Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 23

Katharine stood in the tiny kitchen of her flat in Lennox Gardens, waiting for the kettle to boil for her morning tea. She put a piece of bread in the toaster, and then, standing on tiptoe, she reached up into the cupboard, taking out a cup and saucer, and a plate. She opened the refrigerator door, removed the butter dish and a stone jar of Dundee marmalade, and placed them on a tray with the other china, her movements swift yet graceful.

The kitchen was so small that there was only enough space for one person in it, but because it was so sparklingly fresh and neat and free of the unnecessary clutter Katharine detested, it seemed much less claustrophobic than it actually was. When Katharine had taken the flat two years earlier, she had had the walls and the cabinets painted a pale duck-egg blue, and this delicate colour helped to open up the confined dimensions, as did the matching marbleized linoleum on the floor. Blue cotton curtains, gauzy and weightless, framed the small window, and on the windowsill itself there was a selection of red geraniums in clay pots, and these introduced a spark of vivid colour and springlike greenery.

Katharine stepped to the window and glanced out. The flat was on the top floor and had once been the attics of the house, before it had been converted into flats. Consequently, she had a charming bird’s eye view from her little eyrie, and one which faced onto the enclosed gardens situated in the centre of the semi-circular terrace of imposing Victorian mansions. In the summer months she looked down onto great leafy domes and cupolas shimmering with iridescent green light as the sunshine filtered through the lacy texture of the interwoven branches weighted with verdant leaves. On this February morning, the gardens were bereft, the trees stripped of beauty and life. But their black and bony branches did reach up into the prettiest sky she had seen in a long time. The dark and tumescent clouds which had shrouded London in perpetual greyness for weeks had miraculously been blown away. For once it was not raining.

It’s almost like an April morning, Katharine thought with a happy smile, and she decided there and then that she would walk to the restaurant for her luncheon appointment at one o’clock. She debated what to wear and settled on the new outfit her dressmaker had delivered last week. She was mentally reviewing the accessories which would best go with it, when the kettle’s piercing whistle cut into her musings, and she turned off the gas, filled the teapot, put the toast on the plate and carried the breakfast tray into the living room.

Despite the sunlight flooding in through the windows, this room had an air of overwhelming coldness. Essentially, this was induced by the colour scheme and the overall style of the decoration, which was austere. Everything in the room was of the purest white. Gleaming white-lacquered walls flowed down to meet a thick white carpet covering the entire floor. White silk draperies rippled icily at the windows, and white wool sheathed the long sofa and several armchairs. The latter were sleek and modern in design, as was all of the furniture in the room, including two end tables flanking the sofa, a large square coffee table and an étagère set against one wall. These pieces were made of chrome and glass, and they introduced a hard and glittering aspect that further emphasized an atmosphere excessively glacial in its overtones.

There were few accent colours in this setting, so evocative of a frozen landscape, and these were dark and muted tones of steel grey and black, and did little to counteract the chilly monotony that prevailed. Tall pewter lamps on the glass end tables were topped with steel grey linen shades, and the same metallic grey was repeated in the velvet cushions on the sofa and chairs. Black and white etchings of knights in armour, framed in chrome, marched along one wall, while a huge cylindrical glass vase containing spidery black branches stood sentinel in one corner. The étagère displayed a pair of black-lacquered candlesticks sprouting white candles and a black-lacquered Japanese bowl. There were no photographs of family or friends, none of the usual intimate objects that provide evidence of past, treasured memories, or a personal life. The room, in all truth, had the sterility of a nun’s barren and virginal cell, and it echoed the adjoining bedroom, also washed completely in pure white and unrelieved by any contrasting colours whatsoever. Katharine had furnished and decorated the flat herself, and if anyone had told her it was icy and lifeless and intimidating, she would have gaped at them askance. She loved the pristine effect she had so carefully created, considered it to be elegant and sophisticated, saw only beauty in its purity and cleanliness, elements so necessary to her well being.

Hurrying across the room, she put the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. There was a dreamy faraway expression on her face, and as she sipped her tea she allowed herself to drift with her meandering thoughts. Katharine was feeling marvellous. Euphoria and excitement had carried her through the week and now, on this Thursday morning, it seemed to her that every day that had passed since Saturday night had been a huge success.

Both Francesca and the Earl had loved her performance as Helen of Troy, and the dinner at Les Ambassadeurs, with Victor acting as the host, had been memorable. Most important to Katharine, the Earl had taken to her immediately, and she knew he had been charmed, and therefore she did not envision him creating any problems or interfering in her relationship with Kim.

Katharine was not wrong in her belief that the Earl of Langley had liked her. In fact, they had been impressed with each other, the conservative English peer of the realm and the young American beauty, and their easy accord had created a warm and friendly atmosphere, had made for a relaxed evening. Everyone had enjoyed themselves to such a degree that Victor had extended the party into the early hours, and had taken them upstairs to the Milroy to dance to Paul Adams and his orchestra. Katharine, the actress incarnate, had surpassed herself, intuitively striking the perfect balance between reticence and gaiety.

The following day, Victor had taken her to lunch at Claridge’s, the sole purpose being to discuss more fully the screen test, and to enumerate the many differences between acting on a stage and before a camera. He had held forth at great length, offering her many helpful and instructive guidelines. Katharine had been touched by this thoughtfulness on his part, and grateful to him for his sound advice. He had arranged to meet with her again, for another session before the test itself, which had been confirmed for Friday of the coming week, eight days away. Tomorrow evening the Earl was taking her to dinner with Kim and Francesca, before returning to Yorkshire with Kim at the weekend.

