all were of immense and incalculable value. And Emma and he were perfectly attuned to each other in the twilight of their days, and what did the rest mean, or matter, at this stage in the game of life?
But he still had that ring …
Much to his own surprise, Blackie had kept the engagement ring he had bought for Emma so long ago. There had never been another woman to give it to – at least, not one he cared enough about; and for a reason he could not fathom, he had never wanted to sell it.
Tonight the ring had burned a hole in his pocket all through drinks and dinner, in much the same way his Plan with a capital P burned a hole in his head. Putting down his drink, he leaned closer to the hearth, lifted the poker and shoved the logs around in the grate, wondering if it was finally the right time to give it to her. Why not?
He heard the rustle of silk and a sigh that was hardly audible.
‘Did I startle you, Emma?’
‘No, Blackie.’
‘I have something for you.’
‘You do? What is it?’
He reached into his pocket and brought out the box, sat holding it in his large hands.
Emma asked curiously, ‘Is it my birthday present?’ and she gave him a warm little smile of obvious pleasure, laughter sparkling in her eyes.
‘Oh no, indeed it’s not. I intend to give you that on your birthday at the …’ He curbed himself. The elaborate party he and Daisy were planning was very hush-hush and meant to be a big surprise for Emma. ‘You’ll get your birthday gift at the end of the month, on the very day you’re eighty,’ he improvised adroitly. ‘No, this is something I bought for you …’ He had to laugh, as he added, ‘Fifty years ago, believe it or not.’
She threw him a startled look. ‘Fifty years! But why didn’t you give it to me before now?’
‘Ah, Emma, thereby hangs a long tale,’ he said, and fell silent as memories came unbidden.
How beautiful she had looked that night, with her red hair piled high on her head in an elaborate plaited coil, wearing a superb white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulders. Pinned to one of the small sleeves was the emerald bow he had had made for her thirtieth birthday, an exquisite replica of the cheap little green-glass brooch he had given her when she was fifteen. She had been touched and delighted that he had not forgotten his old promise, made to her in the kitchen of Fairley Hall. But on that particular Christmas night, in all her elegant finery, with McGill’s magnificent emeralds blazing on her ears, he had thought his emerald bow, costly though it had been, looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to those earrings …
Growing impatient, Emma frowned and exclaimed, ‘Well, are you going to tell me the tale or not?’
He pushed the past to one side, flashed her a smile. ‘Do you remember that first party I gave here? It was Christmas
‘Boxing Day night!’ Emma cried, her face lighting up. ‘You had just completed this house, finished furnishing it with all the lovely Sheraton and Hepplewhite pieces you’d scoured the country to find. And you were so proud of what you’d created all by yourself. Of course I remember the party, and very clearly. It was 1919.’
Blackie nodded, glanced down at the box, continuing to finger it. He raised his head. Unabashed love shone on his craggy, wrinkled face, giving it a more youthful appearance. ‘I’d bought this for you earlier that week. I’d travelled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweller, too. It was in the pocket of my tuxedo. I’d intended to give it to you at the party.’
‘But you never did … why not? Whatever made you change your mind, Blackie?’ She looked at him oddly, through eyes awash with perplexity.
‘I’d decided to have a talk first – with Winston. Why, it was here, in this very room, as a matter of fact.’ He looked about him, as if seeing that ancient scene being re-enacted in the shadows; seeing the ghost of Winston, as he had been as a young man, lurking there. He cleared his throat. ‘Your brother and I talked about you, and …’
‘What about me?’
‘We discussed you and your business ventures. I was worried to death about you, Emma, distressed because of the way you had plunged into the commodities market, and recklessly, or so I thought. I was concerned about your rapid expansion of the stores in the North, your determination to keep on building, acquiring other holdings. I believed you were over-extending yourself, gambling
‘I’ve always been a gambler,’ she murmured softly. ‘In a way, that’s the secret of my success … being willing to take chances …’ She left the rest unsaid. He surely knew it all by now.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it is. Anyway, Winston explained that you’d stopped the commodities lark, after making a fortune speculating, and he told me you were not in over your head. Just the opposite. He told me you were a millionairess. And as he talked, and ever so proudly, I began to realize that you were a far, far bigger success than I’d ever dreamed, that you’d surpassed me, outstripped David Kallinski, left us both behind in business. It suddenly seemed to me that you were quite beyond my reach. That’s why I never gave you this ring … You see Emma, I was going to ask you to marry me that night.’
‘Oh Blackie, Blackie darling,’ was all she could manage to say, so stupefied was she. Tears pricked the back of Emma’s eyes as a variety of emotions seized her with some force. Her love and friendship for him rose up in her to mingle with a terrible sadness and a sense of regret for Blackie, as she envisioned the pain he must have suffered then and afterwards, perhaps. He had wanted her, and he had not said a word. That was his tragedy. At the party in 1919 she had believed Paul McGill was lost to her forever. How vulnerable and susceptible she would have been to her one true friend Blackie in her heartbreak, loneliness and despair. And if he had been more courageous how different their lives would have turned out. Her thoughts ran on endlessly. Why had she never suspected that he cared for her in that way … that he had marriage on his mind? She must have been blind or dense or too involved with business.
The silence between them drifted.
Blackie sat unmoving in the chair, staring into the fire, saying not a word, remembering so much himself. It’s odd, he thought suddenly, how things which happened to me when I was a young man have an extraordinary vividness these days. More so than events of last week, or even yesterday. I suspect that’s part of growing old.
Emma was the first to rouse herself.
She said, in a small, pained voice, ‘Were you trying to tell me, a few minutes ago, that my success put you off? Prevented you from proposing? She studied that dear, familiar face with infinite compassion, thinking of the years he had wasted, the happiness he had let slip through his fingers, and all because of his love for her. A love unuttered.
Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose I am, mavourneen. I decided, there and then, that you could never be weaned away from your business because it was very much a part of you, was you, really. In any event, I lost my confidence. After all, I wasn’t half as rich and successful as you in those days. I didn’t think you’d have me. My nerve failed me. Yes, that’s precisely what happened.’
A deep sigh trickled out of Emma, and slowly she shook her head. ‘How foolish you were, my dearest, dearest friend.’
Blackie
