Emma’s Secret. Barbara Taylor Bradford

       But how could she know?

      The question hovered there. Linnet pondered on it, casting her mind back to the meeting she had had with their mother in November.

      The conversation had been held in private, in her mother’s inner sanctum at the Leeds store. They had been entirely alone, and in any case Tessa was in London at the time. No, she couldn’t possibly have any inkling of it, Linnet decided.

      And yet … she thought of the way Tessa had directed some of her hostility towards their mother in December – at least that was the way Linnet had read it, and she was surprised at the time. Unexpectedly, Tessa had announced that she would not be coming to Pennistone Royal for Christmas. This was tantamount to sacrilege in the family, and everyone was taken aback.

      For years and years the Hartes, the O’Neills and the Kallinskis had celebrated the important holidays together at Pennistone Royal. It was a tradition that had begun in 1933, just after Emma Harte had purchased the grand house and its vast estate outside Ripon.

      ‘The gathering of the three clans,’ her grandfather called it, and that was exactly what it was. Emma Harte, Blackie O’Neill and David Kallinski had become friends very early in the twentieth century, and had remained friends throughout their lives, as had their growing families. And the Hartes and the O’Neills were now joined in marriage and by blood.

      ‘Ninety-five, ninety-six years, Linnet,’ her grandfather had explained to her this past Christmas. ‘That’s how far our relationships go back. Spending Christmas together is mandatory. As David Kallinski used to say, we’re mishpocheh … family.’

      Not unnaturally, their mother had been very upset with Tessa when she had learned of her intention to remain in London over the holidays. Dismayed and hurt, Paula had finally laid down the law as only she could, in her inimitable Emma Harte style.

      Of course Tessa, in the end, had had no alternative but to acquiesce, commit to the visit, no doubt encouraged to do so by Mark Longden, who knew a good thing when he saw it. Like any smart gambler, he always had his eye on the main chance.

      Ever since he had slithered so skilfully into their lives five years ago, Linnet had been scrutinizing him surreptitiously.

      And she continued to observe him, saw how obsequiously attentive he was to their mother. It was quite apparent to her that he obviously regarded Paula not only as the matriarch to be kow-towed to, but Mrs Moneybags to be endlessly flattered.

      Linnet had been suspicious of Mark from the beginning; had considered him to be an opportunist and a gold-digger. And she had often wondered what the beautiful Tessa had ever seen in him. For beautiful her sister was, and she could exhibit enormous charm and grace when she wanted, and considerable intelligence. And there were many other qualities in Tessa which balanced her less attractive traits. Linnet cared about Tessa; her sister was nobody’s fool, she knew that. And yet she had chosen Mark. It troubled her that Tessa had married someone not quite up to par.

      Eventually, and somewhat grudgingly, Tessa had agreed to spend Christmas at Pennistone Royal. Even so, it had been a clever compromise. She had explained that they would arrive on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, in time for tea and the lighting of the tree, and depart after lunch on Christmas Day. Her excuse for such a short visit was the necessity of spending Boxing Day with Mark’s parents in Cirencester.

      But in essence, Tessa had given her family only twenty-four hours of her time, and Grandfather Bryan, in particular, had been very put out, mainly on Paula’s behalf. He had made a few adverse comments to Linnet, after Tessa had left with Mark and Adele. He frequently confided his thoughts to her, and in this instance he had said that Tessa was as manipulative now as she had been as a child.

      Despite the Christmas activities, and the presence of the other clans as well as the O’Neills, Tessa had acted rather strangely, in Linnet’s opinion. Temperamental by nature, especially in her childhood when she had been prone to throwing tantrums, this characteristic seemed to get the better of her at Christmas. During the short time she was in Yorkshire, she had not even bothered to disguise her moodiness or ill temper, much to Linnet’s surprise. Furthermore, she seemed hell-bent on doing battle.

      Now, as then, Linnet wondered why. There appeared to be no valid reason for this curious combativeness, and she thought Tessa was being reckless in the way she constantly annoyed their mother.

      Paula had not said anything to Linnet at Christmas, nor since then, regarding Tessa’s questionable behaviour. But understanding her mother the way she did, Linnet knew Paula had not missed a trick. She was merely biding her time. It was unlikely that Paula would put up with Tessa’s moods for very long. She was a practical woman with her feet firmly on the ground, and emotional outbursts for no apparent reason usually left her totally unmoved.

      So be it, Linnet muttered to herself. What will be, will be. I’ll just have to tackle things as they come at me … if indeed they do. And in the meantime, I’m not going to worry.

      But despite this promise to herself, Linnet did worry as she continued her trek down into the valley. She was far too astute to underestimate her sister, and she also knew that Tessa could fight a mean fight.

      She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But if it did she would have to defend herself. She had no other choice.

CHAPTER TWO

      Linnet was glad to be off the moors for once, and she experienced a sense of relief as she crossed the long meadow behind Pennistone Royal. It was going to snow, and very soon; she knew from experience that the worst thing that could happen was to be caught on the moors in bad weather.

      When she finally arrived at the old, wrought-iron gate that led into the estate she pushed it open, hurried past the vegetable gardens, and only slowed her pace when she came to the parterres cut into the back lawn.

      She stood there for a second surveying the intricate designs, as always intrigued by their geometric precision. ‘Best seen from the air, them there parterres,’ Wiggs used to say to her when she was a little girl and he was a young gardener. ‘But I don’t have an aeroplane,’ she would protest, staring at him perplexed. ‘An upstairs window then?’ he would suggest with a big wink. And she would wink back, the way he had taught her, run into the house, up the stairs and into a back bedroom. From there she could see the parterres from high up, just as Wiggs had said. She had always had a soft spot for him; now he was head gardener at Pennistone Royal and in charge of the whole estate.

      On this cold morning she thought the parterres looked a bit sad. But in the spring and summer the geometrical patterns would be bristling with tender young leaves and the small, flowering plants that brought vivid colour to the dark earth. And elsewhere on the estate the many fountains would be spraying water high into the bright sunlight, and the famous Rhododendron Walk, which her mother had created over thirty years ago, would be in full bloom. That was the time of year she loved the gardens best of all, when there was such renewal, and everything was bursting with life and the air was fragrant with mingled scents.

      Linnet shivered under the sharp wind and hurried on, huddling down into her coat, wanting to get home to stand in front of one of the roaring fires, to warm herself until she was thawed out.

      Within a few minutes the front façade of the house loomed up in front of her, and she came to a stop, gazing up at it with admiration. There was a timelessness about it that never failed to move her … how much this house must have seen over the hundreds and hundreds of years it had been standing. The dramas of families and so many lives. Happiness and joy, pain and suffering, death and loss, love and marriage and the bearing of children. An endless, enduring cycle, her grandfather was prone to saying, always adding, ‘If only these venerable old stones could talk, what stories they could tell.’

      Rooted in the seventeenth century, Pennistone Royal had a majestic dignity with its mingling of Renaissance and Jacobean architecture. The grey stone walls were intersected with many mullioned windows and topped with crenellated towers,