was a pupil there as well, or that Jonathan and he had been friends in those days. I had – ’
‘I think they’re still friends actually,’ Emily interrupted.
This bit of information chilled Emma to the bone, but she attempted a smile. ‘He probably wanted to surprise me. He might have realized the negotiations were going to be touchy and was endeavouring to smooth the way for Paula,’ she said, trying to convince herself this was the truth. But her intuition told her it was not. Emma gripped the door jamb more tightly, and, adopting a meticulously casual tone, asked, ‘Did Jonathan see you in Les Ambassadeurs, Emily?’
Emily shook her head. ‘He was in deep conversation with Cross.’ She pondered, asked swiftly, ‘Why? Is it important?’
‘Not really. Did you mention this to Paula?’
‘I didn’t get an opportunity. She had just started to tell me about the Aire fiasco, as she called it, and Cross being horrid to her, when Hilda announced dinner.’ Emily bit her inner lip, frowning, beginning to wonder precisely what her grandmother was leading up to with her questions.
Emma nodded, as though to herself, remarked in that same lightly casual voice, ‘I’d prefer you not to say anything about this to Paula. I wouldn’t want her to think he was interfering, queering her pitch. Unintentionally, of course. And don’t bother to bring it up with Jonathan either. I’ll talk to him, find out what his aim was, if indeed he had an aim. It might have been a strictly social evening you know, in view of their friendship.’
‘Yes, Grandy, whatever you say.’
Emily stood rooted to the spot, studying her grandmother closely, filling with alarm. Emma’s face had paled as they had been talking and she noticed that the happy light in her eyes had fled. They were uncommonly dull, lifeless for once. Emily put down the tray hurriedly, and flew across the room. She grasped Emma’s arm, exclaimed with concern, ‘Are you all right, Gran darling?’
Emma made no response. Her mind was working with that razor-sharp precision and vivid intelligence which were so integral to her great genius. Assessing and analysing with her rare brand of shrewdness and perception, she suddenly saw things with a clarity that shocked. For a split second she recoiled from the truth. I’m making assumptions, she thought, but then her ingrained pragmatism reminded her that she was rarely wrong. The truth was staring her in the face.
Becoming conscious of Emily’s hand clutching her arm, her worry and anxiousness apparent, Emma dragged herself out of her disturbing thoughts. She patted the girl’s hand, brought a smile to her face that was convincing, reassuring in its certitude.
‘I’m just tired,’ Emma said in a contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.
The medieval church at the top of the hill in Fairley village was filled to capacity, almost bursting at the seams.
Family and friends occupied the front pews and the villagers were crowded in closely behind, for they had turned out in full force to honour Emma Harte at the baptism of her great-grandchildren. And after the ceremony they would troop across the road to the parish hall to partake of the special celebration tea, which Emma had instructed Alexander to arrange.
All was peace and serenity within the ancient grey stone walls. Sunshine pouring in through the stained-glass windows threw rainbow arcs of dancing, jewelled light across the sombre stone floor and the dark wood pews. Masses of spring flowers were banked around the altar and on the altar steps. The mingled scents of hyacinths, narcissi, freesia, imported mimosa and lilac filled the air, diminishing the peculiar musty smell of mildew and dust and old wood that was so prevalent in the church. It was the odour of antiquity, and one Emma had detested since childhood: she had automatically chosen the most fragrant of flowers for this occasion in an attempt to counteract it.
She sat in the front pew, proud and dignified, wearing a midnight-blue wool-crêpe dress and loose matching coat. A small velvet beret of the same deep blue was perched at a jaunty angle on her immaculate silver hair, and she wore the McGill emeralds and a long rope of matchless pearls. Blackie was seated to her left, handsome in a dark suit, whilst Daisy sat with her husband, David Amory, to Emma’s right. Edwina was wedged in between David and Sarah Lowther, her posture rigid, her expression rather prim, as usual.
Emma had been somewhat taken aback to find Sarah standing on the porch steps when they had arrived. No one had expected to see her, since she was supposed to have a bad cold. They had spoken briefly at the back of the church before taking their seats, and Emma had been immediately struck by her granddaughter’s healthy appearance. In her opinion, Sarah had either made a miraculous recovery overnight, or had not been sick in the first place. It was more than likely she had toyed with the idea of not coming in order to avoid Shane. Emma could not hold that against her. She understood, had a good idea how Sarah probably felt. But, she thought, I’ll say this for Sarah. She’s a cool customer. Sarah had not blinked an eyelash nor displayed the slightest sign of self-consciousness when Shane had greeted them earlier.
Now Emma sneaked a look at him.
He was sitting with his parents in a pew across the nave, his face in profile. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being observed, he turned his head slightly to the right and caught Emma’s eye, half smiled and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. Emma returned his smile, swung her eyes back to the altar.
Paula and Jim were standing at the carved stone font which dated back to 1574, and were surrounded by the godparents of their children, totalling six in all. The vicar, the Reverend Geoffrey Huntley, having christened the boy Lorne McGill Harte Fairley, was now preparing to baptize the girl, who was to be named Tessa. Like her twin she would bear the same additional middle names.
Emily, one of Tessa’s godmothers, was holding the baby in her arms, and standing on Emma’s left were Anthony, and Vivienne Harte, who were the other godparents. Vivienne’s elder sister, Sally, was godmother to Lorne and cradled him, flanked on either side by his godfathers, Alexander and Winston.
What an attractive group of young people they are, Emma said inwardly, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, and she saw in her mind, for a brief instant, their antecedents … her own parents, her brother Winston, Arthur Ainsley, Paul McGill, Adele and Adam Fairley. How miraculous it was that she and Blackie were still alive and were able to be here today to witness this event, to share in the joyfulness of the occasion.
She shifted her eyes to Paula and Jim.
They do look well together, she thought. He so tall and broad and fair, and the living embodiment of his great-grandfather, Adam; Paula so slender and willowy and dark, and so dramatic looking with her vivid McGill colouring. And Paula’s inbred elegance was most apparent in the way she held herself, and in her clothes. She had chosen a tailored wool suit of a deep violet tone, and wore it with a lighter coloured violet satin blouse and a satin pillbox of the same tone. The violet echoed her eyes. She’s still too thin, Emma thought, but she has such an extraordinary radiance this afternoon.
Her love for her granddaughter and her pride in the girl were emotions most paramount in Emma at this moment, and her face relaxed into softer lines as she continued to regard Paula. The young woman standing up there at the font had given her nothing but happiness and comfort since the day she had been born, in much the same way her mother, Daisy, had done, and continued to do.
Emma closed her eyes. Paul would have been as proud of Paula as she was, for the girl had all