Katharine smiled to herself, and it was a smile of self-congratulation and jubilance. Events were moving with the precision of clockwork; all the plans she had so painstakingly made were coming to fruition. She would marry Kim and become Viscountess Ingleton, and she would be a big international movie star. She settled back contentedly, cuddling down into her woollen dressing gown, hugging herself with joy. Her dreams would soon be realized. There would be no more pain and heartache and grief. Her life was going to be wonderful from now on.

As she sat daydreaming on the sofa, it never occurred to Katharine Tempest that things might be just a little too good to be true, or that something beyond her control might happen to mar these halcyon days. And if such a thought had crossed her mind she would have dismissed it at once, and with a degree of scorn. For unfortunately, Katharine was afflicted with a character flaw that was almost Hellenic in its proportions. She was crippled by hubris, that defect the Greeks defined as the temerity to tempt the Gods, in essence, an excess of overweening pride and the unwavering conviction of personal invulnerability. Being blindly unaware of this blemish in herself, she had no qualms about anything she did, and so she was also quite confident about the result of the screen test. She would be marvellous and Victor would give her the part in the film.

Victor Mason had told Katharine he intended to start principal photography in April, and this starting date suited Katharine admirably. Her contract with the theatrical producers of Trojan Interlude had an ‘out-of-the-play’ clause, and this came into effect after she had been in the play for one year. The year would be up at the end of March and so she could invoke the clause and leave the production to do the film. The shooting schedule was for twelve weeks, with exteriors to be shot in Yorkshire, interiors at one of the major studios in London. Victor had also told Katharine that he planned to have the footage edited quickly, since he wanted the answer print by September. From this master print he intended to strike two more prints, he had gone on to explain. The film could thus be shown in cinemas in New York and Los Angeles, for one week before the end of the year, thereby making the picture eligible, under the rules, for the Academy Awards of 1956. Although Victor would not be putting the film into general distribution until the spring of 1957, he had confided he did not want to miss a chance at the Oscar nominations.

What if she won an Oscar! This prospect was at once so stunning, so electrifying, so dazzling, Katharine felt momentarily dizzy. And because she had that most unique of all talents, the talent for believing in herself, the idea that she had a chance of winning was not at all beyond the realms of possibility in her mind. But even if she did not win an Oscar, Katharine did not doubt that she would be a star when the picture was released. And her success would not only bring her fame on a grand scale, but money, lots of money, a very special kind of power.

A faint white shadow glanced across Katharine’s face, tinging it with unfamiliar bitterness and dislodging the joy which had previously rested there.

Soon, very soon, she would be able to make her moves, put her final plan into operation, and execute it with the sure knowledge that she would be triumphant. A tiny fluttering sigh escaped Katharine’s lips. It was too late to save her mother, but not too late to save her brother, Ryan. Her dearest Ryan. Lost to her for so long. This desire had been one of the prime motivations behind many of Katharine’s actions for the past few years, and just as she was unremittingly driven to succeed in her career, so too was she driven to rescue Ryan from their father’s domination, from his contaminating influence. Sometimes, when she thought of Ryan, panic moved through Katharine and she quivered with fear for him. Ryan was nearly nineteen, and she often wondered to what degree his soul had been poisoned by that man. Had Ryan inevitably become their father’s creature, partially if not wholly? This idea was so repugnant to her, so unacceptable, and so terrifying, she pushed it away fiercely, denying it with silent vehemence; but her resolution to get her brother away from Chicago and to keep him with her wherever she was living, was reinforced more strongly than ever.

Katharine thought about Ryan, and the daunting expression slowly lifted from her face; her features grew soft, the hardness tempered by love and tenderness. But as always when she contemplated him, other images intruded. Her hands tightened in her lap and she sat staring into space fixedly, without moving, her body as immobile as a statue. Surrounding Ryan like a fateful nimbus was that brooding grotesque house where they had grown up, and where Ryan still lived, that awful mausoleum of a place, that dubious tribute to her father’s wealth and position and his terrible power. She had always loathed that house with its dusky hallways and winding staircases and dolorous rooms stuffed to overflowing with expensive ugly antiques, all manner of bric-a-brac and undistinguished paintings. It was a masterpiece of ostentation, reeking of bad taste, new money and suffocating unhappiness. To Katharine it was also a house of deprivation. Oh, they had had expensive clothes and the best food and cars and servants, for their father was a millionaire many times over. But it was, to Katharine, still a deprived house, for there had been so little genuine love in it. She shuddered involuntarily. She had not set foot in that house for six years, and on the day she had left it she had vowed she would never darken its doors again.

Katharine’s thoughts rushed to her father, and although she consistently obliterated his image in her mind’s eye, today she did not even attempt to extinguish it. She saw him quite vividly, as if he stood before her, Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke, with his handsome saturnine face and ebony-black hair, eyes as blue as sapphires and as hard as that stone they so closely resembled. He was a dreadful man, and she realized suddenly that she had always understood this, even when she had been a very small child. She had simply not known the words to properly describe him then. Today she had them at the tip of her tongue. He was exigent, rapacious and ruthless, a venal man who had made money his mistress and power his God. The world did not know Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke as she knew him. He was a monumental anachronism: the charming, laughing, entertaining, silver-tongued Irishman in public, the stern, glowering and dictatorial tyrant in his own home. Katharine hated him. Just as he hated her. Gooseflesh speckled her arms and she pulled her robe closer around her. She recalled, with the most sharp and awful clarity, the day she had first recognized her father’s virulent hatred for her. It had been in August 1947. She had been twelve years old.

