by Rosie Clarke
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Rosie Clarke
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Sneak Preview
Copyright
About the Book
The war is over, but Emma’s battles continue at home…
Emma Reece is slowly adjusting to her husband’s return from the war, even though his appalling injuries mean their marriage is in name only.
But then tragedy strikes, and Emma finds she cannot turn to Jack Harvey, her long-standing friend and one-time lover – for while he still loves her, he is now a married man…
The final instalment in the ‘Emma’ trilogy, from Rosie Clarke, the author of The Downstairs Maid
(Note: previously published as The Hearts that Hold by Linda Sole)
About the Author
Rosie Clarke was born in Swindon. Her family moved to Cambridgeshire when she was nine, but she left at the age of fifteen to work as a hairdresser in her father’s business. She was married at eighteen and ran her own hairdressing business for some years.
Rosie loves to write and has penned over one hundred novels under different pseudonyms. She writes about the beauty of nature and sometimes puts a little into her books, though they are mostly about love and romance.
Also by Rosie Clarke:
The Downstairs Maid
Emma
Emma’s War
Chapter 1
I heard the clatter of noisy feet down the stairs and went out into the hall to investigate just as James and Lizzy arrived, their nurse following close behind. It was a glorious summer day, sunlight filtering through the stained glass of the front door, sending a shower of rainbow colours across the pale carpet.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Reece,’ Sarah Miller apologized, the sparkle of laughter in her eyes. ‘They’re excited because of the school concert. I hope they didn’t disturb you?’
‘I haven’t really started to work yet,’ I said, kissing and hugging both my son and Lizzy with equal warmth. It didn’t matter to me that Lizzy was the daughter of my friend Sheila. During the years she had lived with us, she had become as dear to me as my own child. ‘But I must start in a moment. Sol and I have a lot to get through this morning.’
‘You are coming to the concert this afternoon?’ James demanded, a hint of mutiny in his expressive, dark chocolate eyes as he struggled free of my embrace. Although charming and very loveable, my son had a forceful personality and was fond of his own way. ‘You promised, Mum. I’ve told everyone you’re definitely coming this time.’
‘I promise faithfully,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there at half-past two.’
‘James is singing all on his own,’ Lizzy said, her large, soulful eyes solemn and awed. James was Lizzy’s hero, and I believed she loved him more than anyone else in the world. ‘Don’t you think he’s ever so brave, Emmie?’
‘Yes, darling. Very brave and very clever.’
I looked at my son with pride. He was eight years old now, a sturdy, healthy boy with the promise of startlingly good looks when he was older. His slightly curling hair was more black than brown, and his cheeks tinged with rose, but there was a stubborn jut to his chin.
I believed he would break hearts one day – and that was hardly surprising, His father had been both charming and handsome when we first met. I had thought him very like one of the film stars I had admired so much in those days. I had been very young and immature then.
James did not look particularly like Paul Greenslade, but sometimes there was an expression or a frown that reminded me of my first lover.
James was an active, energetic child. However, his school had discovered a talent none of us had ever dreamed he possessed. He had the most beautiful, clear soprano voice, the kind of pure sound that brought tears to the eyes. He looked so innocent when he sang in the school choir – like a beautiful angel – which was very misleading!
My son was more devil than angel!
Both he had Lizzy were forever into some kind of mischief, and I wasn’t sure who was the instigator of their naughty escapades. The two were forever whispering into each other’s ears and giggling at their own secrets, which the grown-ups were seldom allowed to share. James appeared to be the leader, but Lizzy was never far behind.
Although in no way related, they looked as though they might be brother and sister, for Lizzy’s colouring was much like my son’s, though her hair had developed rich highlights as she grew older. She was, however, a beautiful child, her smiles full of a naughty but wistful charm that almost always gained her her own way with less effort than my son exerted for the same reason.
She too would break hearts when she was older!
‘Off you go, you two,’ I said, giving them a little push towards the door. ‘I’m sure it’s all going to be lovely. After the concert, we’ll go out to tea.’
I smiled as the children and Sarah left the house together. Sarah was genuinely fond of them both. They tried her patience sorely, but she was an attractive, helpful, good-humoured woman, well able to manage them, and I never needed to worry when she was with them.
She was much kinder than their previous nanny. I had had to dismiss her after an incident which had caused Lizzy to fall down the nursery stairs and break her arm. Fortunately, no lasting damage had been done, but I had always felt guilty that I had been too busy to notice that Nanny was ill-treating Lizzy.
