Portrait of a Girl (22 page)

‘
The
Echo
comes first.’

‘
But why?
Why
?’

‘
Tradition — it’s the only decent newspaper Charbook’s ever had. And there are other places where we could live.’

Emma
could feel her nails biting into the palms of both hands.

‘
Not like this,’ she said fiercely. ‘There’s nowhere in Burnwood to compare. You’ve said yourself it’s unique. Where else could anyone find a house built from the rock face? It’s listed in books — a feature of the forest—’ Emotion half choked her, bringing the flood of words to a halt.

‘
I know, my dear. I know—’ he slumped forward suddenly, with his head in his hands. When he glanced up again the strange greyness of his face temporarily drove all other thoughts but anxiety from her mind. ‘Are you all right, father?’ she queried sharply.

He
forced a smile. ‘I will be. Pour me another brandy, child. Oh—’ A hand suddenly went to the left side of his chest.

‘
What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘
Nothing. A touch of indigestion. I get it occasionally when I’m tired. It’ll soon pass.’

‘
Then you must see a doctor,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve been working too hard for too long. And all this worry—’

He
waved a hand in negation. ‘I want no doctor. Fussy old pessimists all of them. Now, Emma—’ He got up, straightened himself, thumped his chest, and with forced energy said, ‘There’s life in the old dog yet. So stop worrying. Things will work out. Just drop the talking now, and in the morning, maybe we’ll both feel differently about things. The pendulum could swing either way.’

But
Emma knew that business pendulums didn’t swing that easily in her father’s direction. Especially concerning the
Echo
.

For
a moment she almost hated the paper. Hated it for sapping her father’s energy, and endangering what were the roots of their very existence — Oaklands.

That evening, when William had retired to bed, she went downstairs and out into the steamy autumn night.

The
thunder had cleared, leaving a freshness of the air, with a pale watery moon filtering through the haze of dying cloud.

Like
sentinels of the past, the massed trees of the forest stood dimly shadowed beyond the garden. On one side the tip of Hawkshill was visible momentarily, then faded again. The distant glimmer of Marten Pool shone silver for a second beyond Feyland. An owl called softly from the woods. All was mystery — a threadwork of winding lanes and small lost hamlets. Yet she knew them, had walked them all, climbed every tumpy rock-tipped hill, since childhood. It was her birthright. They couldn’t lose it now — neither she nor her father. Somehow both Oaklands and the
Echo
had to be saved.

But
how?

Had
her father been sufficiently tactful during the meeting with Bradley? When reason failed had he thrown his cards too bluntly on the table? William Fairley, though inherently and by practice diplomatic, could be amazingly defiant when pressed. Perhaps in the end when he’d found the other man so unco-operative he’d let his temper get the better of him and he’d issued a challenge he could not possibly win.

There
was, then, only one course left. Without telling her father she’d herself visit Eastwood Hall that Thursday, which was publishing day for the
Echo
, knowing William would be fully occupied at Charbrook and would not miss her. She’d ride Lady cross-country, and deal with the hateful stranger in her own way. What that way would be, she hadn’t a clue. Until they met face to face, she’d no way of assessing their instinctive reactions to each other. But she’d dress carefully and suitably, and while keeping her business senses alert, would make the most of her feminine attributes.

When
the day arrived, luckily it was fine. She set off early before the silver mist had lifted from the short turf and undergrowth. Many of the trees were bare now of foliage, but a few leaves still hung from lean black branches, diamonded with glittering cobwebbed filaments of dew. Much of the forest appeared half-dream, half-reality. As Lady sniffed the air appreciatively passing the old Priory of Uldene, Emma recalled days of her childhood when she’d imagined herself a lost princess in a fairy tale. So much of her was bound up in this area of ancient territory — so evocative a sense of history and days gone by. The lake surrounded by the grouped tall trees, Hawkwycke Hill with its rugged peak and broken prehistoric circle, the deep green slate pits lurking mysteriously between shadowed trunks of oak and birch, and in springtime the acres of bluebells more softly bright than a cloudless summer sky. The ruined priory itself, and the monastery Coldale way where the silent brotherhood worked and had their being. This was enchanted country. Hers and William’s. In its way a lost land, because few tourists came there unless it was to visit Bradgate Park and the ruin which had once been the home of Lady Jane Grey, the ill-fated nine-day queen — oh she’d never let Bradley force them away. Never,
never
.

