Portrait of a Girl (23 page)

Jonathan
was shorter in height than his son — broader, of burly build, with a square high-coloured face, and determined chin. His eyes were shrewd and fiery below thick brows, lit by sparks of vitality suggesting a hot temper and considerable physical strength. Beneath his well-cultivated voice the north country accent was still strong. In age Emma judged him to be somewhere in the late forties. He was, actually, forty-seven, and Arthur, his son, twenty-five.

Introductions
were cordial but brief. During his first few words, following Arthur’s departure, Emma sensed she had no more chance than her father of success in her mission, although his appraising glance at the exotic spirited young creature confronting him was appreciative, even a little warm.

‘
I’m glad to meet you, young lady,’ he said, ‘relax now and be at ease. Maybe a Madeira would help, eh?’ He fetched a decanter and glasses from the cupboard.

‘
Oh no, thank you,’ Emma protested, ‘your son
did
ask me, but—’

‘
Arthur?’ Jonathan laughed shortly. ‘This is
my
house, Miss Fairley, and if I’ve a mind for you and me to get down to business in a cosy way, I don’t think you’ll object. Come now.’ He was pouring the wine. ‘You’ve already mentioned business, so shall we start?’ As she mutely accepted the glass, he added, ‘I can guess what it’s about, of course. The
Echo
.’

‘
Yes.’ Her voice and manner were defiant. She had meant to be so tactful and subtle in her approach, but his bluntness, air of command and obvious assumption that he held all the cards before any discussion was begun, stirred her to reckless honesty.

‘
I don’t expect concessions from you,’ she said, ‘I haven’t come to beg or plead with you—’

‘
Good.’

‘
I just think if you could see another’s — my father’s — point of view, without prejudice,’ she continued quickly, ‘it could be to the advantage of both.’

He
regarded her thoughtfully during a short pause, while a tinge of amusement touched his hard mouth. ‘And what makes you think that?’

Her
colour deepened to a becoming rose. ‘Because I’ve lived all my life near Charbrook. I’ve grown up knowing of the newspaper’s problems, I know what the public want. It’s a — well, in a way, a
family
publication. People look for personal tit-bits and gossip as well as more general news. It could have a wider circulation of course, but with money invested this could be easy. Don’t you
see
, Mr Bradley, to change its character could be a great mistake? Almost a disaster—’ Her voice had changed, softened. The luminous brilliance of her grey eyes affected him in a way he was quite unprepared for.

‘
Miss Fairley,’ he said more quietly, ‘I understand your reasons for coming here. You’re echoing very much what your father said.
He
knows, as you must, that I’m quite willing to sink a good deal into what is after all — a very minor provincial daily. But it must be on my terms, girl. I’m a businessman. D’you think for one moment I made all the brass I’ve got from old-fashioned dreams?’

‘I—’

He raised a hand. ‘No. Hear me out. I can understand your loyalty to Fairley. He’s been a good man in his day, but—’

‘
What do you mean
in
his
day
? My father’s still an active, intelligent editor. And popular—’

‘
Maybe, maybe. But he needs help, new ideas to face the challenge of the future. And I can give it. Another thing — you could brighten your own little ladies’ columns up a bit — get around more, mix with the right set. Your job’s safe if you go along with me. You c’n write. I could make you into something — something better than a scribbler on birds and trees. Now think about it. I’ve given a time limit to all of us. Use it and get facts square.’

‘
Meaning give you the overall power? Fifty-one per cent of the shares in the
Echo
?’

‘
That’s right. And believe me you’ll find it’ll not be half as bad as you think. Fairley will still hold the reins in the office. I shan’t interfere except to expand a bit when necessary.’

‘
But it won’t be
his
paper.’ Her manner was mutinous.

‘
Not entirely. He can’t afford it, can he?’

She
winced, then got up and walking towards the door, said coldly, ‘I can see I’ve wasted my time.’

‘
Not at all. Best for all of us to have things straight. We’ll be meeting again, I’ve no doubt.’

She
was passing through into the hall when a plump yellow-haired woman appeared from a room on the opposite side. She was made up rather badly, with over-rouged cheeks, and was attired fussily in pink; her smile was forced, a little tremulous. A distinct odour of perfume and alcohol tinged the air as she approached.

‘Oh!’
she gasped, with one small plump beringed hand at her breast, ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t know thee had company, Jonathan.’ She teetered slightly on her feet.

