Barbara Taylor Bradford - Emma’s Secret

‘I hope so, but not too big a crowd. As you know, the shop only holds about sixty,’ he answered with a laugh. ‘Don’t go out until you feel better, honey. That English dampness can be treacherous. Promise .’

‘I promise, and give my love to everyone.’

‘I will. Bye, sweetheart.’

‘Bye, Daddy.’

When she hung up, Even slid down in the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She had started with the flu the night she arrived from New York. That was Wednesday. Now it was Saturday, and she still didn’t feel all that much better, even though the doctor had prescribed various medicines which she had been taking religiously.

But better to be sick here than in some awful commercial hotel, Evan thought glumly. Once she had made the decision to come to London, her father had insisted she stay at the small family hotel in Belgravia owned and run by his old friend George. Her father had met George when he had gone to live in London as a young man, and they had been friends ever since. She was glad now that she had agreed. George Thomas, whom she barely remembered from her toddler years, was a lovely Welshman, and his wife Arlette was one of those completely competent, take-charge Frenchwomen who seemed to know everything about everything. They had been warm and welcoming when she had arrived and given her a most comfortable room that was both inviting and full of real charm.

It was on the top floor, one level down from the attics under the eaves of this grand Victorian townhouse, which they had turned into a small but attractive hotel some years before. The room was decorated with lovely, colourful floral chintz fabrics and handsome Victorian furniture, including this wonderful four-poster bed where she now lay cocooned in two feather-light duvets. She felt coddled and cared for, thanks to Arlette’s expert ministrations and motherly interest.

Despite this tender loving care, Evan would have given anything not to be sick. Her plan had been to go to Harte’s department store in Knightsbridge when she arrived without wasting any time. Once there she had intended to seek an appointment with Emma Harte, using her grandmother’s name as an introduction. But the flu had laid her flat. Next week, she thought. I’ll go next week to see Emma Harte.

Ever since Glynnis Hughes had died last November, Evan had felt lost. That cheerful, encouraging, stalwart woman had always been there for her as long as she could remember. Her gran was forever boosting her morale, cheering her on, telling her she could do anything she wanted, as long as she put her mind to it and worked hard. Evan had always believed that Glynnis had been more of a mother to her than her own mother.

An image of her mother suddenly insinuated itself into her mind, and Evan’s thoughts turned to her. Marietta Hughes had been a talented artist once, but something awful had gone wrong, and she had given up, given up on life in so many different ways.

When Evan had told her father she was considering going to London for a year, he had been instantly enthusiastic about it. But almost immediately she had noticed the look of sorrow enter his eyes, saw a sudden dulling of their brightness, and she had realized at once that he, above all others, would be the one to miss her the most. Her mother wouldn’t miss her. Marietta hadn’t even noticed her absence after she had left home and moved to New York, and that had been nearly ten years ago.

But on that day in the middle of December she had quickly backtracked, had told her father that perhaps she wouldn’t go after all. But he had insisted she take this sabbatical, as he called it, reminding her that he had done the same thing himself over thirty years ago, had gone back to visit London, where he had been born during the Second World War. It was at this time that he had met her mother, then an art student studying at the Royal College of Art. Marietta Glenn. A beautiful blonde girl from California with whom he had fallen madly in love. He had married Marietta in London. ‘And don’t forget, you were born there,’ he had reminded Evan that particular afternoon.

After they had talked about London and her impending trip, Evan had then confided her grandmother’s last words to her father. He had been just as startled and baffled as she had been. ‘But Emma Harte must be very old now. I vaguely remember my mother once saying that she had met her during the war, just before she married her wonderful GI Joe, as she called my dad, and came to America. As you well know by now … it’s family history. I doubt my mother’s name will mean anything to her, Evan, so don’t be disappointed, honey, if you don’t get a reaction.’

She had promised him that she would not let anything disappoint her on this trip to England, and she meant it. Her father had hugged her and told her how important she was to him. He had then explained that she would have no problem working in London because she had dual nationality, as he did. Born in England to a British-born American father and an American mother meant that she was a legal citizen on both sides of the Atlantic.

Finally a date had been set for her departure and her father had made all of the arrangements with his old pal George, and he had gone on to say that she should think of George and Arlette as family, but without infringing on their time or abusing their good will. ‘Have fun, and most of all be happy, Evan,’ Owen had said with a big smile, hugging her to him again. ‘Life’s too short for misery.’

That day she had thought what a wonderfully courageous and positive man her father was. He was cheerful, and had an even temper most of the time, despite the burden of her mother, a woman who might as well be dead for all she cared about living. What had gone wrong in her mother’s psyche? How often Evan had asked herself that, for years now, but she had no answers for herself. There were women, she knew, who enjoyed being ill, but surely no woman could enjoy this. There were so many things Evan didn’t understand. After all, her mother had doctors, and they prescribed medication all the time, and her mother took them. Yet she was still wrapped in a cloak of depression. Or was she?

Evan had often asked herself if her mother faked it at times, in order to retreat from her husband, from them all, from responsibility, from the world. What an awful thing, if that were true.

I want to live my life to the fullest, Evan thought. I want to follow my dreams, fulfil my ambitions. I want a career in fashion, just as I always dreamt of having. I want to meet a wonderful man, get married, have children. I want a life. My own life.

Evan, curled up under the duvets, half dozed, half drifted with her thoughts.

Her father had wondered out loud if she would be happy in London when they had discussed her impending trip in December. She wasn’t sure, but it was worth giving it a try. That was why she had come: to meet a challenge, seek her destiny.

This was the city of her birth, and she had lived here until she was almost four. It was then that her parents had returned to New York; soon after they had settled in Connecticut, where Elayne and Angharad had been adopted, just a year apart.

And it was there that Owen Hughes had raised his family in a rambling old house in Kent, sometimes with the help of his mother, whilst launching himself into his own antique business. He was following in the footsteps of his father; Richard Hughes had taught his son everything he knew, and Owen had studied on his own, learning more, enhancing his knowledge to the fullest.

It was her grandparents who had brought her back to London when she was twelve years old. Her grandfather, Richard, had been coming to London on a buying trip, and he had invited Glynnis and Evan to accompany him.