Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
Emma’s Secret (35 page)
‘Hilda! Are you here?’ Emma called out, glancing around.
A split second later her devoted young housekeeper hurried out of the stone storage larder at one end of the kitchen, carrying two bottles of preserved plums and pears.
‘That’s just what I need,’ Emma exclaimed, laughter echoing in her voice.
‘Bottled fruit, Mrs. Harte? Whatever for?’ Hilda looked slightly puzzled as she put the bottles down on the large wooden table in the centre of the kitchen. ‘Do you mean you’d like some for supper? With custard?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, Hilda, not for supper. I’ve just had the most wonderful news! Both my brothers and their wives are coming to dinner on Christmas Day. It looks as if I’ll have the whole family with me–if the boys get leave, of course. Hopefully Mrs. Lowther will come with baby Sarah. And there will be Mr. O’Neill and Mr. Kallinski, and with a bit of luck their sons too. So you see, Hilda, I’m afraid I’m going to have to raid your larder.’
Hilda beamed. ‘Oh Mrs. Harte, that’s luvely to hear! I sort of hoped you’d be having a family gathering this Christmas. It was awful for you the year of the Blitz, and last year as well, what with the boys away fighting. So I did prepare some nice things for you to take back to London with you, on the off chance you’d need them.’ Hilda paused, and finished, ‘Would you like to come into the stone larder? You can look at everything.’
‘I would indeed. And I might have known you’d be thinking ahead to Christmas in the summer. Did you bottle a lot of fruits?’
Hilda nodded. ‘Pears, damsons, plums from the orchard. Gooseberries and blackberries–we had some luvely ones in the garden this summer. I also bottled some of the tomatoes Mr. Ramsbotham’s been growing in the greenhouses.’ Hurrying over to the larder, Hilda added, ‘And I’ve made things like chutney, and done a lot of pickling. Onions, beetroot, gherkins, and your favourite, piccalilli, Mrs. Harte.’
Walking across the kitchen, following Hilda into the stone larder full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, Emma said, ‘Thank you. And I’m fairly certain you made some Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings as well, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Hilda answered, beaming at her. ‘Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a bit of your fruitcake, would it, Mrs. Harte? I always use your recipe.’ Hilda indicated the large round tins stacked on one of the many shelves. ‘These are the cakes. I put lots of fruit in, just the way you like, and sherry, plenty of that. And down there are the puddings in the white basins tied with cheesecloth. I’ve also got jams and jellies made, all your favourites, madam, and lemon curd, as well.’
‘Thank you for preparing all these wonderful things, Hilda, I really appreciate it.’ It was cold in the larder and Emma was shivering as she hurried back into the warmth of the big family kitchen. She went and stood in front of the fire blazing in the hearth.
‘Cook taught me well before she retired, Mrs. Harte,’ Hilda murmured, walking over to the table.
Emma’s face changed slightly, her eyes turned anxious. ‘How
is
Mrs. Walton doing? Is she any better?’
‘Yes, a bit. It’s the gout, a’course, in her right foot. Too much acid or summut. Anyways, it makes standing and walking right difficult for her.’
‘Give her my best, Hilda, when you see her.’
‘Oh I will, madam. She always asks about you.’ Hilda sighed and, giving Emma a long pointed stare, she said, ‘I do wish you could all spend Christmas here at Pennistone Royal. That’d be luvely, it would.’
‘I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.’
‘But it’s right dangerous in London, what with all the bombing, madam. If you don’t mind me saying so, I was thinking only the other day that it’d be right nice for Miss Daisy and Miss Elizabeth if they were in Yorkshire.
Safer,
madam.’ Her voice faltered and she wondered if she had spoken out of turn, crossed a line she knew she should never cross.
‘Well, what you say is true, Hilda. I agree with you that it’s safer up here, and calmer.’ As she spoke Emma was reminded of the screaming sirens, the deafening sound of the anti-aircraft guns in Hyde Park, the bombs exploding, the searchlights at night, and the general air of chaos, although things were becoming a bit better.
Returning Hilda’s steady, questioning gaze, she felt the need to explain. ‘The problem is they want to be in London with me, Hilda. As you know, Miss Elizabeth is very committed to her nursing. Also, her husband is stationed at Biggin Hill, which is much closer to London than it is to Yorkshire.’ Emma shook her head. ‘Not that he’s been on leave lately. Those boys are always up in the air, in combat.’
‘Perhaps things’ll get a bit better now that the Americans are in the war,’ the young housekeeper suggested.
‘Let’s hope so, Hilda, let’s hope so. And, speaking of the Americans, what have you planned to do for Christmas for the American pilots stationed around here?’
