Best Kept Secret Page 4

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Good luck, darling,’ said Emma, ‘and just make sure you get yourself on to that bestseller list!’

  ‘You’re worse than Natalie.’

  ‘Who’s Natalie?’

  ‘A ravishing blonde who can’t keep her hands off me.’

  ‘You’re such a storyteller, Harry Clifton.’

  Emma was among the first to arrive at the university’s lecture theatre that evening to hear Professor Cyrus Feldman lecture on the topic, Having won the War, has Britain lost the peace?

  She slipped into a place at the end of a row of raked seats about halfway back. Long before the appointed hour the room was so packed that latecomers had to sit on the gangway steps, with one or two even perched on windowsills.

  The audience burst into applause the moment the double Pulitzer Prize-winner entered the auditorium, accompanied by the university’s vice chancellor. Once everyone had resumed their places, Sir Philip Morris introduced his guest, giving a potted history of Feldman’s distinguished career, from his student days at Princeton, to being appointed the youngest professor at Stanford, to the second Pulitzer Prize he’d been awarded the previous year. This was followed by another prolonged round of applause. Professor Feldman rose from his place and made his way to the podium.

  The first thing that struck Emma about Cyrus Feldman, even before he began to speak, was how handsome the man was, something Grace had omitted to mention when she’d called. He must have been a shade over six foot, with a head of thick grey hair, and his suntanned face reminded everyone which university he taught at. His athletic build belied his age, and suggested he must spend almost as many hours in the gym as in the library.

  The second he began to speak, Emma was captivated by Feldman’s raw energy, and within moments he had everyone in the auditorium sitting on the edge of their seats. Students began furiously writing down his every word, and Emma regretted not bringing a notepad and pen along with her.

  Speaking without notes, the professor nimbly switched from subject to subject: the role of Wall Street after the war, the dollar as the new world currency, oil becoming the commodity that would dominate the second half of the century and possibly beyond, the future role of the International Monetary Fund, and whether America would remain fixed to the gold standard.

  When his lecture came to an end, Emma’s only regret was that he’d scarcely touched on transport, with just a passing mention of how the aeroplane would change the new world order, both for business and tourism. But like a seasoned pro, he reminded his audience that he’d written a book on the subject. Emma wouldn’t be waiting for Christmas to get hold of a copy. It made her think about Harry, and hope his book tour was going as well in America.

  Once she’d purchased a copy of The New World Order, she joined a long queue of those waiting to have their copies signed. She had nearly completed the first chapter by the time she reached the front of the line, and was wondering if he might be willing to spare a few moments to expand his views on the future of the British shipping industry.

  She placed the book on the table in front of him, and he gave her a friendly smile.

  ‘Who shall I make it out to?’

  She decided to take a chance. ‘Emma Barrington.’

  He took a closer look at her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be related to the late Sir Walter Barrington?’

  ‘He was my grandfather,’ she said proudly.

  ‘I heard him lecture many years ago on the role of the shipping industry should America enter the First World War. I was a student at the time, and he taught me more in one hour than my tutors had managed in a whole semester.’

  ‘He taught me a lot too,’ said Emma, returning his smile.

  ‘There was so much I wanted to ask him,’ added Feldman, ‘but he had to catch the train back to Washington that night, so I never saw him again.’

  ‘And there’s so much I want to ask you,’ said Emma. ‘In fact, “need” would be more accurate.’

  Feldman glanced at the waiting queue. ‘I guess this shouldn’t take me more than another half hour, and as I’m not catching the train back to Washington tonight, perhaps we could have a private chat before I leave, Miss Barrington?’

  4

  ‘AND HOW IS my beloved Emma?’ asked Harold Guinzburg after he’d welcomed Harry to the Harvard Club.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to her on the phone,’ said Harry. ‘She sends her love, and was disappointed that she wasn’t able to join us.’

  ‘Me too. Please tell her I won’t accept any excuses next time.’ Guinzburg guided his guest through to the dining room and they took their seats at what was clearly his usual corner table. ‘I hope you’re finding the Pierre to your liking,’ he said as a waiter handed them both menus.

