assiduously refused to admit there was anything wrong with her normally robust health. Imperiously, she brushed aside the fussing of Gaye Sloane and her daughter Daisy. She refused to deviate from her usual work schedule and religiously went to the office at seven-thirty every morning, returning to her house in Belgrave Square at seven in the evening. Since she was accustomed to working in her executive suite at the store until eight-thirty and sometimes nine o’clock at night, she felt this relatively early departure was a great concession on her part. But it was her only one.
Sometimes, at the end of a day, as she pored over the mountainous pile of balance sheets, stock reports, dividend sheets, and legal documents, she was wracked by coughing that exhausted her and left her weak and listless for a while. To Emma, the rasping cough was ominous; nevertheless, she carried on, pressed by a feeling of tremendous urgency. It was not the routine business matters that troubled her, for these she dealt with quickly, precisely, and with her own brand of shrewdness. It was the pile of legal documents, prepared by her solicitors at her bidding, that were her gravest concern. With them spread out before her on the huge desk, illuminated by the shaded lamp, she would sometimes balk at the enormity of the work still to be accomplished. She would think: I won’t finish! There’s not enough time left. And her mind would be frozen by momentary panic. But this mental paralysis was a passing emotion and she would continue to work again, reading and making notations for her solicitors. As she worked one thought would run through her head: The documents must be irreversible, irrevocable! They must be watertight. I must be sure, absolutely sure that they can never be contested in a court of law.
Often the pains in her chest and rib cage became razor sharp and almost unbearable. It was then that she was forced to stop working for a while. She would get up and cross the luxuriously appointed office, so wracked by pain that she was temporarily unaware of its gracious, timeless beauty, a beauty she had patiently created, and which normally gave her a great satisfaction. She would open the tiny bar and with trembling hands pour herself a brandy and then rest for a short time on the sofa in front of the fire. She did not especially like the taste of brandy, but since it warmed her and also seemed to deaden the pain briefly, she thought it the lesser of two evils. More importantly, it enabled her to go back to her desk and continue working on the legal papers. As she pushed herself beyond physical endurance, she would fume inwardly and curse the treachery of her body, which had so betrayed her at this most crucial time.
One night, towards the end of the week, she was working feverishly at her desk when she had a sudden and quite irresistible urge to go down into the store. At first she dismissed the idea as the silly whim of an old woman who was feeling vulnerable, but the thought so persisted that she could not ignore it. She was literally overcome with an inexplicable desire, a need, to walk through those vast, great halls below, as if to reassure herself of their very existence. She rose slowly. Her bones were afflicted with an ague and the pain in her chest was ever present. After descending in the lift and speaking to the security guard on duty, she walked through the foyer that led to the ground-floor departments. She hesitated on the threshold of the haberdashery department, regarding the hushed and ghostlike scene that spread itself out before her. By day it glittered under the blaze of huge chandeliers, with their globes and blades of crystal that threw off rays of prismatic light. Now, in the shadows and stillness of the night, the area appeared to her as a petrified forest, suspended in time and space, inanimate, frozen and lifeless. The vaulted ceiling, cathedral-like in its dimensions, was filled with bluish lacy patterns, eerie and mysterious, while the panelled walls had taken on a dark purple glaze under the soft, diffused glow which emanated from the wall sconces. She moved noiselessly across the richly carpeted floor until she arrived at the food halls, a series of immense, rectangular rooms flowing into each other through high-flung arches faintly reminiscent of medieval monastic architecture.
To Emma, the food halls would always be the nucleus of the store, for in essence they had been the beginning of it all, the tiny seed from which the Harte chain had grown and flowered to become the mighty business empire it was today. In contrast to the other areas of the store, here at night, as by day, the full supplement of chandeliers shone in icy splendour, dropping down from the domed ceilings like giant stalactites that filled the adjoining halls with a pristine and glistening luminosity. Light bounced back from the blue and white tiled walls, the marble counter tops, the glass cases, the gleaming steel refrigerators, the white tiled floor. Emma thought they were as clean and as beautiful and as pure as vast and silent snowscapes sparkling under hard, brilliant sun. She walked from hall to hall, surveying the innumerable and imaginative displays of foodstuffs, gourmet products, delicacies imported from all over the world, good wholesome English fare, and an astonishing array of wines and liquors, and she was inordinately proud of all she observed. Emma knew there were no other food halls, in any store anywhere in the world, which could challenge these, and she smiled to herself with a profound and complete satisfaction. Each one was an extension of her instinctive good taste, her inspired planning and diligent purchasing; in the whole hierarchy of Harte Enterprises, no one could lay claim to their creation but she herself. Indeed, she was so filled with a sense of gratification and well-being that the pains in her chest virtually disappeared.
When she came to the charcuterie department, a sudden mental image of her first shop in Leeds flitted before her, at once stark and realistic in every detail. It was so compelling it brought her to a standstill. That little shop from which all this had issued forth; how unpretentious and insignificant it had been in comparison to this elegant establishment that exuded refinement and wealth! She stood quite still, alert, straining, listening, as if she could hear sounds from long ago in the silence of this night. Forgotten memories, nostalgic and poignant, rushed back to her with force and clarity. Images, no longer nebulous and abandoned, took living form. As she ran her hands over the rich polished oak counter it seemed to her that her fingers touched the scrubbed deal surface of the counter in the old shop. She could smell the acrid odour of the carbolic soap she had used to scrub the shop every day; she could hear the tinny, rattling clink of the old-fashioned secondhand cash register as she joyfully rang up her meagre sales.
Oh, how she had loved that poor, cramped little shop, filled to overflowing with her own homemade foods and jams, bottles of peppermints, and stone jars of pickles and spices.
