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Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007395583

Version: 2017-11-16

For my husband Robert Bradford with love

‘That voice of the heart, which, Lamartine says, “alone reaches the heart”’

MARCEL PROUST

Cover

Title Page

Overture 1978

CHAPTER ONE

In the Wings 1979

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

Act One Downstage Right 1956

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

In the Wings 1979

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Act Two Downstage Left 1963-1967

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Act Three Centre Stage 1979

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Finale April 1979

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Overture 1978

‘How like the prodigal doth she return.’

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

CHAPTER ONE

I came back because I wanted to, of my own free will. No one forced me to return. But now that I am here I want to take flight, to hide again in obscurity, to put this vast ocean between myself and this place. It bodes me no good.

As these thoughts finally took shape, assumed troubling proportions and jostled for prominence in her mind, the woman’s fine hands, lying inertly in her lap, came together in a clench so forceful that the knuckles protruded sharply through the transparent skin. But there was no other outward display of emotion. She sat as rigid as stone on the seat. Her face, pale and somewhat drawn in the murky morning light, was impassive as a mask and her gaze was fixed with unwavering intensity on the Pacific.

The sea was implacable and the colour of chalcedony on this bleak and sunless day, one that was unnaturally chilly for Southern California, even though it was December when the weather was so often inclement. The woman shivered. The dampness was beginning to seep through her trench-coat into her bones. She felt icy, and yet there was a light film of moisture on her forehead and neck and between her breasts. On an impulse she rose from the seat, her movements abrupt, and with her head bent against the wind and her hands pushed deep into her pockets she walked the length of the Santa Monica pier, which was now so entirely deserted it looked desolate, even forbidding, in its emptiness.

When she arrived at the farthermost tip where the turbulent waves lashed at the exposed underpinnings, she paused and leaned against the railing. Once again her eyes were riveted on the ocean curling out towards the dim horizon. There, on that far indistinct rim, where sea and sky merged in a smudge of limitless grey, a great liner bobbed along like a child’s toy, had been turned into an object of insignificance by the vastness of nature.

We are all like that ship, the woman said inwardly, so fragile, so inconsequential in the overall scheme of things. Although do any of us truly believe that, blinded as we are by our self-importance? In our arrogance we all think we are unique, invincible, immune to mortality and above the law of nature. But we are not, and that is the only law, inexorable and unchanging.

She blinked, as if to rid herself of these thoughts. The winter sky, curdled and ominous, was uttered with ragged ashy clouds which were slowly turning black and extinguishing the meagre light trickling along their outer edges. A storm was imminent. She ought to return to the waiting limousine and make her way back to the Bel-Air Hotel, before the rain started. But to her amazement she discovered she was unable to move. She did not want to move, for it seemed to her that only out here on this lonely pier was she able to think with a degree of clarity, to pull together her scattered and disturbing thoughts, to make sense out of the chaos in her mind.

The woman sighed with weariness and frustration. She had known, even when she had first made her decision, that to return was foolhardy, maybe even dangerous. She was exposing herself in a manner she had never done before. But at the time – was it only a few weeks ago? – it had seemed to be the only solution, in spite of the obvious hazards it entailed. And so she had made her plans, executed them efficiently and embarked for America with confidence.

I took a voyage towards the unknown. Was it the unknown which was the source of her distress? But the unknown had always tempted and beckoned her, had been the spur because of its inherent excitement and the challenge it invariably offered. But that was in the past, she told herself, and thought: I am a different person now.

Panic rose in her like a swift tide, dragging her into its undertow, and she gripped the railing tighter and drew in her breath harshly as another truth struck at her. If she stayed she would be risking so muck. She would be endangering all that she had gained in the past few years. Far better, perhaps, to go, and if she was going it must be immediately. Today. Before she changed her mind again. In reality it was so easy. All she had to do was make a plane reservation to anywhere in the world that took her fancy, and then go there. Her eyes sought out the liner, so far away now it was a mere speck. Where was it bound for? Yokohama, Sydney, Hong Kong, Casablanca? Where would she go? It did not matter and no one would care; and if she left today, whilst it was still safe, no one would be any the wiser, no harm would have been done, least of all to her.

The idea of disappearing into oblivion, as if she had never set foot in the country, suddenly appealed to some deep-rooted instinct in her, to her innate sense of drama, and yet … Is it not juvenile to run away? she asked herself. For most assuredly that was exactly what she would be doing. You will know you lost your nerve and VOM will live to regret it, a small voice at the back of her mind insisted.

