Emma Harte - Hold The Dream Part 59

"Yes, we must stay here," Elizabeth insisted. She blew her nose and got a grip on her diminishing composure. Silently she began to pray.

Exactly one hour after the avalanche had struck, the rescue teams and the dogs went up in the cable cars.

In just under an hour they returned with the first eight people they had found. Five of them were dead. Three were miraculously alive. Two were young girls. One was a man.

"It's Philip!" Emily screamed and, breaking away from Winston and her mother, began to run toward her cousin.

Philip was being supported by a member of the rescue team. As he limped across to her, Emily saw that one side of his face was sc.r.a.ped and covered with congealed blood, and his bright blue eyes were dazed. But otherwise he looked as if he had escaped with no really serious injuries.

"Philip!" Emily exclaimed, drawing up beside him. 'Thank G.o.d, you're safe. Are you hurt at all, do you think?"

He shook his head. Despite the odd glazed look in his eyes, he recognized her, reached out to her.

A second later, Winston, Elizabeth, and Marc were also by his side, asking questions. Philip simply went on shaking his head helplessly, remained mute.

The skier who had found him said in halting English, "This man, your friend, has been lucky ... he knew what to do. He did not panic. He discarded his poles . . . the skis . . . did the swimming. Yes, he was most fortunate . . . this man was at the bottom of the slope . . . had completed his run. He was covered with only ten feet of snow . . . the dogs . . . they found him. Now ... if you please. We go. To the first aid station over there."

Philip finally spoke. He asked, in a hoa.r.s.e voice, "Dad? Maggie? The others?"

Winston said, "No news yet."

Philip closed his eyes, then opened them quickly, allowed himself to be helped away.

Turning to Emily, Winston said, "You and your mother had hetter go along with Philip, lovey. Marc and I will wait here. Once you've ascertained that he has no internal injuries, I want the three of you to go back to the chalet."

Emily started to protest. Winston cut her off sharply. "Please, Emily, don't argue. Look after Philip. And somebody should be at the chalet. . . when Daisy and Alexander get back from Geneva,"

"Yes," Emily acquiesced, realizing the sense he made. She kissed him and ran after her mother, who had walked ahead with Philip and the skier.

Winston and Marc stood around for another hour, smoking incessantly, occasionally talking to each other, and striking up conversations with other people who were keeping the same distressing vigil at the terminal.

The rescue teams continued to go up and down in the cable cars. Four more survivors were brought to safety, to be followed by nine who were dead.

At four o'clock one of the rescue teams which had been long and endlessly searching the higher part of the mountain returned. They brought with them five more vacationing skiers who had been trapped by the avalanche. The bad news spread quickly. All were dead.

"We must go over and check," Winston said, throwing his cigarette on the ground, grinding his toe on the b.u.t.t. Bracing himself, he swung to Marc. "Will you come with me?"

"Yes, Winston. No use putting it off."

The bodies were being laid on stretchers. When he was a few feet away from them, Winston came to a sudden halt. His strength ebbed out of him, but somehow he managed to take several more steps forward after this brief pause.

He felt Marc's strong hand under his armpit, heard the Frenchman say sorrowingly, "I am so sorry, so very sorry. This is a tragedy for the family."

Winston found he could not speak.

He gazed down at the five people who lay on the stretchers. Two of them he did not know, but the other three . . . For a moment his mind floundered. It did not seem possible that they were dead. Only a few hours ago they had all been laughing together at breakfast.

Sucking in his breath, and brushing his hand across his br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes, Winston went to identify the bodies of David Amory, Jim Fairley, and Maggie Barkstone, fatal victims of the avalanche. And he thought of Daisy and Alexander, driving back from Geneva, and of Paula, who was in New York, and h'e wondered how he was ever going to break the devastating news to them.

Chapter Fifty-one.

Shane O'Neill stood in the kitchen of the barn in New Milford, waiting for the second pot of coffee to brew.

After lighting a cigarette, he reached for the wall phone and dialed the farm. When Elaine Vickers anssvered, he said cheerily, "Top of the morning to you."

"Hi, Shane," Elaine replied. "We thought you weren't coming up this weekend when we didn't hear from you last night. But Sonny saw your car earlier, this morning, so we knew you'd made it."

