Emma’s Secret. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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still.
‘Gran,’ Evan said in a low, insistent tone. ‘Gran.’
There was no response, not even the flicker of an eyelash. Evan glanced down at their hands clasped together on top of the sheet and she saw that her grandmother’s hand had gone slack in hers. She felt her throat closing. Her eyes welled.
Gran’s gone, Evan thought. Gone to another place. She’s out of her pain and suffering, at peace.
Bending forward, Evan kissed Glynnis’s still-warm cheek; the tears spilled out of her eyes and slid down her face as grief engulfed her. So distraught was she that Evan did not hear her father come into the hospital room. It was only when she felt his loving hand resting lightly on her shoulder that she became aware of his presence.
‘She’s gone?’ Owen asked, a catch in his voice.
‘Yes, Dad, but only a second ago.’ As she spoke, Evan smoothed her hand over Glynnis’s silver hair, and then she got up, turned to her father. When she saw the tears in her father’s blue eyes, the anguish on his face, she stepped into his arms, wanting to comfort him and needing his comfort in return.
They clung together for a few seconds. Finally, Owen said, ‘I tried to get here before she died.’
‘I know Dad, and Gran knew that too.’
‘Did she have any last word for me?’
‘She said she loved you too much.’
Her father was silent, a reflective look crossing his face. A moment later he released Evan and went to sit beside his mother, his dark head bent over her, his sorrow apparent.
Evan, watching him, concerned for him, did not immediately think of her grandmother’s last words to her. When she did, she was baffled.
And some time later she went to London. To find Emma Harte. To find her future.
Hold your friends close,
Your enemies closer.
ANONYMOUS
Be not forgetful to entertain
strangers: For thereby some have
entertained angels unawares.
Hebrews 13: 1–2
It was a blustery morning.
The penetrating wind blowing in from the North Sea was laden with moisture, and the dampness was heavy on the air, and icy. Linnet O’Neill felt as though it were seeping into her bones.
She huddled further into her thick, loden-green wool coat and tied her scarf tighter around her head. Then, thrusting her gloved hands into her pockets, she trudged on, doggedly following the winding path which would bring her to the crest of the moors.
After a moment she lifted her head and glanced up.
Above her, the arc of the sky appeared hollowed out, resembled the inside of a vast, polished bowl. It was the colour of steel, its metallic greyness relieved by a few scudding clouds, pale and wispy in the clear crystalline light so peculiar to these northern climes. It was an eerie light that seemed to emanate from some hidden source below the horizon.
When she first set out to walk up into the high country which soared above Pennistone Royal, Linnet had anticipated rain, but the massed black clouds of earlier had been scuttled by the gusting wind.
Since she had lived here all of her life, she knew about the weather and its unpredictability, knew that the skies of Yorkshire were ever-changing. By lunchtime the sun could easily be creeping out from behind the greyness to fill the heavens with radiance, or rain might be slashing down in a relentless, unending stream.
You took your chances when you went walking on the Yorkshire moors, she knew that. But she didn’t care. Ever since she had been a small child, these moors had been irresistible to her; she had loved to come here with her mother when she was little, to wander amongst the heather and the bracken, content to play alone with her stuffed animals in the vast emptiness surrounding her. It was her world; she had even believed it belonged to her when she was growing up, and, in a way, she still did.
It was quiet on the moors this morning.
In the spring and summer, even in the autumn, there was always the splash and tinkle of water as it tumbled down over rock formations into pebble-strewn becks, and the whistling of little birds, the rapid whirring of their wings, was ever present.
All were absent on this cold January Saturday.
The birds had long ago flown off to warmer places, the becks had a layer of ice, and it was curiously silent as she climbed higher and higher, the land rising steeply.
Linnet missed the sounds of nature so prevalent in the summer months. To her there was nothing sweeter than the twittering and trilling of the larks and linnets as they wheeled and turned in the lucent air.
On those lovely, balmy days it was a treat to come up here just to hear the musical choruses of the linnets, often delivered with gusto from an exposed branch of a bramble bush. They loved those bushes, these little birds, as well as the gorse that grew on the moors where they often made their nests or searched for seeds.
And on those days, in the sunlight and under cerulean skies, there was the scurry of rabbits, the calls of larger birds, the scent of warm grass, wildflowers, bracken and bilberry mingling, all so sweet and redolent on the air. Then the moors were at their most beautiful, except for late August and September, when the heather bloomed and transformed the dun-coloured hills into a rolling sea of royal purple and soft muted greens.
Suddenly the wind became fiercer, buffeted her forward and, taken by surprise, she almost stumbled on the path but quickly regained her balance. No wonder the wildlife has gone to ground, or gone away, she thought, and she couldn’t help asking herself if she had been foolish to come out in this bitter cold weather.
But whenever she returned to Pennistone Royal, even after only a short absence, she usually headed for the moors at the first opportunity. When she was walking across them she felt at peace, tranquil in her mind, and at ease with herself. Up here she could think clearly, collect her thoughts and sort things out. And most especially if she was troubled. These days her troubles centred on her sister Tessa who had become her rival in various ways. And especially at the store where they both worked.
It pleased her to know that she was home again, in the place where she truly belonged.
Her mother also loved the moors, but only in the spring and summer months; Paula did not entirely share her feelings about this wild and desolate landscape in the winter, considered by some to be the bleakest county in England at this particular time of year.
It was her father, Shane O’Neill, who had a deep affinity for the high country all year round, and a rare, almost tender love of nature. She always thought of her father as a true Celt, a throwback to a much earlier century, and it was he who had nurtured her own love of the outdoors, of wild things, and the flora and fauna which abounded in Yorkshire.
She knew from her mother that her great-grandmother had been just as passionate about the moors as she was, and had spent a considerable amount of time on them throughout her life. ‘Whenever she was troubled, Grandy headed for her beloved moors,’ her mother had once told her, years ago. Linnet fully understood why they had given Grandy such solace; after all, she had been born in one of the moor villages, had grown up in the Pennine hills.
Her great-grandmother was the renowned Emma Harte, a legend in her own time; people who had known