Bringing
herself harshly back to reality again she’d kicked Lady to a swift canter, and moments later Uldene had faded into a spectral shape soon completely lost in the shadows of the woods.

She
avoided the outskirts of Charbrook, taking footpaths and bridle ways to the opposite side of the county where foxhunting was the chief sport on which the rich spent winter months during the season.

Here
the land was more flat and verdant, dotted at intervals with picturesque villages and small market towns. To Emma the landscape, though pleasant, was ordinary. And any appreciation she had for it was marred by her hatred of a sport she considered as barbaric as cock-fighting. Although William, of a necessity, had to show impartiality towards differing sections of the Leyfordshire community, Emma, except for rare social occasions, had kept herself aloof from the snob set — her private term.

Now
she had to face that however distasteful it was, she must play the odious ‘pretend game’ of being appreciative of the wealth, social status, and power of the formidable Bradleys. Not that the rich Northerner could yet have been genuinely accepted by the county aristocracy. He had lived only two years at Eastwood, and had amassed his fortune from
Trade
. But in time a wily millionaire of his calibre might wheedle a baronetcy from the ‘powers-that-be’ — provided he paid enough. This would eventually woo him an avowed place in the Burnwood circle.

The
whole situation filled Emma with contempt. But the day was fresh and invigorating; the keen sweet wind — redolent with the scents of damp earth, tumbled leaves and blackberries — brought a challenging glow to her cheeks. She rode side-saddle, wearing an olive green velvet habit, with her gleaming dark hair pinned up in a chignon under her tilted boat-shaped hat. A stray curl brushed one cheek, giving extra allure to her feminine elegance. It would have been more fun riding astride, as she frequently did, through the forest, but of course quite outrageous on this occasion. As the silver sun rose higher in the pale sky she felt resentful for a brief moment or two that she hadn’t been free to look for mushrooms instead of gallivanting across lush parklands to Eastwood. A quantity of silvered umbrella shaped pale heads had appeared in Starvecrow field on the edge of the Woods when she passed. Tomorrow they would probably be gone, and her father liked them fried on toast. But there was no point in brooding. She kicked Lady to a smart gallop, and reached Eastwood shortly before eleven, wondering how she’d be greeted, and if Bradley’s wife ruled there, as some chatelaine or queen.

Well,
she’d soon find out.

She
dismounted and was about to lead Lady by the bridle down a drive at the side of the mansion, when a man, obviously a groom, wearing gaiters and a leather jerkin over a woollen jersey, appeared from the opposite direction. He was a burly figure, shrewd-eyed, with a crop of ginger hair above a broad pink face. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘Wanting anyone, are you?’

‘
Mr Bradley,’ Emma answered. ‘Perhaps you can inform a servant of my arrival.’

‘
I can take thy horse for a while, but the master isn’t in. Is he expecting you?’

The
direct question took her aback, but only for a moment.

‘
He may well be,’ she answered coolly. ‘My name is Fairley, Miss Emma Fairley. My father was here yesterday.’

‘
Oh. You mean the newspaper man?’

She
nodded.

