Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
‘Well she would, wouldn’t she?’ Tessa said. ‘Since she came up the hard way, from nothing.’
Whatever Tessa had intended by the remark, it fell into the middle of the group like a large lump of heavy lead. Linnet looked appalled, Evan appeared embarrassed, but India took it in her stride.
With a huge smile, her expression one of immense pride, she said in a smooth and loving voice. ‘Our great-grandmother was known to be a perfectionist, Tessa, and it was her nature to take care of things well. Just as I do. I am thrilled I inherited that trait from her. Emma loved beauty and beautiful things, whether it was clothes, jewellery, antiques or furnishings. Paintings were her joy, as we all know from her many homes and the great art displayed there. So naturally she took care of all of those things…’ India stared at Toby, who seemed as embarrassed by Tessa’s remark as Evan, and then focused on her cousin Tessa. ‘And it is because she came from nothing yet created our great business empire and family dynasty that she is an icon, a legend, not only in the family but in the world. Not for nothing is Emma Harte known as a woman of substance.’
Tessa, whose light blonde colouring and delicate features echoed India’s, flushed scarlet. ‘You don’t have to reprimand me in that way, India my dear! I didn’t mean anything rude by the remark…actually, I was being complimentary.’
‘It didn’t sound that way,’ Linnet muttered, filled with disgust. ‘Well, let’s get on with it. We don’t want to be here all day, and Toby’s got to get back to his office. This emerald green cocktail dress is also by Dior, from the fifties. It has a bouffant skirt, shorter at the front to show the legs, and Emma seemingly selected it to wear with her emerald collection.’
Moving to another outfit, Evan said, ‘Here is a Balenciaga cocktail dress from 1951. Mrs. Harte liked bouffant skirts, and this is made of black tissue taffeta with a ballooning sash.’
It was now India’s turn, and she walked over to yet another mannequin, and pointed to the jacket. ‘This is Schiaparelli, 1938. It’s from her Circus collection, and the amusing pattern of prancing horses reflects this. The pink jacket particularly stands out because it is partnered with a narrow black skirt. Our great-grandmother loved tailored day suits, and this one here in a light herringbone tweed is by Hardy Amies. He designed it in the early sixties for her.’ India indicated the suit, then stepped away.
Linnet came forward, saying, ‘This is one of Emma’s most famous evening gowns. Your mother found it stored away in the attics at the Belgravia house quite a number of years ago, Toby. Aunt Emily pointed us in the right direction, and India and I finally found it up at Pennistone Royal. Look at the beading, Tessa, all these different green and blue bugle beads. The gown is the colour of the sea in the south of France. She also wore this with her emeralds, and we even found emerald green silk shoes from Pinet of Paris to go with it. Evan, come and explain about the restoration of the beading.’
Evan joined Linnet, and took over. ‘At first glance, the gown seemed to be in perfect order, as were all the other couture outfits. But then on closer examination I discovered some of the bugle beads were hanging by a thread, and others were missing. It was Madame Flande who did the repair work, and she made a beautiful job of it. The shell of the gown is composed of silk and chiffon, and it was designed by Jacques Heim in the 1940s.’
‘Such a lot of evening clothes,’ Tessa said. ‘She must have led quite a social life, even after Paul McGill was dead.’
Again the three women exchanged startled looks, but said not one word. It was Toby who jumped into the breach, exclaiming, ‘This is all wonderful. I’m sure the retrospective will be a smash. Thanks for showing it to me, to us, but I’ve got to go, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, thank you, it’s been very interesting,’ Tessa added quietly, realizing her last remark had not gone down well. ‘And I have to go, too.’ Inclining her head, looking at the three of them, she took Toby’s arm, led him away, saying, ‘I’ll take you down to the David Morris shop. I know you’ll find interesting watches there for Shane and your father. They have a great selection.’
‘Thanks for your help, Tessa,’ Toby murmured, and hurried her away. Once they were outside the storage room he turned to her, and said in a quietly vehement voice, ‘My God, Tessa, sometimes you say the worst things! I don’t know what gets into you!’
‘I wasn’t being critical when I said she came from nothing,’ Tessa protested, sounding very earnest.
‘But it came out that way, and that comment about Emma leading a big social life after Paul’s death was just awful. Your mouth is always open and your foot’s always in it. You’ve got to learn to be more diplomatic’
‘I’m trying,’ she answered, sounding on the verge of tears.
