Chapter One
Emma Harte leaned forward and looked out of the window.
The private Lear jet, property of the Sitex Oil
Corporation of America, had been climbing steadily up
through a vaporous haze of cumulus clouds and was now
streaking through a sky so penetratingly blue its
shimmering clarity hurt the eyes. Momentarily dazzled by
this earlymorning brightness, Emma turned away from the
window, rested her head against the seat, and closed her
eyes. For a brief instant the vivid blueness was trapped
beneath her lids and, in that instant, such a strong and
unexpected feeling of bittersweet nostalgia was evoked
within her, she caught her breath in surprise. It's the
sky from the Turner painting above the upstairs parlor
fireplace at Pennistone Royal, she thought, a Yorkshire
sky on a spring day when the wind has driven the fog from
the moors.
A faint smile played around her implacable mouth, curving
the resolute line of the lips with unfamiliar softness, as
she thought with some pleasure of Pennistone Royal. That
great house that grew up out of the stark and harsh
landscape of the moors and which always appeared to her to
be a force of nature engineered by some Almighty architect
rather than a mere edifice erected by mortal man. The one
place on this violent planet where she had found peace,
limitless peace that soothed and refreshed her. Her home.
She had been away far too long this time, almost six
weeks, which was a prolonged absence indeed for her. But
within the coming week she would be returning to London,
and by the end of the month she would travel north to
Pennistone. To peace, tranquillity, her gardens, and her
grandchildren.
This thoughtcheered her immeasurably and she relaxed in
her seat, the tension that had built up over the last few
days diminishing until it had evaporated. A sigh escaped
her lips, one of mingled weariness and relief. She was
bone tired from the raging battles that had punctuated
these last few days of board meetings at the Sitex
corporate headquarters in Odessa; she was supremely
relieved to be leaving Texas and returning to the relative
calmness of her own corporate offices in New York. It was
not that she did not like Texas in point of fact, she had
always had a penchant for that great state, seeing in its
rough sprawling power something akin to her native
Yorkshire. But this last trip had exhausted her. I'm
getting too old for galavanting around on planes, she
thought ruefully, and then dismissed that thought as
unworthy. It was dishonest and she was never dishonest
with herself. It saved so much time in the long run. And,
in all truthfulness, she did not feel old. Only a trifle
tired on occasion and especially when she became
exasperated with fools, and Harry Marriott, president of
Sitex, was a fool and inherently dangerous, like all fools.
Emma opened her eyes and sat up impatiently, her mind
turning again to business, for she was tireless,
sleepless, obsessive, and expedient when it came to her
vast business enterprises, which rarely left her thoughts.
She straightened her back and crossed her legs, adopting
her usual posture, a posture that was contained and regal.
There was also an imperiousness in the way she held her
head and in her general demeanor, and her green eyes, as
cold as steel, were full of enormous power. She lifted one
of her small, strong hands and automatically smoothed her
stylishly cut silver hair, which did not need it, since it
was as impeccable as always. As indeed she was herself, in
her simple yet elegant dark gray worsted dress, its
severeness softened by the milky whiteness of the
matchless pearls around her neck and the fine emerald pin
on her shoulder.
She glanced at her granddaughter sitting opposite,
diligently making notes for the coming week's business in
New York. She looks drawn this morning, Emma thought, I
push her too hard. She felt an unaccustomed twinge of
guilt but impatiently shrugged it off. She's young, she
can take it, and it's the best training she could ever
have, Emma reassured herself and said, "Would you ask that
nice young stewardJohn, isn't it? — to make some coffee
please, Paula? I'm badly in need of it this morning."
The girl looked up. Although she was not beautiful in the
accepted sense of that word, she was so vital and
arresting she gave the impression of beauty. Her vividness
of coloring contributed to this effect. Her glossy hair
was an ink-black coif around her head, coming to a
striking widow's peak above a face so clear and luminous
it might have been carved from pale polished marble. The
rather elongated face, with its prominent cheekbones and
wide brow, was alert and expressive and there was a hint
of Emma's resoluteness in her chin, but her eyes were her
most spectacular feature, being large and intelligent and
of a cornflower blue so deep they were almost violet.
She smiled at her grandmother with eager brightness and
said, "Of course, Grandy. I'd like some myself." She left
her seat, her tall slender body moving with a facile
grace. She's so thin, Emma commented to herself, too thin
for my liking. But she always has been. I suppose it's the
way she's made. A leggy colt as a child, a racehorse now.
A mixture of love and pride illuminated Emma's stem face
and her eyes were full of sudden warmth as she gazed after
the girl, who was her favorite, the daughter of Emma's
favorite daughter, Daisy.