Bradley
frowned. ‘My wife, Miss Fairley,’ he said.

‘
Really? I’m delighted.’ The broad face smiled, and Emma realised in one quick moment that when young she must have been pretty. Her eyes, half hidden now by puffed lids, gleamed china-blue. Obviously the son, Arthur, had inherited her colouring and one-time good looks. She was trying hard — painfully almost — to be welcoming and lady-like. Her feigned mimicry of the well-bred county accent was not only farcical, but pathetic. It was quite clear to Emma that she was in awe and a little frightened of her husband who was doubtless a bully in his domestic as well as business life.

Emma
smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said.

‘
You must come over for tea one day,’ the older woman said, more naturally. ‘Our cook, Mrs Maggs, is a dab hand at cream cakes. Well — in Yorkshire we pride ourselves on our cooking, thee knows —
you
know,’ she corrected herself quickly.

‘
Now, Amelia,’ Bradley interrupted warningly, looking for an instant quite furious, ‘Miss Fairley didn’t come for a lecture on cookery.’

His
wife’s brief spell of vitality died out of her suddenly, like air from a pricked balloon.

‘
No, no, Jonathan. Well then — bye bye, luv — Miss Fairley.’

She
turned, and with a rustle of silks disappeared like an immense ruffled pouter pigeon into the rosy glow of what was obviously a drawing room.

Minutes
later Emma had extricated herself from the unsuccessful encounter with Jonathan, and was cantering on Lady down the drive to the lane. She had just turned the corner when another rider, Arthur Bradley, approached her at a smart pace. He reined alongside, showing fine teeth in a wide smile. His eyes caught the glint of sun, emphasising their blue brilliance. Her heart quickened, not entirely pleasurably; although it was clear to her he had been waiting for her, which was flattering, there was something — an indefinable quality about him — intimidating — that she found disturbing. Yet his manners were impeccable. He attempted no undue familiarity, expressing only the pleasure it had given him to meet her and the hope that she would pay another visit soon or allow him to call on her at Oaklands.

Her
reply was ambiguous.

‘
Perhaps. But at the moment I think it’s better to keep things on a business footing. It’s my father, you see—’ The lovely eyes raised to his were suddenly alight with warmth and emotion. ‘For his sake I need desperately to get the paper’s affairs settled.’

‘
I understand. And if there’s anything I can do,’ he assured her, ‘let me know. Promise?’

She
smiled. ‘Very well, of course — and thank you.’

As
she kicked Lady to a canter she didn’t notice the sudden, almost imperceptible tightening of the lips, or the cold ice-blue quality of his stare. Blue — yes, but remote and chilling as the shadows of snow peaks in brilliant sunshine.

He
wanted her; to have her under his control as neatly scheduled as the butterflies, pinned in his special collection under glass. A proud young madam, he thought, but he’d have and tame her.

That
same evening he surprised his father by announcing calmly, ‘The girl you had here — Miss Fairley—’

‘
Yes?’

‘
I want to marry her.’

‘
You —
what
?’ Like a bullet from a gun the last word shattered the air.

‘
I want her for my wife.’

‘
Then you can damn well want,’ Jonathan said roughly. ‘When you take a wife it’ll be someone of class, and with a good dowry. I’m having no cheeky little nobody in the Bradley family. It wasn’t for that you went to Public School and Oxford, so just get that idea out of your head once and for all, lad. It won’t be long before the right girl appears, to eat out of your hand when she knows how lucky she is.’

‘
This one will,’ Arthur stated calmly, ‘and she’s the one I want.’

Eventually
Bradley was forced to the conclusion that his heir — a stubborn and odd character, if ever there was one — really meant it.

Well
if that was the case, he could do worse, he supposed. He didn’t need a woman with cash, and marrying Emma might solve a number of problems.

So
the matter was left in abeyance, and as it happened something occurred the following week which tragically solved everything.

Chapter Two

‘I’m drawing out,’ Frank Page said bleakly, averting his eyes from William’s face as he delivered the blunt statement. ‘It’s no good, Fairley. Unless we go in with Bradley we’ve had it. Profit from the
Echo’s
practically nil; in a few months we’ll be in debt. Without compromising, that is.’

He
raised his eyes slowly to William’s face which in those few seconds had paled to ashen grey.