"It was late when we arrived," Shane explained. 'The farm was in darkness and I thought twice about waking you. Paula didn't get back from Texas until early evening, and it was after nine when we left the city. Sorry I didn't ring you before now, but we got off to a slow start this morning."

Elaine laughed. "I'll say you did. It's almost noon. But the way you two work you deserve to fake it easy occasionally. I hope we're going to see you for dinner tonight," she went on. "We've been looking forward to it all week."

"We'll be over around seven-thirty as planned," Shane a.s.sured her.

Elaine exclaimed, "Oh, Shane, you'll have to excuse me. That was the oven bell. My bread's going to spoil if I don't take it out immediately. See you tonight."

"Bye, Elaine." Shane dropped the phone in its cradle, stubbed out his cigarette and went to the sink. He rinsed the two mugs and dried them. He was just about to pour- the coffee when the telephone began to ring. Putting down the pot, he picked up the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"

There was no response at the other end of the phone, only the sound of static and a hollow echo. "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?" Shane said again in a stronger tone.

Finally a m.u.f.fled voice came down the wire. "It's me. Winston. I'm phoning from Chamonix. Can you hear me, Shane?"

"I can now. Winston! How-"

Winston cut him off. "Something terrible has happened here, Shane, and I don't know where Paula is, where to reach her, and I thought I'd better speak to you first anyway." . Shane gripped the receiver tighter, frowned to himself. "Actually, she's staying here with me for the weekend. What's wrong, Winston?"

"There has been a disastrous avalanche on Mont Blanc, at about one o'clock today, the worst in years," Winston began, his voice sounding more m.u.f.fled and gruff than ever. "Some of the family have been killed." Winston's voice cracked and he was unable to continue.

' "Oh, Jesus!" Shane steadied himself against the counter, waiting to hear the worst. His heart had begun to thud in his chest and intuitively he knew that Winston was about to impart news that would devastate Paula. He knew it in his Celtic bones.

Thousands of miles away, in the dining room of the chalet on the outskirts of Chamonix, Winston Harte stood at the window gazing into the distance. Mont Blanc loomed up into the darkening sky, looked so peaceful now in the twilight after the havoc it had wrought only five hours ago. He got a grip on himself, said in a controlled voice, "Sorry for breaking down. It's been the worst day of my life. Look, Shane, I'm going to give it to you straight because it's the only way I know how." Winston took a deep breath and began to speak, relaying the tragic news to his friend.

As he listened, Shane felt the shock strike him like a body blow, and ten minutes later, when Winston finally hung up, he was still reeling. He stood with his hand on the phone, staring blankly into the middle of the room. He began to blink as bright sunlight streamed in through the windows. How normal everything seemed here in this kitchen. It was so tranquil, peaceful. And it was such a pretty day outside. The sky was a bright blue, clear and without a single cloud, and the sun was radiant. But over in France the family he had been so close to for his entire life were living with unexpected death and sorrow. How abruptly, how suddenly lives had been changed, almost in the flicker of an eyelash. Oh dear G.o.d, Shane thought, how am I going to tell Paula? Where will I find the words?

He heard her step in the hall outside and swung around to face the door, then held himself very still, waiting.

She was laughing as she came in and said in a teasing voice, "That's the last time I'll ever ask you to make the coffee. You've been on the phone for ages. Who were you talking to, darling?"

Shane took a step toward her. He tried to speak but nothing came out. There was a parched, gravelly feeling in his throat and his mouth went dry.

"You've got the oddest look on your face, Shane. What's wrong?" Paula demanded, instantly tensing.

He put his arm around her shoulder and propelled her out of the kitchen and into the big living room, leading her to the fire. She demanded again, and with fierceness, "Shane, what's happened? Please tell me."

"I will, I will," he said hoa.r.s.ely, pressing her down on the sofa, seating himself next to her. He took her hands in his, held on to them tightly, and looked into that face he had loved all of his life. He saw the worry, the sudden apprehension invading it.

Shane's heart clenched as he said in the softest of voices, "I just got some very bad news, some dreadful news, Paula darling. From Winston. There was the most hideous accident in Chamonix around one o'clock today. An avalanche on Mont Blanc. Some of the family have been killed."

