Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  She wondered when—or if—that feeling would ever go away.

  4

  _________

  Caitlin’s difficulties settling in hadn’t gone unnoticed. William was aware of the problem and keen to resolve it. But right now, seated in his office at Melville’s London headquarters, he was concentrating on the business at hand: the quarterly performance figures.

  Sitting with him were the two people he trusted most in the world: his mother, Rosalind, and his brother, Piers. Forty percent of the company might be listed on the London Stock Exchange, but Melville still operated very much as a family business. The main decisions were made here, in William’s office, away from the boardroom—and the board, too.

  Piers adjusted his glasses and began. “Obviously we’re still waiting for the final figures to come through. But the first run of numbers looks very promising.”

  At thirty-nine, Piers Melville was a decade younger than William, but his slow, staid manner made him seem older. Like William, he was well dressed and well spoken, a true English gentleman, but that was where the similarity ended. While William was a strong, dark, imposing figure, with a sharp mind and commanding presence, Piers’s fair coloring and fine features gave him an air of fragility, especially when combined with his slightly plodding ways and distinct lack of charisma. But despite these failings—or perhaps because of them—Piers was ideally suited to his position as William’s right-hand man. His lack of personal ambition and unconditional loyalty to Melville meant he had never once questioned the fact that it was William, not he, who had been chosen to head up the family business.

  “Like-for-like sales are up 5 percent,” he went on now. “And there’s been an improvement of fifty basis points in the gross margin.”

  William listened carefully as his brother ran through the numbers. Piers’s youthful shyness had grown into a thoughtfulness and attention to detail that made him the perfect Finance Director.

  “And where exactly is the growth coming from?” William asked. It was a question he could guess the answer to, but he wanted to hear it anyway.

  “Mainly Melville Essentials.”

  William flicked a pointed look over at his mother, Rosalind. The matriarch of the Melville family, she was a formidable lady. In her day, she had been singlehandedly responsible for taking the moderately successful English company and growing it into an internationally renowned name. Now, at seventy, she looked a decade younger and was as sharp as anyone half her age.

  She inclined her head, acknowledging his point.

  “I know, William.” She sounded amused. “Yet again you’ve proved that Melville Essentials was an excellent idea.”

  It was ridiculous, William knew, to want her to acknowledge that he was in the right. At fifty, he should be past such childish behavior. But taking over from Rosalind hadn’t been easy for William. She might have been a Melville by marriage rather than blood, but she had more claim to this company than anyone else. For three decades, Rosalind had run Melville with indisputable success. She was always going to be a hard act to follow.

  When William had finally taken over from her in 1972, he had been determined to make his own mark on the company. He was over thirty and felt that he had no time to spare. By then, Melville had fourteen stores in major cities throughout the world. With the oil crisis and subsequent recession in the U.S. and Europe, William had decided against further store openings. Global expansion had been his mother’s innovation—he needed a new strategy.

  So he’d taken stock of Melville’s strengths and weaknesses. The ready-to-wear line had never performed brilliantly; the bulk of sales had always been from accessories—handbags and shoes. With this and the poor world economy in mind, William had decided to produce a range of products at a lower price point than the traditional handcrafted leather goods. Still bearing the Melville monogram, the new line of cosmetics cases, purses, and bags would be manufactured using lower-cost materials and sold in department stores and perfumeries. The idea was to bring Melville products to a new set of consumers—those who would be too intimidated to enter a designer store.

  Rosalind had opposed the idea, arguing that a cheaper line had no place in a luxury goods firm, but William had forced the change through—and his strategy had worked. Melville Essentials was such a success that it began to rival the traditional goods. When Melville’s sales hit 300 million pounds in the late eighties, Rosalind had finally admitted she had been wrong. It was a great moment for William. In less than twenty years, he had tripled sales and quadrupled profits. As Forbes had observed last year, “William Melville is the linchpin of the world’s foremost fashion dynasty.” He still kept a copy of that article in the top drawer of his desk.