I returned to the front parlour after the children and Sarah had gone. It was an elegant, spacious room decorated in shades of green and gold, but the hangings had faded over the years and some of the upholstery needed re-covering. I had been reluctant to do anything, because it had been Margaret’s favourite room, and even though she had been dead for nearly three years now I did not want to make changes. I knew Sol felt the same way about his late wife’s parlour. We had both loved her very much, and we still missed her: changing her room would seem almost a betrayal of her memory.
Sol was poring over the papers and some sketches of Dior’s New Look we’d had specially brought over from Paris; it was an exciting design that was already creating waves in the press. After the Utility fashions we had all been forced to wear during the war, which were so plain and skimpy, the softer, fuller look seemed like a miracle.
Even after some of the clothing restrictions had been lifted in 1944 the Utility label had still clung on. The quality was reliable, and anything not covered by the label usually needed extra coupons, so that not everyone could afford the luxury of choosing such items.
We had hoped that when the war finally ended, we would see the abolition of rationing, but in some instances it seemed almost worse now than during the war. Many people were becoming very angry with the government for not getting the country back on an even keel before this. In Paris some of the fashion houses had continued to function right through the war, and the French designers had clearly decided that the women of Europe had had enough of austerity fashions, and in America, where a certain amount of rationing was still in force, things were much better than here.
‘Children get off all right?’ Sol asked, glancing up as I sat opposite him. ‘It’s James’s concert this afternoon, isn’t it? I should have liked to come, but I shan’t have the time.’
‘That’s
a pity,’ I said. ‘It would have been nice if you could have come too, Sol.’
Sol and I were partners in the wholesale clothing business we ran from the Portobello Road, but we were also close friends. He and his wife had taken me into their home and their hearts when I first came to London, and despite all that had happened during the war years, and Margaret’s death, I was still living in his home.
‘What do you think of this New Look then?’ Sol asked. ‘Everyone seems to be going mad over it – but what is your honest opinion?’
‘I like it,’ I said, picking up a sheaf of papers. ‘Let me study it for a while.’
The new fashion was certainly very different and very attractive. Dior was just one of the French designers making news at the moment, but his New Look was grabbing the headlines.
Fashion was changing quickly this year. I rather liked the designs of Claire McCardell, who had created what was known as the American Look during the war and was now as much admired as some of the Paris designers. She had been the first to use denim for dresses, a fashion which I thought rather exciting, but which hadn’t as yet really caught on here.
My friend Jane Melcher had sent me some of Claire McCardell’s designs – those she presented for Townley, the New York ready-to-wear manufacturer – as a personal gift, after she returned to America at the end of 1944.
Jane and I kept in touch regularly, and I got most of my information on the American ready-to-wear market from my friend. Her letters, together with pictures from magazines, and a few samples, had given me a lot of ideas we could use in the showroom. Our own range was now much more substantial than it had been even before the war.
This had helped me a great deal in setting up my small chain of retail dress shops, because the profits I was able to make on direct purchases from our own workshop were quite substantial. I was becoming a woman of some property. As well as the three separate businesses in my home town of March, I had three small shops in London now – which I had bought outright – and recently I had begun to make plans to expand by taking on a concession in a large department store.
‘I suppose we shall have to try and copy it,’ Sol said as I was silent for longer than he thought necessary. ‘Are you going to stock it in your shops, Emma?’
‘Not this expensive version,’ I said. ‘But something more affordable I expect. Annie said she had a woman in the other day asking when we would have it in.’
‘Annie … she’s Sheila’s cousin, isn’t she? You put her in charge of one of the shops recently, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Now that her children are so much older, she can work more hours, and I know I can trust her. That shop does better than the other two.’
Sol nodded. He had helped with the finance of the London shops initially, though when my share of the money he had invested abroad before the war came through, I was able to repay him. I had received a cheque for thirty-five thousand dollars, more money than I had ever expected to earn in my life.
And that was due to Jack, of course. Jack … oh, Jack, my darling. Where are you today? Are you thinking of me? I think of you every day, every night of my life.
I was still in love with Jack Harvey – the wealthy American who had been my lover for a short time during the war – though it was years since I had seen or spoken to him.
I had kept his letters and gifts, and I still took them out of the bedside cabinet where they were stored sometimes, but I had grown accustomed to the sense of loss I’d felt when I’d sent Jack away, and it no longer hurt in quite the same way. I missed him, but I could think of him now without pain, or at least only a very little.
Jack had sent the money my investment had earned direct to Sol, because we had quarrelled bitterly when I refused to abandon my invalid husband and go to America with him. Such terrible, cruel things had been said, things that I regretted, but that was all behind me now. I had thrown myself into my work – and into helping my husband begin a new life.
‘You look very thoughtful, Emma?’ Sol looked at me over the top of his gold-rimmed reading glasses. ‘Still thinking about your answer – or are you miles away?’