  ‘It would be fine, if only I knew how to turn the shower off.’

  Guinzburg laughed. ‘Perhaps you should ask Miss Redwood to come to your rescue.’

  ‘If she did, I’m not sure I’d know how to turn her off.’

  ‘Ah, so she’s already subjected you to her lecture on the importance of getting Nothing Ventured on to the bestseller list as quickly as possible.’

  ‘A formidable lady.’

  ‘That’s why I made her a director,’ said Guinzburg, ‘despite protests from several directors who didn’t want a woman on the board.’

  ‘Emma would be proud of you,’ said Harry, ‘and I can assure you that Miss Redwood has warned me of the consequences should I fail.’

  ‘That sounds like Natalie. And remember, she alone decides if you return home by plane or row boat.’

  Harry would have laughed, but he wasn’t sure his publisher was joking.

  ‘I would have invited her to join us for lunch,’ said Guinzburg, ‘but as you may have observed, the Harvard Club does not allow women on the premises – don’t tell Emma.’

  ‘I have a feeling you’ll see women dining in the Harvard Club long before you spot one in any gentlemen’s club on Pall Mall or St James’s.’

  ‘Before we talk about the tour,’ said Guinzburg, ‘I want to hear everything you and Emma have been up to since she left New York. How did you win the Silver Star? Has Emma got a job? How did Sebastian react to meeting his father for the first time? And—’

  ‘And Emma insisted that I don’t go back to England without finding out what’s happened to Sefton Jelks.’

  ‘Shall we order first? I don’t care to think about Sefton Jelks on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I may not be catching the train to Washington, but I’m afraid I do have to get back to London tonight, Miss Barrington,’ said Professor Feldman after he’d signed the last book. ‘I’m addressing the London School of Economics at ten tomorrow morning, so I can only spare you a few minutes.’

  Emma tried not to look disappointed.

  ‘Unless . . .’ said Feldman.

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless you’d like to join me on the journey to London, in which case you’d have my undivided attention for at least a couple of hours.’

  Emma hesitated. ‘I’ll have to make a phone call.’

  Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in a first-class railway carriage opposite Professor Feldman. He asked the first question.

  ‘So, Miss Barrington, does your family still own the shipping line that bears their illustrious name?’

  ‘Yes, my mother owns twenty-two per cent.’

  ‘That should give the family more than enough control, and that’s all that matters in any organization – as long as no one else gets their hands on more than twenty-two per cent.’

  ‘My brother Giles doesn’t take a great deal of interest in the company’s affairs. He’s a Member of Parliament and doesn’t even attend the AGM. But I do, professor, which is why I needed to speak to you.’

  ‘Please call me Cyrus. I’ve reached that age when I don’t want to be reminded by a beautiful young woman just how old I am.’

  Grace had been right about on
e thing, thought Emma, and decided to take advantage of it. She returned his smile before asking, ‘What problems do you envisage for the shipbuilding industry during the next decade? Our new chairman, Sir William Travers—’

  ‘First-class man. Cunard were foolish to let such an able fellow go,’ interrupted Feldman.

  ‘Sir William is considering whether we should add a new passenger liner to our fleet.’

  ‘Madness!’ said Feldman, thumping the seat beside him with a clenched fist, causing a cloud of dust to billow up into the air. Before Emma could ask why, he added, ‘Unless you have a surplus of cash that you need to dispose of, or there are tax advantages for the UK shipping industry that no one’s told me about.’

  ‘Neither, that I’m aware of,’ said Emma.

  ‘Then it’s time for you to face the facts. The aeroplane is about to turn passenger ships into floating dinosaurs. Why would any sane person take five days crossing the Atlantic Ocean, when they can do the same journey in eighteen hours by plane?’

  ‘More relaxing? Fear of flying? You’ll arrive in better shape?’ suggested Emma, recalling Sir William’s words at the AGM.

