and waiting it out until they actually reach retirement age. I won’t have any of that nonsense, Sandy.’
‘Yes, of course. I second-guessed you on that one. I’m preparing a list of names, and details of our financial obligations to the men. I’ll get it to you next week, if that’s all right with you.’ He sat back, waiting.
Emma made no response. She pushed herself up and walked slowly to the oriel window, where she stood looking down into the magnificent gardens of Pennistone Royal. Concern edged on to her wrinkled face as she ruminated on the mill at Fairley. Her life had been bound up with it in so many different ways. Her father had worked there, and her brother, Frank, when he was only a small boy and should have been at school. Frank had been a bobbin ligger, slaving from early morning until nightfall, hardly able to drag his weary little legs home at the end of the long day, sickly pale from exhaustion and lack of fresh air and sunshine.
Adam Fairley, Jim’s great-grandfather and the Squire of Fairley, had been the owner of the mill then. How she had hated him as a girl; for the best part of her life really. With the wisdom of great age, she knew Adam had not been the tyrant she had believed him to be. But he had been negligent, and that in itself was a crime in her eyes. His monumental negligence and his selfish preoccupation with his personal problems and his all-consuming love for Olivia Wainright had caused grievous trouble for others less fortunate. Yes, Adam Fairley had been guilty of abdicating his duties in the most careless and callous fashion, and without so much as a glance at those poor souls who toiled in his mills: The workers who made his cushioned life of ease and privilege possible, who were dependent on him, and were, in a very real sense, his responsibility. Half a century ago, she commented silently. I may understand something of the man now, but I’ll never forget what he did. Never.
She glanced down at her small but strong hands, soft and well cared for, the nails manicured to expensive perfection. But once those hands had been red and chapped and sore from scrubbing and polishing and washing and cooking for the Fairleys, when she had been bound in service to them as a child. Lifting one hand, she touched her face, and remembered with stunning clarity Murgatroyd’s sharp blows on her cheek. The detestable Murgatroyd, Adam Fairley’s butler, who had been permitted by the squire to rule that pernicious and secretive doomed house with a cruelty that bordered on savagery. Despite his harshness and his unremitting persecution of her, Murgatroyd had never frightened her. It was that monstrous house which had filled her with a nameless terror and from which she had wanted always to flee.
Then, one day, she had owned that great mausoleum of a place – Fairley’s Folly, the villagers had called it – and she had known at once that she would never live in it, would never play the role of the grand lady of the manor. And with a flash of sudden and intense vision she had understood exactly what she must do. She must obliterate it from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. And so she had torn it down, brick by brick by brick, until not a trace of it was left, and she could still recall to this very day the grim satisfaction she had experienced when she had finally razed it to the ground.
Now, across the span of four decades, she heard an echo of her own voice saying to Blackie: ‘And destroy this garden. Demolish it completely. I don’t want a rosebud, one single leaf left growing.’ Blackie had done exactly as she had instructed, uprooting that walled rose garden where Edwin Fairley had so inhumanly and shamefully repudiated her and their child, which she had been carrying. Miraculously, in the space of a few days, the garden, too, had disappeared as if it had never been there at all, and only then had she felt free of the Fairleys at last.
At this time in her life, Emma had acquired the mill. She had done her utmost to give the men proper living wages and overtime and all manner of fringe benefits, and she had kept the village going for years, often at great financial cost to herself. The workers were part of her in a way, for it was from their class that she herself came, and they held a favoured and unique place in her affections. The thought of letting a single one of them go distressed her, yet she had no choice, it seemed. Better, surely, to operate at half her work capacity and keep the mill rolling, than to close it down completely.
Half turning she said, ‘By the way, Alexander, have you discussed any of this with Kit?’
‘Uncle Kit,’ Alexander exclaimed, his startled tone reflecting the expression flicking on to his face. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘For one thing, he hasn’t been around. And for another, he doesn’t seem interested in any of the mills, Fairley least of all. He hasn’t appeared to give a damn since you dumped him out of your will.’
‘That’s a crude way of putting it, I must say!’ Emma snapped, and returned to her desk with a show of briskness. ‘I didn’t dump him, as you call it. I passed him over. For his daughter, remember. As I did your mother for you and Emily, and your Uncle Robin for Jonathan. And you know the reasons why, so I won’t bother elucidating on them again. Also, let’s not forget that my will doesn’t come into effect until I die. Which won’t be for a long time, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Or me either,’ Alexander cried swiftly, as always dismayed by her talk of dying.
Emma smiled at him, fully aware of his devotion to her, his genuine concern for her well being. She continued, in that business-like tone, ‘Well, so much for Kit. Mmmm. Of course, I realized he was being a bit derelict in his duties; on the other hand, I did think he made an occasional visit, if only for appearances’ sake.’
‘Oh yes, he does do that. But he’s so morose and uncommunicative he might as well not be there,’ Alexander explained, adding, as an afterthought, ‘I can’t begin to guess what he does with his time these days.’
‘Not much, if I know my eldest son. He never was blessed with much imagination,’ Emma shot back sardonically, the suggestion of a disdainful smirk playing on her mouth. She made a mental note to talk to Kit’s daughter, Sarah, about her father’s present mood. Morose indeed, Emma thought, with disgust. He brought his troubles on entirely by himself. No, not true. Robin gave him a helping hand, and Elizabeth and Edwina, his cohorts in the plot against me. Aware that Alexander was waiting expectantly, Emma finished, ‘Anyway, since Kit’s not around, he’s not going to hamper you – as he has so often in the past. Your way is clear. Put this plan into operation immediately. You have my blessing.’
‘Thanks, Grandy.’ He leaned forward, said with earnestness, ‘We are doing the right thing.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘And don’t worry about the men who are to be retired. They will be all right, really they will.’
She glanced at him quickly, her eyes narrowed under the hooded lids. She thought: I am so glad it’s not Alexander whom I suspect of treachery and duplicity. That I could not bear. It would kill me. She said, ‘It pleases me that you’ve always been so involved with the Fairley mill, and on such a personal basis, Sandy. You care, and that’s important to me. And I appreciate your understanding … I mean of my involvement with that particular mill.’ She smiled wryly and shook her head. ‘The past, you know, is always with us, always reaching out to claim part of us, and I learned a very long time ago that we cannot escape it.’
‘Yes,’ he said laconically, but the look in his eyes expressed so much more.
Emma said, ‘I’ve decided to go to the Fairley mill next week. I’ll be the one to explain the changes we’re going to make. Tell them about the retirements myself, in my own words. It’s only proper.’
‘Yes, it is, Grandy. And they’ll be thrilled to see you. They all worship you, but then you know that.’
‘Humph!’ she snorted. ‘Don’t be so foolish, Alexander. And don’t exaggerate. You know I can’t abide exaggeration.’
Alexander swallowed a smile, remained silent, watching her closely as she sorted through some of the papers on the desk, her head bent. She had spoken swiftly, crossly even, but there had been a curious gruffness in her voice, and he knew that she had been touched by his words. He was amused by her mild chastisement. It was a hoot. Her whole life had been an extraordinary exaggeration, for