On that day, nearly nine years ago, Katharine had been her happiest in many months, this state engendered by her mother’s unexpected presence at lunch. Rosalie O’Rourke was feeling so much better she had decided to join her children at their noonday meal. Katharine had been singularly overjoyed to see her mother looking practically like her old self; and if Rosalie was not brimming with the vitality which had once been such an essential and natural part of her personality, she seemed lighthearted, almost carefree. Her eyes, widely set and a clear tourmaline green, sparkled with laughter, and her abundant red hair, crackling with life, was a burnished bronze helmet above her heart-shaped face, which was free of pain today, and had lost some of its waxen pallor. She was wearing a pale green silk-shantung dress with long sleeves and a full skirt, and its style disguised her thin body, so tragically wasted by illness. A choker of lustrous pearls encircled her neck, and there were matching pearl studs in her ears; her tapering fingers glittered with beautiful rings set with diamonds and emeralds.

Mrs O’Rourke had instructed Annie, the housekeeper, to serve luncheon in the breakfast room, one of the few cheerful spots in the dim and shadowy house, and which Rosalie herself had personally decorated. It had a lovely aura of airy lightness, was brushstroked throughout in a pretty mélange of crisp white and sharp lemon yellow, rafts of these refreshing colours appearing everywhere. It was furnished, in the main, with white wicker furniture, unusual handsome pieces from the Victorian era, and there were colourful prints of exotic birds and rare orchids on the walls and an abundance of tall green plants. Decorated in the same charming manner as Rosalie’s suite of rooms on the second floor, it was refined and gracious, yet without being at all stylized in appearance.

As she had sat gazing adoringly at her mother across the table, Katharine had thought how distinguished and elegant she looked, perfectly groomed and smelling faintly of lilies of the valley as she invariably did. To Katharine her mother was, and always would be, the epitome of beauty and feminine grace, and she idolized her. Katharine, at this moment, was filled with renewed hope for her mother, who seemed to be on the way to recovering from the mysterious illness which had afflicted her for the past two years, an illness no one really discussed, except in whispers.

Since it was a weekday, Patrick O’Rourke had not been present, and in consequence, the tension which generally accompanied their meals was fortunately missing. Ryan had chattered like a magpie, had kept them entertained, and they had laughed a lot and enjoyed themselves. Katharine had felt secure, basking in her mother’s love. It was a love given unstintingly and with all of Rosalie’s tender and caring heart.

Only one thing marred this joyful occasion for Katharine, and this was her mother’s poor appetite, and she had watched with growing dismay as Rosalie had picked at her food desultorily, leaving untouched most of the delicious and tempting dishes their housekeeper Annie had prepared. After lunch, Ryan had disappeared, intent on some boyish escapade. When her mother had asked Katharine to spend another hour with her, she had delightedly accepted. Nothing pleased the twelve-year-old girl more than to be alone with her mother in the cool secluded suite she occupied. Katharine loved the comfortable rooms with their pastel colour schemes and delicate fabrics, French Provincial furniture and lovely paintings, so unlike the rest of the house which bore her father’s vulgar stamp. The sitting room, in particular, was Katharine’s favourite, and most especially on cold days. Then the fire blazed and crackled in the hearth and they sat before its roaring flames in that special twilight hour, toasting their toes and chatting cosily about books and music and the theatre, or relaxing in silence, always in perfect harmony, for there was a deep understanding and abiding love between them. That afternoon they had seated themselves by the window overlooking Lake Michigan, not talking very much, content to be sharing this time. It had been a long while since they had had an opportunity to spend an afternoon with each other because of Rosalie’s precarious health.

At thirty-two Rosalie O’Rourke had made her peace with herself and her God, and this new-found tranquillity showed in her face, which, despite her illness, was still lovely. Today it had an ethereal quality lightly overshadowed by a faint wistfulness, and her eyes were soft and filled with the tenderest of lights as she sat gazing out over the lake, endeavouring to gather her strength. The lunch had vitiated her energies, but she did not wish this to show, wanted Katharine to be reassured about her condition. Rosalie had not experienced much joy in her life after her marriage, except through her children, mostly Katharine, whom she adored. She had quickly discovered she was no match for Patrick, with his rampant virility and quick Irish temper, his lust for life in all its aspects, and his hunger for money and power, which was insatiable. Her refinement and delicacy, her fragility and artistic nature had inevitably isolated her from her husband, and her gentle soul continually shrank from his blatant masculinity and voracious appetites. Despite her love for him, curiously undiminished, she had come to regret the union, recognizing the unsuitability of their temperaments. Few knew the real Patrick, for he was adept at concealment, cloaking his true nature behind an austere and dignified façade; and he was a past master at the art of dissimulation, adroit, and persuasive of tongue.

‘That one’s kissed the Blarney stone, by God he has, and not once but many times over,’ her father had said to her early in the whirlwind courtship. Her father had continued to be ambivalent about Patrick long after their marriage, never truly sure the relationship would work. In certain ways it had been successful, in others it had not, and there had been times when Rosalie had contemplated leaving Patrick. But divorce was unthinkable. She was a Catholic, as was he, and there were the children, whom she knew he would never relinquish. And she still had deep feelings for him, regardless of his faults.