  ‘Out of touch and out of date, young lady,’ said Feldman. ‘You’ll have to come up with something better than that if you’re going to convince me. No, the truth is that the modern businessman, and even the more adventurous tourist, wants to cut down on the time it takes to reach their destination, which in a very few years will sink, and I mean sink, the passenger liner business.’

  ‘And in the long term?’

  ‘You haven’t got that long.’

  ‘So what do you recommend we do?’

  ‘Invest any spare cash you have in building more cargo vessels. Planes will never be able to carry large or heavy items like motor cars, plant machinery or even food.’

  ‘How do I convince Sir William of that?’

  ‘Make your position clear at the next board meeting,’ said Feldman, his fist once again banging on the seat.

  ‘But I’m not on the board.’

  ‘You’re not on the board?’

  ‘No, and I can’t see Barrington’s ever appointing a woman director.’

  ‘They don’t have any choice,’ said Feldman, his voice rising. ‘Your mother owns twenty-two per cent of the company’s stock. You can demand a place on the board.’

  ‘But I’m not qualified, and a two-hour train journey to London, even if it is with a Pulitzer Prize-winner, isn’t going to solve that problem.’

  ‘Then it’s time to get qualified.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Emma. ‘Because there isn’t a university in England that I’m aware of that has a business degree on its curriculum.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to take three years off and join me at Stanford.’

  ‘I don’t think my husband or my young son would think much of that idea,’ replied Emma, breaking her cover.

  This silenced the professor, and it was some time before he said, ‘Can you afford a ten-cent stamp?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma tentatively, not sure what she was letting herself in for.

  ‘Then I’ll be happy to enrol you as an undergraduate at Stanford in the fall.’

  ‘But as I explained—’

  ‘You stated, without reservation, that you could afford a ten-cent stamp.’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘Well, Congress has just passed a bill that will allow American military who are serving overseas to sign up for a business degree without actually having to attend classes in person.’

  ‘But I’m not an American, and I’m certainly not serving overseas.’

  ‘True,’ said Feldman, ‘but hidden in the bill’s small print you’ll find, under special exemptions, the word “Allies”, which I’m pretty sure we can take advantage of. That is, assuming you’re serious about the long-term future of your family’s company.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Emma. ‘But what will you expect of me?’

  ‘Once I’ve registered you as an undergraduate at Stanford, I’ll send you a course reading list for your freshman year, along with tape-recordings of every lecture I give. On top of that, I’ll set you an essay to write each week, and return it to you once I’ve marked it. And if you can afford more than ten cents, we could even talk on the phone from time to time.’

  ‘When do I start?’

  ‘This fall, but be warned, there are assessment tests every quarter that decide if you should be allowed to continue on the course,’ he was saying as the train pulled into Paddington station. ‘If you’re not up to it, you’ll be dropped.’

  ‘You’re willing to do all that because of one meeting with my grandfather?’

  ‘Well, I confess I was rather hoping you might join me for dinner at the Savoy tonight so we can talk about the future of the shipbuilding industry in greater detail.’

  ‘What a nice idea,’ said Emma, giving him a kiss on his cheek. ‘But I’m afraid I bought a return ticket, and I’ll be going home to my husband tonight.’

  Even if Harry still couldn’t work out how to turn on the radio, at least he’d mastered the hot and cold taps in the shower. Once he was dry, he selected a freshly ironed shirt, a silk tie Emma had given him for his birthday, and a suit his mother would have described as Sunday best. A glance in the mirror, and he had to admit he wouldn’t have been considered in vogue on either side of the Atlantic.

  Harry stepped out of the Pierre on to 5th Avenue just before eight and began walking towards 64th and Park. It only took him a few minutes before he was standing outside a magnificent brownstone house. He checked his watch, wondering what was fashionably late in New York. He recalled Emma telling him she’d been so nervous at the thought of meeting Great-aunt Phyllis that she’d walked around the block before summoning up enough courage to climb the steps to the front door, and even then she only managed to press the bell marked ‘Tradesmen’.

