Chapter 29

I

The night had turned icy cold and it had begun to snow. I stood at the living room window, looking out at the moors, watching the flakes float down, delicate and crystalline in the moonlight. The high-flung sky was like the inside of a bowl turned upside down, jet black, hung with bright stars and a clear silver orb of a full moon.

Fiona had built up the fire and turned on the central heating, and now, as she hurried in with the coffee on a tray, she exclaimed, “Thank God we had the foresight to put in a heating system. These old houses are impregnable, built like fortresses, but they can be cold. On a night like this the extra heat is very welcome. Come, Val, have a cup of coffee and let’s settle down for our chat.”

“It was a lovely dinner, Fiona, thank you,” I said as I walked across to join her near the fireplace.

“You’re welcome, but it was only cottage pie.” She laughed and poured our coffee.

I sat down on one sofa and she took a seat on the other, so that we were facing each other. It was warm and cozy in the room, with the fire hissing and crackling in the hearth, and the lights turned low. The soft mood was conducive to intimacy and sharing, not that we were shy with each other after our conversations about Tony in New York in October.

“You don’t know anything much about my life,” I began, looking across at her. “So let me tell you about those years before I came to live in Paris.”

She nodded. “That’s a good idea, I’d like a bit of background, Val. I’ll be able to understand things much better.”

And so trying to be as succinct as possible, endeavoring to avoid embellishments, I told her the story of my childhood growing up in New York. I gave her enough details for her to fully understand how I had been brought up, and told her about those people who had been part of my life: my mother and father, Annie Patterson, Donald, and my grandparents.

When I had finally finished, I sat back, gazing at her intently, waiting for her to say something.

Fiona looked ineffably sorrowful, and her eyes were moist. After a long silence, she said in a low voice, “How tragic, what a sad childhood you had, Val. And how dreadfully sad for your mother, she missed so much, missed all the joy of you, of your early years, when you were a little girl, and then those wonderful teen years.” She shook her head. “And how terribly hard for you, heartbreaking really. How you must have suffered.”

I exclaimed, “It’s a wonder I’m as sane as I am, when you think about it, Fiona! I know my troubled past has done all sorts of things to me, but somehow I’ve managed to cope and lead a relatively sane life, although I also accept that I am damaged in certain ways . . . psychologically damaged.”

“I suppose that’s true, but you did have that lovely Scottish nanny. And your grandparents were wonderful to you, and of course you had a little brother to love until your mother stepped in, broke the two of you up, so to speak. ’Tis a shame she did that.”

“Yes, it is, and I foolishly blamed Donald for it when it wasn’t his fault. And I realize now that I must have been very jealous of him in those days. After all, she was forever favoring him. It was like a knife in my side, although Annie did try to assuage my hurt, dry my tears, make me feel wanted.”

“You’re lucky to have had her, you know. Those early months and years are so important in a child’s development. The child must know it’s loved, feel that love, have that nurturing, that cuddling and caring. Thankfully Annie gave it to you, was there for you, to love you, make you feel safe.”

“Yes. And yet I do still crave nurturing, you know. . . .” My voice trailed off, I didn’t want to mention Tony or Jake at this point in my story.

I told Fiona everything. I told her about my mother’s love affair with Vincent Landau, about her illegitimate daughter, Anjelica, the child whom she gave away, about Vincent’s suicide a week before the day he was to wed the society heiress Marguerite Shiff. Finally I finished: “My mother said she couldn’t love me because of her guilt about Anjelica, about giving her away.”

Fiona sat there, staring at me, her shock and disbelief written all over her face. Eventually she roused herself, shook her head from side to side, and exclaimed, “I’m appalled! Absolutely appalled. What that woman did to you is unconscionable . . . that she could treat her own daughter in such a cruel way, it’s just beyond understanding, beyond belief. She has to be bonkers, off the wall.”

“Yes, I think she was, is, more than likely mentally ill, disturbed. In New York that day, I told her she was wicked and added she was beyond wicked, that she was evil. And in a way I think she is evil . . . but there’s also something else, something very odd about her. She’s so very beautiful, Fiona, movie-star beautiful, but, oh, God, is she cold. Icy cold. My grandfather called her the Ice Queen.” I let out a long sigh. “When I asked her why my father had followed her lead and behaved toward me in exactly the same way she had, she told me he didn’t want children, that he abhorred them. She said he was jealous of me, and of Donald as well, because he didn’t want to share her. We were a nuisance, totally unwanted as far as he was concerned, so she said anyway. I guess we were in the way. But he was a wimp, and she walked all over him.” I paused and looked into the fire for a second or two, and then I said to Fiona with a small frown, “Yet she was able to love Donald, you know. She took him away from me when I was eleven and he was six . . .” I left my sentence unfinished, stared at her helplessly.

