Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

He was about to head back in when a movement in the distance caught his eye. Far away, something or someone had emerged from the thicket of trees that circled the deer park. It was just a blip, a dark blur on the horizon. Cole narrowed his eyes. The blur moved closer and closer, until at last it finally came into focus. It was a horse and rider, galloping across the large open field toward him.

  Cole stood watching, transfixed. He didn’t know a lot about horses, but he could appreciate the beauty of seeing man and beast together, working in synchronicity. He could also appreciate that the jockey riding that magnificent black stallion was absolutely fearless. Christ, even from here that thing scared the shit out of him, as it thundered across the flat, hooves pounding the ground, soaring over bushes as high as his shoulder. You had to admire the guy . . .

  But as horse and rider drew closer, Cole suddenly realized that he’d been mistaken. The jockey wasn’t a man after all. It was a young woman. And a hot one at that, he thought with a grin. Dressed in skin-tight jodhpurs, blonde hair flying out from under the black velvet riding hat, a fierce expression on her face, she was like a modern-day Lady Godiva—a fully clothed version, unfortunately.

  He stood, hands on hips, waiting for her to draw level with him.

  She was even better looking up close, attractive in that English aristocratic way. In her early twenties, he reckoned, and definitely to the manor born. He could spot class when he saw it. If this was the quality of the booty, then maybe the weekend wasn’t going to be such a washout after all. Women had never been a problem for Cole, and, as the girl pulled her horse up beside him, he got ready to work his magic. Unfortunately, the vision didn’t give him a chance.

  “I presume you’re lost?” Her voice was just as he’d expected, clipped and haughty, full of good breeding.

  He grinned easily. “No, definitely not lost. Just taking a look around—” He was about to say “before dinner” but she cut him off.

  “Well, you really shouldn’t be out here, you know,” she snapped. The horse whinnied, reacting to the irritation in her voice. Cole eyed the stallion nervously—that thing was huge. But the girl looked unperturbed, patting the great beast’s mane reassuringly.

  “I’m sure it’s been made clear to you where you can and can’t go on the estate. The garden is out of bounds. The kitchen’s at the side of the house. If there’s any confusion, perhaps you could clarify it with your manager.”

  He frowned, unsure of what she was saying. Then it hit him: she thought he was part of the catering staff. Attraction turned instantly to anger. He recognized the disdain in the blonde’s eyes; the way she looked down her nose at him. She reminded him of all those Boston Brahmins at Dartmouth—the ones who’d been happy to hang out with him, the big basketball star, during the school year but still never thought he was good enough to take home for summers in Cape Cod.

  He was about to set her straight, but she didn’t give him a chance. She whacked the horse’s rump with her riding crop. It reared up on its hind legs, nearly knocking Cole in the mouth. Instinctively he ducked away. The girl pulled on the reins, turning the stallion in one smooth move. Cole realized a fraction too late that he hadn’t moved far enough away. He stood frozen as the horse’s great hooves landed straight in a puddle. Muddy water sprayed up, drenching his one pair of jeans.

  “Shit!”

  Hearing him swear, the blonde glanced back briefly. Her eyes flicked over the damage.

  “Sorry about that,” she called, not looking in the least bit repentant. “But it’s your own fault. You really shouldn’t be out here.”

  With that, she squeezed her firm thighs against the horse’s trunk and cantered away. Cole watched the haughty figure disappear into the distance. Well, whoever she was, he thought, one thing was for sure—she was a bitch.

  Elizabeth was in a good mood when she got back from her ride, which only improved when she got a message from Magnus to say that he was definitely going to make it down to Aldringham tonight. That was the main reason she’d come back from university this weekend, on the off chance that she might see him.

  Three years on, they still hooked up whenever possible. Not that they were exclusive—Magnus had made that clear early on. “We have fun together, Elizabeth,” he’d said, “but that’s all this is. It isn’t ever going to be a relationship.”

