Emma’s Secret

When Evan had told her father she was considering going to London for a year, he had been instantly enthusiastic about it. But almost immediately she had noticed the look of sorrow enter his eyes, saw a sudden dulling of their brightness, and she had realized at once that he, above all others, would be the one to miss her the most. Her mother wouldn’t miss her. Marietta hadn’t even noticed her absence after she had left home and moved to New York, and that had been nearly ten years ago.

But on that day in the middle of December she had quickly backtracked, had told her father that perhaps she wouldn’t go after all. But he had insisted she take this sabbatical, as he called it, reminding her that he had done the same thing himself over thirty years ago, had gone back to visit London, where he had been born during the Second World War. It was at this time that he had met her mother, then an art student studying at the Royal College of Art. Marietta Glenn. A beautiful blonde girl from California with whom he had fallen madly in love. He had married Marietta in London. ‘And don’t forget, you were born there,’ he had reminded Evan that particular afternoon.

After they had talked about London and her impending trip, Evan had then confided her grandmother’s last words to her father. He had been just as startled and baffled as she had been. ‘But Emma Harte must be very old now. I vaguely remember my mother once saying that she had met her during the war, just before she married her wonderful GI Joe, as she called my dad, and came to America. As you well know by now … it’s family history. I doubt my mother’s name will mean anything to her, Evan, so don’t be disappointed, honey, if you don’t get a reaction.’

She had promised him that she would not let anything disappoint her on this trip to England, and she meant it. Her father had hugged her and told her how important she was to him. He had then explained that she would have no problem working in London because she had dual nationality, as he did. Born in England to a British-born American father and an American mother meant that she was a legal citizen on both sides of the Atlantic.

Finally a date had been set for her departure and her father had made all of the arrangements with his old pal George, and he had gone on to say that she should think of George and Arlette as family, but without infringing on their time or abusing their good will. ‘Have fun, and most of all be happy, Evan,’ Owen had said with a big smile, hugging her to him again. ‘Life’s too short for misery.’

That day she had thought what a wonderfully courageous and positive man her father was. He was cheerful, and had an even temper most of the time, despite the burden of her mother, a woman who might as well be dead for all she cared about living. What had gone wrong in her mother’s psyche? How often Evan had asked herself that, for years now, but she had no answers for herself. There were women, she knew, who enjoyed being ill, but surely no woman could enjoy this. There were so many things Evan didn’t understand. After all, her mother had doctors, and they prescribed medication all the time, and her mother took them. Yet she was still wrapped in a cloak of depression. Or was she?

Evan had often asked herself if her mother faked it at times, in order to retreat from her husband, from them all, from responsibility, from the world. What an awful thing, if that were true.

I want to live my life to the fullest, Evan thought. I want to follow my dreams, fulfil my ambitions. I want a career in fashion, just as I always dreamt of having. I want to meet a wonderful man, get married, have children. I want a life. My own life.

Evan, curled up under the duvets, half dozed, half drifted with her thoughts.

Her father had wondered out loud if she would be happy in London when they had discussed her impending trip in December. She wasn’t sure, but it was worth giving it a try. That was why she had come: to meet a challenge, seek her destiny.

This was the city of her birth, and she had lived here until she was almost four. It was then that her parents had returned to New York; soon after they had settled in Connecticut, where Elayne and Angharad had been adopted, just a year apart.

And it was there that Owen Hughes had raised his family in a rambling old house in Kent, sometimes with the help of his mother, whilst launching himself into his own antique business. He was following in the footsteps of his father; Richard Hughes had taught his son everything he knew, and Owen had studied on his own, learning more, enhancing his knowledge to the fullest.

It was her grandparents who had brought her back to London when she was twelve years old. Her grandfather, Richard, had been coming to London on a buying trip, and he had invited Glynnis and Evan to accompany him.

Part of the time she and her grandmother had gone with him in search of beautiful antiques, for his shop on East Tenth Street, making trips to the country towns just outside London, or driving down to Gloucestershire and Sussex in search of all manner of precious things. It had been an adventure for her and she had loved every moment.

The two of them, she and her gran, were sometimes alone, when Grandfather was off making important transactions with other dealers. It was then that Glynnis had taken her out to see Windsor Castle, Hampton Court and Kew Gardens. And she had learned about British history, especially Welsh history, from her grandmother, who knew a lot and was articulate in the telling of it all.

It had been lovely weather that particular summer, and the three of them had enjoyed the time they spent together. Her grandfather loved the theatre, and so they had gone to see plays in the West End, and one night they had even had supper at the Savoy Hotel, in the elegant dining room overlooking the River Thames. Another evening, after a play, Grandfather had taken them to Rules, the old and very famous restaurant which her grandparents had favoured for years. These treats had been special for a girl of twelve, and she had never forgotten them.

