Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

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

C
aitlin 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.”

A NOVEL

___________

Tara Hyland

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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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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

_________

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.

_________

L
ONDON
, D
ECEMBER 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 passed 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.