After introducing Toby to the manager of the David Morris watch shop on the first floor, Tessa went back to her office. On the way up in the lift she thought about the presentation the women had given and envy and jealousy surged through her. But it was envy of their relationship with each other, rather than anything else. What she had seen was their easy way of working together: three young women totally geared to each other’s working needs and in perfect sync.
Also, she had picked up on the camaraderie between them, and the loving friendship. Linnet and India, who had been close all their lives, and Evan, a comparative stranger, were obviously on the same wavelength. She had witnessed their knowing glances, their affection, and their devotion. They were a team, and this frustrated her and made her angry. But the most upsetting thing of all was their obvious happiness with their lives. She had wanted to be happy with Mark, to have a good marriage. But both seemed to be eluding her right now. Her sudden bitterness was like a sharp pain in her chest: dismaying, frightening even.
S
arah Lowther was irresistibly drawn to Harte’s of Knightsbridge whenever she was in London. Today was no exception. She felt its over whelming pull as she hurried towards the greatest emporium in the world, founded by her grandmother Emma Harte long ago. Once, she had worked at Harte’s for Emma, before taking over Emma’s fashion business, Lady Hamilton Clothes, which she had run with great success.
But Sarah had always believed that retailing was in her blood, and over the years she had opened six stores of her own in France. They were actually boutiques selling antique furniture,
objets d’art,
paintings, porcelains, and fabrics of all kinds. She specialized in lovely old silks and brocades, antique
toile de Jouy
and the finest of tapestries, and she had become quite well known for her taste and style in home design and decor.
In fact, the boutiques were now a huge success, and she was very proud of her busy little company, which she had created all by herself. It was apparent to her that her talent for selling had truly been inherited from her grandmother; she was even noticing that same trait in her twenty-five-year-old daughter, Chloe, who was currently running the boutique in Paris where they lived.
Yves Pascal, Sarah’s husband and the father of Chloe, had recently remarked about this tendency himself, laughingly adding, ‘She takes after you,
cherie,
not me.’
Sarah had had to agree with him. Although Chloe had an artistic bent and a very good eye, she had not inherited her father’s extraordinary talent and brilliance as a painter. Today Yves Pascal was considered to be one of France’s greatest living artists, renowned throughout the world for his contemporary Impressionist paintings, and in Sarah’s eyes he was a true genius.
She glanced around as she walked along Knights-bridge making for the store. It was a beautiful spring day, surprisingly mild for early May and sunny, with a pale-blue canopy of a sky shimmering overhead.
Although she loved Paris, where she had lived even before her marriage to Yves some twenty-seven years ago, Sarah was happy to be back in the country of her birth, if only for a short while. Everything was familiar, and so many fond memories abounded; particularly happy memories of her grandmother, her father Kit, Emma’s eldest son, and her mother June. All three of them were dead but they lived forever in her heart, and were very frequently in her thoughts.
As she approached the main doors of Harte’s she felt a rush of anticipation, and once she was inside, standing in the middle of the cosmetics department, she experienced a marvellous sense of coming home. It was a combination of excitement, relief to be back in the store, and an awareness of belonging to a greater whole. Walking through her grandmother’s renowned emporium was the next best thing to being part of the family.
Leaving cosmetics behind, entering jewellery, Sarah’s thoughts were on Paula O’Neill. She had no doubt that her cousin was sitting upstairs in her office, if she was not at one of the stores in Yorkshire. Sarah had to resist the temptation of going up to the executive suite to see her. It was a feeling that frequently overtook her when she was here.
Better not, she cautioned herself–as she generally did–and walked on, admiring everything she saw. The store looked wonderful, as it always had. Nothing had changed…except perhaps for the better. It was the greatest in the world, and Paula was obviously carrying on the grand tradition of excellence started by their grandmother.
For years now Sarah had wanted to write a letter to Paula, not one of apology but of explanation. She had long needed her cousin to understand that
she
hadn’t done anything wrong all those years ago, that
she
hadn’t been treacherous to the family.
What she had done was simply invest some of her money in a company called Stonewall Properties, following the advice of her cousin Jonathan Ainsley. He had not told her that Stonewall was his own company, run by his straw man, Sebastian Cross. Nor had she been aware that Jonathan was cheating the family, diminishing their property interests by funnelling deals which belonged to Harte Real Estate to Stonewall instead.
