to be about fifty years old in the painting.
Evan knew exactly who it was before she leaned forward and read the small engraved plaque attached to the elaborate gold picture frame. Emma Harte: 1889–1970.
Momentarily dumbfounded, she read the plaque again. And finally it sank in … Emma Harte had been dead for thirty-one years. Surely her grandmother had known this, if they had once been friends? Someone would have informed her. So what had made Gran utter those words on her deathbed? What had possessed her? Evan shook her head, more baffled than ever, not understanding what her gran had been trying to accomplish.
After several seconds staring at the painting, Evan turned away. It was then she noticed the second painting hanging in the alcove on the opposite wall. As she stepped up to it she thought the woman in the portrait seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her. The plaque on this simply gave the name of the subject: Paula McGill Harte O’Neill. Emma’s granddaughter, Evan murmured under her breath, looking at it more closely.
She studied the portrait for a few minutes, very taken with it, and struck by the dominant widow’s peak obviously inherited from Emma. But here the resemblance stopped. Paula O’Neill’s hair was jet black, brushed back and worn in a pageboy style that ended at her strong and determined jawline. Her complexion was pale as ivory, and she had a broad brow, high cheekbones, dimples, and large expressive eyes the colour of pansies. Truly beautiful eyes, Evan thought – unusual – and she then decided Paula looked about forty-five in the portrait. She was striking in a dark, exotic way. In the painting she was wearing a silver-grey silk dress and Emma Harte’s emeralds were very much in evidence.
Standing totally still, Evan discovered she was completely mesmerized by this painting; it was extraordinary, an accomplished portrait of—
‘Can I help you?’
Evan almost jumped out of her skin, startled by a male voice, which had broken the silence in the corridor. She swung around, came face to face with a tall, good-looking young man.
A surprised look was flashing across his face as he stared at her and then he said again, ‘Do you need some assistance?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I’m looking for the management offices.’
He nodded. ‘They’re at the end of the corridor. I’m heading in that direction, I’ll show you where they are.’ Stepping closer to her, he held out his hand.
Evan took it, smiled up at him.
‘Gideon Harte,’ he announced, shaking her hand.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed and automatically her eyes swung to Emma’s portrait. ‘And that’s your grandmother!’
‘No, it isn’t, actually,’ he answered. ‘That’s my great-grandmother.’
‘I see.’
‘And you are?’
‘Oh excuse me, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Evan Hughes.’
‘A Welsh name. A boy’s Welsh name, to be precise,’ he responded.
‘My grandmother was Welsh, and she told her son, my father, that she expected him to name his first child Evan. She was sure I was going to be a boy. I turned out to be a girl.’
‘So I can see,’ he said, giving her a swift appraising look.
‘But now I think the name Evan is used for a boy or a girl,’ she went on, ignoring his gaze, and then very gently extricated her hand from his.
He said, ‘Let’s go along to the management offices,’ and began to walk slowly down the corridor.
Evan fell into step with him.
After a moment’s silence, Gideon said, ‘You’re an American, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. From New York.’
‘Great city.’ He glanced at her. ‘And are you in London on business?’
‘Well, no, not exactly. I decided to come to London for a year or so,’ she quickly invented. ‘And that’s why I’m here at Harte’s today. I’m looking for a job.’
‘Are you now? In what area?’
‘Fashion. I studied design in New York, and worked in the fashion departments of several stores. I also did a year’s apprenticeship with Arnold Scaasi, the American couturier.’
He nodded, seemed about to say something, then merely cleared his throat. ‘Here’s where you want to be … Human Resources,’ he explained, indicating the door. ‘But Miss Hughes …’ He stopped, cleared his throat again, and then said, ‘Do you have a work permit?’
‘No, I don’t, but I don’t need one. I was born in London. I have an English passport and dual nationality.’
‘Well then, that’s fine,’ he answered, giving her a broad smile.
Opening the door for her, he ushered her into a large office. A young woman seated at a desk looked up as they entered.
‘Oh hello, Mr Harte,’ she said.
‘Hello, Jennifer. This is Miss Evan Hughes. She’s come to apply for a job at Harte’s. In fashion.’ Looking at Evan, he added, ‘I wish you lots of luck, Miss Hughes.’
‘Thank you, Mr Harte,’ she answered, smiling up at him again. ‘Thanks for everything.’
Gideon Harte walked down the corridor, thinking of the young woman whom he had just ushered inside.
Evan Hughes. Unusual name. Unusual woman.
From the moment he had set eyes on her he had been intrigued, instantly struck by her amazingly fine looks, and not the least by her curious likeness to Paula O’Neill. For a second he had thought this uncanny. Their facial characteristics were very similar, as was their colouring, and he had recoiled in surprise when she had swung around to face him.
But then he had realized the likeness between them meant nothing. A lot of people resembled each other without being in any way related. In any case, how could this young American woman be related to Paula, of all people? There was no way.
Moving away from the door, Gideon walked on, heading for Linnet’s office, where he had been going when he had come across Evan Hughes looking lost in the middle of the corridor. But, in fact, she had been studying the portrait of Paula, he realized that now. Maybe she herself had noticed her likeness to the boss of the store.
Opening the door to the executive offices from which this venerable old store was run, he crossed the small central foyer and turned right.
Linnet’s outer office was usually occupied by Cassie Littleton, her secretary, but this morning Cassie was nowhere in sight. His cousin’s office door was wide open and he strode toward it, but paused in the doorway when he saw she was busy.
Linnet was
