Emma. She was the law, and he respected and honoured her; she had his complete devotion.
Young Winston, as he was still sometimes called in the family, had always been close to his namesake, and his grandfather had instilled in him a great sense of loyalty and duty to Emma, to whom the Hartes owed everything they had. His grandfather had worshipped her until the day he had died at the beginning of the sixties, and it was from him that Winston had learned so much about his aunt’s early life, the hard times she had had, the struggles she had experienced as she had climbed the ladder to success. He knew only too well that her brilliant career had been hard won, built on tremendous sacrifices. Because he had been reared on so many fantastic, and often moving, stories about the now-legendary Emma, Winston believed that in certain ways he understood her far better than her own children. And there was nothing he would not do for her.
Winston’s grandfather had left him all of his shares in the newspaper company, whilst his Uncle Frank, Emma’s younger brother, had left his interest to his widow, Natalie. But it was Emma, with her fifty-two per cent, who controlled the company as she always had. These days, however, she ran it with Winston’s help. She consulted with him on every facet of management and policy, frequently deferred to his wishes if they were sound, constantly took his advice. They had a tranquil working relationship and a most special and loving friendship which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.
The newspaper company was very actively on Winston’s mind as he drove slowly into the grounds of Beck House. Even so, as preoccupied as he was, he noticed that the little beck was swollen from the heavy rains which had fallen earlier that week. He made a mental note to mention this to Shane. The banks would probably need reinforcing again, otherwise the lawns would be flooded in no time at all, as they had been the previous spring. O’Neill Construction will definitely have to come out here next week, Winston decided, as he pulled the Jaguar up to the front door, parked, took his briefcase and alighted. He went around to the boot of the car to get his suitcase.
Winston was slender, light in build, and about five foot nine, and it was easy to see at a glance that he was a Harte. In point of fact, Winston bore a strong look of Emma. He had her fine, chiselled features and her colouring, which was reflected in his russet-gold hair and vivid green eyes. He was the only member of the family, other than Paula, who had Emma’s dramatic widow’s peak, and which, his grandfather had once told him, they had all inherited from Big Jack Harte’s mother, Esther Harte.
Winston glanced up, squinting at the sky as he approached the short flight of steps leading into the house. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the East Coast and they presaged rain. There was a hint of thunder in the air since the wind had dropped, and a sudden bolt of lightning streaked the tops of the leafy spring trees with a flash of searing white. As he inserted the key large drops of rain splashed on to his hand. Damn, he muttered, thinking of the beck. If there’s a storm, we’re going to be in serious trouble.
Dimly, from behind the huge carved door, he heard the telephone ringing, but by the time he had let himself inside the house it had stopped. Winston stared at it, fully expecting it to ring again, but when it didn’t he shrugged, deposited his suitcase at the foot of the staircase and walked rapidly through the hall. He went into his study at the back of the manor, sat down at his desk, and read the note from Shane telling him to call his father. He threw the note into the wastepaper basket and glanced vaguely at his mail, mostly bills from the village shops and a number of invitations for cocktail parties and dinners from his country neighbours. Putting these on one side, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk and closed his eyes, bringing all of his concentration to bear on the matter at hand.
Winston had a problem, and it gave him cause for serious reflection at this moment. Yesterday, during a meeting with Jim Fairley at the London office, he had detected a real and genuine discontent in the other man. Oddly enough, Winston discovered he was not terribly surprised. Months ago he had begun to realize that Jim loathed administration, and in the last few hours, driving back from London, he had come to the conclusion that Jim wanted to be relieved of his position as managing director. Intuitively, Winston felt that Jim was floundering and was truly out of his depth. Jim was very much a working newspaperman, who loved the hurly burly of the news room, the excitement of being at the centre of world events, the challenge of putting out two daily papers. After Emma had promoted him a year ago, upon his engagement to Paula, Jim had continued to act as managing editor of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the Yorkshire Evening Standard. Essentially, by holding down the old job along with the new one, Jim was wearing two hats. Only that of the newspaperman fitted him, in Winston’s opinion.
Maybe he ought to resign, Winston thought. It’s better that Jim does one job brilliantly, rather than screw up on two. He snapped his eyes open, swung his legs to the floor purposefully and pulled the chair up to the desk. He sat staring into space, thinking about Jim. He admired Fairley’s extraordinary ability as a journalist, and he liked the man personally, even though he knew Jim was weak in many respects. He wanted to please everybody and that was hardly possible. And one thing was certain: Winston had never been able to comprehend Paula’s fascination with Fairley. They were as different as chalk and cheese. She was far too strong for a man like Jim, but then, that relationship was none of his business really, and anyway perhaps he was prejudiced, considering the circumstances. She was a blind fool. He scowled, chastising himself for thinking badly of her, for he did care for Paula and they were good friends.
Winston now reached for the phone to ring Emma and confide his problem in her, then changed his mind at once. There was no point worrying her at the beginning of her very busy weekend of social activities which had been planned for weeks. Far better to wait until Monday morning and consult with her then.
All of a sudden he felt like kicking himself. How stupid he had been. He should have challenged Jim yesterday, asked him point blank if he wanted to step down. And if he did, who would they appoint in his place? There was no one qualified to take on such heavy responsibilities, at least not inside the company. That was the crux of the problem, his chief concern. At the bottom of him, Winston had the most awful feeling that his aunt might lumber him with the job. He did not want it. He liked things exactly the way they were.
It so happened that Winston Harte, unlike other members of Emma’s family, was not particularly ambitious. He did not crave power. He was not crippled by avarice. In fact, he had more money than he knew what to do with. Grandfather Winston, with Emma’s guidance, advice and help, had acquired an immense fortune, had thus ensured that neither his widow, Charlotte, nor his offspring would ever want for anything.
Young Winston was dedicated, hard working, and he thrived in the world of newspapers, where he was in his element. But he also enjoyed living. Long ago he had made a decision and it was one he had never veered away from: He was not going to sacrifice personal happiness and a tranquil private life for a big business career. Treadmills were decidedly not for him. He would always work diligently at his job, for he was not a parasite, but he also wanted a wife, a family, and a gracious style of living. Like his father, Randolph, Winston was very much at ease in the role of country gentleman. The pastoral scene held a special appeal for him, gave him a sense of renewal. His weekends away from the city were precious, and recharged his batteries. He found horse riding, point-to-point meetings, village cricket, antiquing and pottering around in the grounds of Beck House therapeutic and immensely satisfying. In short, Winston Harte preferred a quiet, leisurely existence, and he was determined to have it. Battles in board rooms made him irritable, and he found them endlessly boring. That was why Paula continued to surprise him. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Winston that she was indeed cast in the same mould as her grandmother. Both women relished corporate skirmishing. It seemed to him that business, power, and winning hands-down over a business adversary were narcotics to them. When Emma had wanted him to be Paula’s back-up in the negotiations with Aire, he had swiftly demurred, suggested she send Paula in alone. His aunt had readily agreed, much to his considerable relief.
Oh what the hell, he thought,