  “Thank you for that, Piers,” William said ten minutes later, when his brother had finished running through the rest of the financial report. “Can I take it home to read this weekend?”

  “Of course.” Piers handed over his bound copy. William put the report in his briefcase and snapped the lock closed. He stood up and reached for his jacket.

  Rosalind placed a bony hand on his arm. “Darling, do you really have to rush off now? I hoped we could all go for an early supper.”

  “Sorry, but I want to get back to Aldringham, to check on Caitlin.”

  Keen now to get away, William turned and headed for the door. His abrupt departure meant he missed the troubled look that passed between his mother and brother as he left.

  Outside, Perkins was waiting for him in the Bentley. It was Friday evening, and William didn’t relish the task ahead of him. When he had called Isabelle last night to get an update on Caitlin’s progress, he hadn’t been happy with what she’d told him. It seemed Caitlin was still spending most of her time alone.

  He’d always known it wouldn’t be easy for her, adjusting to this new life, but he wanted to help her fit in as much as possible. One of his greatest regrets was how things had ended with Katie. All he could do now was make sure her child—their child, he corrected himself quickly—had every possible chance at a happy life. He was aware that he’d always been a somewhat distant father to Elizabeth and Amber, unconsciously taking out his frustrations over his unhappy marriage on them. With Caitlin, he didn’t want to make that same mistake. He wanted to get to know her and to look out for her in her new life with them at Aldringham. It was the least he could do for Katie.

  Later that evening, Rosalind Melville sat alone in the dignified quiet of her Mayfair apartment. Situated within a luxury building on Grosvenor Street, it was one of the most prestigious addresses in London, but tonight she took no comfort in her surroundings.

  On the writing table in front of her stood a half-finished tumbler of Hennessy Ellipse, her favorite drink. Next to it were the documents she had asked her lawyer to prepare.

  “Are you quite sure about this?” Gus Fellows, her friend and legal adviser for over thirty years, had asked when he’d dropped the papers off that evening. Sure? She took a large swig of cognac. Of course she wasn’t sure. But unfortunately she had no choice. Not when she cared so much about Melville, the company she had nurtured and grown.

  The story of Melville had always fascinated her. It had begun in 1860, with the birth of John Miller into a family of Northampton shoemakers. Back then, shoemaking was little more than a cottage industry, but John wanted more. Smart and ambitious, he knew that the only way to make serious money was to cut out the middlemen. So he banded together with other tradesmen and started supplying direct to retail outlets in London. Any additional profits he reinvested in the business, expanding operations without sacrificing quality.

  Like all good businessmen, John was attuned to his target customers: the well-to-do members of Victorian high society who were prepared to pay through the nose for his high-quality, handmade leather shoes. Deciding that his own name didn’t sound sufficiently grand, he officially changed it to Melville in 1900. Melville became one of the first brand names to be registered in 1910. John also opened his first sh
op that year, in the illustrious location of Old Bond Street. Above the front door he hung a brass plate, inscribed with the words Meliora Conor; Latin for I Strive for the Best. It was to become the company’s motto.

  A lifetime of smoking finally took its toll when John died of lung cancer in 1925. It was his son, Oliver, who took over from him. A serious, considered man, he was the right person to steer the company through the tough years following the Crash of ’29, and Melville continued to prosper during the thirties.

  Rosalind—or Rosie Flint, as she was known then—came to work at Melville in 1938, on the eve of the Second World War. Rosie was from a working-class family: her father was a dockworker, her mother a cleaner. At seventeen, she went for an interview to work as a sales assistant at Melville. The manager was reluctant to employ her at first—she seemed far too common for the illustrious store. But once she started talking he changed his mind.

  “I’m used to hard work, and I’m never sick,” she told him, sensing his doubts. Then she looked him straight in the eye and said with total honesty, “Look, I need this job and I’m not going to let you down.”