Nonetheless, she had been blamed along with Jonathan, kicked out of Lady Hamilton Clothes most unceremoniously, and out of the family, by Paula and her father, the late David Amory. That had been the worst part, and it had broken Sarah’s heart, and in many ways she had never fully recovered from the blow. It had been, and still was, a cruel and most painful banishment for her.
But she was not a Harte for nothing, Sarah had reminded herself at the time, thinking of her grandmother’s favourite ‘line’, which Emma had applied to so many situations. And she had somehow managed to draw on her considerable inner resources in order to steady herself and keep going. Taking strength from the spirit of Emma Harte that lived on in her, she had started her life all over again and made it work for her.
She had moved to France and built herself a career in the world of Paris fashion, working as a
directrice
at a top
haute-couture
house. It was during this time that she had met and married Yves Pascal, a young artist rapidly gaining recognition. They had started a family almost at once, and later she had created her own business; today she had a good marriage, a very special daughter, a good life in general, and she was content. And yet…
There was a hole in Sarah’s heart, a sadness, an awful emptiness at times, despite all of the good things she had. Very simply, she longed to be back in the fold, to be part of the Hartes again, to be friends with her cousins with whom she had grown up and had spent so much of her life: Paula, Emily, the twins Amanda and Francesca, and Winston. And those other two dashing characters from the other clans, Michael Kallinski and Shane O’Neill.
Shane…
she had been enamoured of him once, but he had only had eyes for Paula.
Each and every one of them had been part of her existence, her world, and she missed them very much, particularly Emily and Paula. They had had their quarrels, but then what large families didn’t have their differences, their disagreements from time to time? For the most part, they had got along, and had never really held any grudges. Linking them was their love for their quite extraordinary grandmother, their shared background, upbringing and experiences. They knew where they belonged…they were part of the Hartes, and to be that was something very special indeed.
Jonathan Ainsley had ruined all this for her when he had involved her in his schemes without her knowledge. Sometimes she wondered why she still bothered with him, still saw him. But then there was no other family member left in her life, and she knew she needed that connection to her past, to her heritage. It made her feel whole and special and different from the rest of the world.
Yet it was true that she was frequently troubled by their relationship; she thought of her cousin Jonathan as something of a loose cannon. She never knew what he was up to, what he was going to do. But then weren’t these very good reasons to stay close to him?
Jonathan could not help admiring Sarah as she walked towards him down the length of the Grill Room in the Dorchester Hotel. She was an elegant woman, tall, slender and as good looking as ever. Sarah was fifty-nine now and he thought she wore her years well, looked so much younger. Her lovely auburn hair was still the same vibrant colour it had been when she was younger, but it was obviously touched up discreetly. She had the Harte colouring and looks, and had been, and was, proud of this.
The thing that always struck him was her chicness; she had always been stylish and this was most apparent tonight. Sarah was wearing a black wool suit, so beautifully cut and engineered it could only be
haute couture
from a top French designer. On one shoulder she had pinned two flower brooches made of black and white diamonds, and added matching earrings. She looked superb, he thought.
Jonathan stood up as she drew to a standstill, kissed her cheek and greeted her warmly as she took the other chair which had been pulled out by the waiter.
‘You’re as chic as always, Sarah darling,’ he murmured, reaching over, squeezing her arm. ‘Nobody holds a candle to you.’
‘Why thank you, Jonathan, it’s nice of you to say so.’
‘A drop of bubbly, or what?’
‘Champagne would be nice, thanks. I see you’re having a martini.’ She smiled. ‘Too strong for me these days. Anyway, it’s nice to see you.’
He inclined his head, still smiling. ‘And you too. Have you had a busy day?’
‘Not so bad. I met with an antiques dealer this morning and got a good price on a Georgian desk, and then this afternoon I took a stroll around Harte’s.’
‘Is it falling down? I hope,’ he said dryly, giving her a long, pointed stare.
Although his comment irritated her slightly, she decided to play it lightly, and so she laughed, before saying, ‘Don’t be so silly, of course it isn’t. In fact, it’s looking fabulous. Paula’s doing a great job.’