‘Well, I was going to speak to you about that before you left,’ Hilda replied. ‘Joe and I thought we’d do a nice buffet for them in the Stone Hall, with your permission, that is. It’d be luvely for the young lads to have a bit of Christmas fare, sort of remind them of home, don’t you think, madam?’
‘I do, Hilda, and naturally you have my permission. Don’t skimp either: make sure it’s a proper treat for them. I remember how much they enjoyed the July the fourth party we gave this summer.’
‘And the bowling on the lawn,’ Hilda reminded her. ‘They enjoyed that. And the dancing later with the girls from the village.
You
were a big hit, Mrs. Harte, you really were. Especially with that nice young major.’
‘Come along, Hilda, don’t be so silly,’ Emma murmured, and quickly changed the subject.
B
lackie O’Neill stood with his back to the blazing fire in the beautiful drawing room of Emma’s Belgrave Square house, waiting for her to come downstairs.
‘Mrs. Harte’ll be down in a minute,’ Grace had told him after she had ushered him into the room. ‘Wot she said was to fix yerself a drink. Do yer want me ter do it for yer, Mr. O’Neill?’
He had declined. Now, as he glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf, he saw that the minute had stretched into ten. He was just about to walk over to the console where there was an assortment of drinks, to fix himself something after all, when he heard Emma’s high heels clicking against the parquet floor of the hallway outside. He swung around to greet her, and then said not a word, just stood there open-mouthed, staring at her, utterly speechless for a moment.
‘What’s the matter, Blackie?’ she asked, walking into the room. ‘You’re gawping at me.’
‘Aye, I am that, Emma Harte. And everybody else that comes here today will also be…
gawping
at you.’ He chuckled. ‘I do love that funny Yorkshire word of yours.’
Coming to a standstill in front of him, she smiled a little coquettishly for her, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek. ‘And why will they be doing that? Why are you doing it, Blackie darling?’
‘Oh, Emm, you know very well
why.
You know exactly how you look this afternoon,’ he answered, chuckling again. ‘And if you don’t, mavourneen, then it’s a new pair of glasses I’ll have to be buying you.’
‘My eyesight’s perfect,’ she shot back.
‘Aye, I know it is, so you must know that you look positively beautiful. In all the forty years I’ve known you, I’ve never ever seen you look better or bonnier. And that’s the God’s own truth, me darlin’ girl. You’ve outdone yourself, Emm.’
‘Thank you, Blackie. It’s an
old
dress, you know. I’ve had it since 1937. You like it, do you?’
‘Aye, I like it. Very elegant it is.’
Emma had spoken the truth when she had said it was old. It was from Paris, designed by Lanvin, and it was a cocktail dress. Made of exquisite black cobweb lace mounted on emerald-green silk, the silk showed through the lace for an unusual effect. It had a full skirt, a Vee neckline, long sleeves, and was sashed in emerald-green silk. The full skirt and tight bodice flattered her youthful figure and long, shapely legs. She wore very high black silk court shoes by Pinet, her favourite shoemaker.
Still eyeing her with the utmost admiration, Blackie said, with a huge smile, ‘I’m glad to see that you’re wearing my emerald brooch. It goes well with your frock.’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? I’ve always loved my emerald bow. Do you know, Blackie, I still have the original one you gave me.’
‘You
do?’
He sounded surprised and yet also pleased. ‘I can’t believe it…all these years you’ve kept it, since you were a little sprite of a girl, only fifteen. My little green glass bow?’
‘That’s right. And by the way, I’ve known you since I was fourteen and I’m now fifty-three, so actually I’ve only known you thirty-nine years, not forty.’
‘Splittin’ hairs are we now, mavourneen?’ he asked, his black eyes narrowing.
‘No, I’m just teasing you, my dearest friend. Now, would you like champagne? Or a drop of Irish?’
‘I think I’ll be having a drop of whiskey, Emma love. And I can fix it meself, you know.’
‘No, I can do it for you. But perhaps you can open the bottle of champagne, please.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure, Emma. And isn’t it grand Bryan got leave, and the other lads. It’s a jolly Christmas night we’ll be havin’ with our families.’
A few minutes later he was pouring her a flute of champagne and handing it to her, and she gave him his Irish whiskey in a crystal glass.
‘Here’s to you, me darlin’ Emma, the most beautiful woman I know.’
‘And to you, Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, the young spalpeen who became a great gentleman and a toff and who has always been my best friend.’ She laughed. ‘You used to say to me years ago…“I’m going to be a toff one day.” And you are! And I’m so proud of you.’
