Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  Brimming with secrets, lies, and glamour, this sweeping debut novel follows the lives, loves, and tragedies of the daughters of an illustrious London fashion mogul

  Caitlin couldn’t help wondering what Elizabeth and Amber would be like. She wasn’t sure she would have anything in common with girls who had been brought up in a place like this. As William pushed open the drawing room’s heavy mahogany doors, Caitlin plastered on a friendly smile and hoped she was about to be proved wrong. She wasn’t.

  “This is Elizabeth.” William indicated a haughty blonde sitting straight-backed on a velvet chaise lounge. Caitlin felt at once intimidated and envious. She couldn’t believe Elizabeth was only seventeen—she looked so sophisticated. Caitlin suddenly felt ashamed of her own slightly shabby appearance.

  “Hi, Elizabeth.” She gave a tentative smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  DAUGHTERS

  OF

  FORTUNE

  A NOVEL

  ___________

  Tara Hyland

  ATRIA PAPERBACK

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Tara Hyland

  Originally published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd.

  Published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster UK Ltd.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Atria Paperback edition May 2010

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  Designed by Jill Putorti

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hyland, Tara.

  Daughters of Fortune : a novel / by Tara Hyland.—1st Atria Paperback ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Families—Fiction

  I. Title.

  PR6108.Y53D38 2010

  823'.92—dc22 2009031673

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6506-5

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6509-6 (ebook)

  To Tom

  Acknowledgments

  _________

  I owe heartfelt thanks to:

  My agent, Darley Anderson, for his unswerving enthusiasm, patience, and guidance; I would never have got here without him. And everyone else at his agency, particularly Maddie Buston, who read my manuscript in its earliest—and lengthiest—form, and whose feedback at that stage improved the next draft immeasurably.

  My editors at Simon & Schuster: Suzanne Baboneau and Libby Vernon in London, and Sarah Durand in New York. All three have been a pleasure to work with, and their intuitive comments have certainly made this a far better read. Also my copy editor, Joan Deitch, who spotted so many irritating repetitions and inconsistencies and polished up my French.

  And last, but certainly not least: my husband, Tom, for believing in me from the beginning, and providing financial and emotional support throughout the entire process. I hope we have a long and happy life together.

  DAUGHTERS

  OF

  FORTUNE

  Prologue

  _________

  LONDON, DECEMBER 1974

  The young woman hurried along the street. It was the fourth time she’d passed through Eaton Square in the last hour. She knew that, because she’d kept count, and she had a nagging suspicion that the policeman on the corner had, too. She tossed her head back, trying to look as though she belonged here, among the elegant rows of stucco townhouses that characterized Belgravia. But she had no hope. In her cheap coat and threadbare mittens, it was clear Katie O’Dwyer had no business in a place like this.

  As she reached the middle of the street, her pace slowed until she came to a halt outside one of the grand Georgian residences. A clone of its neighbors, it stood six stories high and was painted virgin white. Wrought-iron railings separated the neat front garden from the sidewalk. At the top of five marble steps there was a formidable black door with a heavy brass knocker, which the housemaid polished every Wednesday without fail. Katie knew the routine well, even though she had never lived in the house—never officially been a visitor there, if she was honest.

  She saw right away that he still wasn’t home. The only light came from the basement, the staff quarters, where a television could be seen flickering through the net curtain. Upstairs, where he lived, remained in darkness. Part of her wanted to knock and ask if she could wait in the warmth, but she knew her presence would raise questions, and she wouldn’t risk doing that to him. Instead she crossed to the park bench opposite. With a clear view of the house, it was as good a place as any to wait.

  A light drizzle began to fall. Despite herself, Katie smiled. It had been raining the night she’d arrived in England, a little over a year ago now. She remembered stepping off the boat at Holyhead, her stomach still churning from the journey, and feeling the first droplets on her skin. She had thought of it as a cleansing rain, washing away the memories of her life in Ireland and opening the way to the future.

  Not that life back home had been bad—it was simply dull. She had grown up in a small village in County Mayo, the conservative west of the country, the only child of overprotective parents. Having spent fifteen years trying to conceive, they had pretty much given up hope of ever having a baby when little Katie came along, just after her mother’s fortieth birthday. Their Miracle Child; they’d treated her as though she was liable to break at any moment. By the time Katie turned eighteen, she craved freedom and excitement; longed to go to London, to see Carnaby Street and the King’s Road. Telling her parents wasn’t easy. But after weeks of pleading and shouting, they finally bade her a tearful farewell at Dún Laoghaire docks.

  Katie arrived at the Catholic hostel in Kilburn full of excitement. But finding work proved more difficult than she’d imagined. The optimism of the early seventies had faded. Inflation and unemployment were on the rise; the IRA’s terror campaign was in full swing, making it even harder to find a job if you were Irish. She was on the verge of giving up and going home, when Nuala, one of the girls in her dorm, mentioned hearing about a vacancy where she worked.

