Читать книгу Emma’s Secret - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 15

Harte’s was the most imposing edifice in Knightsbridge, an important landmark ever since the first day it was finished, and its glamour and prestige were renowned the world over. Almost everyone who visited London felt compelled to make a stop at Harte’s, always to browse and marvel, usually to buy … something, however small.

On this cold Tuesday morning in the middle of January, Evan Hughes was finally hurrying towards the magnificent store, filled with excitement and anticipation. It was acting like a magnet, pulling her forward, and she couldn’t wait to enter its stately portals.

Evan paused, but only for a moment, to peer into the beautifully dressed windows that fronted onto Knightsbridge. How imaginative and tasteful they were, and she felt a little frisson of anticipation as she pushed open the doors and went inside the vast and impressive establishment.

She stood for a moment blinking in the bright lights and glancing around. How spectacular it all was. She was in the cosmetics department and there was a glitter and shine to everything, from the products themselves to the decorative elements which added their own unique touches.

Slowly Evan walked through the department, admiring the flair that was very much in evidence in the displays of creams and lotions, lipsticks, powders and perfumes, breathing in the scented, rarefied air as she strolled along.

Suddenly she caught sight of her own reflection in one of the counter mirrors and she stopped, paused to check her appearance before moving on, satisfied that she looked well put-together. Her make-up was perfectly applied, her hair fresh and glossy, and she felt better than she had in days.

After her bout with the flu, which had lasted ten days in the end, she had been drained, a bit weak in the legs. But last night she had decided she did not want to put off visiting Harte’s any longer, and she had made the decision to come to the store today.

Earlier that morning she had washed her hair, done a skilful make-up job and dressed with care. Her choice was a stylish black trouser suit which emphasized her slenderness and height, and black leather boots. Over the suit she wore a long, black wool coat that came down to her ankles, and was not only well tailored and elegant but had a certain dash to it. Adding a flash of bright colour to the ensemble was a long red wool scarf which she had thrown around her neck. Other than this accessory her only adornments were gold earrings and a watch.

Although Evan did not realize it, she cut quite a swathe as she strolled on through the cosmetics department; a number of people turned to look and admire.

But she was totally oblivious to the attention she drew, endeavouring to feel more at ease and relaxed. She was lost in her thoughts as she headed towards the information booth.

The young woman in the booth looked up and smiled as Evan came to a standstill in front of the window, and asked pleasantly, ‘Can I help you, madam?’

‘Well. Er. Yes. What floor are the management offices on?’

‘The ninth,’ the young woman answered.

‘I’m assuming Mrs Harte’s office is on the same floor,’ Evan ventured, staring at her questioningly.

‘Mrs Harte,’ the young woman repeated and frowned, shook her head. Then she exclaimed, ‘Oh, you must mean Mrs O’Neill … Mrs Paula O’Neill. A lot of people get her confused with her grandmother.’

‘And her grandmother is Emma Harte?’

‘Was. Mrs Harte is dead. Has been for quite a while.’

Taken aback though she was, and instantly dismayed, Evan said quickly, ‘Yes. Yes, I was getting them confused, that’s true. And Mrs O’Neill’s office is on the ninth floor, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

‘Thanks very much,’ Evan murmured, and with a quick nod she hurried away, not quite sure where she was heading in the store. But it certainly wasn’t towards the bank of elevators which would whiz her up to the management offices.

At this moment what she really wanted was to sit down and have a cup of coffee and think about her grandmother’s last words to her. Because the words uttered by the girl at the information desk had just negated her grandmother’s instructions to ‘go and find Emma … your future is with her.’

Emma Harte was dead. Had been for quite a while, the young woman had said. That could mean anything. A few months, a year, or maybe even a few years.

It struck her now that her grandmother and Emma Harte must have been about the same age, since they had seemingly known each other in the Second World War. Mrs Harte had probably passed away recently, just as her gran had. Well, so much for that, she muttered, and glanced around.

Evan had been walking without paying much attention to her surroundings, and now she realized she was in the jewellery department. Approaching a sales person she asked politely, ‘Excuse me … Is there a restaurant on this floor?’

‘There’s the Coffee Café on the other side of the food halls. Just keep walking straight ahead, you’ll come to it,’ the young man told her with a smile.

‘Thanks,’ Evan said, and walked on. Within a couple of minutes she had traversed the huge, well-stocked food halls and was standing in front of the Coffee Café. Pushing open the opaque-glass doors she went inside, glancing about as she did so.

The café was small and attractive, and redolent with the smell of coffee. It was almost empty; she made for a booth where she sat down and took off her scarf.

A moment later she was ordering a pot of coffee, and as she waited for the waitress to bring it, Evan pondered on her predicament. She had come to the store hoping to see Emma Harte and hoping to get a job; without this important contact there was no possibility of that now.

