A Woman of Substance (85 page)

Blackie, astonished and enraged by what he had just heard, moved with swiftness, catching Gerald’s arm as it came down, neatly deflecting the blow. Although Gerald was huge, he was weak and his weight was cumbersome, and so he was no match for Blackie’s strength and speed. Blackie spun Gerald around roughly and grabbed him with both hands, pinning his arms to his sides. He increased his vice-like grip and forced Gerald down into the chair.

‘Don’t try that again, Fairley!’ Blackie cried, anger suffusing his face with dark colour. ‘If you so much as breathe on her I will give you the worst thrashing of your life!’

Foolishly disregarding Blackie’s warning, Gerald struggled upright mumbling foul imprecations. He heaved himself to his feet, sweating profusely, and glowered at Emma. He seemed about to attack her and then suddenly he changed his mind and lurched at Blackie. Blackie was prepared and stepped aside adroitly, swung his right fist, and caught Gerald a glancing blow on the jaw. A look of stunned surprise crossed Gerald’s purple face before he crumpled and collapsed in a heap at their feet, overturning a small mahogany table as he fell.

‘Oh my God!’ Emma exclaimed, rising.

‘That bastard asked for it!’ Blackie muttered, and gave her a sharp, puzzled glance. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he tried to rape you when it happened? I would have knocked the living daylights out of him! He would have been crippled for life, after I’d finished with him!’

‘I know. That’s why I never mentioned it, Blackie,’ Emma said quietly. ‘I thought it advisable to keep it to myself. I didn’t need any more trouble in those days. My life was difficult enough as it was.’ Emma righted the table and smiled wanly. ‘But thank you for interceding now. I really think he meant to hit me.’

Blackie looked at her askance, as always surprised at her fearlessness. ‘What do you mean, think he did? I know he intended you bodily harm. The nasty piece of work.’

Emma gestured at Gerald. ‘What are we going to do with him? We can’t just leave him lying there.’

A malicious gleam entered Blackie’s eyes. ‘I can think of a
lot of things I’d like to do with him. But he’s not worth going to jail for, I can tell you that.’ Blackie spotted a jug of water on the walnut chest. He brought it over to Gerald and threw the contents on him unceremoniously. ‘There, that should do it!’ he exclaimed, and stood regarding Gerald coldly.

After a moment Gerald struggled into a sitting position, spluttering and wiping the water from his face. Blackie pulled him to his feet. ‘No more violence, Fairley. Do you understand me? Otherwise I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ Blackie said harshly, his manner threatening. He manoeuvred Gerald into the chair with a degree of roughness and hovered over him. ‘Now, let’s get down to the business at hand. You know why I came. Presumably you are going to permit us to make a tour of inspection. I don’t think you have any alternative under the circumstances, do you?’

Gerald ignored Blackie and snarled viciously at Emma, his enmity for her more palpable than ever. ‘I’ll get you for this!’ he shouted, shaking his fist at her. ‘You’re not going to get off scot-free,’ he blustered. ‘Or as easily as you think, Emma.’

‘Mrs Ainsley to you,’ Blackie said as Emma walked over to the desk.

Emma picked up her gloves and handbag and said, ‘Please leave us now. I believe you have something to attend to—removing your personal belongings from your office at the mill.’

Gerald stood up uncertainly. He held on to the back of the chair and his tone was venomous as he said, ‘I give you fair warning—’ His voice broke and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I am going to—’

‘You can do nothing,’ Emma said, and she turned away in disgust.

Blackie said firmly, ‘You heard the lady, Fairley. You had better do as she says and be quick about it. I think it would be rather embarrassing to find your stuff dumped in the mill yard.’

Gerald stumbled out of the library, his shoulders hunched in defeat. He slammed the door behind him and the wall sconces rattled in their sockets.

Emma, who abhorred violence, had been alarmed by the altercation, as brief as it was, but she had not lost her com
posure. She glanced across at Blackie and said dismissively, ‘So much for fools. Shall we look around the house?’

‘Why not? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

‘One of the reasons,’ Emma said.

Blackie’s eyes rested reflectively on Emma. Revenge generally came at a high price and, whilst he understood her motivations, he wondered, abstractly, if the price had been worth it to her. Superstitious Celt that he was, Blackie shivered unexpectedly. The desire for revenge was not unnatural, but it could curdle and embitter the soul, and it often destroyed the avenger. Was it not perhaps infinitely wiser to abjure the wicked and abandon them to the fates, and trust in God to make retribution in His own good time? He found himself saying, almost inaudibly, ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.’