Although Rosalie hardly ever acknowledged it as a fact, or dwelt upon it morbidly, she knew that she was dying. The spurts of vigour and renewed energy and remissions were quite meaningless, and they were growing increasingly infrequent. Now, as she sat with her daughter, she thought sadly: I have so little time left on this good earth, so little time to give to Katharine and Ryan, God help them.

Every day Rosalie, who was devout, gave thankful prayers to the Almighty that her daughter and her son were more like her in their basic characters, and had not inherited many of their father’s dismaying traits, at least so far as she could ascertain. She glanced at Katharine, sitting sedately in he chair, obedient and well mannered, and she marvelled at her yet again. The child looked so young and demure in her yellow cotton dress and white socks and black patent-leather strap shoes. And yet there was something oddly grown-up in her demeanour, as though she had seen much of life, had encountered its pain and pitfalls and was wise and knowing. Rosalie realized this was an idiotic idea, since the girl was over-protected, had never been exposed to anything but luxury and the safety of her family and her home. But one thing which could not be denied was Katharine’s extraordinary physical appearance. She was a great beauty, even at this tender age, with her lovely features and rich chestnut hair and those liquid eyes with their curious turquoise hue. Katharine had a sweet and loving personality which echoed the sweetness in her face, but Rosalie knew this disguised a streak of wilful stubbornness. She also suspected that her daughter might have a touch of Patrick’s ruthlessness in her as well, but perhaps this was all to the good. Rosalie instinctively felt Katharine was capable of looking after herself, protecting herself against Patrick and the world at large, for she had the spirit of a fighter, and she would survive against all odds. And for this Rosalie was suddenly thankful.

Of her two children, it was Ryan whom she worried about the most. He was far too timid to effectively defend himself against Patrick, who doted on him in the most alarming way, seeing in Ryan the heir apparent who would glorify the name O’Rourke, and who was the malleable tool for Patrick’s own terrifying ambition. How Pat had longed for this son; how disappointed he had been when he had first set eyes on Katharine, a mere girl. Ryan’s birth had been perhaps the single most important occasion in Patrick’s life, and he had had his plans worked out for the boy that very day. Possibly they had been formulated years before, those high-flown grandiose plans that sickened Rosalie. Her efforts to dissuade her husband had been futile, her entreaties had fallen on stony ground, and to the sound of laughter and angry, condemning words. She was helpless. She could not prevent Patrick from putting those plans into eventual motion. She would not be alive when that day finally arrived. She could only pray that Ryan would have the strength and the willpower to stand up to his father, the inner resources to walk away from Patrick, with his integrity intact, when the time came. If he did do this, Patrick would immediately disinherit and disown him, of that she had no doubt. Ryan would be penniless. A poor young man. But he would be safe, and ultimately rich in that he would be free of his father’s domination and control. He would be his own man, not a puppet manipulated by Patrick O’Rourke.

Rosalie sighed, thinking of Patrick, and she wondered why she still had such overpowering emotions for him, when she knew him to be quite monstrous. How strange and perverse women are, she thought.

‘Is anything wrong, Mother?’ Katharine asked in a small worried voice, cutting into Rosalie’s thoughts.

Rosalie managed to force a smile onto her face, and she replied quickly, lightly, ‘No, darling, of course not. I was just thinking how neglectful I’ve been of you lately, but you know I haven’t had much strength or energy. I wish we could spend more time together, especially now that you have school vacation.’

‘Oh, so do I, Mother,’ Katharine exclaimed. ‘But you mustn’t worry about me. All I want is for you to get better.’ Katharine jumped down off the chair and joined Rosalie on the sofa. She took hold of her mother’s fine hand and gazed up into her face, and unexpectedly she saw something in the green eyes that frightened her. She was not sure what it was. A look of immense sadness perhaps. Or was it resignation? The girl was unable to pinpoint it accurately, but her heart clenched and her own eyes filled with sudden bright tears. ‘You will get better, won’t you, Momma?’ Katharine hesitated and her lip quivered as she whispered, ‘You’re not going to die, are you?’

Rosalie laughed and shook her burnished copper curls. ‘Of course not, you silly child! I’m going to be fine, and very soon I’ll be my old self.’ The smile widened and she continued bravely, ‘After all, I have to be around when you star in your first play. I have to see your name in lights on the marquee, and be there on opening night. You do still want to be an actress, don’t you, honey?’

Rosalie spoke with such assurance, Katharine’s fears were allayed. She blinked back her tears and instantly brightened. ‘Oh, yes, I do, Momma. I really do.’ Although her smile was watery, there was extraordinary determination in her child’s voice. Then she asked, ‘You don’t think he’ll object, do you?’

A frown touched Rosalie’s pale face and was gone. ‘Your father? I’m sure he won’t. And why should he?’ Rosalie shifted slightly on the sofa and eased herself back against the cushions, experiencing a twinge of pain. ‘You know what fathers are like. They don’t pay much attention to such things. They think their daughters should get married the moment they leave college, and then have lots of babies. I suppose he’ll simply think it’s a nice way for you to pass your time until you do get married.’

