A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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the marvelous performances given by Sir John Mills, Gayle Hunnicutt, Barry Morse, Nicola Pagett and Miranda Richardson, to name just a few other members of this extraordinary cast. And the most wonderful thing was that each actor looked exactly right, almost as I had imagined them in my mind’s eye.
I was very proud when the six hour mini-series was nominated for an Emmy, and although it didn’t win, it nevertheless had the word winner written all over it. It is still playing somewhere in the world as I write this, and the book is still selling in every country where I am published. Everyone tells me it’s as fresh and beguiling as ever and that Emma Harte is as much a woman of today, in 2009, as she was in 1979.
No author who sits at a desk for hours at a time wants to write a book that nobody reads, and I am proud that my first novel has sold over thirty-one million copies worldwide. It is also on the list of the ten best-selling books of all time, up there with Gone With the Wind, and other famous classics. In fact, A Woman of Substance has become a classic itself, and I smile every time I see the phrase ‘a woman of substance’ used to describe other successful or unique women. My title has seeped into everyday language and is used all the time, in newspapers, magazines and on the airwaves.
I started writing when I was seven years old, encouraged by my mother who was a voracious reader. When I was ten she found one of my stories and sent it to a children’s magazine. Imagine my surprise and joy when they accepted it, and even paid me seven shillings and sixpence for it. But it was the by-line ‘Barbara Taylor’ that impressed me and I announced to my mother that I was going to be a writer when I grew up. Many years later when I gave my mother a copy of the book she looked at me and said quietly, ‘This is the fulfillment of your childhood dream.’ It was.
Of all the things that have happened to my first novel over the years, the one that has truly astonished me has been the desire on the part of my readers to have more books about Emma Harte and her family. To date A Woman of Substance has spawned five other novels, and a sixth, entitled Breaking The Rules, is published alongside this anniversary edition.
My husband Robert Bradford was the first person to hear the title Breaking the Rules, and he loved it immediately. Then he reminded me that this was what Emma had always done throughout her life … she had flaunted the rules and done it her way. And I can only say bravo to that.
Barbara Taylor Bradford
He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men.
– JOB
Emma Harte leaned forward and looked out of the window. The private Lear jet, property of the Sitex Oil Corporation of America, had been climbing steadily up through a vaporous haze of cumulus clouds and was now streaking through a sky so penetratingly blue its shimmering clarity hurt the eyes. Momentarily dazzled by this early-morning brightness, Emma turned away from the window, rested her head against the seat, and closed her eyes. For a brief instant the vivid blueness was trapped beneath her lids and, in that instant, such a strong and unexpected feeling of nostalgia was evoked within her that she caught her breath in surprise. It’s the sky from the Turner painting above the upstairs parlour fireplace at Pennistone Royal, she thought, a Yorkshire sky on a spring day when the wind has driven the fog from the moors.
A faint smile played around her mouth, curving the line of the lips with unfamiliar softness, as she thought with some pleasure of Pennistone Royal. That great house that grew up out of the stark and harsh landscape of the moors and which always appeared to her to be a force of nature engineered by some Almighty architect rather than a mere edifice erected by mortal man. The one place on this violent planet where she had found peace, limitless peace that soothed and refreshed her. Her home. She had been away far too long this time, almost six weeks, which was a prolonged absence indeed for her. But within the coming week she would be returning to London, and by the end of the month she would travel north to Pennistone. To peace, tranquillity, her gardens, and her grand-children.
This thought cheered her immeasurably and she relaxed in her seat, the tension that had built up over the last few days diminishing until it had evaporated. She was bone tired from the raging battles that had punctuated these last few days of board meetings at the Sitex corporate headquarters in Odessa; she was supremely relieved to be leaving Texas and returning to the relative calmness of her own corporate offices in New York. It was not that she did not like Texas; in point of fact, she had always had a penchant for that great state, seeing in its rough sprawling power something akin to her native Yorkshire. But this last trip had exhausted her. I’m getting too old for gallivanting around on planes, she thought ruefully, and then dismissed that thought as unworthy. It was dishonest and she was never dishonest with herself. It saved so much time in the long run. And, in all truthfulness, she did not feel old. Only a trifle tired on occasion and especially when she became exasperated with fools; and Harry Marriott, president of Sitex, was a fool and inherently dangerous, like all fools.
Emma opened her eyes and sat up impatiently, her mind turning again to business, for she was tireless, sleepless, obsessive when it came to her vast business enterprises, which rarely left her thoughts. She straightened her back and crossed her legs, adopting her usual posture, a posture that was contained and regal. There was an imperiousness in the way she held her head and in her general demeanour, and her green eyes were full of enormous power. She lifted one of her small, strong hands and automatically smoothed her silver hair, which did not need it, since it was as impeccable as always. As indeed she was herself, in her simple yet elegant dark grey worsted dress, its severeness softened by the milky whiteness of the matchless pearls around her neck and the fine emerald pin on her shoulder.
She glanced at her granddaughter sitting opposite, diligently making notes for the coming week’s business in New York. She looks drawn this morning, Emma thought, I push her too hard. She felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt but impatiently shrugged it off. She’s young, she can take it, and it’s the best training she could ever have, Emma reassured herself and said, ‘Would you ask that nice young steward – John, isn’t it? – to make some coffee please, Paula. I’m badly in need of it this morning.’
The girl looked up. Although she was not beautiful in the accepted sense of that word, she was so vital she gave the impression of beauty. Her vividness of colouring contributed to this effect. Her glossy hair was an ink-black coif around her head, coming to a striking widow’s peak above a face so clear and luminous it might have been carved from pale polished marble. The rather elongated face, with its prominent cheek-bones and wide brow, was alert and expressive and there was a hint of Emma’s resoluteness in her chin, but her eyes were her most spectacular feature, large and intelligent and of a cornflower blue so deep they were almost violet.
She smiled at her grandmother and said, ‘Of course, Grandy. I’d like some myself.’ She left her seat, her tall slender body moving with grace. She’s so thin, Emma commented to herself, too thin for my liking. But she always has been. I suppose it’s the way she’s made. A leggy colt as a child, a racehorse now. A mixture of love and pride illuminated Emma’s stern face and her eyes were full of sudden warmth as she gazed after the girl, who was her favourite, the daughter of Emma’s favourite daughter, Daisy.
Many of Emma’s dreams and hopes were centred in Paula. Even when she had been only a little girl she had gravitated to her grandmother and had also been curiously attracted to the family business. Her biggest thrill had been to go with Emma to the office and sit with her as she worked. While she was still in her teens she had shown such an uncanny understanding of complex machinations that Emma had been truly amazed, for none of her own children had ever displayed quite the same aptitude for her business affairs. Emma had secretly been delighted, but she had watched and waited with a degree of trepidation, fearful that the youthful