Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.
The medieval church at the top of the hill in Fairley village was filled to capacity, almost bursting at the seams.
Family and friends occupied the front pews and the villagers were crowded in closely behind, for they had turned out in full force to honour Emma Harte at the baptism of her great-grandchildren. And after the ceremony they would troop across the road to the parish hall to partake of the special celebration tea, which Emma had instructed Alexander to arrange.
All was peace and serenity within the ancient grey stone walls. Sunshine pouring in through the stained-glass windows threw rainbow arcs of dancing, jewelled light across the sombre stone floor and the dark wood pews. Masses of spring flowers were banked around the altar and on the altar steps. The mingled scents of hyacinths, narcissi, freesia, imported mimosa and lilac filled the air, diminishing the peculiar musty smell of mildew and dust and old wood that was so prevalent in the church. It was the odour of antiquity, and one Emma had detested since childhood: she had automatically chosen the most fragrant of flowers for this occasion in an attempt to counteract it.
She sat in the front pew, proud and dignified, wearing a midnight-blue wool-crêpe dress and loose matching coat. A small velvet beret of the same deep blue was perched at a jaunty angle on her immaculate silver hair, and she wore the McGill emeralds and a long rope of matchless pearls. Blackie was seated to her left, handsome in a dark suit, whilst Daisy sat with her husband, David Amory, to Emma’s right. Edwina was wedged in between David and Sarah Lowther, her posture rigid, her expression rather prim, as usual.
Emma had been somewhat taken aback to find Sarah standing on the porch steps when they had arrived. No one had expected to see her, since she was supposed to have a bad cold. They had spoken briefly at the back of the church before taking their seats, and Emma had been immediately struck by her granddaughter’s healthy appearance. In her opinion, Sarah had either made a miraculous recovery overnight, or had not been sick in the first place. It was more than likely she had toyed with the idea of not coming in order to avoid Shane. Emma could not hold that against her. She understood, had a good idea how Sarah probably felt. But, she thought, I’ll say this for Sarah. She’s a cool customer. Sarah had not blinked an eyelash nor displayed the slightest sign of self-consciousness when Shane had greeted them earlier.
Now Emma sneaked a look at him.
He was sitting with his parents in a pew across the nave, his face in profile. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being observed, he turned his head slightly to the right and caught Emma’s eye, half smiled and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. Emma returned his smile, swung her eyes back to the altar.
Paula and Jim were standing at the carved stone font which dated back to 1574, and were surrounded by the godparents of their children, totalling six in all. The vicar, the Reverend Geoffrey Huntley, having christened the boy Lorne McGill Harte Fairley, was now preparing to baptize the girl, who was to be named Tessa. Like her twin she would bear the same additional middle names.
Emily, one of Tessa’s godmothers, was holding the baby in her arms, and standing on Emma’s left were Anthony, and Vivienne Harte, who were the other godparents. Vivienne’s elder sister, Sally, was godmother to Lorne and cradled him, flanked on either side by his godfathers, Alexander and Winston.
What an attractive group of young people they are, Emma said inwardly, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, and she saw in her mind, for a brief instant, their antecedents … her own parents, her brother Winston, Arthur Ainsley, Paul McGill, Adele and Adam Fairley. How miraculous it was that she and Blackie were still alive and were able to be here today to witness this event, to share in the joyfulness of the occasion.
She shifted her eyes to Paula and Jim.
They do look well together, she thought. He so tall and broad and fair, and the living embodiment of his great-grandfather, Adam; Paula so slender and willowy and dark, and so dramatic looking with her vivid McGill colouring. And Paula’s inbred elegance was most apparent in the way she held herself, and in her clothes. She had chosen a tailored wool suit of a deep violet tone, and wore it with a lighter coloured violet satin blouse and a satin pillbox of the same tone. The violet echoed her eyes. She’s still too thin, Emma thought, but she has such an extraordinary radiance this afternoon.
Her love for her granddaughter and her pride in the girl were emotions most paramount in Emma at this moment, and her face relaxed into softer lines as she continued to regard Paula. The young woman standing up there at the font had given her nothing but happiness and comfort since the day she had been born, in much the same way her mother, Daisy, had done, and continued to do.
Emma closed her eyes. Paul would have been as proud of Paula as she was, for the girl had all the qualities he had most admired: Honour, integrity, honesty, fairness and an intelligence that frequently startled with its brilliance. Although she had gentle manners, and was inclined to shyness, Paula possessed a certain cool poise, and she had inherited her grandfather’s great sense of fun, as had Daisy. Yes, she’s a McGill all right, Emma remarked under her breath. But she’s a Harte as well. Thank God she has my toughness and astuteness, my indomitability and stamina. She’s going to need all of those in the years to come, with what I’m leaving her, with what she has inherited from her grandfather. I hope she never thinks of her inheritance as a terrible burden. It is an enormous responsibility, of course …
Baby Tessa started to shriek, her piercing wails echoing throughout the church. Emma opened her eyes and blinked. She leaned forward, peered at the scene at the font. Everyone wore expressions of concern. The vicar was holding the baby, sprinkling the holy water on her forehead, christening her now in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. When he had finished he handed the child back to Emily, obviously with some relief. Emily began to rock her, trying to calm and soothe the infant to no avail.
Emma chuckled quietly, knowing it was the shock of the cold water on her forehead which had made Tessa cry. The child was protesting – and most vociferously. I can see it already, she thought, little Tessa McGill Harte Fairley is going to be the rebellious one in that family.
Daisy, also smiling, took hold of her mother’s arm and squeezed it. She whispered, ‘It sounds to me as if Tessa is a chip off the old block, Mummy.’
Emma turned her head to look into her favourite daughter’s wide clear blue eyes. ‘Yes,’ Emma whispered back, ‘she’s always been the livelier of the two. Another maverick in the brood?’ She arched a silver brow most eloquently. Daisy simply nodded in answer, her fine eyes dancing with happiness and some amusement.
Within minutes the ceremony was over and they were slowly filing up the aisle. Emma, her arm tucked through Blackie’s, smiled and nodded graciously, but she did not pause to speak to anyone.
Before long the entire family, their friends and the villagers were assembled on the porch, congratulating the parents and chatting amongst themselves.
Several of the local residents came up to Emma, stood talking to her for a few minutes, but very shortly she excused herself and drew Blackie away from the crowd. She said, ‘I’ll slip away now and I’ll be back before anyone notices my absence. Then we can get off to Pennistone Royal.’
‘All right, Emma. Are you sure I can’t go with you?’
‘No. But thanks anyway, Blackie. I won’t be a minute.’
As Emma edged away from the busy porch, Milson, Blackie’s chauffeur, hurried towards her carrying a basket of flowers. She took it from him, smiled, and murmured her thanks.
She went through the lych-gate leading into the graveyard adjoining the church.
Her feet knew the way by heart, and they led her down the flagged path to the far corner, a bit secluded and bosky and shaded by an old elm tree growing by the side of the moss-covered stone wall. Lying in that corner, beneath the headstones she herself had chosen years before,