Читать книгу: «Emma’s Secret»
BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
Emma’s Secret
COPYRIGHT
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2003
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780006514411
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007330638
Version: 2017-10-25
DEDICATION
For Bob, as always, with my love
THE THREE CLANS
The Hartes shown in line of descent
Emma Harte: Matriarch: Founder of dynasty and business empire
HER CHILDREN
Edwina: Dowager Countess of Dunvale: Emma’s daughter by Edwin Fairley (illegitimate). First born
Christopher ‘Kit’ Lowther: Emma’s son by her first husband Joe Lowther. Second born
Robin Ainsley: Emma’s son by her second husband Arthur Ainsley. Third born
Elizabeth Ainsley: Emma’s daughter by her second husband Arthur Ainsley. Robin’s twin. Third born
Daisy (Ainsley): Emma’s daughter by Paul McGill (illegitimate). Fourth born
HER GRANDCHILDREN
Shown in line of descent
Anthony Standish: Earl of Dunvale, son of Edwina and Jeremy Standish, Earl of Dunvale
Sarah Lowther Pascal: Daughter of ‘Kit’ and June Lowther
Jonathan Ainsley: Son of Robin and Valerie Ainsley
Paula O’Neill: Daughter of Daisy and David Amory
Philip McGill Amory: Son of Daisy and David Amory; brother of Paula
Emily Barkstone Harte: Daughter of Elizabeth and Tony Barkstone; half-sister of Amanda
Amanda Linde: Daughter of Elizabeth and Derek Linde (Elizabeth’s second husband)
EMMA’S GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN
Tessa Fairley Longden: Daughter of Paula and Jim Fairley (Paula’s first husband)
Lorne Fairley: Tessa’s twin, son of Paula and Jim Fairley
Toby Harte: Son of Emily and Winston Harte II; brother of Gideon
Gideon Harte: Son of Emily and Winston Harte II
India Standish: Daughter of Anthony Standish and Sally Harte, Earl and Countess of Dunvale
Linnet O’Neill: Daughter of Paula and Shane O’Neill (Paula’s second husband)
Chloe Pascal: Daughter of Sarah and Yves Pascal
Fiona Amory: Daughter of Philip McGill Amory
Emsie O’Neill: Daughter of Paula and Shane O’Neill
Desmond O’Neill: Son of Paula and Shane O’Neill
THE HARTES continued
Winston Harte: Emma’s older brother and business partner
Randolph Harte: Son of Winston and Charlotte Harte
Winston Harte II: Son of Randolph and Georgina Harte
Toby Harte: Son of Winston and Emily Harte; Brother of Gideon
Gideon Harte: Son of Winston and Emily Harte
Frank Harte: Emma’s younger brother
Rosamunde Harte: Daughter of Frank and Natalie Harte
Simon Harte: Son of Frank and Natalie Harte; brother of Rosamunde
THE O’NEILLS
Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill (‘Blackie’): Founding father of dynasty and business empire
Bryan O’Neill: Son of Blackie and Laura Spencer O’Neill
Shane O’Neill: Son of Bryan and Geraldine O’Neill
Linnet O’Neill: Daughter of Shane and Paula O’Neill
Emsie O’Neill: Daughter of Shane and Paula O’Neill
Desmond O’Neill: Son of Shane and Paula O’Neill
THE KALLINSKIS
David Kallinski: Founding father of dynasty and business empire
Sir Ronald Kallinski: Son of David and Rebecca Kallinski
Michael Kallinski: Son of Ronald and Helen ‘Posy’ Kallinski
Julian Kallinski: Son of Michael and Valentine Kallinski
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
THE THREE CLANS
PROLOGUE: 2000
PART ONE
Dynasty: 2001
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PART TWO
Legend: 1940
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PART THREE
Legacy: 2001
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
KEEP READING
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
OTHER BOOKS BY
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PROLOGUE
2000
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
T.S. ELIOT
Four Quartets: Burnt Norton
PROLOGUE
She sat very still in the chair next to the bed, holding her grandmother’s hand. It was so quiet in the hospital room she could hear her breathing, the breath coming in soft little intakes and exhalations.