‘But I’ve no intention of getting married,’ said Katharine with unprecedented fierceness, and her eyes flared with the sharpest of blue flame. ‘I want to be a famous actress like Sarah Bernhardt and Eleanora Duse and Katharine Cornell. I intend to devote my life to the theatre. I won’t have any time for a foolishness like marriage,’ she scoffed.

Rosalie bit back a smile of amusement. ‘Well, darling, you might change your mind one day, especially when you fall in love.’

‘Oh, I know I won’t!’

Rosalie made no comment to this last remark, but continued to smile lovingly at her daughter. Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t go for our usual summer visit to Aunt Lucy’s in Barrington. It would have been such a pleasant change from Chicago. It’s so hot here right now. But your father thought the trip would overtire me. You don’t mind being in the city too much, do you, Katharine?’

‘No, Momma. I like going to Barrington, but not without you. I just want to stay here and keep you company.’

‘That’s sweet of you.’ Rosalie pondered for a moment and then asked softly, ‘You do like your aunt, don’t you, dear?’

Katharine was surprised by this question. ‘’Course I do, Momma. I love Aunt Lucy.’

Rosalie squeezed Katharine’s small hand. ‘She has been a great source of strength for me as long as I can remember, and my dearest friend, as well as my sister.’ Rosalie stopped. There was something else which she needed to say, but she did not want to alarm Katharine, and so she sought her words with great care. ‘Aunt Lucy loves you dearly, Katharine. You’re like the daughter she never had. And she will always be there for you, my darling. Don’t ever forget that, will you?’

Straightening up on the sofa, Katharine drew away from her mother and stared at her, her wide eyes searching that gentle face intently. But it was peaceful and her mother appeared to be untroubled. Nevertheless, Katharine murmured tensely, ‘What a funny thing to say, Momma. Why should I ever need Aunt Lucy, when I have you?’

‘We all need friends, my darling. That’s all I meant. Now, would you like to read to me for a while. A little poetry. I think something by Elizabeth Barrett Browning would be nice.’

Katharine took out the leather-bound book of poetry and seated herself in the chair; she turned the pages to the sonnets, and scanned them carefully until she came across the one she liked the most, and which she knew her mother preferred to all of them.

Her voice, as light and as clear as a crystal bell, rang out in the quiet room:

‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the end of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, – I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.’

Katharine lifted her head and looked at her mother for approval, a smile on her face. But it slipped, and she put the book down instantly, and flew to the sofa. Tears shimmered on Rosalie’s translucent cheeks and the hand that was lifted to wipe them away shook.

‘Momma, Momma, what is it?’ Katharine cried, embracing her mother. ‘Why are you crying? I didn’t mean to pick a sonnet that was sad or would upset you. I thought you loved that particular one.’

‘I do, darling,’ Rosalie said, thinking sorrowfully of Patrick, but smiling through her tears. ‘I’m not sad, really I’m not. The sonnet is beautiful, and I was very moved by your voice, and the way you read it with so much meaning and emotion, Katharine. I know you’re going to be a marvellous actress.’

Katharine kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Shall I read you another one? Something more cheerful?’

Rosalie shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to lie down for a while, Katharine. I’m feeling a little tired after all.’ She leaned closer and touched Katharine’s cheek lightly with the tip of her finger. ‘You’re very special, my beautiful Katharine. And I do love you so very much.’

‘I love you too, Momma.’

Rosalie stood up, holding onto the arm of the sofa to steady herself, making a tremendous effort to hide the sudden trembling which had seized her from her daughter. ‘Will you come and see me later, dear?’

‘Yes, Momma,’ Katharine said.

Rosalie nodded, too exhausted to respond, and moved towards the bedroom.

Katharine went in search of Ryan, scouring the house for him. As she mounted the stairs to the third floor she noticed it had grown stifling hot. The air was heavy with humidity, and the house was airless and more suffocating than usual. She had grown hot on her long climb up to her old nursery, and by the time she reached the door her cotton frock was damp and clinging to her body.

She found Ryan sitting at the table, just as she had expected, and as usual he was painting. His head, with its mop of reddish-golden curls, was bent in concentration. He looked up when she came in. He was smiling.

‘Can I see?’ Katharine asked, crossing the floor to join him.

Ryan nodded. ‘Sure. I’ve just finished it. Don’t pick it up though. It’s still a bit damp.’

Katharine had been astonished by the watercolour. It was not merely good but outstanding, a landscape awash with tender spring greens and ashy pinks, faded chrome yellow and melting blues, and the misty colours and exquisite configurations gave it a dreamlike quality that was perfectly magical. It was the best painting he had ever done, and Katharine was awed, recognizing what an extraordinary talent he had. It did not seem possible that a boy of only ten years had painted this piece of art.

‘Did you copy it from a book?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder.

‘No, I didn’t!’ Ryan cried indignantly. His deep green eyes, so like their mother’s, flickered with hurt, and then he grinned. ‘Don’t you recognize it, Dopey?’

Katharine shook her head. Ryan searched around the table and produced a snapshot. ‘See. It’s Aunt Lucy’s garden at Barrington,’ he announced, pushing the photograph under her nose. ‘But you’ve made it look so much more beautiful,’ Katharine exclaimed, further impressed with his astonishing ability. ‘Why, Ryan, you’re a true artist. You’ll be famous one day, I bet, and I’ll be so proud of you.’

