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.
‘You’re staring at me, Sarah!’
She laughed. ‘Admiringly so, cousin dear. I was thinking how really handsome you look these days. And much more distinguished than when you were merely a pretty boy, a sort of poor woman’s matinee idol’
He grinned at her. ‘You do have a quaint way of putting it, Sarah. Now, I haven’t asked, but how’re Yves and the delectable Chloe?’
‘He’s painting madly, and sends his best, by the way. He’s in the south, at our house in Mougins for a few months. He has a big show coming up and he needs to complete a number of canvases. As for your god-daughter, she’s just wonderful.’
‘You’ve been lucky, Sarah darling,’ he said, and made a face, then added ruefully, ‘Luckier than me.’
‘No one special in your life, Jonny?’
‘I have a nice girlfriend in Yorkshire’ He broke off. ‘I don’t think I’d better say another word about Ellie. Every time I boast about a woman she turns out to be a dud.’
‘You’ve just had one bad experience,’ she answered, and pushed her plate away, leant against the back of the chair, patting her mouth with her napkin.
‘Getting back to the store and the inhabitants therein,’ Jonathan said, ‘I do want to remind you that they’re all as mad as hatters. So you mustn’t become entangled with them ever again.’
Sarah stared at him and frowned, her auburn brows pulling together in a jagged line. ‘What do you mean? I don’t think I quite understand what you’re getting at.’
‘They’re bonkers, darling. Just think about it, cousins marrying cousins ad infinitum. Relatives committing suicide, or covering up murders in the bogs of Ireland—’
‘My God, Jonathan, that’s not true!’ she interrupted him, her voice rising shrilly. Sarah blew out air, and shook her head. ‘Your imagination’s getting the better of you.’
‘Then there’s that tendency towards immorality…Aunt Elizabeth and her six husbands, not to mention all of her lovers, most of them members of the bloody British government.’
‘I’m not really sure that the latter is true,’ Sarah protested.
‘It is! Dad told me all about it, and don’t forget he was a Member of Parliament most of his adult life.’
‘Yes, I do remember,’ she murmured, suddenly wondering what had started him off on this rampage about the family.
‘Do you want a pudding?’ Jonathan asked, after their plates had been cleared away, glancing at the dessert trolley nearby. ‘Gosh, they’ve got bread-and-butter pudding. Ugh, not for me. Reminds me of Eton.’
Sarah nodded. ‘I think I’ll just have herb tea. I’m off coffee, especially in the evening.’
‘I still like a cup of coffee after dinner, sort of settles me down.’ Jonathan threw her a small smile, motioned to the waiter and ordered for them both. Then, turning to face Sarah again, he went on, ‘Then there’s the tendency the Hartes have for vendettas: first Emma had one with the Fairleys for years, then Edwina had one with her for years. And only God knows who they’ve got a vendetta with at the moment.’
‘Probably nobody,’ she shot back succinctly, her eyes narrowing.
‘Maybe you’re right, but there’s a lot of gossip about a newly appointed executive.’
‘Who?’
‘Her name’s Evan…Evan Hughes. And she’s—’
‘Really a boy,’ Sarah cut in, smiling. ‘Evan is a Welsh boy’s name.’
‘We all know that, my dear. This Evan is an American. And she’s the spitting image of our dear cousin Paula McGill Harte Amory Fairley O’Neill, to give her her full name.’
‘She is?’ Sarah made a moue, looking at him curiously. ‘Is she a relative?’
‘Nobody knows. She arrived as if from nowhere, was taken in by Linnet when she came looking for a job at Harte’s, and now everyone’s saying she’s a McGill.’
‘A McGill! That’s…preposterous!’
‘No, it’s not, Sarah. Think for a moment. What if the sainted Paul had an American mistress, who gave birth to his child, who grew up and gave birth herself to Evan. Or it could be a boy who was Paul McGill’s son, who married and had a child…it’s a real possibility. After all, he spent a lot of time in New York without Emma when he was building Silex Oil into a major corporation.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I have a…source, shall we say?’
‘Don’t you mean a spy?’
‘Call it what you will, my dear.’
‘Why are you digging up all this old family history tonight, Jonathan, and then relating the current gossip at the store to me? To what purpose?’
His face was very bland as he smiled at her off-handedly, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know…Frankly, I thought you’d be interested to hear about the new executive who looks so much like your old rival.’
‘You’re not planning to make any crazy moves against Paula, are you, Jonathan?’ Sarah asked, giving him a piercing look through sharp and intelligent green eyes. ‘Because if you are…I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
‘How can I do anything to Paula? She’s got the business buttoned up like the vicar’s little sister’s knickers. And you know that from twenty years ago, when I almost sneaked the stores out of her grasp.’
‘I know she’s made everything very secure. But you and I still get treated properly when it comes to Harte Enterprises. We do get our dividends on time, and Emily’s run the company very well. We make a lot of money.’
‘Ah yes, she has indeed, and yes we do,’ he acknowledged.
Sarah sat back, studying him quietly as he waved elegant fingers at a nearby waiter, who came hurrying over to take an order for a Calvados. Her gut instinct told her that Jonathan was plotting something against Paula, although what that was she couldn’t possibly imagine. Since business didn’t come into it, then it had to be personal. Unexpectedly, Sarah felt slightly bilious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Paula O’Neill sat at the small, kidney-shaped Georgian desk in a
corner of her bedroom at Pennistone Royal. Her face was thoughtful as she turned the pages inside a manila folder, studying them carefully. After ten minutes she closed the folder and set it to one side, knowing that she would find nothing of any consequence there, even if she read it ten more times.
Sitting back in the chair, she gazed out of the bay window, her eyes on a wooded hillside opposite. In spring it was covered with daffodils, which gleamed in golden streams rippling under the trees in the morning sunlight.
Wordsworth’s poem leapt into her mind…‘and all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils, beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze,’ she said out loud to the empty room. It had been her grandmother’s favourite poem, and it had been Grandy who had planted the hundreds of daffodils over there under the trees on the hill. She herself had kept them going over the years. Now, in early May, the bluebells were out, creating another stunning carpet of colour.
Paula let her thoughts drift for a few minutes and then pulled herself back to the present. Opening one of the drawers in her desk, she placed the folder inside, then locked it. There was no evidence in the papers she had been reading to show that Jonathan Ainsley was plotting against her, yet she knew that he was. Even though the private investigator had turned up nothing, it was an instinctive feeling, lodged in the very marrow of her bones. And she trusted it implicitly. What he would do, when he would do it, she did not know, but he would move against her. Since he could not strike at her through the Harte holdings or the chain of department stores, it was obvious to her that he would strike at her through her personal life…but she could not conceive how.
Life has a funny way of coming at you, she thought. Who could have imagined that Jonathan Ainsley would return to England to live after all those years in Hong Kong and Paris. She did not believe he had come back out of concern for his father; it wasn’t in his nature to play the devoted son, therefore there had to be an ulterior motive. In the inner recesses of her mind, Jonathan’s voice echoed back to her. ‘I’ll get you, Paula Fairley. I’ll bloody well get you for this,’ he had threatened all those years ago. She had never forgotten his words…now they had come back to haunt her.
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