Paula gaped at him. Her eyes, opening wide, were pinned on his. He saw the horror mirrored in them and the draining away of all color from her face. It turned chalky white. "Who?" she asked in a strangled whisper.

Shane's grip increased, his fingers biting into her flesh. "You must be brave, my darling,' he said. "Very brave. I'm here, I'll help you through this." He paused, swallowed hard sought the right phrases, the right words. But there were no such things, he knew that.

Paula, her mind racing, thought of the most dedicated skiers in the group. She cried harshly, "Not Daddy? Not my father?"

Shane's throat constricted. He nodded. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry, my darling," he murmured in a dim and shaken voice.

For a moment Paula could not say a word. She continued to stare at Shane, stunned and stupefied, almost uncomprehending, unable to conceive what lie was saying-or accept it.

Aware that it would be kinder to tell her everything at once, quickly, and without further delay, he said in the same saddened tone, "Paula, I don't know how to tell you this, and I'm so sorry, but Jim was also killed. And Maggie. They were on top of the mountain with your father when it happened."

"No!" she said. "No!" She wrenched her hands out of his and clapped them over her mouth, looking around the room frenziedly, as if seeking escape, as if trying to run from this new and dreadful knowledge. Her eyes stretched and stretched in her ashen face. She jumped up jerkily and shouted in a frantic voice, "It can't be so! No! It just can't be so! Oh my G.o.d! Philip. My brother. Was he-"

"He's all right," Shane exclaimed, also leaping to his feet, wrapping his arms around her. "Everyone else is safe, except for Jan and Peter Coles. They haven't been found yet.'

Paula pulled away from him roughly, staring up into his face. Her violet eyes were black with the pain and horror of it all, and her face twisted in a grimace of grief and anguish and heartbreak. She began to tremble violently, but as Shane reached for her once more, wanting to help her, to comfort her, Paula ran into the middle of the room, moving her head from side to side, denying, denying. Suddenly she wrapped her arms around her body and doubled over in agony.

She began to make small but high-pitched mewling noises like a terrified animal in immense pain. It was a keening, really, and it did not cease. Grief and shock continued to a.s.sault her, swept over her like giant tidal waves and engulfed her finally. She slipped to the floor unconscious.

The private jet owned by O'Neill Hotels International sliced through the dark night sky high above the English Channel. It was set on a steady course for London airport where it would soon be landing after a seven-hour flight across the Atlantic. , Shane sat opposite Paula, who was stretched out on one of the banquettes and wrapped in several light wool traveling rugs. He watched her closely, hardly daring to take his eyes off her. Occasionally he leaned over her, soothed her gently, as he had throughout the long and difficult trip. She tossed about restlessly despite the sedatives she had been given at intervals since he had told her about the tragedy in Chamonix.

The local doctor in New Milford, instantly summoned by Shane after she had collapsed, had treated her for shock. He had injected her and given Shane a small box of additional sedatives in tablet form. Before leaving the barn, he had instructed Shane to administer them during the flight whenever he considered it necessary, but to use his discretion.

Shane had rapidly come to realize that Paula was fighting the tranquilizing drugs, just as she had fought him at times during the night. Twice over the Atlantic she had tried to struggle up off the banquette, her eyes filled with panic and fear. She had vomited once, retching until there was nothing left inside. He had tended to her every need with infinite patience, tenderness, and love, helping her in every way he could, murmuring consoling words to her, trying to ease her mental turmoil, ensure her physical comfort.

Now, as he sat observing her, Shane's worry accelerated. She had not broken down or cried once, and this was abnormal for her, she who was such an emotional woman by nature. Nor had she spoken to him, and it was this extraordinary and protracted silence, plus the wild and febrile look in her eyes, that frightened him so much.

He glanced at his watch. They would be on the ground in no time at all. His father and Miranda would be there to meet "them with a private ambulance and Paula's London doctor, Harvey Langen. Thank G.o.d for Harvey, Shane thought. He'll know what to do, the best way to treat her condition. And then he asked himself how a doctor could treat the overwhelming grief and anguish she was experiencing, and he acknowledged miserably that he had no ready answers.

