Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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either.
Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.
Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane’s demeanour at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O’Neill since he had been a child, and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane’s closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodelled it and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Georgina, had been alive she had often had to comfort more than one broken-hearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn’t have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scallywags, but he did love them both very dearly.
Shane finally took leave of his horses and walked slowly back to Randolph standing at the entrance to the stalls. As always, and especially when he had not seen him for a while, Randolph was struck by Shane’s unique good looks. He’s a handsome son-of-a-gun, Randolph commented silently. Blackie must have looked exactly like Shane fifty years ago.
Putting his arm around the older man’s shoulder, Shane said, ‘Thanks for everything, Randolph.’
‘Oh lad, it’s a pleasure. And don’t worry about the horses. They’ll be well cared for, but then you should know that by now. Oh and Shane, please ask Winston to call me later.’
‘I will.’
Randolph’s eyes followed Shane O’Neill as he strode off to his car, and there was a thoughtful look on his face. There goes one unhappy young man, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bafflement. He has everything anybody could ever want. Health, looks, position, great wealth. He tries to conceal it, but I’m convinced he’s miserable inside. And I’m damned if I know the reason why.
Beck House, so called because a pretty little stream ran through the grounds, stood at the bottom of a small hill, at the edge of the village of West Tanfield, about halfway between Allington Hall and Pennistone Royal.
Situated in a dell, shaded at the rear by a number of huge old oaks and sycamores, the manor dated back to the late Elizabethan period. It was a charming house, low and rambling, made of local stone supposedly from Fountains Abbey, and it had a half-timbered front façade, tall chimneys and many leaded windows.
Winston and Shane had originally bought the old manor with the intention of selling it once they had rebuilt the ruined parts, remodelled the old-fashioned kitchen and bathrooms, added garages, and cleared away the wilderness which covered the neglected grounds. However, they had devoted so much time and energy and loving care on the house, had become so attached to the manor during the renovations, they had finally decided to keep it for themselves. They were the same age, had been at Oxford together, and had been close since their salad days. They enjoyed sharing the house, which they used mainly at weekends, since they both maintained flats in the Leeds area to be near their respective offices.
Winston Harte was the only grandson of Emma’s brother Winston, and her great-nephew, and he had worked for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company since he had come down from Oxford. He did not have a specific job, nor a title. Emma called him her ‘minister without portfolio’, which, translated, meant troubleshooter to most people. He was, in a sense, her ambassador-at-large within the company, and her eyes and ears and very frequently her voice as well. His word on most things was the final word and he answered only to Emma. Behind his back the other executives called him ‘God’, and Winston knew this and generally smiled to himself knowingly. He was well aware who ‘God’ was at Consolidated. It was his Aunt Emma. She was the law, and he respected and honoured her; she had his complete devotion.
Young Winston, as he was still sometimes called in the family, had always been close to his namesake, and his grandfather had instilled in him a great sense of loyalty and duty to Emma, to whom the Hartes owed everything they had. His grandfather had worshipped her until the day he had died at the beginning of the sixties, and it was from him that Winston had learned so much about his aunt’s early life, the hard times she had had, the struggles she had experienced as she had climbed the ladder to success. He knew only too well that her brilliant career had been hard won, built on tremendous sacrifices. Because he had been reared on so many fantastic, and often moving, stories about the now-legendary Emma, Winston believed that in certain ways he understood her far better than her own children. And there was nothing he would not do for her.
Winston’s grandfather had left him all of his shares in the newspaper company, whilst his Uncle Frank, Emma’s younger brother, had left his interest to his widow, Natalie. But it was Emma, with her fifty-two per cent, who controlled the company as she always had. These days, however, she ran it with Winston’s help. She consulted with him on every facet of management and policy, frequently deferred to his wishes if they were sound, constantly took his advice. They had a tranquil working relationship and a most special and loving friendship which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.
The newspaper company was very actively on Winston’s mind as he drove slowly into the grounds of Beck House. Even so, as preoccupied as he was, he noticed that the little beck was swollen from the heavy rains which had fallen earlier that week. He made a mental note to mention this to Shane. The banks would probably need reinforcing again, otherwise the lawns would be flooded in no time at all, as they had been the previous spring. O’Neill Construction will definitely have to come out here next week, Winston decided, as he pulled the Jaguar up to the front door, parked, took his briefcase and alighted. He went around to the boot of the car to get his suitcase.
Winston was slender, light in build, and about five foot nine, and it was easy to see at a glance that he was a Harte. In point of fact, Winston bore a strong look of Emma. He had her fine, chiselled features and her colouring, which was reflected in his russet-gold hair and vivid green eyes. He was the only member of the family, other than Paula, who had Emma’s dramatic widow’s peak, and which, his grandfather had once told him, they had all inherited from Big Jack Harte’s mother, Esther Harte.
Winston glanced up, squinting at the sky as he approached the short flight of steps leading into the house. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the East Coast and they presaged rain. There was a hint of thunder in the air since the wind had dropped, and a sudden bolt of lightning streaked the tops of the leafy spring trees with a flash of searing white. As he inserted the key large drops of rain splashed on to his hand. Damn, he muttered, thinking of the beck. If there’s a storm, we’re going to be in serious trouble.
Dimly, from behind the huge carved door, he heard the telephone ringing, but by the time he had let himself inside the house it had stopped. Winston stared at it, fully expecting it to ring again, but when it didn’t he shrugged, deposited his suitcase at the foot of the staircase and walked rapidly through the hall. He went into his study at the back of the manor, sat down at his desk, and read the note from Shane telling him to call his father. He threw the note into the wastepaper basket and glanced vaguely at his mail, mostly bills from the village shops and a number of invitations for cocktail parties and dinners from his country neighbours. Putting these on one side, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk and closed his eyes, bringing all of his concentration to bear on the matter at hand.
Winston had a problem, and it gave him cause for serious reflection at this moment. Yesterday, during a meeting with Jim Fairley at the London office, he had detected a real and genuine discontent in the other man. Oddly enough, Winston discovered he was not terribly surprised. Months ago he had begun