‘
You mean you want to sell? Every one of them? Every share?’

‘
I’m afraid so. I’m damned sorry. It’s a blow to me, as much to you. Well — you’ve more to lose — I know that. But facts have to be faced. Without the capital we haven’t a chance in a million of winning against Bradley. I’m willing to go along with him — up to a certain point, if you are. But then you’re not, obviously.’ He paused before adding, take it there’s nothing in your kitty to draw on? No personal assets to risk?’

‘
My property,’ William answered honestly. ‘That’s about all. Oaklands.’

Page
looked away again. ‘In that case — why don’t you call it a day? The
Courier
wants good men — you could get in there any time; I was chatting to Martin Drake the other day, and he as good as told me you’d not be wanting a decent post if you decided to fold up. A good salary, no worries, and the challenge of joining forces against Bradley and his
Comet
. You’re respected in the newspaper world, and whatever that jumped-up northern Johnny thinks, his new-fangled notions aren’t going to affect the
Courier
.
’

‘
Are you sure?’

‘
To no great extent anyway. He may have power, but it’s the new kind. The Wilton family’s got generations of traditions and trust —
and
solid currency behind it. If they have to, they’ll fight, and win. Mark my words, in another ten years the
Comet
will be wiped out, and Bradley’s new-fangled idea of
The
Midlander
will be a second-rate memory, no more. You have a future there, old man, if you want it. And maybe a place on the Board. Mind you, I don’t
know
but it’s well worth following up. I do happen to have eyes and ears in my head, and Tom Wilton’s always been a friend of mine.’

‘
Yes.’

There
was a long embarrassed pause until Fairley said dully, ‘You mean it, about selling?’

‘
Sorry. Yes. Unless you care to give Bradley what he wants.’

With
sudden force, William, whose temper was generally controlled, jumped up from his chair, knocking the glass of whisky over, so it spilled in a stream across the office table, staining papers of copy waiting to be edited.

‘
Then go to hell with it,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a friend, Page; I never thought that in a bad patch you would just let me down. But that’s just what you’re doing, isn’t it?
Isn’t
it
?’

All
colour had left his face again. The knuckles of his clenched fist were very white on the crumpled papers.

‘
Here, steady on, old man,’ Page remonstrated. ‘You’re not well. Sit down.’

‘
No thanks. I’m all right.’ William reached for his coat from a peg, stiffened and remarked coldly, ‘The meeting’s over, I think. I’ll lock up now, and call it a day. Ready?’

‘
If you’re sure—’

‘
I’m sure. I know where I stand now. Alone — except for Emma.’

‘
I was thinking about her as well,’ Page said as they went to the door. ‘And the other one — Rosalind.’

‘
They’ll be all right. My family’s my own concern,’ William stated decisively. ‘They’ll not starve.’

But
what
would
they do?

As
he drove erratically five minutes later from Charbrook towards the forest road leading to Oaklands, his mind, though whirling, felt empty and dead of ideas or the capacity to make plans.

On
impulse, before reaching his home, he made a detour of three miles or so, taking a winding route past Feyland Woods towards Bradgate. Before he faced Emma he felt an urgent necessity to bring his emotions under control so they could discuss the issue together — assess a problem that at the moment appeared not only undiscussable, but unsolvable.

He
must have peace for a brief time, allow the rugged slopes and ancient history of the park to encompass him with the tranquillity and atmosphere of things by-gone. From his earliest youth Bradgate had been his sanctuary during periods of doubt and trouble — soothing over-sensitive nerves to rest and awareness of the illusion of Time.

On
countless mornings he’d wandered there to hear birdsong as the first streaks of dawn lit the sky. At the knobbly roots of the ancient stunted oaks, where the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey had wandered before the proclamation of being proclaimed queen centuries ago, countless rabbits now had their burrows. At the time of her death, it was said, the trees also had been lopped. But sad events had not robbed the park of its beauty. The stream still trickled gently down the valley past the tumbled ruin; bracken grew thick at the base of the hills — fresh green in the spring, changing with autumn to russet, gold and brown. Deer moved gracefully and unmolested by thickets and up the slopes. Even in rutting time the great antlered stags showed no animosity. It was as though, in solitary hours, Nature’s gentle hand had erased all conflict of past history, leaving only a dreaming quiet that had generally eased William’s problems and reinforced his inherent energy.