Emma gave him a peculiar look, and then she laughed. There was a hint of irony in her voice as she retorted, ‘Don’t start getting mystical with me. You know I don’t believe in God. Besides, even if I did, I would still have taken matters into my own hands. You see, Blackie, I didn’t have time to wait for the Lord.’

‘And you also wanted the satisfaction of seeing Gerald Fairley’s face when he discovered you had been his adversary all these years,’ Blackie asserted.

‘Do you blame me?’ Emma asked, one eyebrow raised.

‘I don’t suppose I do,’ Blackie admitted, and regarded her for a long moment. ‘And tell me, Emma, how do you feel, now that you have accomplished what you set out to do?’

‘Why, I feel wonderful. Why shouldn’t I? I have waited twenty years to see the tables turned on the Fairleys. Twenty years, Blackie! And let me tell you something. Revenge is sweet. Very sweet indeed.’

Blackie did not reply. He put his arm around her shoulders and gazed down at her. To his relief that cold and implacable mask had been discarded, had been replaced by the sweetest of expressions, and the hard glint in her emerald eyes had disappeared. A thought struck him. ‘And what of Edwin Fairley?’ Blackie asked curiously. ‘Do you have something special in store for him?’

‘You will have to wait and see,’ Emma said cryptically, and smiled. ‘Anyway, don’t think Edwin won’t be upset by all this, because he will. For one thing, he will be mortified by the scandal, the terrible disgrace. Gerald is practically bankrupt and the whole of Yorkshire’s business community knows it. Furthermore, Edwin’s income is going to be most seriously affected. He had an interest in the Fairley mills, under his father’s will. Now that’s gone up in a puff of smoke,’ she finished triumphantly and with an eloquent wave of her hand.

Blackie said softly, ‘Is there anything you don’t know about their affairs?’

‘Nothing.’

Blackie shook his head. ‘You’re an amazing woman, Emma.’

‘Aren’t I, just. I amaze myself sometimes.’ Emma laughed. ‘Well, let’s do what we came here to do and make our grand tour of Fairley Hall.’

They went out into the entrance hall and slowly mounted the great staircase washed in the eerie light sifting in through the huge stained-glass window that soared high above the central landing. They walked down the endless dusky corridors that reeked faintly of wax and gas and dust and that peculiar mustiness that seeped out of the walls, and the wood creaked and the wind moaned in the eaves and the light dimmed, and it seemed to Emma that the ancient house was expiring all around them. They looked in on various rooms where grimy dust sheets draped the furniture and then moved on into the main corridor of bedrooms.

Emma paused at the door of the Blue Suite and glanced back at Blackie standing behind her. ‘These were Adele Fairley’s rooms,’ she remarked, and hesitated, her hand resting on the knob. And then she braced herself, flung open the door, and went in purposefully. Motes of dust rose up from the carpet in eddying whirls and danced in the sunlit air as they disturbed the room, which had obviously been unused for years and held an aura of neglect more pronounced than the library. Although Emma had never liked this room as a child, she had been awed by the quality of the antiques and some of the other furnishings. Now she saw it through the eyes of the connoisseur she had become, and she grimaced. Here poor Adele Fairley had lived
out her life in her introverted world, isolated from her family and escaping reality by fleeing down the neck of a bottle. Emma had long ago acknowledged that Adele had been an alcoholic. But was she also mad? She pushed aside the troubling thought of inherited insanity and drifted through into the adjoining bedroom, pausing by the huge four-poster bed swathed in faded green silk. The silence was overwhelming and, in the way the imagination can play queer tricks, Emma heard Adele’s tinkling laughter and the rustling of her peignoir, caught a faint whiff of her Jasmine perfume. She blinked rapidly and gooseflesh spreckled her arms. She laughed at herself and then swung around and hurriedly returned to the sitting room.

Blackie followed her, assessing everything as he did. ‘These are fine rooms, Emma,’ he said, peering about. ‘Beautifully proportioned. They have a lot of potential. Of course, you’ll have to get rid of most of this junk Adele Fairley collected.’

‘Yes, I will,’ Emma said, and thought: What a pathetic memorial to Adele Fairley. She who was so beautiful.