‘Who would have thought it would become this?’ Emma said aloud, and her voice echoed back to her in the silence of the empty hall where she stood. ‘Where did I find the energy?’ She was momentarily baffled. She had not thought of her achievements for so many years now, always too preoccupied with business to fritter away her time ruminating on her success. She had long ago relegated that task to her competitors and adversaries. Because of their own duplicity and ruthlessness they would never be able to comprehend that the Harte chain had been built on something as fundamental as honesty, spirited courage, patience, and sacrifice.
Sacrifice. That word was held in her brain like a fly caught in amber. For indeed she had made tremendous sacrifices to achieve her unparalleled success, her great wealth, and her undeniable power in the world of international business. She had given up her youth, her family, her family life, much of her personal happiness, all of her free time, and countless other small, frivolous yet necessary pleasures enjoyed by most women. With great comprehension she recognized the magnitude of her loss, as a woman, a wife, and a mother. Emma let the tears flow unchecked and in their flowing a measure of her agony was assuaged.
Slowly the tears subsided. As she gathered her senses, in an attempt to calm herself, it did not occur to Emma that she had willingly renounced all the things for which she now grieved, through her driving ambition and overriding desire for security, a security that always seemed beyond her grasp, however rich she became. There was a dichotomy in her character which she had never been able to come to grips with. But such thoughts evaded her this night, as she struggled with an unaccustomed sense of loss, feelings of loneliness and despair mingled with remorse.
Within a short time she was totally in command of herself again, and she was mortified that she had given way to such negative feelings, such self-pity; she despised weakness in others and it was an emotion she was not familiar with in herself. She thought angrily: I am living what I alone created. I cannot change anything now. I simply have to go on to the end.
She pulled herself up, erect and straight-backed and proud. She thought: Too much of me has gone into this. I will not let it pass into the wrong hands, unworthy, careless hands that will tear it down. I am right to plot and scheme and manipulate. Not only for the past and for what it has cost me, but for the future and for all those who work here and take pride in this store just as I do.
The events of the past few weeks had proved to her that great dissension about the control of the business and the distribution of her wealth would arise within her family after her death, unless she circumvented the dissident members of her family before she died. Now she would finish the last of the legal documents which would prevent the dissolution of this store and her vast business empire; documents carefully drawn which would unalterably preserve all of this and her great personal wealth as well, ensuring its passing into the right hands, the hands of her choice.
The following Monday morning, the pains in her chest were so intense and her breathing so impaired Emma was unable to leave her bed. It was then that she allowed Paula to call Dr Rogers, her London physician. The preceding weekend, most of the documents had been signed, witnessed, and sealed, and now Emma felt she could allow herself the indulgence of being ill. After Dr Rogers had examined her, he and Paula had been huddled at one end of her bedroom, their voices muffled and barely audible. She overheard a few words, but she did not have to eavesdrop; she had suspected for the last few days that she had again contracted pneumonia, and what she overheard only served to confirm her own diagnosis. Later that morning, they took her by ambulance to the London Clinic, but not before she had elicited a promise from Paula to bring Henry Rossiter to see her that same day. Henry arrived in the late afternoon, aghast to find her in an oxygen tent, surrounded by all manner of equipment and fussed over by starchy, antiseptic nurses and concerned doctors. She smiled inwardly at the sight of Henry’s white face and worried eyes that betrayed him so easily, since she was aware of Henry’s dependency on her or, rather more accurately, her business. He clasped her hand and told her that she would soon be well again. She had tried to return the pressure of his clasp, but she felt so weak her hand hardly moved in his. With a stupendous effort she asked him in a whisper if everything would be all right. But he misunderstood, believing her to be referring to herself, when in fact she was asking him about the liquidation of her assets which he was handling. He kept up his soothing talk, reassuring her over and over again that she would soon be home, until she was indignant and fuming with impotent rage.
It was then that Emma realized that she was utterly alone, just as she had always been alone when portentous matters arose. Through all the vicissitudes of her life, whenever she had faced the gravest problems imaginable, she had been totally abandoned and so forced to depend entirely on her own resources. And she knew that she could only rely on herself now to accomplish the few remaining tasks which would preserve her empire and her dynasty. To do that she had to live, and she determined then not to succumb to this ridiculous sickness invading her weak, old woman’s body; she would live and breathe if it took all of her strength. Every ounce of her will power would be brought to bear. It would undoubtedly be the greatest effort of will she had ever exercised, but she would force herself to live.
She was tired though now, so very tired. Dimly in the distance she heard the nurses asking Henry Rossiter to leave. She was given some medication and the oxygen tent was placed around her again. She closed her eyes. She was falling asleep and as she drifted off she felt herself growing younger and younger. She was a young girl again, just sixteen, back in Yorkshire, running on her beloved moors high above Fairley village, to the Top of the World. The heather and the bracken brushed against her feet, the wind caught at her long skirts so that they billowed out and her hair was a stream of silk ribbons flying behind her as she ran. The sky was as blue as speedwells and the larks wheeled and turned against the face of the sun. She could see Edwin Fairley now, standing by the huge rocks just under the shadow of the crags above Ramsden Ghyll. When he saw her he waved and went on climbing upwards towards the ledge where they always sat protected from the wind, surveying the world far below. He did not look back but went on climbing. ‘Edwin! Edwin! Wait for me!’ she called, but her voice was blown away by the wind and he did not hear. When she reached Ramsden Crags she was out of breath and her pale face was flushed from the exertion. ‘I ran so hard, I thought I would die,’ she gasped as he helped her up on to the ledge. He smiled. ‘You will never die, Emma. We are both going to live for ever and ever, here at the Top of the World.’ The dream fragmented into hundreds of infinitesimal pieces and slowly began to fade as she fell into a profound sleep.