After almost two weeks in London they had crossed the English Channel to France, where her grandfather had hoped to find other interesting items and small treasures for the shop. He had been an expert in English Georgian furniture, and had also specialized in English and European china. That was the real reason for their trip to France: the quest for rare porcelains in perfect condition.

It was from his father that Owen had learned all about English and European porcelains, as well as furniture. ‘I studied at the knee of the master,’ he often said, and he was now a leading expert and dealer in the field today. Over the years Owen had made something of a name for himself as an antiquarian; he frequently gave lectures at his shop, and people came from all over to hear him speak, and to learn.

Evan knew how much her father loved antiques, and she was well aware that his work had been his great saviour over the years, especially when they were growing up and their mother was incapacitated.

Angharad, the youngest, had shown a talent for spotting ‘the good stuff’, as her grandmother had called it. Knowing that she had what he called ‘a good eye’, Owen had taken his daughter into the business when she was old enough, and she worked with him at the New Milford shop for part of the week, and on Sundays.

Elayne, who was the middle child, was an artist and painted very well, Evan thought, and she had a small studio near the family home in Kent. Her paintings were shown in a gallery their father had created within his New Milford shop, and sold very well. People liked her evocative landscapes and sun-filled beach scenes, most especially her mother-and-child studies, which touched a chord in everyone.

In a certain way Evan had thought Glynnis was her best friend when she was growing up, and especially when she was in her late teens. She had gone to live with her grandparents in Manhattan at the age of seventeen, and after six months, when she became eighteen, she had enrolled in the Fashion Institute of Technology on West 27th Street, where she had studied fashion design, her true vocation.

Now, suddenly, her thoughts went to her grandmother’s will. She and her father had been taken aback by it. Glynnis had left almost four hundred thousand dollars, and the amount had taken their breath away momentarily.

‘Where did it all come from?’ Evan had asked her father, once they had left the lawyer’s office a few days after Glynnis’s funeral.

Owen had shrugged, looking nonplussed. ‘Damned if I know, honey, but my mother was always frugal, and also a good businesswoman. She kept my father’s books at the shop for years and she had a good head for figures, he told me. I know she liked to dabble in the stock market a bit. Over the years she did quite well, but your gran was prudent, cautious, and she also tended to scrimp and scrape. I guess that’s where her money came from – her own thrift and prudence.’

Her father had received the bulk of the money and his mother’s apartment, which Glynnis had inherited from Richard after his death several years earlier. There had been nice bequests to Elayne and Angharad, and she herself had received the sum of thirty thousand dollars, much more than the other two girls. But she was the eldest grandchild, and they had understood. Their grandmother’s few pieces of jewellery and small trinkets had been left to her sisters and herself. Very generously, Glynnis had passed on several of the really good pieces to their mother, obviously not wanting to leave Marietta out, or slight her daughter-in-law.

Follow your dreams, Owen had said to Evan. She would try. Certainly her grandmother had made that possible. Evan had been able to come to London under her own steam, without asking her father for money, and for this she was grateful.

Her grandmother’s dying words again reverberated in her head, and she couldn’t help wondering why Emma Harte was her future. What had Glynnis meant by that? Evan had no idea. And she wouldn’t know until next week, when she was well enough to go out.

Rousing herself, Evan got up, went over to the chest of drawers near the fireplace. On top of it she had arranged a selection of family photographs. She picked up the one of her grandparents and herself when she was twelve, taken here in London on the famous trip.

She stared at the photograph for a few moments, studying it. In the background were the gates of Buckingham Palace. It had been a sunny day and she was squinting into the sun, and looked sedate in a plaid skirt, a white blouse, white ankle socks and patent-leather shoes gleaming in the sunlight, their shine very visible in the picture.

She half smiled at the youthful image of herself, thinking she looked so gangly and awkward with her long legs and skinny shoulders. Her hair had been cut in bangs, a straight dark line across her forehead, and the hairstyle did not suit her. She recognized that now, but she had known it then as well.

Her grandfather, tall, straight backed, almost military in his bearing, was wearing a dark blazer and grey trousers, and looked very smart with his pale blue shirt and navy tie. His hair was pepper-and-salt, and his light grey eyes twinkled in his lean, craggy face. Still a handsome man, just as he had been in his younger days.

Her grandmother was quite amazing looking in the photograph. She had been sixty-five at the time, and she had stopped tinting her hair long before. It was a cloud of silver around her still-youthful face, and the blueness of her eyes appeared very sharp in the picture. That wide smile Evan had known and loved all of her life was in place on Glynnis’s face, which as usual reflected her loving nature.

Grandparents were important, she was fully aware of that. It was only through them that you really knew who you were, where you came from, what you were all about. In a sense, great-grandparents were of even more importance, for what you gleaned about them gave you considerably more insight into your grandparents, your parents, and yourself. You carried their genes, their blood, and also their hopes and dreams and aspirations. All of these elements were there in you, inherited, flowing down through the bloodlines over several generations. Knowing about your family background gave you a sense of direction, and of purpose, she thought, and told you so much about who and what you could become. It gave you and your life meaning.