  “The hours are long and the pay’s lousy,” Nuala said cheerfully. “But it’s a job, right?”

  In fact, Katie thought it sounded terribly glamorous, working as a sales assistant at Melville. The exclusive English fashion house was internationally renowned for its handmade leather shoes, exquisite bags, and delightful scarves, its name synonymous with taste and breeding. Katie’s heroines, Audrey Hepburn and Jackie Onassis, had both recently been photographed clutching Melville handbags, sporting the signature double-m-shaped clasp.

  The following morning, Katie put on her smartest clothes and headed over to Old Bond Street, home to the most elegant and exclusive shops in London. Wide-eyed, she pass
ed art galleries and fine jewelers, designer shops like Gucci and Chanel . . . until she finally found Melville. Even from the outside it was intimidating. Darkened glass and huge velvet curtains at the windows made it impossible to see inside. A liveried porter held the gold-crested doors open for her. Taking a deep breath, Katie walked inside.

  That was her first mistake.

  “Salesgirls must use the rear entrance,” Anne Harper, the store manager, told Katie later that morning as she gave her a brief tour of the store. Nuala had put in a good word for her and, after a cursory interview, Mrs. Harper had agreed to take Katie on for a trial basis. It was said in a way that suggested she didn’t expect Katie’s employment to last any longer than that.

  “If I catch you coming in through the front entrance again, you will be dismissed,” Mrs. Harper went on. “You will also be immediately dismissed if you are late or if a customer complains about you.”

  Katie was quickly cured of the notion that working at Melville would be glamorous. Nuala had been right: the hours were long, the pay poor, and the people unfriendly—customers and colleagues alike. She hardly ever saw Nuala, who worked as a secretary in the adjoining head office building, and the other shop girls were for the most part from wealthy families, the job merely a diversion until they were married off. Katie knew they looked down on her, the simple Irish country girl. When they made plans to go out on the weekend—plans that never included her—Katie pretended not to hear.

  In the face of such open hostility, Katie probably would have looked around for a position elsewhere. But then something unexpected happened. She fell in love.

  It began with a spate of thefts. Five handbags disappeared from the stockroom, followed by a dozen silk scarves. But when twenty pounds went missing from the till, management finally decided to crack down. Mrs. Harper called a staff meeting as soon as the store closed, warning them that a spot check would be carried out on all bags as they left that night.

  Katie joined the queue with everyone else. As she waited, someone jostled her arm. She looked around to see Fiona Clifton, one of the snooty rich girls who was always especially unpleasant to her. Fiona’s narrow face split into a toothy grin. “Sorry, darling,” she brayed.

  Katie was about to tell her not to worry. But just then she was called forward to open up her bag. Katie looked on as Melville’s head of security removed her umbrella, Max Factor lipstick, and hankie. Finally, he went through her coat pockets. With Mrs. Harper and the other staff looking on, he pulled out a twenty-pound note. He turned it over to reveal an orange highlighter mark slashed across it, identifying it as the float from the till.

  “That isn’t mine,” Katie protested. But no one believed her story. After all, why would any of the well-to-do young ladies who worked in the store steal money and then plant the evidence on her . . .

  Mrs. Harper hauled Katie up by her arm. “You’ll have to come with me. Mr. Melville wants to deal with this himself.”

  Katie’s heart sank. She had heard whispers about William Melville, the great-grandson of the founder. Rumored to be a formidable man, he never made time to visit the shop floor, and the store staff only ever saw him at the Christmas party, to which he made the briefest of appearances. Katie couldn’t imagine he was the type to give her a fair hearing.

  Melville’s head office was located directly behind the shop. Katie had never had any reason to venture over there before, but she had expected it to resemble the stark, soulless back rooms of the store. Instead, it was like stepping into a stately home. She followed Mrs. Harper along dimly-lit corridors, complete with deep-pile carpets. Original oil paintings adorned the walls. Finally, they reached a heavy door at the top of the building. A gold-lettered nameplate announced that it belonged to “William Melville, Chief Executive.” Mrs. Harper rapped loudly, and a gruff voice invited them inside.

  The room was every bit as imposing as the hallway. Wainscoting, polished floorboards, and a bookcase crammed with first editions gave a grand, impersonal feel. In the center stood a handsome Louis XIV desk, made of solid dark oak, the top covered in burgundy leather. Katie guessed correctly that the man sitting behind it was William Melville. Tall and well-built; strong, serious and uncompromising: the kind of man born to run a company like this. He didn’t look up as they entered.

  “One moment,” he murmured.