He grinned again, the freckles dancing around like a sprinkling of brown sugar across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. ‘Do you really think I’ll be a real artist one day, Katie? Tell me the truth and say honest injun.’

‘Honest injun, Ryan, and cross my heart and hope to die,’ she smiled.

At this moment the door flew open with such swiftness and force, both children jumped and stared at each other with startled eyes. Patrick O’Rourke was standing on the threshold. It was an unexpected and unprecedented appearance, especially at this hour of the day, and he entered the room like a hurricane. ‘So here you both are! What the hell are you doing up here, when I’ve built a perfectly good playroom downstairs? Have I wasted my money?’

Katharine felt Ryan’s thin shoulders tensing under her hand resting on them. She said slowly, ‘No, Father, you haven’t wasted your money.’ There was a slight pause. ‘We use the playroom most of the time,’ she lied quickly.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Patrick said, and seated himself in the rocking chair. He was a tall, well-built man, and the chair was a fraction too small for him, but he did not seem to notice, or care about this. He regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment, his blue eyes acute. Finally, he fixed his narrowed gaze on Ryan. ‘Have you had a nice day, son?’

‘Yes, Da,’ Ryan said softly, as always intimidated by his father’s presence.

‘Good. Good.’ Patrick settled back and began to rock gently, musing to himself. Suddenly he lifted his dark leonine head and said, ‘Were your ears burning today, Ryan?’

‘No, Da.’ Ryan appeared baffled by this question and he wrinkled his nose nervously, looking confused.

‘Well, they should have been, my boy. I was talking about you, and at great length, with some of my political friends at lunch today. Ward bosses. I was downtown to make my usual, and considerable, contribution to the Democratic Party. We have the best damn political machine in the country, you know. Magnificent.’ He beamed at Ryan. ‘And the Irish control it, I might add. Don’t you ever let that slip your mind, my boy. Anyway, I told my friends that my son is going to be the greatest politician Chicago has ever seen. Yes, I told them how you’re going to be a congressman and then a senator, and I was delighted by their reactions.’

Patrick was quite oblivious to the dismay washing across Ryan’s little face, and the look of astonishment quickening on Katharine’s, as he went on: ‘I also made them a promise, and it’s a promise I fully intend to keep. I –’ Patrick bit off the rest of his sentence abruptly, and he paused dramatically as if to give additional weight and importance to his next statement.

He took a deep breath, stared hard at his children, and said with immense conviction and pride, ‘I promised them that my son is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of the United States!’ Patrick folded his hands across his vast chest, well pleased with himself, and he leaned back in the rocking chair, scrutinizing both of them, waiting.

When neither spoke, Patrick said, ‘Well, Ryan, don’t gape at me like a ninny! Haven’t you anything to say for yourself? How do you like the idea of being a politician? And then the President of this great country of ours, the greatest country in the world?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ryan whispered at last, his voice quavering. His face was as white as death, and the freckles stood out like disfiguring stains.

Patrick chuckled. ‘I don’t blame you, my boy. It’s all a bit overwhelming to comprehend immediately, I’ll grant you that. But I have great ambitions for you, son. Great ambitions. And what’s wrong with having ambitions?’ He did not wait for a response but hurried on compulsively, ‘If I hadn’t had ambitions, I wouldn’t be the multi-millionaire I am today. With a son who is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of America. And there’s nothing for you to worry your head about, Ryan. Nothing at all. I’ll do your thinking for you at all times. I’ll mastermind your career, and my money and my clout and my friends will propel you right into the Oval Office of the White House, you wait and see. You’ll make my dreams come true, Ryan, I have no doubts. And I’m going to make you the most powerful politician this century has known and will ever know. Just you leave it all to me, son.’

Ryan gulped and opened his mouth but no words came. He glanced up at Katharine, his eyes filled with mute appeal.

Katharine was flabbergasted at her father’s words. If they had been uttered by anyone else she would have dismissed them as boastful idle talk, and to be taken with a grain of salt. But she knew her father meant every word, and she trembled inwardly for Ryan. Her brother was terrified, and with good reason; she tightened her embrace, drew the boy closer to her.

She said, ‘But Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician, Father.’ She could never bring herself to call him the more affectionate Da, as Ryan did.

Patrick glowered. ‘What?’ he demanded in a low tone that was ominous, even threatening. ‘What did you say?’

‘Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician. He wants to be a painter,’ Katharine replied in a quiet but resolute voice. Her father might strike terror in Ryan’s heart, but not in hers: She was not one bit afraid of him.

‘How dare you tell me what my son wants, Katie Mary O’Rourke!’ Patrick shouted, leaping to his feet. His face was brimming with dark colour and there was a dangerous glint in his steely blue eyes.

‘But Ryan is so gifted. Look at this watercolour,’ she cried, undeterred by his displeasure.

‘I don’t want to look at it! I’ll have no more of this sissy stuff in my house. You and his mother! Filling his head with artistic nonsense. It’s going to stop, and right now.’ He strode to the table, struggling with his anger, and snatched up the watercolour. Without glancing at it, he tore it in half, and threw it to the floor.

Ryan stifled a tiny cry, like a small animal in pain, and brought his fist up to his trembling lips. Katharine flinched, and gazed at their father in fascinated horror. With one furious gesture of his large hand, Patrick swept the paint box, the brushes, the jar of water and the sketching pad off the table. He stamped on them, crushing them under his heavy feet. Katharine’s face reflected her disgust, and she thought: He’s a dreadful man. Vulgar and uncouth. He thinks he’s a gentleman with his custom-tailored gabardine suits and hand-made shoes and soft silk shirts, but he’s not. He’ll never be anything but an ignorant peasant. Shanty Irish.

