Three Weeks in Paris by Barbara Taylor Bradford Read Free Book Online Page B

had already done for her winter line, envisioning a coat, a suit, or a dress in one of the reds, purples, or blues.
    Very soon she was lost in her work, completely oblivious to everything, bubbling inside with enthusiasm, her creative juices flowing as she began to design, loving every moment of it.
    At twenty-nine, Kay Lenox was one of the best-known young fashion designers on both sides of the Atlantic. In London her clothes sold at her boutique on Bond Street, and in New York at Bergdorf Goodman. She had a boutique in Chicago and one in Dallas, and another on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.
    Her name was synonymous with quality, stylishness, and wearability. The clothes she designed were elegant, but in a relaxed and casual manner, and they were extremely well cut and beautifully made.
    The fabrics Kay favored gave her clothes a great sense of luxury … the finest light wools, cashmeres, wool crepes, soft Scottish tweeds, suede, leather, crushed velvet, and a heavy silk she bought in France. Her flair and imagination were visible in the way she mixed these fabrics with each other in one garment—the result a look entirely unique to her.
    Kay worked on steadily through the morning, and soconcentrated was she, and focused on her designs, she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow jangled.
    Picking it up, she said “Lochcraigie” in a somewhat sharpish tone.
    “Hello, darling,” her husband answered. “
You
sound a bit snotty this morning.”
    “Ian!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Sorry. I was lost in a dress, figuratively speaking.”
    He chuckled. “Is your designing going well, then?”
    “I’ll say, and I had a brainstorm earlier. I’m doing the entire winter collection in shades of red running through to palest pink, and blue going to lilac to violet and deep purple.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    “Did you find a gift for Fiona?”
    There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, sounding vague, “Oh, yes, I did.”
    “So you’re on your way home now?”
    “Not exactly,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Er, er, I’m a bit peckish, so I’m going to have a spot of lunch. I should be back about fourish.”
    The brightness in her vivid blue eyes dimmed slightly, but she said, “All right, then, I’ll be here waiting for you.”
    “We’ll have tea together,” he murmured. “Bye, darling.”
    He hung up before she could say another word, and she stood there puzzled, staring at the receiver in her hand, and then she went back to work.
    ————
    LATER THAT AFTERNOON , when she had eaten a smoked salmon sandwich and drunk a mug of lemon tea, Kay put on a cream fisherman’s knit sweater from the Orkneys, thick woolen socks, and green Wellington boots. In thecoat room near the back door she took down her dark green coat of quilted silk, pushed her red-gold hair under a red knitted cap, added a matching scarf and gloves, and went outside.
    She was hit with a blast of freezing air, and it took her breath away, but her clothes were warm, the coat in particular, and she set out toward the loch, in need of fresh air and exercise.
    This was one of her favorite walks on the estate, which in its entirety covered over three thousand acres. A wide path led down from the cutting garden just beyond the back door, past broad lawns and thick woods bordering one side of the lawns. In the distance was the narrow body of glassy water that was Loch Craigie.
    At one moment Kay stopped and stood staring across at the distant hills, partially obscured this afternoon by a hazy mist on their peaks and lightly covered in snow. Then she swung her head, her eyes settling on the great stone house where she lived, built in 1559 by William Andrews, then new laird of Lochcraigie. From that time onward, the eldest son had inherited everything through the law of primogeniture, and fortuitously there had always been a male heir to carry on the Andrews name. An unbroken line for