The thunder had cleared, leaving a freshness of the air, with a pale watery moon filtering through the haze of dying cloud.
Like sentinels of the past, the massed trees of the forest stood dimly shadowed beyond the garden. On one side the tip of Hawkshill was visible momentarily, then faded again. The distant glimmer of Marten Pool shone silver for a second beyond Feyland. An owl called softly from the woods. All was mystery — a threadwork of winding lanes and small lost hamlets. Yet she knew them, had walked them all, climbed every tumpy rock-tipped hill, since childhood. It was her birthright. They couldn’t lose it now — neither she nor her father. Somehow both Oaklands and the Echo had to be saved.
But how?
Had her father been sufficiently tactful during the meeting with Bradley? When reason failed had he thrown his cards too bluntly on the table? William Fairley, though inherently and by practice diplomatic, could be amazingly defiant when pressed. Perhaps in the end when he’d found the other man so unco-operative he’d let his temper get the better of him and he’d issued a challenge he could not possibly win.
There was, then, only one course left. Without telling her father she’d herself visit Eastwood Hall that Thursday, which was publishing day for the Echo, knowing William would be fully occupied at Charbrook and would not miss her. She’d ride Lady cross-country, and deal with the hateful stranger in her own way. What that way would be, she hadn’t a clue. Until they met face to face, she’d no way of assessing their instinctive reactions to each other. But she’d dress carefully and suitably, and while keeping her business senses alert, would make the most of her feminine attributes.
When the day arrived, luckily it was fine. She set off early before the silver mist had lifted from the short turf and undergrowth. Many of the trees were bare now of foliage, but a few leaves still hung from lean black branches, diamonded with glittering cobwebbed filaments of dew. Much of the forest appeared half-dream, half-reality. As Lady sniffed the air appreciatively passing the old Priory of Uldene, Emma recalled days of her childhood when she’d imagined herself a lost princess in a fairy tale. So much of her was bound up in this area of ancient territory — so evocative a sense of history and days gone by. The lake surrounded by the grouped tall trees, Hawkwycke Hill with its rugged peak and broken prehistoric circle, the deep green slate pits lurking mysteriously between shadowed trunks of oak and birch, and in springtime the acres of bluebells more softly bright than a cloudless summer sky. The ruined priory itself, and the monastery Coldale way where the silent brotherhood worked and had their being. This was enchanted country. Hers and William’s. In its way a lost land, because few tourists came there unless it was to visit Bradgate Park and the ruin which had once been the home of Lady Jane Grey, the ill-fated nine-day queen — oh she’d never let Bradley force them away. Never, never.
Bringing herself harshly back to reality again she’d kicked Lady to a swift canter, and moments later Uldene had faded into a spectral shape soon completely lost in the shadows of the woods.
She avoided the outskirts of Charbrook, taking footpaths and bridle ways to the opposite side of the county where foxhunting was the chief sport on which the rich spent winter months during the season.
Here the land was more flat and verdant, dotted at intervals with picturesque villages and small market towns. To Emma the landscape, though pleasant, was ordinary. And any appreciation she had for it was marred by her hatred of a sport she considered as barbaric as cock-fighting. Although William, of a necessity, had to show impartiality towards differing sections of the Leyfordshire community, Emma, except for rare social occasions, had kept herself aloof from the snob set — her private term.
Now she had to face that however distasteful it was, she must play the odious ‘pretend game’ of being appreciative of the wealth, social status, and power of the formidable Bradleys. Not that the rich Northerner could yet have been genuinely accepted by the county aristocracy. He had lived only two years at Eastwood, and had amassed his fortune from Trade. But in time a wily millionaire of his calibre might wheedle a baronetcy from the ‘powers-that-be’ — provided he paid enough. This would eventually woo him an avowed place in the Burnwood circle.
The whole situation filled Emma with contempt. But the day was fresh and invigorating; the keen sweet wind — redolent with the scents of damp earth, tumbled leaves and blackberries — brought a challenging glow to her cheeks. She rode side-saddle, wearing an olive green velvet habit, with her gleaming dark hair pinned up in a chignon under her tilted boat-shaped hat. A stray curl brushed one cheek, giving extra allure to her feminine elegance. It would have been more fun riding astride, as she frequently did, through the forest, but of course quite outrageous on this occasion. As the silver sun rose higher in the pale sky she felt resentful for a brief moment or two that she hadn’t been free to look for mushrooms instead of gallivanting across lush parklands to Eastwood. A quantity of silvered umbrella shaped pale heads had appeared in Starvecrow field on the edge of the Woods when she passed. Tomorrow they would probably be gone, and her father liked them fried on toast. But there was no point in brooding. She kicked Lady to a smart gallop, and reached Eastwood shortly before eleven, wondering how she’d be greeted, and if Bradley’s wife ruled there, as some chatelaine or queen.
Well, she’d soon find out.