  At first, she’d been hurt. But as time went by, she’d decided he had the right idea. In a few months she would be starting at Melville. She had her career to focus on and didn’t have time for relationships. Sex with no emotional attachments suited her. There had been other guys at Cambridge—good catches, each and every one of them—but any time they wanted to get serious, she ended things. Magnus was the only one who had stayed constant in her life.

  Now, thinking of him downstairs, she quickly showered and slid into a Ghost dress, a slither of crepe in purest white to show off the tan she’d earned on the tennis courts. It was a simple, classy look. She left her damp hair loose and slipped into matching heels. Thank God Magnus was over six feet so she could wear them.

  As tradition dictated, drinks were being served in the drawing room. Elizabeth was one of the last to arrive. The fifty-foot room was already full of men in black tie, with splashes of color provided by their female escorts. As a nod to summer, the sash windows had been thrown open and the damask curtains tied back, to allow a breeze to filter through.

  Picking up a glass of vintage Krug from the tray of a passing waiter, Elizabeth began to circulate. Working the room came easily to her—a smile here, an empty pleasantry there. As she moved through the crowd, it looked to the outside world as though she was being sociable, but in fact she was trying to find Magnus. For a horrible moment she wondered if he hadn’t made it after all. But then she spotted him, standing across the room near the fireplace.

  He looked good—more than good, she corrected herself; he looked great. At forty-eight, he was handsome in that intelligent, upper-class way. Still lean, too—no hint of the office paunch that most men developed after a few years of banking lunches. He must have felt Elizabeth’s eyes on him, because he glanced up and over in her direction.

  “Hi,” he mouthed. She made a motion to say that she’d come over to him, but before she could move, her father was by her side.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.”

  Across the room, Magnus saw what was happening and shrugged at her, a gesture that said, “We’ll catch up later.” Elizabeth pushed her disappointment aside and gave her full attention to her father.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  He took her by the arm. “I wanted to introduce you to the young man I’ve been telling you about, the one from Sedgwick Hart.”

  That sparked Elizabeth’s interest. She had been dying to meet the corporate finance genius that William had been raving about.

  She followed her father toward the makeshift bar area, where a group of a dozen industrialists, politicians, and city whiz kids were engaged in a heated debate. Elizabeth was already forming a pleasant greeting, preparing to be all charm. But her smile froze as she watched William approach a tall, well-built black man and lightly tap one of his broad shoulders. No, she thought. No, it couldn’t be . . .

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she heard her father murmur, “but I just wanted to introduce you to my eldest daughter.”

  There was nothing Elizabeth could do but wait as William’s new boy wonder turned and regarded her with cold dark eyes.

  “Elizabeth,” her father carried on, oblivious of the tension. “This is the chap I was talking about, the one who helped us out so wonderfully last week. This is Cole Greenway.”

  Cole had expected to enjoy this more. He had spotted the blonde rider as soon as she came downstairs. It hadn’t taken long to figure out who she was: one of William Melville’s daughters. A spoiled brat, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. He’d been looking forward to getting his revenge, seeing the smug smile wiped off her snooty face when she realized the mistake she’d made. But,
to his amazement, she didn’t apologize. She simply offered him her hand, as though she hadn’t insulted him earlier. God, she was one cool customer.

  By the time they sat down for dinner, Cole was annoyed again. To his chagrin, William had placed him next to Elizabeth. Cole had a feeling she wasn’t too happy about the arrangement, either. As a team of waitresses began serving the first course of wood pigeon, he watched her eyes wander over to a tall, powerful-looking man who sat at the other end of the table—Magnus Bergmann, founder of one of the most aggressive hedge funds on the East Coast. Cole felt a stab of professional jealousy. No doubt she’d rather be sitting next to someone like that, he thought, sawing angrily at the meat—someone of her own kind. But one way or another, he wanted an apology from her.

  He cleared his throat to get her attention. “So, Elizabeth,” he began, “I guess you weren’t expecting to see me sitting next to you tonight?” There was a faint challenge in his voice.

