Scandals

‘A party, yes, but I was thinking of something else, a special gift,’ Rose said firmly.

‘That means that you’ve already thought of something,’ Emerald guessed shrewdly.

‘Yes,’ Rose agreed, ‘but what I’ve got in mind is rather a large project and it would need us all to agree and to contribute to it.’

‘So what is it?’ Polly demanded.

‘Well, this does in a way tie in with what Emerald has been saying about the need for us to look in new directions to promote the business. As you all know, through my own private practice I deal with clients who want new interior designs for their shops, hairdressing salons, et cetera, and I’m beginning to see a move away from the pretty-pretty to something more dramatic.’

‘And…?’ Emerald urged impatiently.

‘I’m wondering if we could introduce a new design to Denby Mill’s existing portfolio, based on the length of silk featured in The Silk Merchant’s Daughter. I know that Amber has that piece of silk, and I’ve always thought how wonderful the colours in it are, all those rich dark ambers, plums and charcoals, shot through with lighter colours.’

Emerald had heard enough. She could never and would never feel comfortable about the famous painting of her mother, the work of the French artist Jean-Philippe du Breveonet, and which she herself had once tried to destroy.

‘That piece of silk is priceless and antique. It could never be replicated.’

Rose nodded in agreement. She had expected resistance to her idea from Emerald, who for some reason was always antagonistic to anything to do with the French artist and the paintings he had done of Amber.

‘You’re right,’ she agreed, ‘but what I was thinking was more along the lines of us creating an entire new range of designs, using the colours from the silk and incorporating them into modern styles – stripes, block prints, architectural designs – the kind of patterns that would appeal to interior designers and really stand out from what’s on offer at the moment.’

‘That’s a terrific concept, and I love it already,’ Cathy announced, joining the conversation. ‘Rose is right about the colours in the silk. Every time Sim and I go to the National Gallery we look at the painting and marvel at it all over again.’

‘It sounds a good idea,’ Janey concurred.

‘I thought that if we could work on it in secret so that Amber doesn’t know, we could with luck have it ready for launching by her birthday. I thought we’d name it and launch it in her honour.’

‘Name it? What?’ Emerald challenged, unable to conceal her dislike of the idea. She couldn’t help it. Anything to do with the artist who had secretly been her mother’s lover and her own father made her feel angry and vulnerable. The last thing she wanted was attention being drawn to the series of paintings, which were currently on loan to the National Gallery and which the artist had given into her mother’s care during the war, just prior to his own death. For years those paintings had remained shut away, but Sim, Cathy’s husband, had persuaded Amber to let him show them in his own small gallery in Cornwall, where they had attracted such a lot of interest that the National Gallery had asked to borrow them.

‘We could call the range “Amber”, I suppose,’ Ella suggested.

Rose shook her head. ‘You don’t have to agree with me – this is only a suggestion – but what about calling the entire range simply 1912 as in “The 1912 Range”? That is the year Amber was born, and I think using that date will set the range apart from the current crop of floral patterns and names, if you’ll all forgive the pun.’

‘Rose, that’s a brilliant idea,’ Janey approved, clapping her hands together.

‘It is very stylish,’ Ella agreed. ‘I can see that appealing to the high-end American market.’

‘It does sound rather elegant,’ Emerald agreed reluctantly, ‘but you’re forgetting something important, Rose. To come anywhere near replicating the colours in the original silk, we’re going to need that piece of fabric, and Mummy keeps it under lock and key. She’ll be bound to ask what we want it for if we wish to borrow it.’

‘We can ask Jay to get it for us,’ Rose told her promptly. ‘If we tell him what we’re planning he’ll help us, I’m sure. And, Polly, how would you feel about taking it back to Italy with you and asking Rocco to look into matching it? Denby Mill has its own strengths but Angelli Silk has the best reputation in the world for its dyes.’

Angelli Silk was the centuries-old Venetian silk manufacturing house still owned by the family of Polly’s husband, Rocco. It was now in partnership with Denby Silk.