She closed her eyes. Her thoughts raced, as she considered all the possibilities open to her and weighed the consequences of her actions, whatever they would ultimately be. Thunder rattled behind the blackening clouds, which rolled with gathering speed before the force of the gale blowing up. But she was so immersed in her inner conflict, so rapt in her concentration as she strived to reach a final decision, she was oblivious to the hour, the weather, her surroundings. Eventually she came to grips with herself and recognized one fundamental: she could no longer afford to procrastinate. Time was of the essence. Suddenly she made up her mind. She would stay, despite her misgivings and her sense of apprehension. She must, no matter what the cost to herself.

Large drops of rain began to fall, splashing onto her face and her hands. She opened her eyes and glanced down at her fingers still gripping the railing, watching the water trickling over them. Like my tears, she said to herself, and then, quite involuntarily, she laughed out loud, and it was a rich amused laugh. There would be no more tears. She had done all the mourning she was going to do. You’re such a fool, Cait, she murmured softly to herself, remembering Nick’s old nickname for her, borrowed from the Welsh Caitlin because he had said she had a Celtic soul, all poetry and mystery and fire.

She pulled herself up straight and threw back her head with a proud and defiant gesture, and her extraordinary eyes, not blue, not green, but a curious unique turquoise, were no longer opaque and clouded with uncertainty and fear. They sparkled brightly with new determination. Soon, in a few days, when her courage had been completely reinforced, and she had gathered it around her like a protective mantle, she would go to Ravenswood.

That would be her first step into the unknown. The beginning of her new life. And perhaps, finally, the beginning of peace.

In the Wings 1979

‘Look for a long time at what pleases you, and longer still at what pains you …’

COLETTE

CHAPTER TWO

Francesca Avery had long ago ceased to regret her actions, having years before reached the conclusion that since regrets could not undo what had been done, they were generally unproductive.

But as she inserted the key into the front door of her apartment and stepped into the silent and shadowy hall, she experienced such an overwhelming sense of regret at having returned to New York without her husband that she was momentarily startled. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, but she hesitated before moving forward into the apartment, thrown off-balance by this unfamiliar feeling, and one so unprecedented in her that she found it disconcerting. Harrison had not wanted her to leave Virginia ahead of him, and she had done so only out of a sense of duty to the charity committee of which she had recently become chairwoman. Ten days earlier, the secretary of the committee had telephoned her in Virginia, to say that an urgent provisional meeting had been called, because of unforeseen difficulties with their plans for the summer concert to be held at Avery Fischer Hall. Only she had the power and connections to get the benefit back on the track, the secretary had gone on to point out, adding that no one else could rally the support that was necessary. In short, her presence was imperative.

Francesca knew Harrison thought otherwise, although he had not actually come out and said so. Years in the Foreign Service had refined his innate ability to get his point across by subtle implication, in his usual diplomat’s manner. He had gently intimated that he thought the committee members were panicking unnecessarily, and had made a quiet reference to the fact that the telephone service was as efficient in Virginia as it was in Manhattan. Francesca tended to agree that anxiety was prompting the committee to act prematurely, and she was about to decline, but then the matter of the interview had come up and she felt obliged to comply with both of their requests.

Francesca sighed. Duty had been inculcated in her since childhood and to shirk it would be unthinkable, even shoddy, and quite alien to her nature. Nevertheless, she wished she was back at the rambling old house with Harry and his boisterous and unruly grand-daughters, surrounded by the spontaneous love and camaraderie of that special, if somewhat unpredictable and unorthodox, clan. Resolutely she quenched the rising impulse to turn around and go back to La Guardia Airport to catch the next shuttle for Washington.

Francesca groped for the light switch and snapped it down impatiently. She blinked in the sudden brightness. The immense antique French chandelier, with its cascading slivers of crystal prisms and blades and elongated teardrops, flooded the black-and-white marble hall with a blinding blaze. It threw into bold relief the Gobelin tapestry soaring high on the staircase wall, the Rodin busts and Sèvres palace vases in their respective niches and the Louis XV commode, once owned by Madame de Pompadour, upon which reposed a Ming Dynasty vase containing a lovely arrangement of yellow roses, their sweet scent bringing the nostalgic fragrance of a summer garden to the wintry stillness.

