Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford

rivalries, the conflicts, the bad blood that existed between some of those present.

      A sardonic smile touched her lips. As usual, cliques had formed. It was easy to see who was allied to whom. And she could read them all like an open book.

      Edwina was the one who had surprised her the most, in that she had obviously had the intelligence to accept the inevitable. Her eldest daughter was giving off an aura of cordiality, sitting on the sofa near the window, chatting with Sally. On the other hand, Emma had noticed that she was assiduously avoiding any real contact with the other Hartes in the drawing room.

      Randolph, Sally’s father, and his two other children, Vivienne and Winston, were most decidedly persona non grata with Edwina, and her intense dislike of them was barely concealed behind the stiff and chilly smiles she had given them earlier. Edwina was also cold-shouldering Blackie, although there was nothing new about that. Once, last year, Edwina had referred to him as the grand seigneur, meaning it disparagingly, her voice ringing with sarcasm.

      Emma smiled inwardly. She had rather liked the description then: she did so now. It was apt.

      Blackie was indeed behaving like the grand patrician gentleman, strolling around as if he had territorial rights, his manner distinctly proprietary, being gracious and charming, playing the genial host to the limit. And why not? He was her greatest friend, and her escort after all, and this was her house, and she was the hostess at this gathering. He had stood at her side during the toasts and the cutting of the christening cake, and after Randolph had finished speaking he had made a toast himself. To her. He had called her the youngest and most beautiful great-grandmother in the world. Now he had paused, was hovering over Paula, who in turn hovered over her babies. Daisy joined them, her serenity and sincerity and goodness a beacon in this room.

      Emma shifted her eyes to the far corner, where they settled on her grandson, Alexander.

      Always reserved, Alexander seemed particularly so with Jonathan and Sarah, whom he had briefly acknowledged when he had arrived. Since then he had consistently and carefully ignored them. He had attached himself to Bryan and Geraldine O’Neill at the commencement of the reception, returned to sit with them after the photographs had been taken. She did not understand why he was being cool and distant with Sarah and Jonathan. Could they have had a disagreement? Even a falling out? Or was he simply bored by the company of his cousins, with whom he worked at Harte Enterprises? She turned these possibilities over and then let them go. She would know soon enough if there were any real problems between these three. She wished Alexander would make up his mind about that nice Marguerite Reynolds. He had kept that poor girl dangling for too long. Now where was she hiding herself?

      Emma scanned the room. Ah yes, there she was, near the door, laughing with Merry O’Neill and Amanda. Good God, was that child drinking another glass of champagne. Her third? Emily is supposed to be looking after those sisters of hers, and she’s not even in the room, Emma thought, and took a step forward, making for Amanda, then stopped in her tracks. Emily had just returned with Winston and Shane, had spotted Amanda and was about to chastise her little sister, who wore a guilty expression. Emma nodded to herself, amused at the little scene being enacted. Emily, for all her youth and gay disposition, could be very tough when she wanted to be.

      Shane had detached himself from Winston and Emily, and was prowling across the floor. Her eyes followed him. He came to a stop next to David, drew Paula’s father to one side, began speaking to him intently. Shane is not himself today, Emma decided. He has a remote air. It occurred to her he might be suffering from ennui at this family function of hers, not to mention preoccupation with his impending trip to New York.

      As for Sarah, her auburn-haired granddaughter appeared to be patently uninterested in Shane. Did Emily exaggerate? No, definitely not. Sarah, clinging to Jonathan like a barnacle to a hull, was, by her very actions, proving to Emma that she did indeed care greatly. If Shane no longer mattered to her she would not be huddled in a corner staying out of his way. Was Jonathan a handy convenience? Or had he and Sarah formed some kind of special alliance lately? If so, why? They had never been particularly close in the past.

      Emma gave Jonathan a long hard stare, studying that bland and smiling face, noting his insouciant manner. How disarming he could be. He’s clever, she thought, but not quite as clever as he believes he is. He has acquired the knack of dissembling, most likely from me. And because I’m better at dissimulation than he is, he doesn’t deceive me one little bit. I have no hard evidence of his treachery, nothing concrete with which I can nail him, and yet I know he’s up to no good.

      When Emma had first arrived at Fairley Church, Jonathan had rushed over to her, and told her he would see her on Monday morning, would bring her his new evaluation of the Aire Communications building. She had merely nodded, kept her face inscrutable. But she had immediately wondered why he suddenly thought the evaluation of the building’s worth was no longer urgent, that it could now wait until Monday. She had been stressing its urgency to him for some time. Emma had not had to think very hard to come up with the answer. Jonathan knew the evaluation was no longer pressing because he was aware that the Aire deal had collapsed. Neither she nor Paula had mentioned the failure of those negotiations, so he could only have acquired his information from Sebastian Cross, and in the last twenty-four hours.

      This conversation at the church, coupled with Emily’s revelation of the night before, had convinced Emma that Jonathan was somehow involved with the Crosses, in cahoots with them. But to what purpose?

      She did not know. But she would soon find out. She had no intention of confronting Jonathan on Monday morning. It was not her way to show her hand when that hand could be doling out rope, forming a noose. Instead she would go to London next week and start digging. Discreetly. Jonathan’s behaviour today had only served to underscore the nagging suspicion that he was not trustworthy, a feeling that she had harboured for weeks. Without realizing it, he had alerted her further. If he were really smart he would have acted as though the Aire deal were still alive. He had made a small slip – but it was a fatal one in her eyes.

      Jonathan happened to turn around at this moment. His glance met hers. He smiled broadly and loped across the room to her.

      ‘Goodness, Grandy, why are you standing here all alone?’ he asked showing concern for her. Not waiting for a reply he went on, ‘Do you want anything? A glass of champagne, or a cup of tea maybe? And do come and sit down. You must be tired.’ He took hold of her arm affectionately, and his posture was loving.

      ‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ Emma said. ‘And I’m not a bit tired. In fact, I never felt better.’ She gave him a smile as fraudulently sweet as his had been. Extracting her arm ever so gently, she remarked, ‘I’ve been enjoying myself, standing here watching everyone. You’d be surprised what people reveal about themselves when they believe they’re unobserved.’ Her eyes were riveted to his face.

      She waited.

      He squirmed under her unflinching gaze, returned it, managed to keep his expression open and candid. But he laughed too quickly and too loudly as he said, ‘You are a card, Grandy.’

      And possibly you’re the joker in the pack, Emma thought coldly. She said, ‘What’s wrong with Sarah? She’s being rather aloof with everyone, apart from you, of course.’

      ‘She’s not feeling well,’ he answered with swiftness. ‘Fighting a bad cold.’

      ‘She looks as fit as a fiddle to me,’ Emma observed dryly, throwing a rapid glance in Sarah’s direction.

      Emma suddenly stepped back, moved away from Jonathan, and levelled her direct stare on him again. ‘Did you come up here together? And when did you arrive in Yorkshire?’

      ‘No, we came separately. Sarah by train last night. I drove up this morning.’ This was said steadily enough, and he smiled down at her.

      Emma saw the faintest flicker of deceit in his light eyes. She studied his face briefly. Arthur Ainsley’s weak mouth, she thought. She said, ‘I’m glad Sarah has you to look after her today, Jonathan. It’s most kind of you.’

      He said nothing, changed the subject by remarking,