  “Excuse me?” She hadn’t even bothered to look in his direction, just continued to butter her bread roll. She sounded almost bored. He tried to stem his irritation and failed.

  “You know. Earlier—outside in the garden. You obviously thought I worked here.” He wasn’t about to let her get away with anything. “Perhaps next time you’ll think twice about your prejudices.”

  “What prejudices?” she asked innocently, cutting her roll in half again. “Against Americans?”

  “Oh, don’t try and be cute.”

  She sighed. But whatever he’d said must have had the desired effect because she finally put down her knife and fixed him with a cool stare. “You think that’s why I assumed you were working here? Because you’re”—she paused dramatically—“black?”

  She said the last word in a stage whisper. Cole had the distinct feeling she was mocking him.

  “Well, wasn’t it?” he demanded.

  Her pretty pink lips curled into a smile. “Hardly.” Her tone said get over yourself. “Look, maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re the only person my father invited this weekend who’s under the age of about a hundred. And most definitely the only one who turned up in jeans. That’s why I made the not unreasonable assumption that you weren’t one of the guests.”

  She paused, waiting for him to say something. He tried to think of a witty comeback but failed. He saw amusement in her sharp green eyes as she realized she had him. “Maybe I’m not the one with the prejudices after all,” she said finally. She picked up her glass and took a sip of mineral water. Then she turned back to him, as though she’d had another thought.

  “Oh, and if you really want to fit in,” she said, dropping her voice conspiratorially, “you might want to think about getting rid of the chainstore dinner jacket. Everyone else here has theirs custom made.”

  She gave him a sweet smile, then turned to the man sitting on the other side of her and struck up a conversation. She proceeded to ignore Cole for the rest of the meal.

  For the rest of the weekend, Cole tried to stay out of her way. And when he finally left on Sunday evening, he was quite relieved at the thought of never having to see her again.

  15

  _________

  Caitlin’s first year in Paris passed quickly. When she wasn’t in class or completing assignments, she was working at Café des Amis: that meant most Saturdays and Sundays, as well as weekday evening shifts. She often stayed until well after midnight to lock up, then she would be back in by seven the next morning, to serve breakfasts of croissants and coffee, before heading into the Chambre Syndicale for another grueling day. It was a tiring routine, but Caitlin was happy. She was doing what she had set out to do when she’d first come to Paris—living on her own terms.

  This time she wasn’t compromising on anything. The first Friday, after classes, some of the students in her course decided to head out for the evening. They invited Caitlin to come with them.

  “We’re going to Hotel Costes,” Brooke told her. “It’s supposed to be really cool.”

  Situated right in the heart of the rue St. Honoré fashion district, the five-star hotel was renowned for its opulent bar frequented by wealthy jetsetters. As soon as they got there, Caitlin knew the dark, somewhat seedy hangout wasn’t for her. A highly groomed crowd, drinking overpriced cocktails . . . older, predatory men checking out the talent . . . Caitlin had one drink, then left.

  That was the first and last time she hung out with her classmates. They were pleasant enough, but a little frivolous and superficial, obsessed with getting into see-and-be-seen venues like La Perle or the Buddha Bar. She’d had enough of that at Greycourt, with people like Morgan.

  Instead, she found herself getting to know the regulars at Café des Amis. They were an interesting crowd, mostly musicians, writers, and artists. Alain always introduced her.

  “This is Caitlin. She’s going to be a famous designer one day,” he would say, however many times she asked him to stop.

  The bohemian crowd was more than happy to assimilate her into their scene, introducing her to the edgy bars and clubs in the converted ateliers of Belleville, Oberkampf, and Ménilmontant. They had no idea about her past or her family, nor were they interested. They simply accepted her as one of them. When they asked for her name, she always introduced herself as Caitlin O’Dwyer and said she was from Ireland. They had no reason to doubt her.

  The one drawback to working at Café des Amis was getting hit on. It was an occupational hazard for all the waitresses and one that Caitlin quickly learned to deal with. She always brushed her would-be suitors off, telling them and herself that she was too busy for a boyfriend. Some were more persistent than others, but eventually they got the hint. Alain couldn’t understand why she was so standoffish.