She dismounted and was about to lead Lady by the bridle down a drive at the side of the mansion, when a man, obviously a groom, wearing gaiters and a leather jerkin over a woollen jersey, appeared from the opposite direction. He was a burly figure, shrewd-eyed, with a crop of ginger hair above a broad pink face. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘Wanting anyone, are you?’
‘Mr Bradley,’ Emma answered. ‘Perhaps you can inform a servant of my arrival.’
‘I can take thy horse for a while, but the master isn’t in. Is he expecting you?’
The direct question took her aback, but only for a moment.
‘He may well be,’ she answered coolly. ‘My name is Fairley, Miss Emma Fairley. My father was here yesterday.’
‘Oh. You mean the newspaper man?’
She nodded.
‘Well ma’am — miss, he isn’t in. I’m sorry but there it is. Went off ridin’ ‘bout an hour ago. Whether it’s worth thee waitin’ a bit—’ His Yorkshire voice broke off as a younger, taller man walked smartly through a gate in the drive leading from a field. He must have been well over six feet, and as he drew near Emma felt a stab of surprise — almost shock — seeing how very handsome he was — fair hair licked to brightest gold in the early sunlight, fine-featured, and with eyes so blue they startled her. He was attired fashionably in fawn twill knee breeches and a smartly cut velvet jacket. A silk scarf was knotted loosely, in the manner of a cravat, at his neck. He had a winning smile, slightly tilted to one side, which added to his charm. Obviously a lady-killer, Emma decided after the first impact was over, and one used to getting his way.
She drew herself up an inch or two higher whilst formal introductions were made. Then, when her business was made clear, he said, still with his magnetic gaze fixed upon her, ‘Father’s out, as you’ve just heard — unfortunate for you perhaps, but damned lucky for me.’
She flushed faintly.
‘I ought to have made an appointment, of course, but—’
‘Nonsense. I’m glad you didn’t. He shouldn’t be long. You can wait, I suppose? This business you have with him is important?’
She nodded decisively. ‘Very.’
‘Concerning the local rags. Am I right?’
‘Yes. Mr — Bradley. You did say “father”, didn’t you?’
He grinned. ‘Oh indisputably. I’m Arthur — the one-and-only. Except for Jessie, of course, my sister. But I’m afraid my rich tycoon of a sire does rather concentrate on the importance of having a male heir — however unsatisfactory a one I may be.’
Unable to decide how much of the statement was made in jest, how much in truth, Emma ignored it, and after a bri
ef look round an ornamental garden at the side of the house, which included a pool overhung by willows and a Japanese maple, they went inside.
The interior was as massive as the outward facade of the Hall suggested; the corridors were wide, the rooms large with high encrusted ceilings. The furnishing was rich but unimaginative, comprising a good deal of red plush, gilt, and crystal. Ornate glass-faced clocks, probably French, ticked from marble mantel shelves and alcoves. The drapes were heavy, and the air was over-heated. From a reception room on the left into which Emma was shown, a conservatory led through a glass door to a path bordering a shrubbery. The smell of ferns was strong and heady. Emma had an urge to rush round pushing every possible window open; she felt smothered, sensing that she had come on a fool’s errand. Anyone living in such a cloying overpowering atmosphere of ostentatious wealth could not possibly appreciate the wild sweet freshness of Burnwood, or her mission to save Oaklands. The rigidity of her pose, her air of bewildered distaste, didn’t escape the young man’s attention.
‘A bit stuffy,’ he commented, ‘I agree. But my mother likes warmth, and the pater’s not here often. Sit down, though. The chairs are comfortable. Like a drink?’
Emma took the nearest chair which was divided into three back to back, forming a circular design. The seats were low, of rich maroon shaded velvet, and surprisingly comfortable.
‘No thank you,’ she said primly, refusing the Madeira.
His fine arched brows shot up. ‘No? Ah. I forgot. You’re here on business.’ The mocking note had returned to his voice. Emma stiffened again.
‘Do you mind telling me — I mean, have you any idea how long Mr Bradley will be?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. But I hope it will be a considerable time. Long enough for us to get to know each other.’ Her grey eyes met his squarely, and once more she was impressed by their brilliance. He really was astonishingly good-looking; charming too, in his way, although something about him, a secret assessing quality, mildly intimidated her. Quite obviously he found her fascinating. At odd moments his gaze slid appreciatively over the slender lines in her figure, then back to the provocative features under the perky boat-shaped hat, and dark rich gleam of russet hair. A beauty, begad, he was thinking, and quite a character — one well worthy of adding to his retinue of female admirers. Could one have fun with her? Possibly. But it might be a dangerous game, and if Arthur Bradley considered any woman worth dallying with, he expected his own brand of response. Pride alone demanded it. Could he win this one? After a few speculative moments he decided to take up the challenge, and by the time Jonathan Bradley appeared an hour later, he’d succeeded in at least warming her interest.
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 fright
ened 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?’