The old woman’s face was relaxed, the tension gone from it as she dozed, and she appeared to be younger than her years, younger than she had looked in a very long time.
Perhaps she will get better, Evan thought, her eyes on her grandmother, the person whom she loved most in the whole world except for her father. She wished he would get here. He was driving into Manhattan from Connecticut and had left several hours ago; she couldn’t imagine what was making him this late. Evan glanced at her watch, and when she saw the time she realized he was probably snarled up in the late afternoon traffic of Manhattan … rush hour was imminent and Thanksgiving was next week. Too many cars in the city today, she decided, trying to relax. A moment later Evan focused on her grandmother once more, and a small sigh escaped her; she couldn’t imagine her life without her beloved Gran in it. The prospect was bleak.
She had been suffering with a kidney infection and had gone into kidney failure. It was only a question of time.
Glynnis Jenkins Hughes. The Welsh girl from the Rhondda Valley, who had arrived in America fifty-four years ago as a GI Bride. Come to these shores to join her GI husband Richard Hughes, and bringing with her their small son Owen, conceived and born in England when Richard had been stationed there in the Second World War.
And she’s been as much a mother to me as she has to Dad, Evan decided, leaning back in the chair, closing her eyes, allowing a fund of childhood memories to come flooding back … Gran always there for them … always laughing, full of fun and gaiety, her warmth and love so abundant, her capacity for caring boundless.
Her mother had been ill for as long as Evan could remember, and still was, a manic depressive living in a world of her own, out of reality, out of their lives in a certain sense.
One day, many years ago, her Gran had come up to Connecticut from New York City and had taken over, muttering that they were all too little to fend for themselves. And adding, in a quieter voice, but not so quiet Evan didn’t hear, that a man needed a hot meal to come home to at night, as well as loving arms to hold him, a good woman to give him comfort and warmth and understanding. To boost him, when he needed it, to bolster his confidence.
Gran had spent several years sheltering her and her two sisters, Elayne and Angharad, taking care of them, running their young lives. She had been full of robust energy, enthusiasm and good will, a happy woman, comfortable in her own skin, who wanted only to share her joy in living with them and their father, her only child. Which she did so profoundly, Evan thought, and she is the best part of me. She made me what I am.
Finally opening her eyes, Evan glanced towards her grandmother. A smile broke across her troubled face when she saw that Glynnis was awake.
‘You were dozing, Evan,’ Glynnis said weakly, her voice whispery.
‘Not really. Just resting my eyes and thinking, Grandma.’
‘About?’
‘You, and how you took care of us so well when we were little girls. And Dad, too.’
A smile touched Glynnis’s lips, and quite unexpectedly her rheumy old eyes cleared, became alive, very bright and shining, the blueness remarkable in its intensity.
Squeezing her grandmother’s hand, Evan exclaimed, ‘You’ll be out of here soon! You’ll see.’
‘Where’s Owen?’ Glynnis murmured, her voice querulous, barely audible.
‘Dad’s on his way. He’ll be arriving any minute … he’s probably caught in traffic.’
‘Leave here,’ Glynnis instructed hoarsely.
‘I can’t leave you alone, Gran!’ Evan protested, shaking her head. Wondering what this was all about, she frowned and added, ‘I want to be here to take care of you, and so does Dad.’
‘Leave New York … that’s what I meant … you’re twenty-six … should be out … in the world …’ Glynnis’s voice trailed off wearily. And she sighed, seemed to sink further into the pillows.
Evan leaned closer to her grandmother, her eyes fixed on her unwaveringly. ‘I’m happy here, I love my job at Saks … and anyway, I want to be near you.’
‘I’m dying.’ Glynnis’s lids fluttered, and she stared back at Evan, held her granddaughter with her own steady gaze.
