Читать книгу Being Elizabeth - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 16

TEN

Elizabeth followed Grace Rose across the small entrance hall and into the red sitting room, one of her favourite spots in her aunt’s flat. She loved the mélange of reds predominant in the room – the crimson silk on the walls and at the windows, the tied-back draperies, the mixture of vivid reds in the carpet, the red velvet on the sofa and armchairs arranged in front of the fireplace.

To her way of thinking, the red colour scheme was a superb backdrop for the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings which Grace Rose had chosen to place in this elegant room. Yet, to Elizabeth, the elegance was balanced by a sense of welcoming warmth, even a cosiness, and the pink-silk-shaded lamps cast a lovely roseate glow, especially on this wintry afternoon.

‘Sit over there by the fire,’ Grace Rose instructed. As she spoke she went across to the Georgian desk in a corner, retrieved a bulging manila folder, joined Elizabeth.

‘I need to speak to you about the painting,’ Grace Rose began, staring intently at her great-niece. ‘That’s what this is all about. And you know the painting I mean, I’m quite sure of that.’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, of course I do. The painting your father bought in about 1918 because it reminded him of Bess and you.’

‘Correct. And I want a promise from you, a promise that you will not sell it. Not unless you have to – in order to save Deravenels. That must be the only reason.’

‘I promise I won’t sell it, Grace Rose. You have my word.’

‘It might be a temptation to auction it off, you know. It must be worth a small fortune today.’

‘Oh, it is, I know that for a fact.’

‘So you had it appraised, did you?’ Grace Rose asked swiftly, giving her a keen look.

‘Not exactly.’ Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘I need to explain something to you, some decisions I made about the painting a year ago. I did this just after my half-sister told me I was no longer welcome at Deravenels, that I couldn’t work there any more. Since I didn’t know what she had in store for me, what she might do, I went to live at Ravenscar. I was sort of hiding out, if you like.’

‘I remember. You spoke to me from there, wanted me to know where you were, in case I needed you. But please continue about the painting.’

‘The week Mary told me to get out, I drove down to Waverley Court, and had Toby take the painting down off the library wall. We wrapped it carefully in blankets and I brought it back to London. I told him I was having it cleaned and restored. This is what I did. It is now hanging in my dressing room in the Eaton Square flat, where it is absolutely safe.’

Looking suddenly confused, Grace Rose murmured, ‘But Briney Meadows saw the painting only a few weeks ago. Toby had asked him to go over to Waverley Court, to help him fix the security system. There had been some sort of problem with the electrical wiring.’

A wide smile spread across Elizabeth’s face. ‘Briney saw the copy I’d had made, after the painting was cleaned and restored. During the period it was being copied, by the artist I’d hired, I realized that Toby and Myrtle might notice the frame was new, once the painting was back at Waverley Court. Because the original frame was a bit chipped, the gilt worn off in places. I told the artist to put the copy in the old frame, and the original in the new one, so they wouldn’t notice the difference.’

Grace Rose chuckled. ‘Very smart of you, my dear. But, out of curiosity, why did you move it in the first place?’

‘I thought Mary might actually steal it. No one would deny her access to Waverley Court, and certainly I didn’t trust her. Whilst she loathed the painting, she nevertheless knew it was extremely valuable, and she could easily have taken it away. No one would have stopped her. So, very simply, I didn’t want to take any chances with it. She could have sold it, you know, and given the money to Philip Alvarez.’

‘Good thinking, Elizabeth. However –’ Grace Rose cut herself off, then said carefully, ‘It was hers by right, I suppose.’

‘I’m well aware of that. She inherited it from my father through our half-brother Edward. But that particular day I made a judgement call … I decided she didn’t deserve to have it.’

Grace Rose suppressed her mirth, and after a moment she remarked, ‘Elizabeth, I think I would have done exactly the same thing, if I’d been in your position.’

‘Thank you for saying that.’ Leaning closer, Elizabeth confided, ‘It’s worth an enormous amount. A dealer, who’s an old friend of mine, told me that any Renoir is priceless, and especially this one, Les deux soeurs, because of its marvellous quality, and also because Renoir painted it in 1889, when he was in great form. When I spoke to my friend, Julian Everson, last summer, and showed him the Renoir, he was extremely impressed. He put a price on it. He said it was worth six million pounds, at least. He even added that this was a rather low estimate on his part.’

‘That sounds about right. I estimated eight million pounds. Now, this folder is for you. Inside there’s a great deal of documentation about the paintings which belonged to Jane Shaw, my father’s great friend, his mistress, actually. Bess and I inherited her art collection after her death. It was valuable then, therefore it’s very valuable today. I know what’s hanging on my walls. In here –’ She paused, patted the manila folder, and went on, ‘– in here are photographs of the paintings your grandmother inherited. When you have a moment, I want you to look for them in the various homes you inherited. Will you do that, Elizabeth? It’s important you know where everything is.’

‘I certainly will. In fact, Kat can start on it straight away. She’s working for me at the moment, checking out similar things.’

‘I’m delighted to hear this. Kat is extremely efficient. I think some of the paintings will be at the Chelsea house, where your father lived after he sold the old house in Berkeley Square. And there’re probably others at Ravenscar and Waverley Court. Well, here’s the folder. Do go through it when you have a moment. You’ll probably recognize some of the paintings yourself.’

Elizabeth had taken the bulging folder over to the desk in the red sitting room, and was examining the documentation about the paintings. Grace Rose had disappeared over twenty minutes ago, to take a phone call from her great-nephew in Ireland, and she was still absent.