That
day, though, seemed a little different. He was more tired than usual; after parking the car and climbing the tricky ladder-like entrance to the domain, he walked only a few hundred yards or so, before the old nagging pain across the chest returned, forcing him to rest. He found a granite boulder, seated himself on it, and gradually the discomfiture passed. How quiet it was — not a breath of wind — only the damp sweet odours of earth and air, and occasional rustle of undergrowth where a rabbit’s white tail showed momentarily then disappeared. On his left the shape of ‘Old John’ depicted by a miniature folly, a castle-like ruin, rose golden-brown, showing darker patches of bog, against the fading sky. He lit his pipe, smiling slightly, as he noted a landmark of a twisted dead tree halfway up the slope; it had been there ever since he was a boy. Emma called it the ‘Witch’, and as a child had woven fairy tales about it. ‘P’raps she put a spell on poor Lady Jane,’ his young daughter had suggested once when she was a little girl, ‘and that’s why she had her head cut off. Oh Papa — d’you think she’s a ghost now, like the people say? D’you think she’s happy?’

William
had squeezed the small hand comfortingly.

‘
Wherever she is, she’s all right,’ he’d said. ‘And you mustn’t think of ghosts and witches. Look at that baby fawn over there—’

Diverted,
Emma’s attention had been drawn to the graceful animal shapes moving by a cluster of silver birch. But a curious sadness had stirred William’s thoughts, and it was the same this evening, as he stared reflectively over the landscape. It wasn’t difficult, in the fitful light, to imagine the frail ethereal shape of a young girl drifting soundlessly from her ruined home down the curving drive; perhaps, indeed, something of her spirit did remain there, imbuing the area with mystery and regret.

He
pulled himself together with a jerk.

What
was the matter with him? Soliloquising with himself like any sentimental woman. He must be leaving and return to Oaklands. Even at his home there was business for him to tackle, and Rosalind would be wanting to say goodnight before she went to bed.

As
usual, his heart lurched when he thought of her. So beautiful to look at — fair like her mother, but incapable of a normal existence. He’d tried to love her, but it was difficult; his emotions were too complicated, and the thought of her future a constant worry. He sighed, tapped the bowl of his pipe on the granite, and forced the uncharacteristic vague mood from him.

The
Echo
!

Oaklands?
— What to do?

His
name was good at the bank, of course; he could get a mortgage on his old home. There
were
ways of keeping the
Echo
and its
Weekly
going. But ultimate survival was a different matter. And William had a fierce objection to shouldering loans which eventually might force him to bankruptcy. He had a little over two weeks left to solve the challenge, and with Bradley as opponent, he couldn’t see a hope of winning.

Oh
well! be damned to them! he’d soldier on to the last, and after that? Who could tell? How could any human being in the world really count on what the next week or even day would bring? Life was chancy anyway. Emma would have her mother’s small capital when he went, and he had sufficient faith in his daughter’s stubborn courage to know she’d somehow manage to look after Rosalind. So there was no point in worrying; none at all.

He
got up, feeling suddenly better and released from strain. As he turned to take the steep path past a fenced spinney to the summit of the hill, he drew a deep breath. A rush of vigour stirred his blood. He lifted his chin to the sky, noted a last streak of dying daylight catch the tip of the folly; then — unpredictably, the earth seemed to sway beneath his feet. All round him trees, rocks, and the startled movements of a deer wheeled into a vortex of whirling darkness. There was a return of the cutting pain across his chest. He clutched his tweed jacket along the heart, gulped vainly for more air. It was no use.

As
he tottered and fell a bird rose, squawking from the bracken nearby, and took flight towards the stretch of moor where the twisted form of the blackened old tree stood stark against its boggy pool.

Hours
later a gamekeeper found him. He was lying on his back with his lifeless eyes staring at the sky.

When
Emma heard, her first wild grief gradually turned to a cold deadly determination for vindication and resolve to avenge her father’s death.

By
whatever means, she swore to herself, the
Echo
and Oaklands would both survive. Somehow she’d beat the hateful Bradleys and see that Fairley traditions were upheld, and endured. Never,
never
would the northern upstart get his fists on Fairley territory.

Just
how her end would be achieved she couldn’t visualise. Neither, at that point, did she try. Her emotions were too poignantly involved, finding, after the first tormented reactions, relief only in solitude and tears.

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