Patrick pointed a long bony finger at Ryan and exclaimed excitedly, ‘Now listen to me, son. There’s going to be no more of this painting. I forbid it, do you hear me. It’s not for a great lad like you. It’s not masculine enough. You’re going to be a politician, Ryan O’Rourke, even if it kills me in the process. And the President of these United States one day. Furthermore, you’re going to start training for it immediately, with dedication and discipline and single-mindedness of purpose. Just like a boxer trains. Do you understand me, son? Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, Da,’ said Ryan meekly, still quivering with a mixture of fear and shock, and swamped with unhappiness.

Patrick turned to face Katharine, glaring at her. ‘As for you, young lady, I want no more interference. I’ve had quite enough of you lately. You’re a real troublemaker, not to mention a little liar, Katie Mary O’Rourke. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the unspeakable things you said about your Uncle George. Scurrilous. Disgusting. I never thought a daughter of mine would have such filth in her mind!’

Katharine felt as if the blood was draining out of her, and her legs wobbled. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, and her large eyes became larger in her face. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, and she had to clench her fists to control herself. How could her father be so cruel and mean, embarrassing her by saying such frightful things in front of little Ryan. She took a deep breath to control herself and said, in a voice that was surprisingly steady, ‘George Gregson is not my uncle. He’s only your business partner. And I didn’t tell you any lies!’

‘Go to your room immediately!’ Patrick thundered, harshness and fury bringing a rasp to his voice. ‘How dare you answer me back. You’re impertinent as well as a liar, it seems. And don’t venture downstairs for dinner, my girl. I don’t want to look at your face tonight. Annie will bring a tray to your room later.’

Katharine was rooted to the spot, and automatically, with a sense of protectiveness, she tightened her hand on Ryan’s shoulders. Her father observed this gesture, and commanded imperiously, ‘Stand away from your brother! Stand away! You’re always slobbering over him. It strikes me as you’re turning him into a girl like yourself. Now, go to your room.’

‘I will,’ Katharine retorted with some spirit, walking rapidly across the floor. ‘But not before I’ve looked in on Mother, to see if she wants anything.’

Patrick seemed about to explode, but he said nothing. When she reached the door of the nursery, Katharine stopped and turned her head. She looked directly at her father, and said with cold deliberation,’ I took a message for you earlier. It’s on the desk in the library. It’s from a Miss McGready. She said you can call her at the usual restaurant. In the Loop.’

Patrick’s jaw went slack and he stared at her, momentarily stupefied. His mouth tightened into a slit and his eyes hardened, and it was then that she saw the naked hatred on his face. Katharine recoiled, aghast. But she recovered herself at once and stared back at him defiantly, her eyes challenging, and she knew that he knew that she knew exactly what kind of man he was. Something rose up in Katharine like bile, gagging her, and with the child’s wisdom that springs from instinct and blind perception she understood that she was confronting evil. Her blood ran cold, and it was then that the first seeds of bitter purpose were sown in her. She vowed to herself that she would fight her father for Ryan, and for Ryan’s soul, if it took all the days of her life. She did not know that her own hatred blazed out from her young face with such intensity and force that Patrick was staggered by it.

That night Katharine lay in her bed, listening to Ryan’s sobs through the wall. They had started almost immediately, when he had returned from dinner, and they had continued unabated. Her heart ached for him and she longed to go and comfort him. The only thing which prevented her from doing so was the thought of her father’s wrath if he caught her. It was not that she was afraid for herself, for, in all truth, she was not afraid of anything. Her concern was for Ryan. Instinctively, she knew that if she attempted to protect her little brother, her father would take drastic measures, would remove him from her care. With a prescience rare in a girl of her age she understood that things would never be the same in this house ever again. She would have to watch her step, for Ryan’s sake.

But in the end she could not bear to listen to the racking sobs any longer, and she got out of bed and crept to the door, opening it quietly. She peered out. The corridor was dark and silent, and no light filtered out from her father’s room, to her enormous relief. He was either downstairs or he had gone out. To meet Miss McGready perhaps. Holding her breath, she ventured forth into Ryan’s room and tiptoed over to the bed. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered, sitting down on the edge. She took him in her arms, and stroked his hair and made gentle hushing sounds. Eventually he calmed a little, and nestled against her, his small arms clamped tightly around her neck.

‘I’m scared, Katie,’ he whispered in the darkness, his body still heaving with dry sobs. ‘I don’t want to be a politician. I want to be an artist. What will I do? I’m so scared of Da.’

‘Hush, honey, don’t get upset again. We’ll think of something.’

‘Why did Da tear up my beautiful painting? I was going to give it to Momma.’

‘I don’t know. Well, perhaps he was angry with me. But you’ll do another for Momma, Ryan, real soon.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he wailed. ‘Da has forbidden it. I’ll never be able to paint again, Katie.’

‘Please, honey, don’t talk so loud,’ Katharine cautioned, and went on with some assurance, ‘And you will paint, we’ll find a way, I promise. Everything is going to be all right.’

‘Are you sure, Katie?’

