Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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and placed one on each of the four graves. Straightening up, she rested her hand on her mother’s headstone and stared out towards the bleak moors, a smudged dark line against the periwinkle blue sky filled with scudding white clouds and intermittent sunshine. It was a lovely day, surprisingly warm, balmy even, after the thunderstorms of yesterday. A perfect day to go climbing to the Top of the World. She strained her eyes, but that spot was too far away in the distance to see, and obscured by the soaring fells. She sighed, remembering. Her eyes swept from headstone to headstone, name to name. I’ve carried each one of you in my heart all the days of my life, she said silently. I’ve never forgotten any of you. Then unexpectedly the queerest thought entered her mind – she would not be coming back here again to visit these graves.
Emma turned away at last.
Her steps carried her along the same flagged path that curved through the cemetery, and she did not stop until she reached a wide plot of ground at the other side, in the gloomy shadows of the church. This large private plot was encircled by iron railings which set it apart, told everyone that it was special and exclusive. She pushed open the small gate and found herself amongst generations of Fairleys. She glanced at the graves, and finally her eyes came to rest on Adam Fairley’s headstone made of white marble. On either side of him were his two wives – Adele, the first, and Olivia, the second. Those two beautiful sisters who had loved and married the same man, and who had, in their own ways, been good to her when she had been a young girl. She had never forgotten their kindness to her, but it was on the middle grave that her gaze lingered for a moment longer.
Well, Adam Fairley, she thought, I won. In the end it was I who triumphed. There is nothing left that your family owns in the village, except this plot of land where you are buried. Everything else belongs to me, and even the church operates mostly through my largesse. Your great-great-grandchildren have just been christened and they bear both of our names, but it is from me that they will inherit great wealth and power and position. These thoughts were not rancorous, ran through her mind in a matter-of-fact way, for she had lost all hatred for the Fairleys, and it was not in her nature to gloat, especially when standing next to a man’s last resting place.
Slowly she walked back to the church, and the smile on her serene face was one of gentleness and peace.
Coming through the lych-gate, Emma saw Blackie standing to one side, away from the large group of people, talking to her two youngest grandchildren, Amanda and Francesca.
Blackie chuckled as she came to a standstill by his side. ‘You might know these two would see you do your disappearing act! I had to forcibly restrain them from running after you. Well, almost.’
‘We wanted to look at the graves, too, Grandy,’ Amanda explained. ‘We love cemeteries.’
Emma gave her a look of mock horror. ‘How morbid.’
‘No, it isn’t, it’s interesting,’ Francesca chirped up. ‘We like to read the tombstones, and we try to guess what the people were like, what kind of lives they led. It’s like reading a book.’
‘Is it now.’ Emma laughed, and the look she gave the fifteen-year-old was affectionate. ‘I think we should go back to the house,’ Emma continued. ‘Did Emily tell you we’re having a champagne tea this afternoon?’
‘Yes, but she said we couldn’t have any champagne. We can, though, can’t we, Gran?’ Amanda asked.
‘Just one glass each, I don’t want you both getting tiddly.’
‘Oh thank you, Gran,’ Amanda said, and Francesca linked her arm in Emma’s, and announced, ‘We’ll come with you. Uncle Blackie’s car is much nicer than Emily’s old Jag.’
‘That’s not a very nice attitude, Francesca. You came with Emily, and you will drive back with her. Besides, Uncle Blackie and I have things to discuss.’
But they did not really have anything very special or important to talk about. Emma simply wanted to be alone with her dear old friend, to relax before the reception, to catch her breath before she was engulfed by her large and unorthodox clan.
At one point, as they were driving along, Blackie looked at her and said, ‘It was a grand christening, Emma. Very beautiful. But you had such a strange look on your face when the vicar was baptizing Lorne, I couldn’t help wondering what was going through your mind.’
Emma half turned to face him. ‘I was thinking about another christening … the one you performed when you baptized Edwina with Armley tap water in Laura’s kitchen sink.’ Her eyes held his for the longest moment. ‘I couldn’t help dwelling on the past. You know, Edwin Fairley wouldn’t have been permitted to marry me when I was pregnant, even if he had wanted to, and so Edwina could never have been christened here at Fairley. That really struck home today.’
‘Yes,’ he said in agreement, ‘it would have been denied her, no matter what.’
Emma nodded. ‘And so, as I thought of everything that has gone before in my long life, it suddenly occurred to me that this occasion today was a most compelling example of ironic reversal. And that Adam Fairley, more than anyone else, would have appreciated the poetic justice of it all.’
She paused, smiled faintly. ‘The wheel of fortune truly has come full circle.’
Jim Fairley, orphaned at the age of ten and raised by his widowed grandfather, had always been lonely as a child.
In consequence, he thoroughly enjoyed being a part of Emma Harte’s huge family, one which had become his own when he married Paula in 1968. In a way, being flung head first into this extraordinary clan was something of a novelty to him; also, as yet, he remained unscathed by them and thus had kept an open mind about their individual characters, had not attempted to do a tally of their attributes or their faults. And he had held himself apart from the complex animosities and alliances, feuds and friendships that flourished around Emma.
Because Jim rarely thought ill of anyone, he was frequently startled when Paula came down hard on one of her aunts or uncles, and at times he even wondered if she exaggerated when she listed their imperfections, the terrible wrongs they had done her grandmother. But then she was fiercely protective of her beloved Grandy, whom she doted on. Jim was secretly amused by his wife’s attitude, since he believed no one was better equipped to take care of herself than Emma Harte.
A short while ago Jim had decided that Paula’s warnings about the Countess of Dunvale were written in water. So far this weekend Edwina had behaved impeccably – as he had fully expected she would. If she was somewhat reserved with Paula she was at least civil, and he had even managed to make Edwina laugh on their way back from church. She was still in an amiable mood, as he could now see.
His aunt was chatting with her son, Anthony, and Sally Harte, near the fireplace and her usually stiff, tight-lipped expression had all but vanished. For once she appeared to be relatively at ease. Poor old thing, she’s not so bad, he thought, as always charitable about others, and swung his eyes to the painting to Edwina’s left. This hung over the white marble fireplace and it was one of his favourites.
Jim stood at the entrance to the Peach Drawing Room. Pennistone Royal, that lovely mixture of Renaissance and Jacobean design, boasted two formal reception rooms. Paula had chosen this one for the christening party.
He was glad that she had.
He thought it was the loveliest spot in the entire house, with its cream and peach colour scheme and exquisite paintings. Although Emma had depleted her renowned collection of Impressionists by selling some of them off last year, she had retained the two Monets and the three Sisleys that graced these walls. In his opinion it was the works of art that gave the tranquil and elegant Regency room its great beauty.
Jim gazed at the Sisley for a second or two longer, admiring it from this vantage point. He had never coveted anything material in his whole life, but he longed to own this painting. Of course he never would. It would