  He hired her on the spot. Anyone who could argue her cause like that would be a natural saleswoman. And the gentlemen customers would no doubt appreciate her looks.

  But Rosie was smart and ambitious. She had no intention of remaining a shopgirl for the rest of her life. Working at Melville was her opportunity, and she intended to make the most of it. It didn’t take long for her to lose the Cockney accent. Nor did it take long for her to capture the attention of Edward Melville, the eldest son and heir apparent to the business.

  Rosie had heard all about Edward. Handsome, charming, and good-natured, he was a notorious playboy, known for taking girls out, showing them a good time, and then dumping them quickly afterward. Rosie wanted more from him than that. When he asked her out, she politely declined his invitation.

  “I’m engaged,” she lied.

  Unused to rejection, Edward was intrigued. By the time Rosie finally dispensed with the imaginary fiancé and agreed to go out with him, he was already falling in love with her.

  That was the summer of 1939. There were already murmurs of unrest throughout Europe. When Chamberlain finally declared war on Germany in September, Edward was one of the first to sign up for the RAF. All that time, Rosie had been carefully withholding her favors from him. That night, in the alley at the back of the dance hall, their kisses were hot and urgent. Rosie pulled away first.

  Breathless, she said, “I wish I could be with you . . . properly.”

  “There’s a guesthouse nearby,” Edward eagerly suggested.

  She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “But it’s a sin.”

  Swept up in the romance and bravado of the times, Edward proposed on the spot. They married via special license that weekend, with two strangers for witnesses. By the time his family found out, there was nothing they could do about it.

  “How could you be so stupid?” his father, Oliver, roared. “She’s nothing but a common tart!”

  “She’s my wife, sir,” Edward replied calmly. “And you will have to accept her.”

  When Edward went off to war the following week, Rosie took up residence in the Melvilles’ Belgravia house. It wasn’t as pleasant as she’d imagined. Oliver refused to acknowledge her. Mealtimes were silent. More than once she considered moving back to her parents’ little house in the East End. But she had worked too hard to give up that easily. Instead, she looked for a way to ingratiate herself with Oliver. The war gave her the opportunity she’d been looking for. With Oliver’s three sons and many of the staff signing up, she could sense her father-in-law was struggling to cope at Melville. Rosie knew the store well and reckoned she could help. So she turned up at the head office one day, found herself a desk, and set to work.

  Gradually, she began to earn Oliver’s respect. When the Blitz began, his wife and other daughters-in-law retreated to Aldringham.

  “I suppose you’ll be off down there, too, Rosie,” Oliver said dismissively.

  “No. I’m staying put in London.” She paused. “And in future, please call me Rosalind.” After all, it felt more appropriate to her new status.

  When Edward came home on leave for Christmas 1941, he was pleased to see his father and wife getting along. A month after he went back, Rosalind was delighted to find that she was pregnant.

  Her happiness was shortlived. In late August, a telegram arrived. Edward’s plane had been shot down over France. The shock of the news, combined with the subsequent air raid, sent Rosalind into premature labor, in the very public surroundings of London Bridge Underground. When she finally gave birth to a healthy baby boy, she felt a rush of euphoria that overrode all thoughts of her missing husband. She named the boy William: a grand, respectable name, fit for kings. Firstborn of the firstborn; heir to the Melville fortune. Her position was secure.

  Word eventually reached them that Edward wasn’t dead. He was a prisoner of war in Kreuzburg, an Oflag, or officers’ camp, in Poland. He finally returned home in early 1946. Rosalind and Oliver, along with young William, went to meet him off the boat. They had heard he wasn’t injured—but the Army only meant physically. When he stepped onto the dockside, Rosalind rushed forward to embrace him. He stood limply as she put her arms around him. It was the first time he’d met his three-year-old son, but he stared blankly at William and didn’t once ask to hold him.

  It was a precarious time for Rosalind. Edward’s two brothers circled like sharks.

  “He’s useless now,” they told their father. “You can’t leave the business to him.”