‘Don’t say that, Gran! You’re going to get better. I know you are.’ Evan’s eyes filled, and she tightened her grip on Glynnis’s fragile fingers.
‘Old,’ Glynnis whispered, ‘too old now.’
‘No, you’re not! You’re only seventy-nine, that’s not old these days,’ Evan protested, her voice rising.
Glynnis sighed, and her heart clenched. It was unbearable for her to see her granddaughter’s tears, to witness her pain. My one true love, she thought, well there was the other, but that was so long ago it doesn’t matter any more. Evan was always mine. Like my own daughter, the daughter I never had with Richard. Dearest, dearest Richard. The truest husband a woman could ever want. Such a good man. The best man I ever knew; the right man to spend a lifetime with, after all. So much to say to Evan. So little time left. I must get my thoughts unscrambled … get them straight. I should have told her before … but I was afraid …
‘Gran! Gran!’ Evan cried. ‘Please, Gran, open your eyes!’
Slowly Glynnis’s eyelids lifted, and as she gazed at her granddaughter again, a sudden radiance flooded her wrinkled face. ‘I was thinking of your grandfather, Evan. Such a good man, Richard Hughes.’
‘We loved him too, Grandma.’
‘Do you think he’s waiting for me? Do you believe in an afterlife, Evan? Is there a heaven, do you think?’
‘I don’t know, Gran.’ Evan brushed her eyes with her fingertips, flicked away the tears. ‘I hope so, I really do.’
‘I think perhaps there is … don’t weep for me, Evan, I’ve had a good life … sad at times … painful, too … But I’ve enjoyed it all … there’s always the bad along with the good …’ Glynnis drifted off once more, lost in her thoughts, trying to summon the last vestiges of her strength.
Evan bent closer, touching Glynnis’s cheek very gently. ‘I’m here, Grandma.’
‘I know, dear.’ Glynnis sighed, and a faint smile flickered on her wide and generous mouth.
Evan said, ‘Dad’ll be here any minute now,’ and she hoped that he would. She pushed her spiralling anxiety away.
‘I loved him too much,’ Glynnis muttered suddenly.
‘You can never love a child too much – you said that yourself, Gran.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, long ago, to me, when I was a little girl.’
‘I don’t remember. Evan?’
‘Yes, Gran?’
‘Go to Emma.’
‘Emma? Who’s Emma?’
‘Emma Harte. In London. She has … the key. To your future. Oh, Evan—’ Glynnis stopped speaking abruptly, stared at her granddaughter with enormous intensity as though committing her face to memory, and then she closed her eyes. A long, fluttering sigh rippled through her before she lay absolutely still.
‘Gran,’ Evan said in a low, insistent tone. ‘Gran.’
There was no response, not even the flicker of an eyelash. Evan glanced down at their hands clasped together on top of the sheet and she saw that her grandmother’s hand had gone slack in hers. She felt her throat closing. Her eyes welled.
Gran’s gone, Evan thought. Gone to another place. She’s out of her pain and suffering, at peace.
Bending forward, Evan kissed Glynnis’s still-warm cheek; the tears spilled out of her eyes and slid down her face as grief engulfed her. So distraught was she that Evan did not hear her father come into the hospital room. It was only when she felt his loving hand resting lightly on her shoulder that she became aware of his presence.
‘She’s gone?’ Owen asked, a catch in his voice.
‘Yes, Dad, but only a second ago.’ As she spoke, Evan smoothed her hand over Glynnis’s silver hair, and then she got up, turned to her father. When she saw the tears in her father’s blue eyes, the anguish on his face, she stepped into his arms, wanting to comfort him and needing his comfort in return.
They clung together for a few seconds. Finally, Owen said, ‘I tried to get here before she died.’
‘I know Dad, and Gran knew that too.’
‘Did she have any last word for me?’
‘She said she loved you too much.’
Her father was silent, a reflective look crossing his face. A moment later he released Evan and went to sit beside his mother, his dark head bent over her, his sorrow apparent.