They touched glasses and Emma hovered next to him in front of the fire, as they waited for her children and his son and her other guests to join them.
At one moment, after a short silence, Blackie said, ‘I’m glad Frank could come after all, he might have some news about the war…you know, inside stuff.’
‘He might, but I doubt very much that he’d tell us,’ Emma murmured. She knew Blackie liked to pick her brother’s brains, as she did herself, but Frank could be extremely close-mouthed. Above everything else, he was discreet and trustworthy, as his boss Lord Beaverbrook knew very well.
Emma looked towards the hallway as she heard running feet, and suddenly there was her daughter Daisy, rushing into the drawing room like a young colt, flying to her Uncle Blackie, who was one of her favourites.
‘A little decorum: walk, don’t run, Daisy,’ Emma admonished gently, but her eyes were loving, her smile benign.
‘And if it’s not me darlin’ little Daisy, the prettiest flower in the world,’ Blackie said, hugging her close, then holding her away. ‘You’ve sprung up in the last week, little one,’ he murmured with a frown.
Daisy, dark-haired and blue-eyed like her father Paul McGill, laughed uproariously. ‘Oh Uncle Blackie, don’t be silly! I’m wearing high heels.’ As she spoke she spun around, her dark blue velvet dress billowing out like a bell.
‘Aren’t I the foolish man!’ Blackie laughed, and then looked at the door as Elizabeth came in clutching the arm of her young husband, Tony Barkstone. She wore a red silk dress and pearls, and he was resplendent in his Royal Air Force blue uniform, and Blackie couldn’t help thinking what a handsome couple they made: Elizabeth, a stunning dark beauty; Tony a blond blue-eyed Englishman, the bloom of youth still on his handsome face. Why are they always so young, those who defend us? he wondered.
After greetings had been exchanged all around, Elizabeth went over to Emma and said, ‘Mummy, you look gorgeous.’ She stood staring admiringly at her mother’s red hair and perfect pink-and-white complexion, the vivid green eyes that matched the exquisite emeralds at her ears, on her shoulder and hands, and she found it hard to believe she was gazing at a woman of fifty-three. Emma looked so much younger. Leaning into her mother, Elizabeth whispered, ‘Mummy, you don’t look a day over thirty-nine.’
Emma threw back her head and laughed. She was happy this afternoon. In fact, she had not felt this happy in a very long time, not since Paul’s death almost four years ago. She knew it was because her children and family and friends would all be with her today. They gave her such joy and comfort, and she was proud of them.
In the distance, she heard the faint cry of the baby, and she hurried to the hallway as Kit and June came towards her. June was carrying the newest redhead in the family, little Sarah Lowther, not yet a year old but making her presence felt.
Emma kissed her baby granddaughter, touched her fat little cheek, then kissed her daughter-in-law June. Finally she turned to her eldest son, Kit, son of Joe Lowther, her first husband. She thought he looked a lot like Joe today: blond, fair of complexion, grey-eyed, a solid-looking young man wearing his army captain’s uniform proudly, grinning from ear to ear and showing his perfect white teeth and dimples.
Taking hold of Emma’s arm, Kit drew her towards him and hugged her tightly. He had always adored his mother, and now he said against her auburn hair, ‘I’m thrilled the baby looks like you, Mother, just in case you didn’t know.’
Emma drew away from him, touched his cheek. ‘So am I, Kit darling.’
‘I’m not the last, am I?’ Robin cried, running down the stairs, walking swiftly across to join the small group in the hallway.
‘No, no, we’re still waiting for a few others,’ Emma murmured, smiling up at Robin. He was her favourite, but never once had she shown this. She had not believed in playing favourites in the family; had treated them all equally and in the fairest way she knew how.
As she watched Robin shaking hands with Kit, and kissing June, who had only arrived from Leeds a short while ago, Emma could not help thinking that Robin resembled her brother Winston more than he did his father, Arthur Ainsley. He was tall and dark-haired like Winston and his twin Elizabeth. Tonight he appeared more dashing than ever in his Royal Air Force blue. He was a pilot, and something of an ace flyer, and had recently been promoted to captain. She suspected he might be a daredevil and a risk-taker, and she worried excessively at times when she thought of him up there in his Hurricane flying over enemy territory. In order to keep her sanity, she tried not to think about what Robin did in the air.
Grasping her hand in his, Robin twirled her around, almost but not quite jitterbugging, and whistled, ‘Wow, Ma, you look like…a film star. If some of our chaps could see you now they’d be fighting over who got to be your escort.’
‘Indeed they would,’ David Amory said as he came down the stairs and stepped into the hall where they were still standing chatting.