Once again her eyes swept over the splendid hall with its priceless objects of art, a setting which never failed to impress with its perfection and timeless beauty, and then, quite involuntarily, she shivered despite the warmth of the hall. Somebody walked over my grave, she thought. How silly she was being, yet there was no denying the fact that she felt curiously alone and lost without Harrison. She was baffled by her reaction. She often came to New York on her own. There was nothing unusual about that, but today she felt decidedly odd, vulnerable, and exposed in the most peculiar way. Oh, it’s just the aftermath of Christmas and I’m tired, she decided.

She walked in determined, measured steps across the hall to the library, the high heels of her boots resounding with a sharp metallic ring against the cold marble, the echo disturbing the silence. She stopped in her tracks abruptly. Perhaps that was it – the quietness after the bustling activity of the house in Virginia, with the continual comings and goings of the servants, Harry’s grandchildren and guests. The apartment seemed so still, so deserted and devoid of life. Of course, that was undoubtedly the explanation. She was simply missing the girls, their whoops of joy and excitement, their running feet and constant laughter. She would call Harrison later and suggest they all come to the city for a few days. This thought gladdened her heart, and her face brightened as she pushed open the door and went into the library. Although this room was, in many respects, just as imposing as the entrance hall, it was much less intimidating. It appeared welcoming and intimate with its ash-panelled walls, English antiques and comfortable sofas and chairs covered in a cheerful floral chintz. A fire burned brightly in the grate and several lamps had been turned on; and the combination of this warming light cast a lovely glow throughout, one that was both cheerful and reassuring.

Francesca sat down at the English Regency desk and read the note from her housekeeper, Val, who had apparently gone shopping and would return within the hour. She glanced at a number of telephone messages received that morning and then turned her attention to the mail, quickly flipping through it, discarding unopened several invitations, her bank statement and bills. The last envelope had a Harrogate postmark and she recognized her brother’s handwriting. Picking up the gold and malachite opener, she slit the envelope and leaned back in the chair, reading Kim’s letter eagerly. It was mainly about his children and their Christmas activities, along with bits of news of their mutual friends. There were a few complaints about the burdens of running the estate, but she knew these to be justified. By nature Kim was not a whiner and, God knows, managing the ancestral Langley lands and making them pay was no mean feat these days. He ended the letter with a reminder that he was expecting to see her now that all the seasonal festivities were out of the way. There was a postscript. Happy New Year, darling. And let’s hope 1979 is going to be better for both of us.

A strand of her blonde hair fell across her face and Francesca pushed it aside quickly, looping it over one ear in her habitual way. Thoughtfully, she perused the letter again, endeavouring to read between the lines, to truly assess Kim’s mood and disposition. She detected a certain wistfulness there – no, it was sadness really – and it bespoke his unhappiness, despite the cheerful tone he had adopted in an obviously conscious effort to reassure her. Francesca put down the letter, which troubled her, and stared into space, frowning deeply. Her hazel eyes, soft and transparent, were suddenly reflective, and they betrayed her concern.

Kim was two years older than she, yet she always thought of him as her baby brother, for she had looked after him and shielded him all through their childhood and youth, after their mother’s death when they were small. These days she was more protective of him than ever, anxious about his well-being and state of mind. He had simply not been the same since Pandora had left him, and Francesca understood the reasons why. She, too, had been completely astounded by Pandora’s extraordinary behaviour, for it had been the perfect marriage, and outwardly the happiest union she had ever encountered. Kim’s stunned shock, his heartbreak and profound hurt had been hers, for she had felt them just as acutely.

Will he never recover from that blow? Francesca asked herself, and she did not like the resounding ‘no’ that reverberated in her head. A proud young woman, and infinitely more pragmatic than her brother, Francesca had long since come to believe that broken hearts were the stuff of romantic dreams and bore no relationship to the true reality of everyday life. You picked up the pieces, glued them together, and went on living as best you could, until the pain receded. That was exactly what she had done years before, and she was fully convinced that no one was irreplaceable. Despite these beliefs, and because she was blessed with considerable intelligence and insight, she realized Kim was different, knew intuitively that he would mourn Pandora, not replace her, as most other men would have done.

