Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford
Читать онлайн книгу.
and in the last few hours, driving back from London, he had come to the conclusion that Jim wanted to be relieved of his position as managing director. Intuitively, Winston felt that Jim was floundering and was truly out of his depth. Jim was very much a working newspaperman, who loved the hurly burly of the news room, the excitement of being at the centre of world events, the challenge of putting out two daily papers. After Emma had promoted him a year ago, upon his engagement to Paula, Jim had continued to act as managing editor of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the Yorkshire Evening Standard. Essentially, by holding down the old job along with the new one, Jim was wearing two hats. Only that of the newspaperman fitted him, in Winston’s opinion.
Maybe he ought to resign, Winston thought. It’s better that Jim does one job brilliantly, rather than screw up on two. He snapped his eyes open, swung his legs to the floor purposefully and pulled the chair up to the desk. He sat staring into space, thinking about Jim. He admired Fairley’s extraordinary ability as a journalist, and he liked the man personally, even though he knew Jim was weak in many respects. He wanted to please everybody and that was hardly possible. And one thing was certain: Winston had never been able to comprehend Paula’s fascination with Fairley. They were as different as chalk and cheese. She was far too strong for a man like Jim, but then, that relationship was none of his business really, and anyway perhaps he was prejudiced, considering the circumstances. She was a blind fool. He scowled, chastising himself for thinking badly of her, for he did care for Paula and they were good friends.
Winston now reached for the phone to ring Emma and confide his problem in her, then changed his mind at once. There was no point worrying her at the beginning of her very busy weekend of social activities which had been planned for weeks. Far better to wait until Monday morning and consult with her then.
All of a sudden he felt like kicking himself. How stupid he had been. He should have challenged Jim yesterday, asked him point blank if he wanted to step down. And if he did, who would they appoint in his place? There was no one qualified to take on such heavy responsibilities, at least not inside the company. That was the crux of the problem, his chief concern. At the bottom of him, Winston had the most awful feeling that his aunt might lumber him with the job. He did not want it. He liked things exactly the way they were.
It so happened that Winston Harte, unlike other members of Emma’s family, was not particularly ambitious. He did not crave power. He was not crippled by avarice. In fact, he had more money than he knew what to do with. Grandfather Winston, with Emma’s guidance, advice and help, had acquired an immense fortune, had thus ensured that neither his widow, Charlotte, nor his offspring would ever want for anything.
Young Winston was dedicated, hard working, and he thrived in the world of newspapers, where he was in his element. But he also enjoyed living. Long ago he had made a decision and it was one he had never veered away from: He was not going to sacrifice personal happiness and a tranquil private life for a big business career. Treadmills were decidedly not for him. He would always work diligently at his job, for he was not a parasite, but he also wanted a wife, a family, and a gracious style of living. Like his father, Randolph, Winston was very much at ease in the role of country gentleman. The pastoral scene held a special appeal for him, gave him a sense of renewal. His weekends away from the city were precious, and recharged his batteries. He found horse riding, point-to-point meetings, village cricket, antiquing and pottering around in the grounds of Beck House therapeutic and immensely satisfying. In short, Winston Harte preferred a quiet, leisurely existence, and he was determined to have it. Battles in board rooms made him irritable, and he found them endlessly boring. That was why Paula continued to surprise him. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Winston that she was indeed cast in the same mould as her grandmother. Both women relished corporate skirmishing. It seemed to him that business, power, and winning hands-down over a business adversary were narcotics to them. When Emma had wanted him to be Paula’s back-up in the negotiations with Aire, he had swiftly demurred, suggested she send Paula in alone. His aunt had readily agreed, much to his considerable relief.
Oh what the hell, he thought, becoming impatient with himself. I’m not going to spend the entire weekend worrying about Jim Fairley’s intentions. I’ll thrash it out with him next week, once the plans for taking over Aire Communications have been put into operation. Pushing business matters to the back of his mind, he rang his father at Allington Hall and chatted with him for a good twenty minutes. He then dialled Allison Ridley, his current girlfriend. He felt a rush of warmth when he heard her voice, and she sounded equally pleased to hear his. He confirmed that he and Shane would be at her dinner party the following evening, made plans with her for Sunday, and finally dashed upstairs to change.
Ten minutes later, wearing comfortable corduroys, a heavy wool sweater, Wellington boots and an old raincoat, Winston meandered through the dining room and out on to the flagged terrace overlooking the fish pond. The sky had brightened after the brief shower. The trees and shrubs and lawns appeared to shimmer with dewy greenness in the lovely late afternoon light which brought a soft incandescent glow to the fading blue of the sky. The scent of rain and damp grass and wet earth and growing things pervaded the air, and it was a smell Winston loved. He stood on the terrace for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, relaxing and shedding the rest of his business worries, then ran lightly down the steps into the gardens. He hurried in the direction of the beck, wanting to satisfy himself that the condition of the banks had not deteriorated after the recent shower.
Edwina had arrived.
Emma was aware that her eldest daughter was sitting downstairs in the library, having a drink and recovering from her journey from Manchester Airport. In the last few minutes first Hilda, then Emily, had been up to see her, to pass on this news.
Well, there’s no time like the present, Emma murmured, as she finished dressing in readiness for her dinner date with Blackie and Shane. Putting off the inevitable is not only foolish, it frays the nerves. There’s a time bomb ticking inside Edwina, and I’d better defuse it before the weekend begins.
Nodding to herself, glad she had stopped wavering, Emma fastened a pearl choker around her throat, glanced at herself in the mirror, picked up her evening bag and sable jacket, and hurried out.
She descended the long winding staircase at a slower pace, thinking about the things she would say, how she would handle Edwina. Emma had an aversion to confrontation and conflict, preferred to move in roundabout ways, and often with stealth, to accomplish her ends. Accommodation and compromise had been, and still were, her strong suits, both in business and personal matters. But now, as she approached the library, she recognized there was only one thing she could do: tackle Edwina head on.
Her quick, light step faltered as she walked through the vast Stone Hall, and dismay flew to the surface as she thought of doing battle. But Anthony’s happiness was at stake, and therefore Edwina had to be dealt with before she made serious trouble for him, for everyone, in fact. Emma took a deep breath, then continued across the hall, her step now ringing with new determination, her manner resolute.
The library door was partially open, and Emma paused for a moment before going in, one hand resting on the door jamb as she observed Edwina sitting in the wing chair in front of the fire. Only one lamp had been turned on and the light in the rest of the room was gloomy. Suddenly a log spurted and flared up the chimney, the lambent flames illuminating the shadowed face, bringing it into sharper focus. Emma blinked, momentarily startled. From this distance her daughter was the spitting image of Adele Fairley … the same silvery blonde hair, the delicate yet clearly defined profile, the shoulders hunched in concentration. How often had she seen Adele sitting like that, beside the fire in her bedroom at Fairley Hall, staring into the distance, lost in her thoughts. But Adele had not lived to see her thirty-eighth year and Edwina was sixty-three and her beauty had never been as ethereal and as heart-stopping as Adele’s once was. So Emma knew this image was part illusion; still, the resemblance was there, had been there since Edwina’s birth, and she had always been more of a Fairley than a Harte in many respects.
Clearing her throat, Emma said, ‘Good evening, Edwina,’ and bustled forward