‘
Well ma’am — miss, he isn’t in. I’m sorry but there it is. Went off ridin’ ‘bout an hour ago. Whether it’s worth thee waitin’ a bit—’ His Yorkshire voice broke off as a younger, taller man walked smartly through a gate in the drive leading from a field. He must have been well over six feet, and as he drew near Emma felt a stab of surprise — almost shock — seeing how very handsome he was — fair hair licked to brightest gold in the early sunlight, fine-featured, and with eyes so blue they startled her. He was attired fashionably in fawn twill knee breeches and a smartly cut velvet jacket. A silk scarf was knotted loosely, in the manner of a cravat, at his neck. He had a winning smile, slightly tilted to one side, which added to his charm. Obviously a lady-killer, Emma decided after the first impact was over, and one used to getting his way.

She
drew herself up an inch or two higher whilst formal introductions were made. Then, when her business was made clear, he said, still with his magnetic gaze fixed upon her, ‘Father’s out, as you’ve just heard — unfortunate for you perhaps, but damned lucky for me.’

She
flushed faintly.

‘
I ought to have made an appointment, of course, but—’

‘
Nonsense. I’m glad you didn’t. He shouldn’t be long. You can wait, I suppose? This business you have with him is important?’

She
nodded decisively. ‘Very.’

‘
Concerning the local rags. Am I right?’

‘
Yes. Mr — Bradley. You did say “father”, didn’t you?’

He
grinned. ‘Oh indisputably. I’m Arthur — the one-and-only. Except for Jessie, of course, my sister. But I’m afraid my rich tycoon of a sire
does
rather concentrate on the importance of having a male heir — however unsatisfactory a one I may be.’

Unable
to decide how much of the statement was made in jest, how much in truth, Emma ignored it, and after a brief look round an ornamental garden at the side of the house, which included a pool overhung by willows and a Japanese maple, they went inside.

The
interior was as massive as the outward facade of the Hall suggested; the corridors were wide, the rooms large with high encrusted ceilings. The furnishing was rich but unimaginative, comprising a good deal of red plush, gilt, and crystal. Ornate glass-faced clocks, probably French, ticked from marble mantel shelves and alcoves. The drapes were heavy, and the air was over-heated. From a reception room on the left into which Emma was shown, a conservatory led through a glass door to a path bordering a shrubbery. The smell of ferns was strong and heady. Emma had an urge to rush round pushing every possible window open; she felt smothered, sensing that she had come on a fool’s errand. Anyone living in such a cloying overpowering atmosphere of ostentatious wealth could not possibly appreciate the wild sweet freshness of Burnwood, or her mission to save Oaklands. The rigidity of her pose, her air of bewildered distaste, didn’t escape the young man’s attention.

‘
A bit stuffy,’ he commented, ‘I agree. But my mother likes warmth, and the pater’s not here often. Sit down, though. The chairs are comfortable. Like a drink?’

Emma
took the nearest chair which was divided into three back to back, forming a circular design. The seats were low, of rich maroon shaded velvet, and surprisingly comfortable.

‘
No thank you,’ she said primly, refusing the Madeira.

His
fine arched brows shot up. ‘No? Ah. I forgot. You’re here on business.’ The mocking note had returned to his voice. Emma stiffened again.

‘
Do you mind telling me — I mean, have you any idea how long Mr Bradley will be?’

He
shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. But I hope it will be a considerable time. Long enough for us to get to know each other.’ Her grey eyes met his squarely, and once more she was impressed by their brilliance. He really was astonishingly good-looking; charming too, in his way, although something about him, a secret assessing quality, mildly intimidated her. Quite obviously he found her fascinating. At odd moments his gaze slid appreciatively over the slender lines in her figure, then back to the provocative features under the perky boat-shaped hat, and dark rich gleam of russet hair. A beauty, begad, he was thinking, and quite a character — one well worthy of adding to his retinue of female admirers. Could one have fun with her? Possibly. But it might be a dangerous game, and if Arthur Bradley considered any woman worth dallying with, he expected his own brand of response. Pride alone demanded it. Could he win this one? After a few speculative moments he decided to take up the challenge, and by the time Jonathan Bradley appeared an hour later, he’d succeeded in at least warming her interest.