Emma’s Secret. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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.’
Gideon