She shook her head sadly. He was so isolated in Yorkshire, and lonely with his two elder children away at boarding school. She wished he would spend more time in London with his friends, but then had to admit this was not always feasible. His responsibilities kept him tied to Langley for most of the year. On the other hand, if she were in England she might conceivably be able to exercise some influence over him, persuade him to lead a more active social life than was his custom.

Francesca decided she must go home to England at the end of the month. Harrison would not object, she was certain of that, and perhaps he would accompany her if he was not overburdened with work in Washington. Since his retirement from the Foreign Service a year ago, her husband seemed to be busier than he ever was as an ambassador. He was the country’s foremost elder statesman, and consequently he was constantly being sought out by senators and political bigwigs and members of the cabinet; and then again, his role as an adviser to the President on Foreign Affairs was time-consuming and exceedingly tiring. Although he had fully recovered from his two heart attacks and was enjoying good health, Francesca watched over him like a hawk, for ever stricturing him to slow down and take things at a gentler pace. Harrison always readily concurred, and then did exactly as he pleased, caught up in the complex machinations of politics and thoroughly enjoying every exciting minute of it. A trip to England would be a tonic for Harry, as well as an enforced rest, and she resolved to take him with her, was determined to brook no argument from him.

Francesca took out her engagement book and opened it. The meeting of the charity committee had been arranged for one o’clock, and then at four she had the interview with Estelle Morgan of Now Magazine. She grimaced as she contemplated this. There were so many other more important obligations to be dealt with, but Estelle had pressed hard for it, and Francesca remembered from past experience the woman’s unflagging persistence. It had been far easier on the nerves, and more expedient, to agree immediately.

Also Francesca had wisely acknowledged, when she took on the charity, that she would have to submit to a certain number of interviews. She did not delude herself into thinking the charity needed her solely for her practical turn of mind and her organizing ability. They also wanted her because they felt she had a certain cachet and glamour -how she hated that word – and was, in their minds, the ideal candidate for their publicity purposes. She was dedicated to the charity and took her responsibilities seriously, and refusing to see Estelle would have appeared churlish and even mean-spirited to the committee. Well, it was in a good cause and she had made the date. The simplest thing would be to deal with Estelle quickly, and with the best possible grace. Her thoughts shifted to her engagements for the remainder of the week. She glanced at her book to refresh her memory. Francesca walked across the room to the window, thinking again of her brother. She parted the curtains and looked out across Fifth Avenue to Central Park, an absent-minded expression on her delicately-etched face.

It was a very cold, very January day. Portions of the window had iced up and the frost made funny little patterns composed of diamonds and stars and circles on the surface, so that the glass was opaque in parts, and her view of the park was faintly blurred. The patterns and the opaqueness produced a strange optical illusion, one of dreamlike diffusion. It had apparently snowed hard for the past few days, and huge banks drifted over seats and railings and rambling paths, obscuring the familiar landscape with an unbroken sweep of glistening white, like an ocean of rising waves, their crests frozen into rigid immobility; and the skeletal black trees were festooned with crystalline flakes that transformed the branches into fragile feathered plumes.

Behind them, the skyscrapers on the West Side merged to form an indistinguishable grey mass of granite that rose up like a rugged mountain range into a vaulted sky. Images ran together in her head … the snow-scape of the city became the soaring pristine mountains above Königssee … changed into the high-flung Yorkshire fells which overshadowed her childhood home … those were the familiar places that took shape as she stared through the frosty tracery of the glass. She squinted through half-closed lids, and saw in her mind’s eye the famous oil by Monet, which he had painted on a trip to Norway around 1895. It was called ‘Mount Kolsaas’, and she knew it well, for Harrison had always wanted it. But it was owned by another collector and unlikely ever to be his. This fact did not stop him hankering after it. That which is beyond our reach is always the more desirable because of its very unattainability, she thought. Just as Pandora is out of Kim’s yearning reach.

Francesca touched the icy window with a polished pink fingernail and abstractedly scratched at it, her thoughts returning to her brother. She had not been able to suggest a cure, at the very least an antidote for what ailed him.

Perhaps one doesn’t exist for Kim, she reflected forlornly, unless, quite simply, it is time. The passing of time had worked miracles for her, but she was uncertain of the effect it would have on him. It struck her then that her going to England was hardly a solution to Kim’s problems. Might, it not be infinitely better if he came to New York? The more she thought about this, the more Francesca was convinced it was the most effective and practical solution. She would remove him from his normal environment and propel him into a round of social activities on this side of the Atlantic. Francesca was nothing if not decisive and she hurried to the desk, picked up the telephone and dialled her home in Virginia.