‘Yes, trust me, honey. Now try to sleep.’ She loosened his arms gently, and made him nestle down in the bed, tucking him in. She sat stroking his hair for a while, murmuring softly to him, until he began to doze. As she stood up, he suddenly roused himself, and clutched her arm, ‘Katie, what did Da mean when he said you’d told him lies about Uncle George?’

‘Shush, honey,’ Katharine whispered, ‘it’s nothing. Now go to sleep.’

‘Yes, Katie,’ he said with his usual obedience. He closed his eyes and curled up into a small ball, and Katharine slipped out.

Long after she had returned to her own room, Katharine was still wide awake, her mind filled with the hateful memory of that day when George Gregson had come to the house. It had been a Sunday. All the servants were off, except for Annie, the housekeeper, who was taking her afternoon nap. Ryan was out with Aunt Lucy, her father was playing golf, and her mother was in the hospital. She had been alone in the house, except for the sleeping woman upstairs. Katharine tried to block out the disgusting details, but they came flooding back, were relentless and distressing, and she lay, mute and shaking, covered in a cold sweat. She saw his ugly congested face. It was drawing closer to hers. She felt his hand on her small breast and the other one sliding up her dress, probing and pinching between her legs.

Katharine now experienced the same revulsion which engulfed her when George Gregson had unbuttoned his trousers and pushed her face down into his lap. She leapt out of bed and flew to the bathroom, staggering to the washbasin, filled with nausea. She leaned over it retching, and she threw up again and again, just as she had vomited on that terrible Sunday, all over George Gregson’s trousers.

Katharine had not told anyone Gregson had molested her, for she was too ashamed and embarrassed, and also curiously afraid. But when he had attempted to waylay her on several succeeding occasions, she had endeavoured to communicate some of her mounting fears to her father. She could not confide in her mother, who was far too sick. Haltingly, choosing her words carefully, Katharine had informed her father about the incident as delicately as possible. To the girl’s amazement, and immense shock and distress, her father had not believed her. He had called her a damned liar. As he had done that very afternoon in the nursery.

Katharine shuddered, wiped her face and drank a glass of water. She ran a bath, pouring in great quantities of the bubble bath her Aunt Lucy had given her. She lay in the water for a long time, and afterwards, when she had dried herself, she covered her entire body with talcum powder and cleaned her teeth three times. Only after this long ritual of cleansing was she able to return to her bed, and finally, as dawn was breaking, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Contrary to what Katharine had expected, her father made no reference to their altercation at breakfast the next day. Nor did he bring it up in the days which followed. Slowly, things drifted back to normal, and although Ryan was not given new paints, the two children were allowed to spend their days together, and Katharine found herself breathing a little easier. But at the end of the summer vacation their father moved with efficiency and speed, and, to Katharine, with an awful finality. Ryan was packed off to a military academy on the East Coast, and she herself was enrolled as a boarder in the convent where she had previously been a day pupil. One year later Rosalie was dead and buried. Katharine was devastated by grief, and inconsolable; there were times when she so yearned and fretted for her mother that she made herself violently ill physically. It was her Aunt Lucy who eventually brought the thirteen-year-old girl a measure of peace and a semblance of security, through her understanding, compassion and love. The two drew closer together as the next few years passed, and when Katharine was sixteen it was Lucy who prevailed upon Patrick to send the girl to school in England, as Katharine wished. Patrick had readily agreed, as Katharine had known he would. She was well aware that he could not stand the sight of her, or bear her silent accusations, or face her condemning gaze.

After Katharine left the English boarding school, she had gone to study at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, again through Lucy’s intervention with Patrick. In all this time she had rarely heard from her father, or from Ryan. She attributed her brother’s silence to fear of reprisals from their father if he communicated with her, convinced that he was under Patrick O’Rourke’s thumb. But her Aunt Lucy was a diligent and regular correspondent, and kept her well informed about their activities, and a cheque from her father arrived promptly every month.

Katharine blinked, and straightened up on the white sofa. It was patently obvious her father was paying her to stay away from Chicago. He was glad to be rid of her. Apart from the fact that she knew too much, he was afraid of her influence over Ryan. He would not let anything, or anyone, obstruct his schemes for Ryan, schemes which she had never once been foolish enough to discount, even when she was a child. Her father fully intended to carry them through no matter what the cost, for he craved power, and he believed that Ryan was the key to the greatest power in the land, the Presidency of the United States.

Katharine’s mouth twisted contemptuously. Well, she thought grimly, I’ll show him yet. And when I’m a star and have enough money of my own to support Ryan, I’ll send him to study art in Paris, or wherever he wants to go. This thought galvanized her. She had much to accomplish before that day came, and she could not afford to waste a single moment dwelling on Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke. The bastard. As far as she was concerned, the die had been cast years before. And she herself had been set upon a course from which she could never deviate, even if she so wished. Saving Ryan and thwarting her father had been intricately interwoven into the fabric of her destiny, had become integral threads in her excessive ambition for herself.

Katharine now picked up the breakfast tray and took it into the kitchen. Automatically, her thoughts turned to the impending screen test, upon which so much depended, and for which she had one week to prepare. She was not especially worried about her performance. What concerned her more was the material she would use. She knew exactly what this should be, but it must be adapted and written out as dialogue, and for this task she needed a professional writer. Her mind began to work with its usual avidity and an illuminating smile spread itself across her face. Why, she could surely solve that little problem over lunch. Providing she was persuasive enough.