Emma inspected the other bedrooms perfunctorily yet with a degree of curiosity. She hovered in front of the dressing table in the Grey Room, once occupied by Olivia Wainright Fairley, musing on her. Unexpectedly, a wave of reluctant affection surfaced in her. Olivia
had
been kind;
had
eased her burdens in this terrible house. She wondered if her empathy for Olivia had been unconsciously engendered by that woman’s marked resemblance to her mother. Perhaps. Emma’s face softened and she turned and left the Grey Room. But her expression changed radically when she pushed open the door of the Master’s Room. Her eyes were stony as she surveyed the austere furnishings, thinking of Adam Fairley. And Emma remembered anew all that had happened to her at Fairley Hall and she felt no compunction about what she had done. Her revenge had had a long gestation period, but it had been surely worth it.

Fifteen minutes later Emma and Blackie descended the main staircase and quickly traversed the reception rooms on the ground floor. All the while Blackie chatted enthusiastically about the renovations he would make, and outlined his plans for transforming Fairley Hall into an elegant home for her.
Emma listened and nodded but said little. At one moment, when they were viewing the drawing room, she touched Blackie’s arm and asked, ‘Why was I so frightened of this house when I was a child?’

Blackie squeezed her hand lovingly. ‘You weren’t afraid of the house, Emma. You were afraid of the people in it.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she replied softly. ‘And now those people are just ghosts.’

‘Yes, me darlin’, just ghosts. And this is only a house, after all. I once told you it could never harm you.’

‘I know you did.’ Emma took Blackie’s arm. ‘Let’s go outside and look at the grounds. It’s chilly in here, and rather depressing.’

Emma blinked when they stepped out into the bright sunlight. ‘Do you know, it’s warmer out here than it is in there,’ she remarked, and stared up at the grim edifice soaring in front of her. Emma’s face became introspective as she walked along the flagged terrace, regarding Fairley Hall from time to time. This daunting house was enduring—and inescapable; a bastion of wealth and privilege, a monument to a society long outmoded, to a cruel class system she detested, and it sorely offended her.

Inclining her head towards the house, she murmured, ‘My father used to call this Fairley’s Folly.’

‘And so it is.’

‘Tear it down,’ Emma said with cool deliberation.

‘Tear it down!’ Blackie echoed, gazing at her incredulously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. I want you to tear it down. Brick by brick by brick, until there is nothing left standing.’

‘But I thought you were going to live in it,’ Blackie exclaimed, still flabbergasted.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever really intended to do that. You once said it was a monstrosity and that’s a decided understatement. There is no place in this world for monstrosities. I want it wiped off the face of the earth as if it never existed.’

‘And the furniture?’

‘Sell it. Give it away. Do as you wish. I know I don’t want
one piece of it. You can take anything you like, Blackie.’ She smiled. ‘You might consider keeping Adam Fairley’s desk. It is quite valuable, you know.’

‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll think about it.’ Blackie rubbed his chin. ‘Are you sure about this decision? You did pay a lot for the house.’

‘I am very sure.’ Emma swivelled and tripped lightly down the terrace steps until she stood at the entrance to the rose garden. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a young and desperate girl, and she recalled the day she had told Edwin she was pregnant, and remembered his repudiation of her as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

‘And destroy this garden,’ she said icily. ‘Demolish it completely. I don’t want one rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’

The villagers were agog at the news that Emma Harte, Big Jack’s daughter, was now the owner of Fairley Hall and the mill. It was a reversal of circumstances so unlikely it staggered the imagination, and, in turn, they were stunned, astonished, and finally wryly amused at the ironic justice so inherent in the turn of events, which were quite unexpected. Hidebound as they were by tradition and prejudice, and trapped in a rigid caste system that kept the workers in their place, they nevertheless marvelled at her audacity in daring to defy that system and break all the rules set down by the Establishment for centuries.

The following morning women stood on doorsteps and leaned over garden gates, arms akimbo, shaking their heads and exclaiming about the remarkable success story of one of their own. That night in the White Horse, the men at the bar, most of whom worked at the mill, crowded together, speculating about the future of the mill and chuckling at the demise of the Fairleys’ power. Although Adam Fairley had not been particularly liked, because he was not of the same ilk as his bluff and hearty father, being too ‘fancy’ for their north-country tastes, he
had
been respected since the men recognized his basic integrity and fairness. However, Gerald, who was a tyrant and a fool, was loathed, and no one was unhappy to see
his downfall, nor did they have a shred of pity for him. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’ was the phrase most often heard in the ensuing days as the villagers waited eagerly for the arrival of their new employer and the future mistress of Fairley Hall.