Jonathan gaped at her. ‘Good Lord, a kind word for Paula! Things
are
looking up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were always such rivals, for Grandy’s approval and love, and for position, power–and Shane O’Neill. I can’t imagine what’s brought about this change in attitude.’
The waiter arrived with her glass of Dom Perignon; after they had toasted each other, clinked glasses, Sarah murmured, ‘I’m a retailer myself these days and I know what it takes: a great deal of hard work, back-breaking work, not to mention a huge amount of truly smart buying. I suppose I sort of admire her…Anyway, all that was long ago. Isn’t it better to forget those things?’
Jonathan merely smiled, toyed with the stem of his martini glass, then took a sip. After a moment, he glanced up, gave his cousin a very direct look. ‘I’ll never know why you go mooching around Harte’s, for God’s sake. I think it’s positively…
morbid.’
‘No, it’s not! I enjoy roaming through the food halls and cosmetics, the other departments. It’s Grandy’s store, and I used to work there, and I feel–well, I feel rather at home there.’
He sighed, shook his head, threw her a reproachful look, but she was wise enough not to respond. He knew she was in one of her rather mawkish, sentimental moods, living in the past. Much better to remain utterly silent, at least about Harte’s and the family. After a moment, he asked, ‘How long are you staying in London this time?’
‘Only a couple of days, I’m afraid. I have to go up to Scarborough, or rather, just outside. The outskirts. There’s an estate sale coming up, and I understand there’s going to be some wonderful eighteenth-century fine French furniture on the block, as well as French silver. Apparently there was a French wife aeons ago, somewhere in the late seventeen hundreds, and she brought a large amount of things with her from France. Part of a big dowry, I suspect. Anyway, it’s the kind of stuff that’s hard to come by, so I’m going up to Yorkshire for a couple of days, hoping to bid on some of it, then I’m back here for one day before returning to France.’
‘Do you think you’ll have time to go and see my father?’ he asked.
‘I might, Jonny, I’ll certainly try. And how is Uncle Robin?’
‘Not so bad. I was in Yorkshire myself last weekend, staying with friends in Thirsk, and went to see him. He’s much better; thankfully he’s recovered well from that awful fall.’
‘I’m glad.’ She took a sip of champagne, and remarked, ‘Are you going to look for a country house near Uncle Robin? You said you were thinking about it the last time I was here.’
‘Don’t know. Not awfully keen any more. My work is suddenly keeping me busy. I have to be in London most of the time, you know.’
‘You mean your property company is finally up and running well?’ she asked swiftly, although she wasn’t surprised. He’d always been a good businessman.
‘It is indeed! Are you interested in investing?’ he asked, quizzically.
Sarah shook her head. Not bloody likely, she thought, but said, ‘Thanks, but not really. I’ve got my hands full with my own company. I need lots of ready cash to buy antiques. Actually, I do have to carry a lot of stock, make sure I have a big inventory with six boutiques to supply, you know.’
‘What do you feel like eating?’ he asked, changing the subject, reaching for the menu, studying it.
Sarah did the same, murmured, ‘Nothing too heavy. Fish maybe. I prefer something light at night.’
They were halfway through dinner, when Jonathan suddenly looked across the table at Sarah and said, ‘One of these days you’ll run into one of those damned cousins of ours, when you’re flitting about the store, and then where will you be? And what on earth would you do?’
‘If that happened I’d just speak to whomever I ran into. I’d say hello, what else? I’m sure much of the animosity has dissolved by now. It probably did years ago. There’s no reason we can’t be civil with each other.’
He put down his fish knife and fork and leant back in his chair, studying her for a moment.
Sarah stared back at him, thinking that he was better looking now, in some ways, than he had been when he was younger. In her opinion he had always been a bit too pretty when he was in his early twenties and thirties. Blond, with light eyes, not blue but not grey either, a sort of mixture of the two. Tall, slender, dashing, and the spitting image of his grandfather Arthur Ainsley, Emma’s second husband. Now in his mid-fifties, he had acquired a certain distinction: the blond hair was touched with threads of silver, the bland and handsome face etched with the lines of a life well lived. She wondered suddenly why he had never remarried. Perhaps the ghastly end of his horrific marriage to Arabella Sutton had scared him off matrimony. Once bitten, twice shy, especially since he had inadvertently married a questionable woman. A shady lady, Sarah called her; Yves, more blunt, dubbed her a
putain,
French for whore.