time, and the velvet draperies at the windows were faded, the upholstery on the wing chairs badly worn. Even the ruby-coloured chesterfield was dark and muddy, and the leather was cracked. Emma recognized that the antiques were fine and obviously of value, as were the many leather-bound books and hunting prints, but withal the room’s dreadful neglect was patently obvious.
Emma shrugged and glided over to a window to look out. In the distance the wild implacable moors soared up before her eyes, a grim black line undulating beneath a clear spring sky, a sky the colour of her mother’s eyes. She had a sudden longing to go up to the moors, to climb that familiar path through the Baptist Field that led to Ramsden Crags and the Top of the World. The place her mother had loved the most, up there where the air was cool and bracing and filled with pale lavender tints and misty pinks and greys. That was not possible today. Innumerable memories assailed her, dragging her back into the past. She closed her eyes, and heard the sweet trilling of the larks, could almost smell the scent of the heather after rain, could feel the bracken brushing against her bare legs and the cool wind caressing her face …
From his position at the fireplace Blackie scrutinized Emma, held in the grips of his own memories. He thought of the day he had first met her, so long ago now. This imperious and distinguished woman standing before him bore no resemblance to his poverty-stricken colleen of the moors. He shook his head, marvelling at her and all she had become. At thirty-four, Emma Harte Ainsley was undoubtedly at the height of her beauty, a beauty so staggering it startled and bewitched everyone. Today she wore an expensive and fashionable silver-grey wool-crepe suit trimmed with sable and a smart sable hat. His emerald brooch gleamed on the collar of her grey silk blouse, matchless pearls cascaded from her slender neck, and the magnificent emerald earrings were just visible below her stylishly bobbed hair. She was not only elegant but cultivated and self-assured and she exuded an aura that bespoke undeniable power.
Emma swung around unexpectedly and was immediately aware of Blackie’s eyes resting on her with such intensity. She laughed lightly. ‘Why are you staring at me? Is my slip showing?’
Blackie grinned. ‘No, I’m just admiring you, me darlin’. Just admiring you. And also remembering – so many things.’
‘Yes,’ Emma said slowly, a thoughtful look drifting on to her face. ‘This place does evoke all kinds of memories, doesn’t it?’ She smiled faintly, stepped to the desk in the corner, and placed her suede bag on it.
‘Aye, it does.’ Blackie lit a cigarette, drew on it, and shifted his stance. ‘Fairley’s taking his sweet time. I wonder what he’s trying to prove.’
‘Oh, who cares.’ Emma shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’re not in a hurry.’ She sat down at the desk, the desk which had once been Adam Fairley’s, and leaned back in the chair. She pulled off her grey suede gloves slowly, smiling to herself. She examined her hands. Small strong hands and certainly not the most beautiful in the world. But they were white and soft and the nails were polished to a soft pink sheen. They were no longer red and chapped from scrubbing and scouring and polishing … no longer the hands of the skivvy who had been in bondage in this grim house.
The door flew open and Gerald Fairley entered, dragging his great weight, his steps lumbering. He did not see Emma, who was in the shadows, and he hurried over to Blackie, his hand outstretched.
‘Good afternoon, Mr O’Neill.’ He looked Blackie over with unconcealed interest. ‘I thought your name was familiar when you made the appointment. Now I remember you. Surely you used to do repairs here when I was a boy.’
‘That’s correct,’ Blackie said, stepping forward and shaking Gerald’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you again, Mr Fairley.’ Not having set eyes on Gerald for many years, Blackie was astounded at the man’s hippopotamic body, his ruined face, and his apparent dissipation. Gerald was so physically repugnant Blackie shuddered with distaste.
‘Never forget a face,’ Gerald went on. ‘Now, may I offer you a drink before we get down to business?’
‘No, thank you,’ Blackie declined politely.
‘I need a brandy myself. Always do after lunch.’ Gerald plodded over to the black-walnut chest and poured himself a generous measure of cognac. As he turned around, glass in hand, he spotted Emma seated at the desk. His porcine eyes opened wide and a look of disbelief spread itself across his blubbery face. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he bellowed.
‘I am with Mr O’Neill,’ Emma responded softly. Her face was without expression.
‘You bloody well know how to make yourself at home, don’t you!’ Gerald exploded, still incredulous. ‘How dare you take such a liberty! Sitting at my desk!’
‘I believe it is my desk now,’ Emma said in the softest voice, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Gerald.
‘Your desk! What the hell are you talking about?’ Gerald stamped into the middle of the room and swung to face Blackie, his manner bellicose. ‘What does she mean, O’Neill? What is the explanation for all this! I sold Fairley Hall to Deerfield Estates. You yourself told me on the telephone that you represented them, and had been engaged to do the renovations. So why in God’s name is that woman in my house? You had no right to bring her here.’ He did not wait for Blackie’s answer, but heaved his monstrous body to face Emma. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Get out, do you hear me! I will not tolerate your presence at this private meeting.’
Emma remained perfectly still. Not even an eyelash flickered. She smiled darkly. ‘I have no intentions of leaving. And I do have every right to be here, Mr Fairley,’ she pronounced with cold disdain. ‘You see, I am Deerfield Estates.’
For a moment Emma’s words did not sink into Gerald’s befuddled mind. He continued to glare at her uncomprehendingly, and then, as if a veil had been miraculously lifted, he stuttered, ‘Y-y-y-you are Deerfield Estates—’
‘I am indeed.’ Emma opened her purse and took out a piece of paper. She gave it a cursory glance and looked across at Gerald. ‘Yes, this desk is listed on the inventory, just as I thought. I purchased it along with some of the other contents. And, since you have already cashed the cheque from Deerfield Estates, this is my desk, as this is undoubtedly my house. I have paid for them.’
Reeling, Gerald fell into one of the wing chairs. What had she said? That she was the owner of Fairley Hall? Emma Harte, the servant girl they had once employed! Never, not in a thousand years! The idea was unthinkable, outrageous. Gerald’s eyes swivelled to Blackie, standing calmly at the fire-place, his hands in his pockets, a faint amused smile playing on his mouth.
‘Is it true?’ Gerald asked, his voice unsure. ‘Is she telling the truth?’
‘Yes, she is,’ Blackie replied, endeavouring to keep his face straight. By God, he would not have missed this scene for the world.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she was coming with you when you made the appointment?’ Gerald now demanded in an accusatory tone.
‘It was not my prerogative to do so,’ Blackie said, taking out his cigarette case.
Gerald stared at the drink in his hand, all manner of vindictive thoughts flashing through his addled brain. Good Christ, if he had known this little tramp was connected with Deerfield Estates he would not have sold the house to them. He must cancel the sale at once. Yes, that was undoubtedly the right thing to do. And then sickeningly he recalled her words of a moment ago. He had cashed the cheque and spent all the money. He had used it to pay off some of his gambling debts. He was trapped.