It was because of her grandmother that she was here in London. And next week she would come face to face with her future on the day she went to Harte’s in Knightsbridge. If her grandmother was to be believed … She had faith in Glynnis; she had always had faith in her.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_08ff6e64-11fa-580f-8ba5-f5defd5ff34b)

Once lunch with her grandfather was over, Linnet made her way to the attics in the East Wing of Pennistone Royal. She had been working up there at weekends for several months, and had almost finished cataloguing Emma’s couture clothes.

After opening the door with her key, she stepped inside and switched on the light, then stood for a moment, glancing around, a smile of pleasure flitting across her face.

These attics were special to her, more than ever since she had arranged everything the way she wanted. What made them unique was their size; they were not at all like the small, low-ceilinged rooms usually found under the eaves of most houses.

Spacious, with fairly high ceilings, they had been remodelled by her great-grandmother many, many years before. Emma had had the walls lined with cedar, the floors covered with carpeting stretching wall to wall, and she had installed excellent lighting, comparable to that used in the Harte stores. Cupboards with deep shelves had been specifically designed to hold boxes of varying sizes, where all manner of things could be safely kept free of dust. Emma had created a series of splendid storage rooms for all of her clothes, and for fashion accessories such as shoes, hats and handbags, and costume jewellery as well.

As she moved forward, Linnet couldn’t help congratulating herself on the reorganization she and her cousin India Standish had done in the last few months. When her mother had asked her to sort out the muddle in the attics, it had not taken her very long to realize there was no real muddle. The basic problem was that many racks had been pushed close together and filled with innumerable dresses, gowns, and all kinds of outfits and ensembles.

She and India had decided there was only one way to organize the clothes, once the racks had been properly spaced out. They did it by designer name rather than by category of clothing, as her mother and Aunt Emily had done some years before. Designers now had a rack, or racks, with his or her name posted in bold letters.

It had always been something of a wonder to Linnet that so much had been kept. Even as a child she had liked to roam amongst the racks of clothes, admiring the beading and the embroidery, touching the beautiful fabrics – the chiffons, satins, silks and velvets.

Her great-grandmother had had perfect taste, and everything had been kept in excellent condition by her, and later by Paula and Emily. Some years earlier her mother had installed air-conditioning, which was kept on low the whole year round, so that there was total climate control to preserve the clothing.

Normally the ensembles were kept in dust-proof, zip-up garment bags made of cotton, but she and India had taken many of the outfits out of the bags in order to make decisions about them. She glanced at them now as she walked along an aisle in between the racks; it struck her that she could use almost all of her great-grandmother’s clothes in her retrospective, especially since she was covering eighty years of fashion.

Emma’s ensembles dated back to the 1920s and featured many great designers. In particular she had favoured three French designers in their hey day: Pierre Balmain, Cristóbal Balenciaga and Christian Dior. But she had bought from Vionnet and Chanel in Paris; Hardy Amies in London; the French-American designer Pauline Trigère, based in New York, and the Russian designer Valentina. Her couture house had also been in New York until her retirement in 1957. The clothing aside, there were all those wonderful accessories. It was an enormous treasure trove of elegance and style.

Linnet knew she could easily finish the last of the cataloguing tomorrow. Now she had a specific purpose – finding a missing evening gown which her aunt had told her about last week. Emily had discovered it years ago in Emma’s Belgrave Square flat, and had used it in a display of fashion Paula had once put on in the early 70s, which her mother had called Fashion Fantasia.

‘It’s a must, you have to use it,’ Emily had told Linnet. ‘It’s really not lost, just mislaid. I’ll bet you anything it’s in the attics at Pennistone Royal, since it’s not in London. Look for a very large flat box, a dress box, and I think it has a Harte’s label on it, rather faded. I found it in that box and I put it back there, as far as I remember. As you well know, beaded dresses are heavy, the weight of the beads pulls the fabric down and makes a mess of the shape. So I know it’s not hanging in a dress bag.’

Emily had gone on to describe the dress: ‘A sheath of pale blue chiffon covered all over with thousands of tiny bugle beads of pale blue and emerald green. It’s simply gorgeous. Oh, and there’s a pair of emerald-green silk evening shoes by Pinet of Paris.’

When Linnet came to the end of the first aisle of racks, she headed for the long work table she used for different jobs, and put her shopping basket of tools down on it. Dragging the stepladder closer to one of the tall, built-in cupboards, she opened its doors and climbed the steps. As she leaned forward and pulled out a large box, a number of others tumbled to the floor. Backing down the ladder, she put the box she was carrying on the table. It was very heavy, and when she lifted the lid she saw it contained lots of shoe boxes neatly lined up next to each other.