Entranced by the photographs of the paintings, Elizabeth knew the moment she started rifling through them that she was looking at some rare treasures. But she had never known they had been part of Jane Shaw’s collection. Some of them she recognized immediately and knew exactly where they were.

She stared at a photograph of a painting by Camille Pissarro, one she had loved for as long as she could remember. It depicted a group of old houses with red roofs situated in a stand of trees which were almost leafless. This hung in the dining room at Waverley Court, and so did an eye-catching snow scene by Armand Guillaumin. She had grown up with these two paintings, and liked how well they worked together in the same room. The red rooftops of Pissarro’s houses blended with the russet leaves of the trees on the snowy hillsides of Guillaumin.

A Claude Monet snow scene, a painting composed entirely of shades of black, white, cream and grey, had been one of her father’s favourites, and this still hung at Ravenscar in the room where he had worked.

There were several more photographs of other paintings, and she recognized the style of Matisse, Van Gogh, Sisley and Manet. These four paintings, which seemed familiar to her, were definitely not at Ravenscar or Waverley Court. Maybe they were hanging in the Chelsea house.

At this moment Grace Rose reappeared, and exclaimed, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, Patrick doesn’t usually keep me on the phone for such a long time. But he wanted to tell me all about his girlfriend … he’s about to get engaged. He’s bringing her to London later this week to meet me.’

‘Oh, how nice,’ Elizabeth said, looking up, smiling.

‘It is, and he’s thoughtful, he always likes to include me in family affairs whenever he can. Now, about the paintings, you must be familiar with some of them. They should be in one or another of the houses, in fact.’

Putting the photographs back in the folder, Elizabeth got up from behind the desk, and went to join Grace Rose near the fire. ‘They are, and let me show you those which are actually in my possession. I also remember seeing some of the others, but the problem is I’m not sure where … more than likely those are in the Chelsea house. Unless they have been sold.’

‘There’s always that possibility, of course. But I don’t think your father sold any art, and anyway, the paintings are by well-known artists. So I would have known if they had come onto the market. And I’m positive Mary didn’t sell any, for the same reason. I would have known about it.’

Elizabeth said, ‘I am going to ask Kat to go over to the Chelsea house again, to check on the paintings. She was there last week, starting to organize everything, but I never thought to tell her about the paintings in the house.’

‘And what about that house, Elizabeth? Are you going to keep it? Or sell it?’

‘I think I will sell it, Grace Rose. It’s a lovely old place, I know, but, well, it seems rather large for a single woman on her own.’

Grace Rose threw her an appraising look, and exclaimed, ‘But you’re not going to be on your own forever. You’ll get married, have children one day.’

Elizabeth gaped at her, a look of horror crossing her face. ‘I’m never going to get married. Not ever.’

‘Come, come, my dear. Don’t say never like that. One doesn’t know what might happen … all sorts of unexpected things occur in life.’

‘No, I shall never get married. I’m far too independent a woman – and besides, I don’t want a man bossing me around, telling me what to do. I want to be my own … boss. I don’t want to be somebody’s appendage. And I don’t want children, I want a career.’

Grace Rose gave her a long, reflective stare but remained silent.

‘When I was eight,’ Elizabeth suddenly said, ‘I told Robert Dunley I would never get married, and if you ask him, he’ll tell you that I’m speaking the truth.’

Grace Rose bit back a smile, then murmured in a lighter tone, ‘And was that when he first proposed to you, Elizabeth?’

‘Don’t be silly, Grace Rose! He didn’t propose to me then. Nor has he ever, for that matter. Nor will he in the future, I can assure you of that.’

Grace Rose swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue. She was about to tell Elizabeth that she was totally wrong. Robert Dunley had been captivated by Elizabeth Turner’s allure since he had been … yes, an eight-year-old like her. They had spent a lot of time with her at Stonehurst Farm when they were youngsters, and she could easily recall how he had hung on her every word, been utterly entranced with her.

Unable to let the subject go, Elizabeth now announced, ‘Robin’s like family, like my brother. He feels exactly the same way about me.’

‘Does he now?’ Grace Rose murmured. ‘I know he’s become Director of Operations at Deravenels … I hope you’ll bring him over to see me one day soon. He was such a darling boy.’ Not waiting for an answer, moving on swiftly, Grace Rose finished, ‘You must let me know what Kat finds at the Chelsea house, in regard to the paintings. I shall be anxious.’

‘I’ll get her on to it in the morning, so no doubt I’ll be able to give you a few answers tomorrow night. Now, let me show you the paintings I have in my possession.’ Opening the folder, Elizabeth took out the Pissarro first and handed it to her great-aunt.

After she had left Grace Rose and gone home, Elizabeth thought about her great-aunt’s reference to Robin proposing to her. Obviously Grace Rose had forgotten about Robin marrying Amy Robson, about eight years ago now, or thereabouts. Everyone else had because she was nowhere to be seen; it was as if Amy had disappeared into oblivion.

Blanche Parrell had once told her Amy lived in Cirencester and never came up to town, because she and Robin had separated. Robin never mentioned her, and Elizabeth had not thought about her for ages until tonight. Yes, seemingly it had all gone awry, that teenage marriage. Blanche had remarked. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ At the time a lot of people had thought it was a shotgun marriage, but apparently not. There were no children of that misguided union.

Robert Dunley lived like a bachelor, was relaxed and fancy-free, seemingly. He lived and worked in London, and never went to Cirencester. Elizabeth thought about Amy. How could any woman let a man like him slip through her fingers?