Sighing, she leaned back against the banquette and closed her eyes, filled with dismay again. Her thoughts were on Glynnis. Almost two months ago now, as she lay dying, her gran had told her to come to London to seek out Emma Harte, and she had implied that Emma Harte had something to do with her future.

Had her grandmother been delirious? Or living in the past? Didn’t that sometimes happen to people when they were dying? Didn’t parts of their past lives flash before them like a reel of film unravelling? She’d read that somewhere. She had believed her grandmother that day, because she had no reason not to do so. And yet just before she had left, her father had pointed out that she might not get a reaction from Mrs Harte, since Glynnis had known her in the Second World War. And that had been sixty years ago, after all. Over half a century ago. Too long.

How foolish she had been to take everything on face value. Why hadn’t she checked things out? Because she had trusted Gran. Irritation with herself swept over her and she experienced a rush of frustration. Here she was in London, with nothing to do, no prospects. The trip had been a waste of time, and, more importantly, money.

No, that’s not really true, she thought, sitting up straighter on the banquette. The pot of coffee had materialized while she had been lost in her thoughts, and she poured herself a cup, added milk. As she sipped it she decided she deserved a vacation, and she also reminded herself she had no real reason to worry, at least not for the moment, thanks to the money her grandmother had left her.

Immediately she zeroed in on the legacy that she, her siblings and her father had received from his mother. The overall amount Gran had left was enormous, at least to them it was, and was something of a mystery. Her father had attempted to explain it away, yet it did seem incredible to her that Gran had accumulated such a princely sum.

Her grandparents had lived comfortably, but there had never been any great wealth. In fact, it struck her that they had always lived rather modestly. Why? They could have indulged themselves a little bit with the kind of bank balance Glynnis had obviously had. On the other hand, perhaps Gran had been hoarding the money for her son and granddaughters.

Suddenly her father’s puzzled expression flashed before her eyes … how truly surprised he had been in the lawyer’s office that day. Startled and confused. Just as she had been. Her grandmother had been a dark horse.

Her father deserved this windfall from his mother, deserved to inherit his parents’ apartment, which Glynnis had left to him. Evan was glad he had finally decided to keep it, rather than put it on the market, something he had been contemplating doing. The apartment was on East Seventy-Second Street and Madison Avenue, a great location; real estate was bringing excellent prices at the moment, so the idea of selling it had been tempting to him.

Evan regarded the apartment as an escape hatch for her father, much to be desired, and she was relieved when he said he planned to use it instead of unloading the place. It pleased her that he now had somewhere to stay overnight when he went into Manhattan; also, it was his own private space, a safe haven away from her mother, and to Evan that was of immense importance. Marietta had become a depressed and lethargic woman, listless and without any interests, and she had turned into a recluse. But why?

Evan bit her lip, shook her head sadly. So many mysteries in her life … so many questions … and no answers. She pushed these thoughts away from her. Mysteries were for another day.

The cup of coffee had warmed her, given her a boost, and she felt much better, more relaxed. And slowly she began to formulate a plan.

She had given up her job in New York, so why go back? There was no reason. Why not stay in London for a few months? The weather would get better soon, and she’d always wanted to come back here … after all, this was the city where she was born.

But what to do, how to occupy herself? Her kind of sightseeing would be finished in a couple of weeks, then what? Get a job, of course. And why not a job here at Harte’s? She liked the look of this grand store. No, it was more like an emporium, she decided, and somehow it had a connection to her gran, however tenuous that was.

So why not go up to the management offices and apply for a position here? There was nothing to stop her, was there? No, nothing at all, a voice whispered in her head; go for it, girl. Evan smiled to herself. Glynnis would have said exactly that, and she would have added, ‘You’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain.’ Another smile flitted across her face as she thought of her grandmother.

If she was absolutely truthful with herself, Evan knew she had seized on her grandmother’s dying words, had taken them to heart – in order to leave New York and her family. She loved them all, most especially her father, but she needed to be on her own. She needed to be free.

London had beckoned her, suddenly beguiling, and she was here. And here she would stay, at least for a while. And you never knew what was going to happen. As her gran had always said, ‘Life is full of surprises, Evan, make the most of the good ones.’ Perhaps her future was here after all, she thought, her face brightening.

Evan stepped out of the elevator on the ninth floor and found herself in a small lobby. To her left was a blank wall, to her right a pair of wooden swinging doors with glass windows set in the upper panels.

Only way to go, she thought, as she turned to her right and pushed through the doors into the vast corridor. Slowly she walked along, looking from side to side at the various doors, reading the different names on each of them.