  But Rosalind was determined that Melville should pass to William. So she left her son with the nanny and accompanied Edward into the office every day, where she acted as the puppetmaster behind him.

  “See? Edward’s perfectly fine,” Oliver would say to his other two sons, as Rosalind presented yet another idea as her husband’s. “Quit grumbling and bring me innovations like this, and I might consider leaving you the business. But otherwise . . .”

  Knowing when they had been outsmarted, the two brothers did what Rosalind had hoped they would and left, vowing not to speak to their father until he saw sense. Oliver’s wife tried hard to broker a reconciliation between her sons and her husband, but when she died in her sleep the following year, it seemed the rift would never be healed.

  Meanwhile, Melville was thriving. The optimistic postwar years were a good time to be in the fashion business. In Paris, Christian Dior’s haute couture designs were ushering in a new era in fashion. Rosalind looked around for opportunities to benefit the company. The factory next door to Melville’s had been making parachutes during the war: Rosalind decided to buy it up and use it to produce silk scarves and coats to the same high standards as Melville shoes. She also started using the leather factory to make bags and suitcases.

  In 1951, Rosalind became pregnant again. Rumors flew around. Everyone suspected Edward hadn’t visited her bedroom since his return—but there was no proof. She finally gave birth early the following year. This time, the labor was long and painful. While William had come out fighting, her second son was a weak little thing, jaundiced and scrawny. She called him Piers. Ten days after the birth, she was back at work.

  Five years later, poor, tragic Edward died. The obituary in The Times reported the Coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure. The Melvilles’ connections had ensured that no one got wind of the fact that Edward had used his service revolver to blow his brains out. Rosalind didn’t cry. It was hard to shed a tear for someone who had been effectively dead for over a decade.

  The funeral was held on an ice-cold day in February. Against his doctor’s advice, an already frail Oliver insisted on attending the burial of his favorite son. Two days later he came down with pneumonia.

  Oliver knew he was dying long before the end. Lying in his canopied bed at Aldringham, coughing and hawking through his final days, he thought about his two remaining so
ns. He hadn’t seen them for years. Now, sensing his time was coming to an end, he wanted to make amends. He asked Rosalind to contact them. She assured him that she would.

  “Are they coming?” he asked hopefully every day.

  “Tomorrow,” she told him, as she sponged his brow. “Tomorrow they’ll be here.”

  He clung on for a week waiting for them, lonely and frightened, confused about why no one apart from Rosalind had visited him. On the eighth day, he passed away. Only then did Rosalind get in touch with his sons. After all, she couldn’t have risked him relenting and changing his will in their favor.

  Now, finally, she had full control of Melville.

  But that alone wasn’t enough for Rosalind. She had big plans for the company. She had no intention of simply preserving the business for William—she wanted to grow it.

  Up until then, Rosalind had stayed away from clothing, knowing Melville had no hope of rivaling the Parisian fashion houses. But the sixties brought radicalism and sexual liberation—and, with them, a fashion revolution. Expensive, staid haute couture fell out of favor. Cheaper, cutting-edge ready-to-wear became all the rage, reflecting the fun and excitement of the streets. Mary Quant and Ossie Clark; the King’s Road and Carnaby Street . . . subversive, Swinging Sixties London had ousted Paris as the fashion capital.

  For Rosalind, it was the perfect time to launch Melville Apparel. Although she never managed to attract the hip young talent to make it truly cool, the buzz around the rest of Melville goods—particularly its exquisite handbags and shoes—meant demand was still there. Shirts, dresses, and trousers emblazoned with the Melville logo were splashed across Vogue and Vanity Fair. The world had an insatiable appetite for Melville.

  In a bid to capitalize on this popularity, Rosalind opened stores across Europe and North America. To finance these expansion plans, it was suggested that she sell part of the company on the London Stock Exchange. At first she resisted, not wanting Melville to pass out of the family’s control. But her advisers reassured her that she could sell just part of the company and retain the majority voting rights.