  Harry marched up the steps and banged firmly with the heavy brass knocker. As he waited for the door to be answered, he could hear Emma remonstrating with him – Don’t mock, child.

  The door opened and a butler wearing a tailcoat, who was clearly expecting him, said, ‘Good evening, Mr Clifton. Mrs Stuart is waiting for you in the drawing room. Would you care to follow me?’

  ‘Good evening, Parker,’ Harry replied, although he’d never seen the man before. Harry thought he detected the flicker of a smile as the butler led him down the corridor to an open lift. Once he’d stepped inside, Parker closed the grille, pressed a button and didn’t speak again until they reached the third floor. He pulled open the gate, preceded Harry into the drawing room and announced, ‘Mr Harry Clifton, madam.’

  A tall, elegantly dressed woman was standing in the middle of the room, chatting to a man Harry assumed must be her son.

  Great-aunt Phyllis immediately broke away, walked across to Harry and, without a word, gave him a bear hug that would have impressed an American linebacker. When she finally released him, she introduced her son Alistair, who shook Harry warmly by the hand.

  ‘It’s an honour to meet the man who ended Sefton Jelks’s career,’ said Harry.

  Alistair offered a slight bow.

  ‘I also played a small part in that man’s downfall,’ sniffed Phyllis, as Parker handed her guest a glass of sherry. ‘But don’t get me started on Jelks,’ she added, as she ushered Harry towards a comfortable chair by the fire, ‘because I’m far more interested to hear about Emma, and what she’s been up to.’

  Harry took some time bringing Great-aunt Phyllis up to date on everything Emma had done since she’d left New York, not least because she and Alistair kept interrupting him with questions. It wasn’t until the butler returned to announce dinner was served that they moved on to a different subject.

  ‘So how are you enjoying your visit?’ asked Alistair as they took their seats round the dining table.

  ‘I think I preferred being arrested for murder,’ said Harry. ‘Far easier to deal with.’

/>   ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse in some ways. You see, I’m not much good at selling myself,’ admitted Harry as a maid placed a bowl of Scotch broth in front of him. ‘I’d rather hoped the book might speak for itself.’

  ‘Think again,’ said Great-aunt Phyllis. ‘Just remember, New York isn’t an offshoot of Bloomsbury. Forget refinement, understatement and irony. However much it’s against your better nature, you’ll have to learn to sell your wares like an East End barrow boy.’

  ‘I’m proud to be England’s most successful author,’ said Alistair, raising his voice.

  ‘But I’m not,’ said Harry, ‘by a long chalk.’

  ‘I’ve been overwhelmed by the American people’s reaction to Nothing Ventured,’ said Phyllis, joining in the charade.

  ‘That’s only because no one’s read it,’ protested Harry, between mouthfuls.

  ‘Like Dickens, Conan Doyle and Wilde, I’m confident the United States will turn out to be my biggest market,’ added Alistair.

  ‘I sell more books in Market Harborough than I do in New York,’ Harry said as his soup bowl was whisked away. ‘It’s patently obvious that Aunt Phyllis ought to take my place on the book tour, and I should be sent back to England.’

  ‘I would be only too delighted to do so,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s just a pity I don’t have your talent,’ she added wistfully.

  Harry helped himself to a slice of roast beef and far too many potatoes, and it wasn’t long before he began to relax as Phyllis and Alistair regaled him with tales of Emma’s exploits when she’d turned up in New York in search of him. It amused him to hear their version of what had taken place, and only served to remind him just how lucky he’d been to end up sleeping in the next bed to Giles Barrington when he first went to St Bede’s. And if he hadn’t been invited to tea at the Manor House to celebrate Giles’s birthday, he might never have met Emma. Not that he’d even glanced at her at the time.

  ‘You do realize you’ll never be good enough for her,’ said Phyllis as she lit a cheroot.

  Harry nodded, appreciating for the first time why this indomitable lady had turned out to be Emma’s Old Jack. If they had sent her off to war, he thought, Great-aunt Phyllis would surely have come home with the Silver Star.