Halfway down the corridor, arched alcoves on each side broke up the flow of doors, and Evan paused, stood staring at a large oil painting hanging above a narrow side table in one of the alcoves. She stepped closer, marvelling at the beauty of the woman in the portrait, who had red hair shot through with gold that came to a widow’s peak on her forehead. She had expressive eyes, very green, and small hands clasped in her lap.

The woman wore a pale-blue silk dress, with an emerald bow pinned on one shoulder and large, square-cut emerald earrings on her ears. The ring on her left hand was a large emerald which matched the others. There was a lovely warm smile on her face and her eyes were alive and sparkling with intelligence. She looked to be about fifty years old in the painting.

Evan knew exactly who it was before she leaned forward and read the small engraved plaque attached to the elaborate gold picture frame. Emma Harte: 1889–1970.

Momentarily dumbfounded, she read the plaque again. And finally it sank in … Emma Harte had been dead for thirty-one years. Surely her grandmother had known this, if they had once been friends? Someone would have informed her. So what had made Gran utter those words on her deathbed? What had possessed her? Evan shook her head, more baffled than ever, not understanding what her gran had been trying to accomplish.

After several seconds staring at the painting, Evan turned away. It was then she noticed the second painting hanging in the alcove on the opposite wall. As she stepped up to it she thought the woman in the portrait seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her. The plaque on this simply gave the name of the subject: Paula McGill Harte O’Neill. Emma’s granddaughter, Evan murmured under her breath, looking at it more closely.

She studied the portrait for a few minutes, very taken with it, and struck by the dominant widow’s peak obviously inherited from Emma. But here the resemblance stopped. Paula O’Neill’s hair was jet black, brushed back and worn in a pageboy style that ended at her strong and determined jawline. Her complexion was pale as ivory, and she had a broad brow, high cheekbones, dimples, and large expressive eyes the colour of pansies. Truly beautiful eyes, Evan thought – unusual – and she then decided Paula looked about forty-five in the portrait. She was striking in a dark, exotic way. In the painting she was wearing a silver-grey silk dress and Emma Harte’s emeralds were very much in evidence.

Standing totally still, Evan discovered she was completely mesmerized by this painting; it was extraordinary, an accomplished portrait of—

‘Can I help you?’

Evan almost jumped out of her skin, startled by a male voice, which had broken the silence in the corridor. She swung around, came face to face with a tall, good-looking young man.

A surprised look was flashing across his face as he stared at her and then he said again, ‘Do you need some assistance?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. I’m looking for the management offices.’

He nodded. ‘They’re at the end of the corridor. I’m heading in that direction, I’ll show you where they are.’ Stepping closer to her, he held out his hand.

Evan took it, smiled up at him.

‘Gideon Harte,’ he announced, shaking her hand.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed and automatically her eyes swung to Emma’s portrait. ‘And that’s your grandmother!’

‘No, it isn’t, actually,’ he answered. ‘That’s my great-grandmother.’

‘I see.’

‘And you are?’

‘Oh excuse me, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Evan Hughes.’

‘A Welsh name. A boy’s Welsh name, to be precise,’ he responded.

‘My grandmother was Welsh, and she told her son, my father, that she expected him to name his first child Evan. She was sure I was going to be a boy. I turned out to be a girl.’

‘So I can see,’ he said, giving her a swift appraising look.

‘But now I think the name Evan is used for a boy or a girl,’ she went on, ignoring his gaze, and then very gently extricated her hand from his.

He said, ‘Let’s go along to the management offices,’ and began to walk slowly down the corridor.

Evan fell into step with him.

After a moment’s silence, Gideon said, ‘You’re an American, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. From New York.’

‘Great city.’ He glanced at her. ‘And are you in London on business?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. I decided to come to London for a year or so,’ she quickly invented. ‘And that’s why I’m here at Harte’s today. I’m looking for a job.’

‘Are you now? In what area?’

‘Fashion. I studied design in New York, and worked in the fashion departments of several stores. I also did a year’s apprenticeship with Arnold Scaasi, the American couturier.’

He nodded, seemed about to say something, then merely cleared his throat. ‘Here’s where you want to be … Human Resources,’ he explained, indicating the door. ‘But Miss Hughes …’ He stopped, cleared his throat again, and then said, ‘Do you have a work permit?’

‘No, I don’t, but I don’t need one. I was born in London. I have an English passport and dual nationality.’

‘Well then, that’s fine,’ he answered, giving her a broad smile.

Opening the door for her, he ushered her into a large office. A young woman seated at a desk looked up as they entered.

‘Oh hello, Mr Harte,’ she said.

‘Hello, Jennifer. This is Miss Evan Hughes. She’s come to apply for a job at Harte’s. In fashion.’ Looking at Evan, he added, ‘I wish you lots of luck, Miss Hughes.’

‘Thank you, Mr Harte,’ she answered, smiling up at him again. ‘Thanks for everything.’