Emma had seen, with gathering disquiet, the twitching muscles and the fear in her eyes. She stood up decisively and crossed the room to the rosewood bar, shaking her head in perplexity. She opened the bar, poured a measure of cognac into a small glass, and brought it back to Gaye.
‘Drink this, my dear. It will make you feel better,’ she said, patting the woman’s arm affectionately.
Tears sprang into Gaye’s eyes and her throat ached. The brandy was harsh and it stung her throat but she was suddenly glad of its rough taste. She sipped it slowly and remembered Emma’s kindnesses to her over the years. At that precise moment she wished, with great fervency, that she was not the one who had to impart this news. Gaye realized that there were those, who had dealt with Emma as a formidable adversary, who considered her to be cynical, rapacious, cunning, and ruthless. On the other hand, Gaye knew that she was generous of her time and money and understanding of heart. As she was being understanding now. Perhaps Emma was wilful and imperious and even power-ridden. But surely life had made her so. Gaye had always said to Emma’s critics, and with the utmost veracity, that above all the other tycoons of her calibre and stature, Emma Harte had compassion, and was just and charitable and infinitely kind.
Gaye eventually became aware of this prolonged silence between them, of Emma’s fixed stare. She put the glass down on the edge of the desk and smiled weakly at Emma. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harte. I do feel better.’
‘Good. Now Gaye, why don’t you confide in me? It can’t be all that terrible.’
Gaye was paralysed, unable to speak.
Emma shifted in her seat and leaned forward urgently. ‘Look here, is this something to do with me, Gaye?’ Her voice was calm and strong.
It seemed to give Gaye a degree of confidence. She nodded her head and was about to speak, but when she saw the look of concern enter Emma’s eyes, her courage deserted her again. She put her hands up to her face and cried involuntarily, ‘Oh God! How can I tell you!’
‘Let’s get it out in the open, Gaye. If you don’t know where to begin, then begin in the middle. Just blurt it out. It’s often the best way to talk about something unpleasant, which I presume this is.’
Gaye nodded and began hesitatingly, choking back her tears, her hands twitching nervously, her eyes staring and wide. She spoke rapidly in bursts, wanting to tell it all now, and get it over as quickly as possible. It would be a relief, for it had preyed on her mind for days.
‘It was the door … I remembered … I went back … I heard them talking … No, shouting … they were angry … arguing … they were saying …’
‘Just a minute, Gaye.’ Emma held up her hand to stop the incoherent flow of words. ‘I don’t want to interrupt you, but can you try to be a little more explicit. I know you’re upset, but slow down and take it calmly. What door?’
‘Sorry.’ Gaye drew a deep breath. ‘The door of the filing room that opens on to the boardroom in London. I’d forgotten to lock it last Friday night. I was leaving the office and I remembered I had forgotten to turn off the tape machine, and that reminded me of the door. I went back to my office, because I was leaving on Saturday night for New York. I unlocked the door at my side and walked through the filing room to lock the door at the other end.’
As Gaye had been speaking Emma had a mental image of the filing room in the executive suite of offices in the London store. It was a long narrow room with filing cabinets banked on either side and rising to the ceiling. A year ago, Emma had broken through the back wall of the filing room into the adjoining boardroom and added a door. This measure had been to facilitate easy access to documents that might be needed at board meetings, but it had also turned out to be a useful little artery that linked the boardroom and the executive offices and so saved a great deal of time.
Innumerable questions ran through Emma’s mind, but she reserved them for later. She nodded for her secretary to continue.
‘I know how particular you are about that door being locked, Mrs Harte. As I walked through the filing room from my office I noticed that the door was not simply unlocked but actually open … ajar. That’s when I heard them … through the crack in the door. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid they would hear me closing and locking the door. I didn’t want anyone to think I was eavesdropping. So I stopped for a moment, and then I turned off the light, so they wouldn’t know I was in the filing room. Mrs Harte, I …’ Gaye paused and swallowed, momentarily unable to continue.
‘Go on, Gaye, it’s all right.’
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, I really wasn’t, Mrs Harte. You know I’m not like that. It was purely accidental … that I heard them, I mean. I heard them say … say …’
Gaye stopped again, shaking all over. She looked at Emma, who was sitting perfectly rigid in her chair, her face an unreadable mask.
‘I heard them say, no, one of them said that you were getting too old to run the business. That it would be hard to prove that you were senile or incompetent, but that you would agree to step down to avoid a scandal, to prevent a catastrophe with the Harte shares on the Stock Exchange. They argued about this. And then he, that is, the one who had been doing most of the talking, said that the stores had to be sold to a conglomerate and that this would be easy as several companies would be interested in a take-over. He then said that Harte Enterprises could be sold off in pieces …’ Gaye hesitated, and looked closely at Emma in an attempt to discern her reactions. But Emma’s face was still inscrutable.
The sun came out from behind a bank of grey clouds and streamed into the room, a great cataract of brilliant light that was harsh and unrelenting, flooding that vast space with a white brilliance that made the room look alien, unreal, and frightful to Emma. She blinked and shielded her eyes against it.
‘Could you close the curtains please, Gaye,’ she murmured, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Gaye flew across the room and pushed the automatic button that operated the curtains. They swept across the soaring window with a faint swishing sound and the penetrating radiance in the room was softly diffused. She returned to her chair in front of the desk and, gazing at Emma, she asked with some concern, ‘Are you all right, Mrs Harte?’
Emma had been staring at the papers on her desk. She lifted her head slowly and looked across at Gaye with blank eyes. ‘Yes. Please go on. I want to know all of it. And I am perfectly sure there is more.’
‘Yes, there is. The other one said it was futile to battle with you now, either personally or legally, that you couldn’t live much longer, that you were getting old, very old, almost eighty. And the other one said you were so tough they would have to shoot you in the end.’ Gaye covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob and tears pricked her eyes. ‘Oh, Mrs Harte, I’m so sorry.’
Emma was so still she might have turned to stone. Her eyes were suddenly cold and calculating. ‘Are you going to tell me who these two gentlemen were, Gaye? Mind you, I use that term loosely,’ she said with biting sarcasm. Before Gaye had a chance to reply Emma knew deep within herself, deep down in the very marrow of her bones, exactly whom Gaye would condemn when she opened her mouth. And yet part of her was still disbelieving, still hopeful, and she must hear it from Gaye’s own mouth to truly believe it. To accept her own damning suspicions as fact.
‘Oh God, Mrs Harte! I wish I didn’t have to tell you this!’ She took a deep breath. ‘It was Mr Ainsley and Mr Lowther. They started to quarrel again, and Mr Lowther said that they needed the girls with them. Mr Ainsley said the girls were with them, that he already talked to them. But that he had not talked to Mrs Amory, since she would never agree. He said she must not be told anything, under any circumstances, because she would immediately run and tell you. Mr Lowther then said again