‘I can see it now,’ Janey enthused, ‘gorgeous stripes in all those rich colours: chocolate brown, dark amber, plum, and crimson.’

‘With just a thin line of off-white and black,’ Cathy put in, equally excited. ‘We could add some fun designs in, perhaps spots.’

‘Or etched cartoons,’ Ella added, her own imagination taking fire. ‘Perhaps the outline of an elegant 1912 female profile?’

‘Or a hat?’ said Polly. ‘Or maybe just the figures 1912? Oh, Rose, you really are a genius. This is just such an innovative and wonderful idea, and yet it follows the tradition of great-grandfather so well.’

The great-grandfather to whom Polly was referring was Amber’s own father, whose designs Amber herself had used to produce some of Denby Mill’s most popular ranges.

Listening to them, Rose exhaled in relief. She had been worried that there might be objections to her suggestion, and was delighted that it had been received so well.

Rose’s idea was a good one, Emerald acknowledged, and she could already see the huge potential the range could have, and she loved Rose’s suggestion for its name. She would just have to put to one side her feelings about the painter and the painting, and focus instead on the benefits.

Her plane had just landed at Manchester airport. It was silly to have excitement fluttering inside her just because she was going to see Robert. Silly, pointless but inevitable, Olivia acknowledged wryly.

As she was travelling light, with only hand luggage, Olivia was one of the first passengers to reach the arrivals hall. She looked for her father’s familiar face, and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw an equally familiar but unexpected face and heard Robert saying her name.

‘Robert, you’ve come to meet me.’ Of all the inane things to say, and did her voice have to sound so thready and, well, silly?

They were walking side by side, the rail separating those waiting from new arrivals between them.

Robert looked so English in his dark overcoat, worn over a dark suit, his shirt white with a soft red stripe, his tie a slightly darker shade of red. His shirt would have been made to measure for him in Jermyn Street, his suit would be from Savile Row and his shoes from Lobb. He looked exactly what he was: a well-brought-up upper-class Englishman, and he had come to the airport just to meet her. A wave of giddy delight and joy washed over her.

‘Is that all the luggage you’ve got?’

They had almost reached the end of the barrier.

‘Yes. Mom promised to bring everything else.’

‘Yes, she said to tell you not to worry, they’ve brought all your presents for everyone with them.’

‘I wasn’t expecting to get a commission so close to Christmas.’

They were standing face to face, Robert reaching for her case. And that was when Olivia realised that something extraordinary and previously unimaginable except in her daydreams was happening. Robert was looking at her mouth in that way – that way that said that he was thinking about kissing it…kissing her. Her heart was jumping and racing. She could hardly breathe. She felt…oh my, how she did just feel. This was crazy. She wasn’t a teenager any more and—

Another passenger bumped into her, jolting her forward. Robert’s free hand fastened protectively on her arm.

Olivia was attracting a good deal of surreptitious interest from other members of his sex, Robert noticed, and he could understand why. Watching her come towards him before she’d seen him, he had felt his heart lift – with triumph in his own judgement and the acknowledgement that he had made the right decision.

From the top of her shiny thick mane of tawny brown hair to the toes of her pale beige boots, she exuded the confident discreet allure of a beautiful well-groomed woman. The confidence was only a veneer, though, he suspected. He had seen the way she’d reacted when he’d looked at her mouth. And that had pleased him.

‘I suppose it’s raining?’ For goodness’ sake relax, Olivia begged herself as, still holding her arm, Robert guided her towards the exit. Her cashmere slacks were warm but thin, and she could feel the muscular hardness of Robert’s thigh against her own. This was ridiculous. She was nearly twenty-six, and adult.

‘Of course. This is Manchester. The car’s not very far away, though.’

They were outside in the cold damp early evening air.

‘It’s really good of you to come for me.’

‘I had my reasons.’

‘What reasons?’ she asked, whilst her heart bounced.

Robert mustn’t have heard her because he didn’t answer.