‘I was just thinking of Jon … wondering how he was getting on. He sounded a bit down when he rang last night …’
‘You worry too much, my dear.’
He was right, of course, but I couldn’t help it.
Jon had been severely injured during the war, and from the first moment I’d heard that he had been found alive, but badly wounded, I had been determined to bring him home as soon as he was able to leave hospital.
Although Jon had spent several periods of a few weeks at a time with me in London during the last two years, he was back in hospital again at the moment for a further operation. His recovery had taken much longer than anyone had ever expected, because Jon had been very ill on two separate occasions, and the long process of restoring some sort of normality to his poor, burned face had had to be postponed to give him time to rebuild his strength. However, his stay in the hospital should be short this time, and then he would be home for good, all the months of pain he had endured behind him.
So far Jon had seemed content to spend the time he was allowed out of hospital at Sol’s house in London. He had once spoken to me of a wish to go and live in France, but had not mentioned the idea again. I had not pushed the idea. It suited me to live in town, because of my partnership with Sol – something that had gone from strength to strength since Margaret’s death.
The death of Sol’s wife, who had been my dearest friend, had brought Sol and I even closer together. It would have been hard to define our relationship to a stranger. We could have been father and daughter, but there was something different about the bond that held us – we were more like twins, though we had no blood ties and were far apart in age and appearance. We suited each other, our ideas about work and fashion complemented each other’s, and we thought alike in many ways. Both of us liked to work for work’s sake. We enjoyed success, shared the same jokes, the same triumphs and disappointments.
After the war, we had decided that we would expand our workshops. We now had two more besides the one Sol had owned before I came to work for him, and they took all Sol’s time and energy. I had offered him a partnership in the shops, but he had thought about it and then declined.
‘I’ll leave that part of it to you, Emma,’ he had told me. ‘It’s best if I stick to this end, but I want you to be a part of the expansion of the workshops. I need you, your energy and drive. You’ve got more ideas than me for what’s needed these days.’
It was the perfect combination of our talents. Sol had so much experience in the trade, but I had youth and enthusiasm – and a hunger for success.
I was better off than I had ever been in my life. Money was no longer a problem, but I wanted more than that. I was searching for something, though I could not explain even to myself what I wanted. To the outsider, I would appear to have everything: a husband who loved me, children to love and care for, and a comfortable life. Yet there was a need in me, a restlessness … perhaps simply a wish to find my own way in life, not to rely too much emotionally on others, because I did not wish to be hurt again.
Sol was looking at me, an anxious expression in his eyes.
I knew I was fortunate in having Sol as my friend. Without his help and encouragement I would never have come this far.
Solomon Gould was a well-respected name in the clothing trade, and he could cost a new dress in his head within seconds. I could do it, but I needed a pencil and paper, and Sol could usually beat me both in terms of speed and price. He knew every way there was of saving an inch of material. He’d had enough practice during the war, when we were only allowed a certain amount of cloth for each garment.
Things were much better now, and our businesses were flourishing. The only real problem we’d had recently was finding the time to get round all we had to do. Which was why my son was so anxious about his school concert. I had let him down the last time.
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ I said and smiled. ‘I’m just dreaming and I do have an answer for you. I was just thinking about the way things were – but I’m ready now.’
‘Fire away then, Emma! What’s the verdict?’
‘It’s romantic,’ I said to Sol as I flicked through the photographs and sketches, applying my mind to my work at last. ‘Really feminine. Look at those soft shoulders, the narrow waists and lovely full skirts – way below the calf. I would love to be able to reproduce it exactly, but we shall have to modify it, of course.’ I looked at him. ‘How soon do you think we could get our version into production?’
‘Within a few hours if we dare. The government isn’t going to like it, Emma. I know they eased the restrictions on our use of cloth, but they won’t be pleased if all the manufacturers bring this style in.’
‘If we don’t, everyone else will. The government will have to give way this time. Women have had enough of being told what they can or can’t wear. Besides, I think we can reproduce the look and still stay within the limits. A costume like the one I’ve picked out would cost about fourteen coupons and sell at a price our competitors would find hard to match.’
We had started to manufacture costumes this last year, though the showroom was still best known for its dresses.
‘What I was thinking …’ I made a quick sketch of a dress I had in mind. ‘If we did a nipped-in waist with a skirt that reaches to mid-calf … it would be sort of midway between the short skirts everyone is so fed up with, and the new length. I believe a cotton version would sell retail for about three pounds nineteen shillings, and probably require six clothing coupons.’
Sol did a rapid calculation in his head. ‘Seven coupons, and we could sell a rayon version for thirty-five shillings in the showroom.’
We looked at each other and smiled. There was always a spirit of competition between us on price. Whatever I suggested, Sol would find a way of undercutting me.