“Because he was probably rather cute by then, and he was perhaps a useful accessory for a woman like her, and then again, she knew it would hurt you if she split you up.”

“But why would she want to hurt me?”

“I just don’t know, Val. I think it would take a psychiatrist years to get to the bottom of your mother’s troubled psyche, to find out what motivated her, what made her tick. And what makes her tick today. I will say this though, among other things, I think she’s probably rather stupid.”

I frowned on hearing this. “But she’s not, she’s become a very good businesswoman, something of a tycoon, in fact.”

Fiona raised an auburn brow and exclaimed, “Really!”

I told Fiona about Lowell’s, how it had been started in 1898 by Amy-Anne, and about her rule, commonly known in the family as The Tradition. “So you see, she has to leave it to me. There’s no legal document apparently, but that’s the family rule. The company’s now worth millions, and its value will only increase next year if Lowell’s makes a public offering. But I don’t want it. I refused my inheritance. I told her to leave it to Donald.”

Fiona looked startled momentarily, and then she broke into delighted laughter. “Good for you, Val! But you wouldn’t do anything else but that. You have far too much integrity. Anyway, getting back to my remark about your mother being stupid, I really do think she might have been both stupid and a little weak when she was a younger woman. And that has nothing to do with being clever in business.”

“Stupid and weak in what sense?”

“Look, she had an illegitimate child, and her mother had allowed her to keep the baby for months. Why not simply adopt the title of Mrs. and pretend to be a young widow? Your mother wasn’t well known, so who would know the difference? She behaved in a very stupid way, and she was weak in her handling of her mother, your grandmother Violet Scott. They could have worked something out between them. Then there’s Vincent Landau, what kind of jackass was he? He was just as stupid and weak as your mother, in my opinion. He should have either defied his parents and married her, if he loved Margot so much, and to hell with the consequences. Or he should have married his society fiancée and kept your mother on the side as his mistress, and supported her and Anjelica. Or, if she didn’t want that, he could have simply provided for them financially. And why did he commit suicide? None of it really makes sense. I don’t understand . . . like you, I’m baffled, Val.”

“I’ve wondered lately . . . if it’s all a bunch of lies.”

“But why would she lie to you?” Fiona looked at me alertly, her eyes widening.

“I suppose she felt she had to try to explain to me why she couldn’t love me, and maybe she thought it would be a much more sympathetic story . . . an innocent young woman forced to give up her illegitimate child, et cetera, et cetera, and becoming guilt ridden thereafter.”

“You could have a point, but no, I don’t think she lied. There’s something about the story that has the ring of truth. But you know, Val me darlin’, you shouldn’t be trying to fathom out your mother, her mental state, her personality disorder, and what was at the root of her behavior toward you when you were a child. It’s basically of no consequence, because knowing why she did what she did won’t change anything. That’s all water under the bridge now. And anyway, knowing won’t help you, now, will it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it will,” I replied.

“You must forget all about your mother and worry about yourself, Val darlin’. Get yourself truly well inside, so that you can move forward the way Jake said you should.”

“But how . . . I don’t know how to do that, Fiona,” I said.

“By forgiving your mother. You must have the courage and strength to do that, to empty your heart of your hatred for her, your condemnation of her. It will be your forgiveness of her that will set you free.”

I didn’t speak. I merely gazed at Fiona, digesting her words, trying to heed her wisdom.

Rising, she came over, sat next to me on the sofa; she put her arms around me, held me close, as a mother holds a child in distress. “She did terrible things to you in your childhood, Val, but you must let them go . . . they’re simply not worth holding on to. They’re of no value now.”

Unexpectedly, I began to cry, the tears spurting out of my eyes and falling down my cheeks unchecked. I hadn’t known I was going to become so emotional, and I tried hard to take hold of my swimming senses. But I didn’t do very well, and soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, as though my heart would break.

But slowly the weeping did eventually subside under Fiona’s calming influence. Finally I extricated myself from her arms and sat back. I offered her a weak smile. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know the floodgates were going to open like that.”

“I know you didn’t, but perhaps it’s just as well they did. There’s nothing like a good cry to make you feel better.”

I nodded and groped for a tissue in the pocket of my jacket.

She said, “It’s not going to be easy, because you’ve struggled with the problem of your mother’s behavior toward you for your entire life, but now it is time to expunge it. And always remember this, Val, forgiveness, like the truth, does set you free. Trust me on that.”

