Paula broke her rapid pace only once, when she passed the private plot which stood close to the church. Encircled by iron railings, it was filled with the graves of Jim’s forebears … Adam and Adele … Olivia … Gerald. So many Fairleys … just as there were so many Hartes buried here. Two families whose lives had been entwined for three generations … bound together in a bitter feud … and in love and hate and revenge and marriage … and finally in death. Here they lay, together in their eternal resting place under the shadow of the windswept moors, at peace at last in this benign earth …
As the lych-gate clicked behind her, Paula straightened up, threw back her shoulders and hurried to the car, a new determination in her step, a new resoluteness in her expression. There was so much ahead of her, so many challenges, so much she had to accomplish.
She got into the car and settled herself comfortably for the long drive ahead of her.
The tape was on the passenger seat where she had placed it earlier that morning in readiness for the journey. After slipping it into the player in the dashboard, she turned up the volume. The strains of Mozart’s Jupiter symphony filled the car … rich, melodious, so full of spirit and vivacity and, for her at least, a soaring hope. It was one of her favourites. Tessa had bought the tape for her a few weeks ago. It was the latest recording. Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berliner Philharmoniker. Paula shut her eyes, letting the music wash over her, thrilling to the first movement … allegro vivace … it made her feel … uplifted.
A moment passed, and then another, and she opened her eyes finally, turned on the ignition and coasted down the hill, making for the Leeds–Bradford road which would lead her onto the Ml. She swung onto it thirty minutes later and saw at once that the traffic was light. There were only a few stray cars on the road and no trucks at all. If she was lucky and continued to have a clear run, she would be sitting behind her desk at Harte’s in Knightsbridge within four hours.
Picking up speed, Paula roared ahead, her foot hard down on the accelerator, her eyes fixed on the road.
The symphony swelled to a crescendo, fell away, rose again, enveloping her in its beauty, transporting her with its magic. She experienced a surge of real happiness. Her mind was vividly alive.
She increased her speed. The Aston Martin flew forward along the motorway as if it had wings and were airborne. She was enjoying the feel of this superb piece of machinery under her hands, enjoying the sense of control she felt … control of the car, of herself, of the future. She had made her plan. Her master plan. She intended to execute it as soon as possible. It was watertight. Nothing could possibly go wrong …
Call no man foe, but never love a stranger.
STELLA BENSON
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
THE BIBLE: HEBREWS
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Paula walked into her private office at the London store with her usual briskness and, after removing several folders from her briefcase, sat down at the antique partners’ desk in the corner. It was precisely at this moment that she noticed the buff-coloured envelope propped against the antique porcelain lamp.
Marked PERSONAL, it had apparently been hand-delivered, and she recognized the writing at once. She felt a small shiver of pleasure. Eagerly, she reached for the envelope, slit it open with the gold-and-jade paper knife, and took out the folded piece of paper.
The note was boldly penned.
Meet me in Paris. Tonight, it said. You’re booked on Flight 902. British Airways. 6 P.M. I’ll be waiting impatiently. Usual place. Don’t disappoint me.
Paula frowned. The tone was peremptory, commanding, and implicit in his words was the assumption that she would go. Mild irritation at his high-handedness flared and diluted the flush of pleasure she had experienced a second before. Of course she wouldn’t go. She couldn’t. She must spend the weekend with her children as planned, wanted to spend it with them, in fact.
Still clutching the note, she leaned back in the chair and gazed into space, thinking about him. Bossy … conceited … those were the adjectives which sprang into her head. They were certainly appropriate. A trace of a smile surfaced, flickered on her mouth. She was suddenly amused by the invitation and sorely tempted to accept. Admit it, you’d love to spend the weekend in Paris with him. But then you’d love to do a lot of things you constantly pass up, a small voice at the back of her head reminded her. And she smiled again, though this time with wryness, a hint of regret even, knowing that she could never be indulgent with herself. Perish the thought! Duty had to come first. That little rule of Emma Harte’s had been inculcated in her since childhood, although sometimes she wished her grandmother had not been so thorough. But Grandy had schooled her well, had taught her that wealth and privilege also meant responsibilities, and that they had to be shouldered without flinching, no matter what the cost to oneself. And since she was now thirty-six, almost thirty-seven, her character was hardly likely to change at this stage in her life.
Paula sat up, slipped the note back into its envelope, sighing under her breath as she did. A romantic interlude in her favourite city with that very special and exceptional man was infinitely appealing but decidedly not possible. No, she would not go to Paris for a weekend of love and intimacy and pleasure. Instead, she would go to her children and be a good mother. Her children needed her. After all, she had not seen them for two weeks. On the other hand, she had not seen him either …
‘Damn and blast,’ she muttered out loud, wishing he had not sent the note. It had thrown her off balance, made her feel unexpectedly restless, and at a moment when she could not afford to have distractions of any kind. The months ahead were going to be extremely complicated, and they would be crucial months.
And so she would phone him later, tell him she was not coming; she must also cancel the airline reservation he had made for her. On second thoughts, perhaps she ought to call British Airways immediately.
As she reached for the telephone it began to ring.
She picked it up swiftly, said, ‘Hello?’ and glanced at the door as her assistant, Jill, hurried in with a cup of coffee.
‘Hello, Paula, it’s me,’ her cousin Alexander was saying at the other end of the phone. ‘I came into the Leeds store looking for you, only to find that on the one day I’m up here, you’re in London.’
‘Oh Sandy darling, I am sorry to have missed you,’ she exclaimed, then covered the mouthpiece, murmured her thanks to Jill, who placed the coffee in front of her, smiled, and disappeared.
Paula went on, ‘Were you in Yorkshire last night?’
‘Yes. I got in around six-thirty.’
‘I was still at the store, Sandy. You should’ve called me. We could’ve had dinner.’
‘No, we couldn’t.