was here early,’ said Virginia shortly, ‘She had to come all the way from some fashion show in New York.’
‘And I thought you had a boyfriend coming over?’ said Jonathon looking around.
‘Who told you that?’ said Emma with surprise.
‘Your mother said there was some chap at work.’
‘Mum, please. It’s nothing serious,’ said Emma, suddenly feeling like a teenager.
‘It never is serious, is it?’ said Virginia, ‘unless it’s work.’
Seemingly tiring of the conversation, Jonathon grabbed Virginia’s arm.
‘Come along,’ he said briskly, ushering them after the crowd, ‘they’ll be burying the poor sod.’
The mourners had collected around the grave with the family standing in a row behind the vicar. At the end of the line, Emma watched them. The head of the family, of the Milford dynasty, was now her Uncle Roger. Still a handsome man she thought, looking at his well-toned frame wrapped in a long black coat. His blond hair was well-trimmed, and just lightly flecked with grey even though he was in his mid-fifties. His beautiful wife Rebecca, a local girl who had tamed the company playboy stood behind him, tall, slender and blonde with wide feline eyes; the perfect accessory for the new Lord of the Manor. Tom, Cassandra’s brother – all grown up now, she noted – was dressed in something that only loosely qualified as a suit. Tom’s mother Julia, an art dealer whose company Emma had always enjoyed, was at his side. And then there was Cassandra. Her eyes were obscured by the rim of an enormous black hat but that exquisite bone structure was still visible. She lifted her head and caught Emma looking over towards her; she gave Emma the hint of a smile. Moving to America had meant that Emma had got out from beneath the shadow of her charmed, more glamorous older cousin. But Emma had never been able to quite escape the voices. ‘Cassandra is dating a rock star.’ ‘Did you see Cassandra on television?’ ‘Oh, Cassandra makes us all so proud.’
After Saul’s body had been laid to rest, Emma went back inside the church to find the case she had stowed in the pew. As she walked out, the leafy grounds were almost empty as most of the crowd had taken advantage of the fleet of cars laid on to ferry the mourners to Saul’s home Winterfold for the wake. But one striking figure was standing on the path. Cassandra.
Emma’s heart sank. Cassandra’s love of pretty skirts and beads when they had played together as children had translated into a career as one of the top editors in the world. Her magazine, Rive, was the most respected fashion publication on the planet and Cassandra was the living embodiment of it: elegant, poised and, to Emma’s eyes, snooty and pretentious. Not much had changed there, she thought. Twenty-odd years on from Saul’s villa and Cassandra still had the power to make Emma feel awkward and ungainly.
‘Oh. Has everybody gone?’ said Cassandra as Emma approached. ‘I was just talking to the vicar about doing a Gothic shoot in the church grounds. Some of those over-grown tombs are stunning.’
Emma smiled nervously and motioned towards one of the Mercedes cars.
‘Fancy jumping in this one?’
‘This is actually my driver,’ said Cassandra quickly. ‘But feel free to join me.’
‘Donna Karan?’
‘Sorry?’ asked Emma as she struggled to get her case onto the seat next to her.
‘Your suit. Donna Karan last season.’
‘Er, yes. I think so,’ replied Emma remembering how she had bought the trouser suit because it was smart and black and for no other reason beyond that.
‘Beautiful service, though,’ said Cassandra. Her mind had already moved on: ‘I got Robbie Van Helden to do the flowers. He does Elton’s parties.’
Emma nodded nervously.
‘How long are you staying?’ she asked, filling the silence.
‘Oh, I have to get back to London tonight,’ said Cassandra. ‘It’s all rather inconvenient, slap bang in the middle of the collections. Never mind. When duty calls …’
She smiled and Emma thought how unusual it was that Cassandra seemed to be in such a buoyant mood. Emma found her spiky and was usually walking on egg-shells whenever she spoke to her. The slightest thing could send her into a hissy-fit.
‘I’d leave now but I can’t miss the big family powwow,’ continued Cassandra ordering her driver to take them to Winterfold.
‘Pow-wow? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, didn’t you hear? Apparently Saul wanted his will to be read, so it’s happening tonight while everyone is still here.’
Emma frowned. ‘How odd. I thought that the reading of the will died out about fifty years ago.’
‘You know Saul, the old queen. He loved a bit of drama. Anyway, you shouldn’t complain about it happening tonight. It saves you coming back from Boston,’ smiled Cassandra.
‘I suppose Uncle Roger will finally get his hands on the company then,’ said Emma, wondering for the first time what would happen to Saul’s extensive assets. Cassandra dipped her hat, so Emma couldn’t see her face.
‘Don’t be so sure.’
They fell into silence as the car sped through the lanes of the village. Past the Feathers pub where Emma had bought her first drink, past the park where her father had chased her and pushed her on the swings. There were many happy memories but some were still too painful to think about. She looked away.
The car swung into the avenue of lime trees that ran up to the manor house. A grand Georgian mansion, set in 800 acres of grounds, Winterfold had a haughty, almost severe beauty. Emma knew the story well of how the house came to be in her family; as a child it had been told to her at bedtime like a fairy tale of the beautiful aristocracy and their fantasy lives. The house had once belonged to the Greystone family, who had built the house from the proceeds of their merchant banking fortune. Merrick Milford, Emma’s great-grandfather, was a local saddler’s apprentice who had developed a reputation for being exceptionally skilled. The lady of the house, Lady Eleanor Greystone, was a keen horsewoman and had admired Merrick’s work on her own saddles, so had asked to meet this young talent. Visiting the house, Merrick had been fascinated by a beautiful collection of trunks in the hall which Lady Greystone informed him were made by Goyard, the Parisian luggage house who supplied everyone from Indian maharajas to French aristocracy.
Buoyed by his mistress’s praise and full of the arrogance of youth, the handsome young artisan had boasted: ‘If you provide the materials, m’lady, I will make you a set of luggage even finer than this one.’
Taking him at his word, Lady Greystone delivered the finest leather, wood, brass pellets and canvas to Merrick’s cottage on the outskirts of the village the following week. Six weeks later Merrick delivered six trunks that all neatly fitted inside one another like Russian dolls. The leather had been hand-stitched and coated with beeswax to seal it. Each trunk had a fine brass lock, forged by himself. The influential Lady Eleanor told her friends and the young saddler was in business. When the First World War had passed and the upper classes resumed their travels, it was to the small Oxfordshire company Milford that they turned for exquisite bespoke luggage, not Goyard and Vuitton.
Twenty