Evan, watching him, concerned for him, did not immediately think of her grandmother’s last words to her. When she did, she was baffled.
And some time later she went to London. To find Emma Harte. To find her future.
PART ONE
Dynasty 2001
Hold your friends close,
Your enemies closer.
ANONYMOUS
Be not forgetful to entertain
strangers: For thereby some have
entertained angels unawares.
Hebrews 13: 1–2
CHAPTER ONE
It was a blustery morning.
The penetrating wind blowing in from the North Sea was laden with moisture, and the dampness was heavy on the air, and icy. Linnet O’Neill felt as though it were seeping into her bones.
She huddled further into her thick, loden-green wool coat and tied her scarf tighter around her head. Then, thrusting her gloved hands into her pockets, she trudged on, doggedly following the winding path which would bring her to the crest of the moors.
After a moment she lifted her head and glanced up.
Above her, the arc of the sky appeared hollowed out, resembled the inside of a vast, polished bowl. It was the colour of steel, its metallic greyness relieved by a few scudding clouds, pale and wispy in the clear crystalline light so peculiar to these northern climes. It was an eerie light that seemed to emanate from some hidden source below the horizon.
When she first set out to walk up into the high country which soared above Pennistone Royal, Linnet had anticipated rain, but the massed black clouds of earlier had been scuttled by the gusting wind.
Since she had lived here all of her life, she knew about the weather and its unpredictability, knew that the skies of Yorkshire were ever-changing. By lunchtime the sun could easily be creeping out from behind the greyness to fill the heavens with radiance, or rain might be slashing down in a relentless, unending stream.
You took your chances when you went walking on the Yorkshire moors, she knew that. But she didn’t care. Ever since she had been a small child, these moors had been irresistible to her; she had loved to come here with her mother when she was little, to wander amongst the heather and the bracken, content to play alone with her stuffed animals in the vast emptiness surrounding her. It was her world; she had even believed it belonged to her when she was growing up, and, in a way, she still did.
It was quiet on the moors this morning.
In the spring and summer, even in the autumn, there was always the splash and tinkle of water as it tumbled down over rock formations into pebble-strewn becks, and the whistling of little birds, the rapid whirring of their wings, was ever present.
All were absent on this cold January Saturday.
The birds had long ago flown off to warmer places, the becks had a layer of ice, and it was curiously silent as she climbed higher and higher, the land rising steeply.
Linnet missed the sounds of nature so prevalent in the summer months. To her there was nothing sweeter than the twittering and trilling of the larks and linnets as they wheeled and turned in the lucent air.
On those lovely, balmy days it was a treat to come up here just to hear the musical choruses of the linnets, often delivered with gusto from an exposed branch of a bramble bush. They loved those bushes, these little birds, as well as the gorse that grew on the moors where they often made their nests or searched for seeds.
And on those days, in the sunlight and under cerulean skies, there was the scurry of rabbits, the calls of larger birds, the scent of warm grass, wildflowers, bracken and bilberry mingling, all so sweet and redolent on the air. Then the moors were at their most beautiful, except for late August and September, when the heather bloomed and transformed the dun-coloured hills into a rolling sea of royal purple and soft muted greens.
Suddenly the wind became fiercer, buffeted her forward and, taken by surprise, she almost stumbled on the path but quickly regained her balance. No wonder the wildlife has gone to ground, or gone away, she thought, and she couldn’t help asking herself if she had been foolish to come out in this bitter cold weather.
But whenever she returned to Pennistone Royal, even after only a short absence, she usually headed for the moors at the first opportunity. When she was walking across them she felt at peace, tranquil in her mind, and at ease with herself. Up here she could think clearly, collect her thoughts and sort things out. And most especially if she was troubled. These days her troubles centred on her sister Tessa who had become her rival in various ways. And especially at the store where they both worked.
It pleased her to know that she was home again, in the place where she truly belonged.