  Katie shifted uneasily. Mrs. Harper still had a firm grip on her arm, and it was beginning to hurt, but she didn’t dare twist away. It felt like forever before Mr. Melville closed the file in front of him and deigned to look up. “So what can I do for you, Anne?” His voice was strong and clear and, to Katie’s ears, terrifyingly upper class.

  She stared straight ahead as Mrs. Harper ran through the events of the evening. William Melville didn’t glance in her direction once. She couldn’t help feeling despondent. He would undoubtedly believe everything Mrs. Harper said and would probably call the police. The thought of being sent back to Ireland in disgrace, of her parents’ shame . . . She felt tears welling in her eyes but blinked them away. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  At last, Mrs. Harper finished speaking. William’s eyes flicked to Katie. She made sure to meet his gaze—after all, she had no reason to be ashamed. He was only in his early thirties, but his sober face, made-to-measure Savile Row suit, and graying temples made him seem older. He stared at her for a long moment, as though getting the measure of her. Finally his eyes dropped to where Mrs. Harper still had hold of Katie’s arm. He frowned. “I think you can let go of the young lady, Anne,” he said mildly. “I doubt she’s going to run off.”

  The store manager did as she was told. Then William turned to Katie, and what he said next took her completely by surprise.

  “Now, Katie,” he addressed her as though they were old acquaintances, “why on earth did you put Mrs. Harper to all this trouble?” His tone was filled with mild reproof.

  He waited for a moment, as if expecting her to answer. Katie stayed silent. She had no idea what he was talking about. When she didn’t speak up, he shook his head and turned to Mrs. Harper.

  “I’m so sorry about all this, Anne. But I know for certain that Katie didn’t steal this money. You see, I gave it to her from the petty cash box myself so that she could pick up my dry cleaning on her way into work tomorrow morning. My secretary would usually do it, but she’s been away.”

  Katie looked on in disbelief as he forced a reluctant Mrs. Harper to apologize to her. She had no idea why he would lie for her, but if it meant she got to keep her job, then she was happy to keep quiet.

  Mrs. Harper didn’t stay around for very long after that. Clearly humiliated, she bade William a brisk goodnight and then hurried off. Katie waited until the other woman’s footsteps had faded before turning to the Chief Executive. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  William shrugged with the nonchalance of a man who is used to having his orders obeyed without question. “You looked as though you could use someone on your side.”

  She took a moment to digest what he’d said.

  “Thank you,” she said finally.

  “You’re welcome.” His eyes hardened. “Just make sure nothing like this happens again. I won’t be so lenient next time.”

  It dawned on her then that he still thought she was guilty.

  “I didn’t—” she began to explain. But he cut her off.

  “All I ask is that it doesn’t happen again,” he repeated crisply.

  He turned back to his file, signaling that as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. Katie wanted to say more but knew there was no point. Instead, she slipped from the room.

  As she hurried down the stairs and out into the brisk winter night, she knew she should feel relieved—she’d had a lucky escape. But for some reason the incident depressed her. She hated to think that this kind man, who had taken a chance on her, still believed that she was a thief.

  A month later, the real culprit was caught. Security discovered Fiona C
lifton in the stockroom sneaking five pairs of shoes into a backpack. Apparently, Daddy’s monthly allowance wasn’t enough to fund her burgeoning cocaine habit. She was sacked on the spot.

  With her name fully cleared now, Katie received a second, somewhat stilted apology from Mrs. Harper . . . and a handwritten note from William Melville inviting her to dinner that night.

  He hadn’t asked her to keep their rendezvous quiet. But Katie didn’t share her news with the other girls, not wanting them to gossip. Instead, she stuck to her routine, leaving the shop at seven, then whiling away the next hour in a nearby café.

  Katie couldn’t help feeling nervous as she waited. She had little experience with men. She’d had her share of admirers, drawn to her striking Gaelic looks—glossy blue-black hair and snow white skin—as much as her full figure, but she’d never had a proper boyfriend. Back home, her father’s fierce stare had kept suitors away. London had brought more freedom, but her strict Catholic upbringing meant any dates always ended the same—with Katie pushing away eager hands and then being walked home in sullen silence. She had already decided that if William acted in any way forward she would head straight home—even if it meant losing her job. After all, she wasn’t that type of girl.

  She was back outside the shop entrance by five to eight. William was already there. Early, she noted, and looking fabulously affluent in a navy cashmere coat. She glanced down at her own attire. Dressed in her polyester blouse and calf-length corduroy skirt, she wasn’t exactly an ideal dinner companion for him. She waited, uncertain how to greet him.

  “I’m glad you came, Katie,” he said, in his deep, cultured voice that made her so aware of her own Irish lilt.

  “It was nice of you to invite me, Mr. Melville.”

  He smiled down at her. “If we’re going to have dinner together, then I must insist you call me William.”

  She hesitated for the briefest of moments before smiling back at him.