‘Hello, Harrison. It’s me,’ she said when her husband answered.

‘Ah, darling, so there you are. I was just going to call you. Why didn’t you awaken me before you left? You know I like to say goodbye. Creeping off like that was grossly unfair of you. Ruined my day, I don’t mind telling you.’

As he was speaking Francesca was, as always, conscious of the rich timbre of his voice, and touched by the warmth and love it exuded. He was such a dear man. How lucky she was. She smiled into the telephone. ‘You were sleeping so soundly, my darling, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.’

‘Did you have a nice trip? How are things at the apartment?’ he asked.

‘Smooth trip, and everything is fine here.’

‘I forgot to tell you last night, I’d like you to stop by at the gallery and chivy Ledere about the Utrillo, if you don’t mind. I’d really appreciate it, and I think a personal visit would be more effective than a ‘phone call. Any time this week will do, whenever you can fit it in.’

‘Of course, darling. Actually, Harry, I called you for a couple of reasons, apart from wanting to say hello. I wondered if you’d like to come up for a couple of days? Perhaps on Wednesday. You could bring the girls. They would enjoy it, and so would I, and we can all fly back to Virginia together, on Friday.’

‘I’d love to, Francesca, but I can’t. I have some special meetings in Washington, which I must attend, and a Democratic dinner. So sorry. Next week maybe. If you’re going to New York again,’ he said, regret echoing in his voice.

‘Fine,’ she said, suppressing her own disappointment. ‘There’s another matter I must discuss with you, Harry dear. I’ve received a rather disturbing letter from Kim.’ She went on to tell him about its contents and her dismay about Kim’s depressed mood.

‘So I thought it might be a good idea to invite him here to New York, Harry. And then I thought we might all go to the estate in Barbados for a week or so. That would be more beneficial to you than going to England. After all, you’d only get embroiled with your political cronies in the British government, and it wouldn’t be a rest at all.’

Harrison Avery chuckled. How well she knew him. ‘You’re correct there, my sweet girl. And Barbados does appeal to me. Can’t say I fancy London in winter. Too damned cold and damp for these old bones. And I agree with you wholeheartedly about Kim. I think you should invite him here immediately, Francesca. I’ve been a little concerned about him myself. Why don’t you give him a call right now?’ he proposed.

‘It’s so easy to refuse on the telephone, Harry, and he might just do that, without giving it any real thought. I’d prefer to write to him and then telephone him next week when he’s had the letter. To persuade him, if necessary.’

‘You know best, of course, darling. But I hope he comes over at once, if he can get away from Langley. You know I’ve always had a soft spot for that brother of yours, and I think he needs us both right now.’

‘Yes, he does. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive, Harry dear. I’d better go. I must write the letter, and I’ve got rather a busy day. I’ll speak to you later in the week.’

‘Fine, darling. Goodbye.’

Since the plans for Kim’s trip were uppermost in her mind at this moment, that sense of regret Francesca had experienced on entering the apartment earlier was entirely forgotten. Yet only a few weeks later she was to remember it, and with a sudden surge of clarity, wondering if it had been some kind of premonition of impending disaster, and not regret at all. Ridiculous as it was, she even entertained the notion that events would have progressed differently, the consequences been averted, if she had followed her original impulse and returned to Virginia. But hindsight was meaningless. By then it was already too late. Her life and the lives of others had been changed irrevocably, and so profoundly they would never be the same again.

Now, this morning, preoccupied as she was with her brother’s well-being, her speculation about the future revolved solely around him. She picked up her pen and began the letter. When it was finished she sealed it quickly, addressed the envelope and found an airmail stamp in the desk drawer. There, it was done! She leaned back in the chair and regarded the letter propped up against a malachite bookend. It was articulate and persuasive and so lovingly couched, Kim would be unable to reject her invitation, of that she was absolutely convinced. She thought then of the postscript at the end of his letter, and she made a solemn vow to herself: 1979 was going to be a better year for him, no matter what was entailed or what she had to do to ensure this outcome.

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Voice of the Heart

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Contents

Overture 1978

CHAPTER ONE

In the Wings 1979

CHAPTER TWO

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