Her mother also loved the moors, but only in the spring and summer months; Paula did not entirely share her feelings about this wild and desolate landscape in the winter, considered by some to be the bleakest county in England at this particular time of year.
It was her father, Shane O’Neill, who had a deep affinity for the high country all year round, and a rare, almost tender love of nature. She always thought of her father as a true Celt, a throwback to a much earlier century, and it was he who had nurtured her own love of the outdoors, of wild things, and the flora and fauna which abounded in Yorkshire.
She knew from her mother that her great-grandmother had been just as passionate about the moors as she was, and had spent a considerable amount of time on them throughout her life. ‘Whenever she was troubled, Grandy headed for her beloved moors,’ her mother had once told her, years ago. Linnet fully understood why they had given Grandy such solace; after all, she had been born in one of the moor villages, had grown up in the Pennine hills.
Her great-grandmother was the renowned Emma Harte, a legend in her own time; people who had known Emma said she was like her, and made comparisons between the two of them. Linnet simply laughed somewhat dismissively, but secretly she was thrilled. Who wouldn’t want to be favourably compared to that most extraordinary woman, who single-handedly had created a great family dynasty and an enormous business empire circling the globe?
Her mother said she was a chip off the old block and equated her with Emma, because she had considerable business acumen and a talent for merchandising and retailing. ‘Just like Grandy,’ Paula would point out constantly, with a proud smile.
Linnet felt warm inside when she thought about her mother, Paula O’Neill. She was a very special person, fair and just in her dealings with everyone, whatever others might believe. As for her father, he was awesome.
Linnet had always enjoyed a perfect and most harmonious relationship with Shane, and they had drawn even closer after Patrick’s death ten years ago. Her elder brother had died of a rare blood disease when he was seventeen, and they had all mourned the sweet-natured Patrick, retarded from birth but so loving and caring. He had been everybody’s favourite; each of them had protected and nurtured him in their own way, especially Linnet. She still missed him, missed mothering him.
As she tramped on, moving ever upward, Linnet noticed tiny icicles dripping from the bramble bushes. The ground was hard as iron. It was becoming colder now that she was almost at the summit, and the wind was raw and biting. She was glad she was wearing warm clothes and boots, and a woollen scarf around her head.
Just as she knew it would, the path suddenly rose sharply, and she felt her calves tightening as she climbed higher. Within minutes she was puffing hard, and she paused to rest. Peering ahead, she realized she was only a few feet away from the crest; there, a formation of huge, jagged black rocks jutted up into the sky like some giant monolith erected as a monument to an ancient Celtic God.
Once she had suggested to Gideon Harte, her cousin and best friend, that the monolith was possibly man-made, perhaps even by the Celts themselves. Or the Druids. But Gideon, who was well-informed about a lot of things, had immediately dismissed that idea.
He had explained that the black boulders piled so precariously on their limestone pedestal had been carried there by a vast glacier during the Ice Age, long before man had existed in Britain. Then he had pointed out that the rocks had been sitting there for aeons and aeons, and therefore were not actually precariously balanced at all. They merely looked as if they were.
Anxious to reach the top, Linnet now set off again, and suddenly, there she was, stepping onto the plateau to stand in the shadow of the immense monolith floating immediately above her. Its pedestal of limestone, formed by nature millenniums ago, was an odd shape, with two pieces protruding out on either side of a tall, flat slab which was set back. Thus a narrow niche was created, a niche protected from the strong winds that blew at gale force up here on the high fells.
Years ago Emma had placed a boulder in the niche, and this served as a makeshift bench. Linnet sat down on it, as she always did, and gazed out at the vista in front of her. And her breath caught in her throat; whenever she was seated here she never ceased to be awed by this panoramic spread of the land. It was magnificent.
Her eyes roamed across bare, untenanted fells, windswept under the lowering sky, stark, implacable and lonely, and yet she never felt lonely or afraid up here. The wild beauty of the moors captivated her, filled her with such wonder, and she relished the solitude.