Shane sat in the small study of the Belgrave Square flat with his sister Merry. His expression was morose, his black eyes abstracted as he sipped his third cup of coffee, then drew on his cigarette.

Parker, the butler, had prepared breakfast a short while ago, but none of them had been able to eat a thing, and Shane had been chain-smoking since he had entered the room.

Bryan O'Neill, who had been showing the doctor out, came back in and hurried over to Shane. His hand rested on his son's shoulder, and he said in an optimistic tone, "You were mistaken, Shane. Harvey says Paula's definitely not in catatonic shock.

I tackled him about that, as you asked me to. She is in shock, of course, we're all aware of that, but Harvey believes she'll be pulling out of it later today, or tomorrow at the very latest."

Shane looked at his father and nodded. "Oh G.o.d, I hope so, Dad. I can't bear to see her like this, suffering so much. If only she would speak to me, say something."

"She will, Shane, very soon," Bryan said, squeezing Shane's shoulder affectionately. Sighing, he lowered himself into a chair, and continued: "This kind of catastrophe is devastating, and sudden death, sudden loss, is always the hardest to bear because of its very unexpectedness, apart from anything else."

"If only I knew how to help her,' Shane exclaimed. "But I'm floundering right now. I haven't been able to get through to her, get a reaction from her, and yet I know she is in the most dreadful agony. I must find a way to ease the burden of her sorrow and pain."

Miranda said, "If anyone can help her it's you, Shane. You're the closest to her, and perhaps when you come back tonight she'll be out of the shock, as Harvey said she would. She'll talk to you then, I just know it. You will be able to console her, let her know that she's not alone, that she has you."

Shane stared at his sister. "What do you mean come back tonight? I'm not leaving her. I'm going to beright here until she sleeps off the drugs ... I wouldn't let her wake up alone."

"I'll stay with you," Merry announced. "I won't permit you to be alone."

Bryan, who had been listening to this exchange between his children, instantly understood so many things that had baffled him in the last year. He said slowly, "Shane, I didn't know-I didn't realize you were in love with Paula, that you loved her so profoundly."

"Love her," Shane repeated almost wonderingly, glancing across at his father in astonishment. "Why,Dad, she's my whole life."

"Yes," Bryan said. "Yes, Shane, I realize that now, seeing you like this. She'll recover, please believe me, she will. People have enormous inner strength in times of trouble, and Paula is no exception. In fact, she's stronger than most-one of the strongest women I know. There's a lot of Emma in her. Oh yes, she'll pull out of this eventually. In time everything, will be all right."

Shane threw him a dismal look and his eyes reflected his own pain. "No, it won't," he said in the bleakest of voices. "You're wrong, Dad. Quite wrong."

Chapter Fifty-two.

The harsh winter had pa.s.sed.

The spring came, bringing a new and wondrous greenness to her gardens at Pennistone Royal. And then, before she knew it, the summer was filling the air with its sweet fragrance as the flowers burst into bloom under warming sunlight and skies that were as blue as speedwells and filled with that glorious northern light.

She was alone now. Entirely alone except for her children. Lome and Tessa filled every waking moment of her time, and she drew consolation and joy from their laughter, their carefree spirits, and their childlike pleasures.

The grief that had shattered her at the end of January had been brought under control.

Paula had reached deep inside herself, had drawn on her inner resources for sustenance and strength in her time of loss and pain and trouble. She had had no option really. Too many people were dependent on her.

Her mother and Alexander had returned from Chamonix grief-stricken and crushed by sorrow. They had automatically turned to her, had needed her comfort and her support, her immense fort.i.tude, to help them through the difficult period of the funerals and the distressing weeks that followed. They were plunged deeper into mourning as their shock receded and reality took over. Her children had also needed the security of her love and devotion, every bit of attention she could give them, now that they were without a father.

And finally her enormous empire required her to be at the helm,-guiding its course at all times, and she devoted herself to the great legacy she had inherited from her grandmother, working around the clock to ensure that it remained safe and only increased in importance and wealth. And work had become her strong citadel in the way it had been Emma's in the past.

But as the grief lessened, grew a little easier to bear, her guilt only increased and intensified. And it was the guilt that continued to cripple her now, so many months after the tragedy that had decimated the family.