II

The moors were covered with a giant quilt of white by the following day. Jake and Mike, along with Mike’s two daughters, Lisa and Joy, arrived at Ure House in time for tea on Thursday. It was Christmas Eve, and there was already a festive feeling in the air. Fiona and Françoise had decorated most of the downstairs rooms with holly, and a large sprig of mistletoe dangled from the brass chandelier in the entrance hall.

The tree stood there at the back of the hall, tall and stately, a dark green fir that awaited its Yuletide decorations. The dressing of the tree was planned for later that evening, and I told Jake about Fiona’s plans as the two of us went upstairs to our bedroom.

The moment Jake walked into our room he exclaimed with pleasure, “This is great, Val! And just look at that bed! I’ve never seen one so inviting.”

I laughed and agreed with him. The four-poster dominated the room, was piled high with fresh white linen pillows and a plump duvet in an antique linen cover. “It’s very cozy,” I pointed out, “I’ve been sleeping in it for the last couple of nights. And isn’t it great to have a fire in the bedroom?”

He nodded, walked across the room, and looked out the mullioned windows that offered a panoramic view of the windswept, snow-covered moors. He shivered slightly. “I bet it’s kind of cold up there.”

“But beautiful, Jake. You’re going to love this place, and it’s so full of history. David’s been filling me in. It’s fascinating.”

“So he told you about the Kingmaker, did he?” Jake asked, joining me by the fire, putting an arm around my shoulders.

I frowned. “I’m not sure who you mean? He did tell me about the Earl of Warwick—”

“That’s him,” Jake said, interrupting me. “He’s one of my favorite characters in British history. Quite a guy, he was.” Jake tightened his grip on me and added, “I’m glad we’re here, Val, and Fiona’s wonderful, the way she’s planned this old-fashioned family Christmas for all of us.”

“She’s been very loving to me, Jake,” I confided, and then I told him about our heart-to-heart talk of the night before.

Jake listened carefully, as he always did, forever attentive and concerned about my problems. When I’d finished, he asked, “And do you think you can forgive your mother, Val?”

“Yes, I do. Because there is nothing else to do. Anyway, I believe that everything Fiona said is true. If I can see it in my heart to forgive my mother, then I myself can go forward into the future, putting the past behind me.”

III

Christmas Eve at Ure House was only a foretaste of what was to come for the next few days—a typical Yorkshire Christmas.

Fiona and David gathered us all in the big living room later that evening and served eggnog, chilled white wine, and champagne, along with hot sausage rolls and bite-sized cheese tartlets. After our first drink, we all trooped out into the entrance hall and started to dress the tree.

“Everything’s silver and gold,” Fiona explained, showing us the stacks of boxes in one corner, “so no one can make a mistake. Just hang something and anywhere you want.”

There was a lot of banter and laughter and everyone enjoyed the traditional activity of hanging the ornaments. And as she said, it was impossible to make an error.

The smells emanating from the kitchen were delicious, and at one moment I breathed in the aroma of chestnut stuffing and goose roasting in the oven, and my mouth began to water. A bit later Noel appeared. David’s son was a younger, taller version of his father, and he came out dressed in his white chef’s uniform and toque. Waving his wooden spoon, he announced, “Your goose is cooked! Well, almost.”

“My goose was cooked the moment I met Fiona,” David quipped, and we all laughed.

“Back to the kitchen to finish up,” Noel said, and disappeared, but not before he’d admonished us to hurry up with the dressing of the Christmas tree.

I was hanging a silver pear, when I paused to listen. In the distance I heard the church bells ringing out, and how beautiful they sounded on the still night air.

Fiona explained, “There’s a service at the church tonight and it’s lovely. But there’s also one tomorrow for those who’d like to attend.”

Almost immediately after this the carolers were at the front door of Ure House, and the strains of “Silent Night” rang out. This time we all stopped what we were doing and listened, marveling at the beautiful young soprano voices.

Fiona and David went to the front door when the carol was finished and invited the young people in for eggnog and tidbits and a chance to warm up by the fire. And after their little respite from the cold, they sang “The Twelve Days of Christmas” before leaving to wend their way through the neighborhood.

I stood to one side, watching everyone, pleased to see the happiness on their faces. Mike was relaxed, joking with Jake, who couldn’t stop smiling tonight. Mike’s girls, besotted with Françoise, were laughing and helping her to hang golden cherries and apples on a high branch. Rory was draping tinsel with Fiona, and Moira was talking to them with great animation, and David, like me, was standing on the sidelines, the quiet observer. But I could see from the expression on his face how happy he was, and contented. And his eyes never left Fiona.

I realized as I stood there that I had never had a Christmas like this in my entire life—so family oriented, old-fashioned, and full of love.

IV

The dinner was superb.