‘Good evening, Mrs. Harte,’ he said, as he joined them.
‘Good evening, David,’ she responded, steeling herself, smiling warmly, trying not to stare too hard at him. It would take her a while to get used to this young man who bore an odd likeness to Paul McGill. She had been floored last night when he had arrived with Robin and Tony, and two other young pilots, all members of the
III
th Squadron stationed at Biggin Hill.
‘They’re going to bunk in here with us, Ma, is that all right?’ Robin had asked, and she had been happy to acquiesce. For several years now Robin had been bringing his squadron mates home, and she had willingly opened her door and her heart to these brave and dauntless young men who were constantly in danger defending their country.
But throw her off balance he did…because he reminded her of Paul. He was tall and dark, with a flashing smile and bright blue eyes. Yet David was not as outrageously handsome as Paul had been as a young man, nor did he have his massive size and audacious personality. But he certainly struck a chord in her memory of Paul as he had been in the First World War when they had met. David had an engaging manner, and last night he had charmed her at once. She was glad that he was staying with them for Christmas. However, she was also already concerned about his presence here: Daisy had seemed mesmerized last night. Her seventeen-year-old daughter had not been able to take her eyes off David, who was twenty-four and something of a war hero already, and a new addition at Biggin Hill. David had seemed taken with Daisy also.
‘Well, let’s not stand here,’ Emma now said, taking hold of David’s arm, leading him towards the drawing room. ‘And where are your friends?’ she asked, looking up at him.
‘They’ll be down in a few minutes, Mrs. Harte,’ he replied and, bending closer, he added softly, ‘They’re enjoying the luxury of your bathrooms, Mrs. Harte. They’re rather different from those in our billets.’
Emma laughed as they went into the drawing room together, where she introduced him to Blackie, and then watched as Daisy glided towards him looking as if she were floating on clouds.
June went to sit on a sofa with baby Sarah, and Kit helped Robin to pour champagne, while Blackie engaged in a conversation with David Amory, whom he had instantly taken to and was chatting to like an old friend.
Emma swung around as Winston and Charlotte came into the drawing room, and hurried over to them. She was disappointed to see they were alone, but kept her expression neutral. After kissing first Charlotte and then her brother, she stepped back and said to her sister-in-law, ‘How lovely you look, Charlotte. The deep burgundy velvet is so becoming on you.’
‘Thank you, Emma, and I must say you’re as elegant as always.’ The two women, who were good friends, smiled at each other warmly and then Winston said, ‘But where are Randolph and Georgina? Haven’t they arrived yet?’
‘No, they haven’t,’ Emma answered, relieved to hear her nephew had been given leave after all; Winston would have been glum company otherwise, and so would Charlotte.
Frank and Natalie, with their daughter Rosamunde and son Simon, arrived on the heels of Winston, and once more greetings were exchanged, compliments given. Emma then led her brothers and their wives into the drawing room, and said to Frank in a low voice, ‘I did manage to get extra staff today, but not really enough. So could you help Robin and Kit with the drinks, darling?’
‘No sooner said than done,’ Frank murmured, and went to join his nephews at the console.
Emma took hold of Natalie’s arm and led her over to the fireplace to introduce her to David Amory. Frank’s wife was lovely: rather delicate and ethereal looking, with a finely drawn face, swan-like neck and very slender figure. Her hair had turned colour years ago, and she was prematurely white, but the silver tone suited her and somehow did not age her.
‘I’d like to introduce you to my sister-in-law,’ Emma said, smiling at David, who turned to greet Natalie and gave her the benefit of his considerable charm.
Blackie drew Emma away from the fireplace, and said in a worried voice, ‘I can’t imagine what happened to Bryan and Geraldine. I told them to be here by five, and it’s almost twenty past.’
‘Since he’s already in London you know they’re coming, Blackie, so do relax, darling. It’s not as though he had to come from Scapa Flow like Randolph.’
‘I believe Randolph got here in the early hours of the morning,’ Blackie informed her. ‘So Bryan told me.’ Once again Blackie looked towards the hallway and suddenly began to laugh. ‘And speaking of the two young devils, here they are,’ he added, clasping her hand in his, leading her out into the hallway at the top of the stairs.
‘There you are, lads, just in time for a drop of the Irish before dinner,’ Blackie said, throwing his son an affectionate look and embracing Randolph, of whom he was exceptionally fond. He then went to kiss his daughter-in-law Geraldine who had baby Shane in her arms. Turning to Randolph’s wife Georgina, he kissed her also, and glanced at the little boy in her arms…Winston the second, they called him.