Far below her, Linnet could see the fields and pastures of the pastoral Dales, their verdant summer lushness temporarily obliterated in this harsh weather.
The fields and meadows were gleaming whitely, covered as they were with winter frost, and the river flowing through this bucolic valley was a winding, silver rope that glittered in the cold northern light.
And there, in the centre, sitting amidst the peaceful meadows punctuated by drystone walls, was Pennistone Royal, that ancient and stately house acquired by Emma Harte in 1932, almost seventy years ago.
In the years she had lived there, Emma had turned it into the most magical of places. The grounds were extensive and picturesque. Lawns rolled down to the river, and in the spring and summer months the masses of flower beds and flowering shrubs were ablaze with riotous colour.
But there were no roses anywhere in those lovely rambling gardens. It was a family legend that Emma Harte had detested roses, because she had been spurned by Edwin Fairley in the rose garden at Fairley Hall. On that day so long ago, when she was just a young girl, she had told Edwin she was carrying his child. In his panic, and fearing his powerful father, Adam Fairley, he had repudiated her, made it clear she was on her own in her terrible predicament. He had offered her a few shillings; she had asked to borrow a suitcase.
Emma had run away. From her family and Fairley village nestling in the shadow of the Pennine chain of hills. Courageously, Emma had travelled to Leeds to find her dear friend Blackie O’Neill, whom she knew would help her.
And of course he had. He had taken her to live with his friend Laura Spencer, later his wife, who had looked after her until Edwina was born. It was then that Emma Harte had made a vow: she would become a rich and powerful woman to protect herself and her child. She had worked like a drudge to accomplish this, and as it happened everything she touched had turned to gold.
Linnet’s grandfather, Bryan O’Neill, had told her that her great-grandmother had never once looked back. As a young woman she had surged ahead, gone from success to success, reaching even higher, always attaining the impossible, finally becoming a true woman of substance.
According to her grandfather, Emma had apparently never forgotten that horrible day in the rose garden at Fairley Hall. Her senses had been swimming, and feeling nauseous she had vomited violently when she was alone. Emma had blamed her attack of nausea on the roses, and thereafter, for the rest of her life, she had felt overcome whenever she smelled them. The flower held such terrible memories for her she could not abide it.
Out of deference to her beloved Grandy, Paula had never permitted roses to be grown at Pennistone Royal, nor were they ever used in floral arrangements in the house. Emma’s ruling still held: roses were forbidden in her homes.
Linnet had been born in her great-grandmother’s house twenty-five years ago, in the middle of May. Her grandmother, Daisy, Emma’s favourite daughter fathered by Paul McGill, had inherited Pennistone Royal from Emma. But she had immediately gifted it to her daughter, Paula, because she preferred to live in London, and also to save death duties later. Paula had lived there since Emma’s death. The house meant more to Linnet than any other place on earth; even though she worked in London during the week, she came up to Yorkshire every weekend.
This past November Paula had taken Linnet into her confidence about a matter close to Paula’s heart. ‘Grandy made a rule years ago,’ she explained. ‘And it was this … Pennistone Royal must go to the one who loves it the most, as long as that person has the intelligence and the knowledge to look after the estate properly. I know that Tessa, as the eldest, believes I’m going to leave it to her, but I just can’t, Linnet. She doesn’t even like the house and grounds; they’re meaningless to her. She’s only concerned with what they represent in terms of power and prestige in the family. That’s certainly not what Grandy wanted or intended.’ Paula had shaken her head and gone on: ‘Lorne has no interest in the house, and Emsie cares only about her stables.’
A loving smile had crossed her mother’s face as she had continued. ‘I doubt she’ll ever change, bless her heart. And as for Desmond, he’ll have his grandfather’s house in Harrogate one day, when Grandfather Bryan is gone.
At this juncture in the conversation, her mother had reached out and taken her hand, saying, ‘And so I am planning to leave Pennistone Royal to you, Linnet, because I know how much it means to you, how much you really care. But not a word to anyone about this. Understand, darling?’