It had been chiefly cooked by Noel, since Pig on the Roof was closed for the Christmas holidays. But Fiona, Françoise, and Moira had helped out during the day. I had been shooed away, but at least I’d volunteered to pitch in.

Once the meal was ready, Noel went off to change out of his uniform, and when he came back, he, Rory, and Moira hurried into the kitchen and brought out the first course: smoked salmon, foie gras, and potted shrimps. “Something for everyone’s taste,” Fiona said, glancing around the dining room table. She had set it herself that afternoon, and the beautiful china, crystal, and silver gleamed on the antique lace cloth. White winter roses arranged in a silver bowl sat in the center of the table between silver candlesticks with white candles. A perfect setting for the dinner.

After the salmon from Scotland, the potted shrimps from Morecambe Bay, and the French pâté de foie gras, the roast goose was served with its chestnut stuffing, roast potatoes, steamed vegetables, gravy, and apple-sauce.

We all kept telling Noel how delicious it was, and he just beamed and beamed, looking pleased. It was true, and he was a great chef—as well as a pleasant young man with an easygoing, carefree manner; he was interested in everyone.

Halfway through dinner, David startled me when he looked across at me, Mike, and Jake and remarked, “I hope you’ll find time to go into Leeds in the next few days to look at the wonderful new art at the museum there.”

Mike asked, “The paintings are that good, are they?”

David nodded. “Absolutely, and if you do wish to go, I’ll drive you into the city. It’s about an hour and a half from here. You’ll get a wonderful surprise when you see what’s hanging there.”

“Who’s the artist?” Jake asked.

“A local lad, a kid from Leeds who is immensely talented. Well, he’s no kid anymore. He’s a man. But he originally hails from Leeds, and his name’s Bill Smith. But the rest of the world knows him as Alexander St. Just Stevens.”

“He’s from Leeds?” I said, staring at David, and then Mike and I exchanged glances.

Mike said, “I didn’t know that, David. Is it common knowledge?”

David shrugged. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. We all know in Yorkshire, of course, because he’s from these parts and something of a character. He was born in a poor neighborhood of Leeds, studied at Leeds College of Art before going to London, where he was a student at the Royal College of Art. It was around that time that he changed his name, adopted a posh, upper-class accent, and became a bit of a fancy, rather eccentric dresser. Reinvented himself when he was a student, and never looked back from that moment on. But he’s a genius, no two ways about it, and the paintings he has given to his hometown are mind-boggling. He’s been extremely generous to the city where he was born. And everyone appreciates him and his art.”

“We’ll be gobsmacked, will we?” I asked.

“You certainly will, as will I, Val, yet again. His paintings have that effect on everyone,” David responded.

Mike said slowly, “It’s an odd coincidence, David, but I wanted Val to go and see him when he was in New York. Unfortunately, he’d left, gone back to his place in Mexico before she could visit his loft. I have several magazines wanting photographs of his new series, which he’s painting for the Millennium Art Show to be held in Paris in 2000.”

Looking from Mike to me with great interest, David said, “Then you should see the paintings in Leeds, Mike, and you too, Val, if you’re going to be photographing the new series.”

“I’m not sure that I am,” I said, frowning at Mike, and then I added, “But Alexander St. Just Stevens does sound like an intriguing character.”

“Oh, he is,” Moira volunteered. “Very colorful, isn’t he, Mum?”

Fiona nodded. “Let’s try to go to Leeds together,” she suggested.

We agreed we’d like to make the trip to Leeds if we could, and Alexander St. Just Stevens became the topic of conversation for the rest of the meal.

V

“What a lovely evening,” I said later to Jake as we headed upstairs and went into our bedroom.

“Yes, it was, and especially because we were together, Val.” Pulling me into his arms, he kissed me on the cheek and then reached into his pocket. Slowly turning me around so that my back was to him, he hung a string of pearls around my neck and said, “Merry Christmas, honey.”

I looked at him in surprise, touched the pearls, and ran to the mirror to look at them. Swinging to face him, I exclaimed, “Jake, they’re beautiful! And you shouldn’t have. But thank you, I love them.”

He grinned at me. “They’re not the best, not South Sea pearls, but they are good ones.”

“As if I care about that! They’re gorgeous,” I responded, and went to hug him. “Your gifts are downstairs in that pile near the tree,” I explained. “Shall I creep down and get them?”

“They can wait until morning.” He laughed.

I nodded, then touched the pearls again and turned once more to regard myself in the mirror. As I admired them, I promised, “I’ll wear them always, Jake.”

“Not on the front lines, I hope.”

“I’m not going to be on the front lines, and neither are you,” I replied. I did not realize I was tempting fate again.