  “But what is so wrong with him?” he asked, plainly frustrated, as he watched Jules Martel, the lead singer from the indie band playing at the café that night, slink off after Caitlin had refused to have a drink with him.

  Caitlin busied herself wiping down the bar. “Nothing’s wrong with him.”

  “Then why won’t you have a drink with him?”

  “Because I don’t want to, Alain.”

  The edge in her voice finally made him drop it. But only for a little while. He loved to gossip and was endlessly moving from one romantic drama to the other. Caitlin listened patiently to his stories, with detached amusement. But she never revealed anything about herself. Sometimes he would share confidences, hoping to get her to disclose something in return. But she never did. When he asked her directly, she was always cagey.

  “There’s nothing much to tell,” she would say, in answer to questions about her family or life in England.

  “But what about men?” he parried, returning to his favorite subject. “Is there someone back home?” He was guessing now, watching closely to see if she divulged anything. “Someone who doesn’t return your affection?”

  Caitlin simply laughed. “No, Alain. There’s no one back home. Is it that hard to believe that I’m happy by myself? That I don’t need anyone?”

  At that, he shook his head. “But everyone needs someone special in their life, Caitlin. A special man.”

  “I have you, don’t I?” she said, giving him an affectionate squeeze. “That’s all the man I need.”

  That usually shut him up. For a day or so, at least.

  When the lease on Caitlin’s studio came up for renewal at the end of her first year, Alain suggested that she move into the rather more spacious apartment above Café des Amis.

  “I’ll give you a good price on the rent,” he said, “and you can keep an eye on the café for me.”

  She was reluctant at first, knowing it would mean sharing with someone; she liked having her own space. However, the price he offered was so ridiculously cheap that she couldn’t afford to refuse.

  It turned out that she would be sharing the flat with one other girl, Véronique Rideau. A tall, willowy blonde, she worked as an artist’s model at l’École des Beaux-Arts but supplement
ed her income by waitressing at the café from time to time. The two girls couldn’t have been more different. Véronique was outgoing and flirtatious; Caitlin more reserved and introspective. But despite their differences they got on well—apart from when it came to the subject of men.

  Véronique liked to go out and had plenty of male admirers, who all had friends who wanted to be fixed up. She was looking for a partner in crime, and her roommate, Caitlin, seemed the obvious choice. She joined in Alain’s quest to fix Caitlin up, forever asking her to make up a four for dinner or drinks. The first few times, Caitlin gave excuses for why she couldn’t go. After a while, she stopped bothering.

  “Are you gaie?” Véronique asked bluntly one evening.

  “No,” Caitlin laughed. If she’d thought it would get her roommate off her back, she would have happily said “yes.” But she sensed that Véronique would simply start trying to fix her up with her female friends instead.

  “But I don’t understand.” The Frenchwoman cast a perplexed look around the apartment. “What are you going to do all alone here?”

  “Sketch,” Caitlin replied, offhand. “Read. Sleep.”

  There wasn’t much the other girl could say to that.

  During that first year, the Chambre Syndicale didn’t get any easier. Caitlin still received more criticism than praise from Madame, and sometimes she wondered if she would ever improve. But she got through the end-of-term exams, and that was all that mattered. William invited her to spend the summer holidays with the rest of the family at Villa Regina, but she turned him down, preferring to stay in Paris and work instead.

  Over the past year she had stuck to her decision to stay away from the Melville family. William called her regularly, and so did Elizabeth. Since that first term at Greycourt, Elizabeth had continued to reach out to her. In fact, when the older girl had heard that Caitlin wasn’t planning to go to Como, she’d offered to come over to see her in Paris instead.

  “No one’s that busy,” she said, half-amused, half-exasperated, when Caitlin gave her standard excuse for why it wasn’t a good time for her to visit. But she hadn’t pressed Caitlin further and instead just continued to call her at least once a month.