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Peter was taken ill in the night. By the time Terri returned from the bergerie around one o’clock the next afternoon, he had been taken to hospital. She found Corinne in the kitchen, come in specially to clear up the debris from the party and, glad to have someone to tell, the bonne quickly passed on the little she knew. Apparently Peter had felt sick and had suffered chest and arm pains. Reluctantly he had finally called the doctor who had arranged for him to be admitted. Angela was gone too; she had already packed her bags and had left to stay with a friend.
‘They’re separating,’ Corinne said. ‘Angela will come back some time to get the rest of her things.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Celia was here.’ Corinne rolled her eyes. ‘Monsieur Stedding spoke to her before he left.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’ said Terri.
Corinne shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Who knows? He abuses himself. This was waiting to happen.’
‘Does Lindsey know?’
‘Yes. Celia contacted her. She was going to the hospital, I think.’ Corinne gave Terri a penetrating look. ‘So tell me what went on here last night. That picture in the sitting room is in a terrible state.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ll take it down to the studio.’ Terri was unwilling to elaborate. ‘I’ve been with Luc,’ she added. ‘I don’t know everything that went on.’ She wandered back out of the kitchen, only too aware of Corinne’s dark, sceptical eyes on her back.
In the sitting room the portrait of Madeleine, a sad testament to the passions of the night before, still hung on the wall. Terri lifted it carefully from its place and examined the tears. It was badly damaged but she thought a good conservator might be able to do something with it. She left it propped up against the wall, went through to her rooms to change, then hung around the house, unsure what to do and unable to settle. Should she go to the hospital? Would they even let her see Peter? But Lindsey was there with him so Terri thought she’d feel like an interloper. He’d want family around him at this time and she had no such claim now.
She took the portrait down to the studio, left it in her old office and returned to the house. Corinne was ready to go home.
‘There’s food in the fridge left over from last night if anyone wants it,’ she said. ‘Are you still leaving tomorrow?’
‘Possibly. I’m not sure.’
Corinne insisted on hugging her and air-kissing both cheeks. ‘In case you go,’ she said. ‘And stay in touch, yes?’
Terri was left alone. She tried to finish her packing, putting things in bags, endlessly rearranging them, her thoughts elsewhere. Regardless of Corinne’s opinion of the state of Peter’s health, she felt culpable: he was ill because she had brought this situation about. If he didn’t recover she thought she would never forgive herself. She wished she could stay. At least she’d like to be around long enough to be sure that he was going to be all right. And of course she thought of Luc; she had arranged to see him again for what was supposed to be her final evening at Le Chant.
As it turned out, she didn’t have too long to wait. Just after five, there was the sound of the front door opening and closing, then voices. Sure that one of them was Peter’s, Terri hesitated, then went to investigate. He had discharged himself from the hospital and arranged his own transport home. She was in time to see him disappearing up the stairs to his bedroom, pale and a little more stooped than usual. Lindsey, who had accompanied him back from the hospital, went into the kitchen to make him a drink and Terri followed her.
‘How is he?’ she pressed.
Lindsey sighed as she filled the kettle. ‘He’s my father. How do you think he is? I’ve no idea. He says he feels better. He’s had some tests and they’ve taken blood samples to do more. So far they haven’t found anything wrong with him except his blood pressure’s up. But, God knows, that’s not unusual. They’ve given him some tablets and he’s booked in for some scan or other – on Tuesday. But he insisted he was well enough to come home. ‘I’m not going to spend the night here.’ So he signed himself out. Now he’s supposed to rest. Huh. Fat chance of that. And he was given a load of advice about his diet and drinking. He won’t pay any attention to that either.’ She fixed Terri with a resigned look. ‘Can you imagine him drinking decaffeinated coffee and no whisky?’
Terri shook her head.
‘Neither can I.’ The kettle boiled and Lindsey made a pot of tea. ‘I told him to go to bed. He wasn’t keen. The trouble is he gets bored. Maybe you should come up to see him. Perhaps he’ll listen to you.’
‘Me? No way.’
‘He might. At least your company might help distract him a bit. Please?’
‘If you don’t think I’ll make him worse?’
‘Nah. You can give me a break. I’ve had him all day.’
Peter was lying on top of his bed, propped up with pillows, wearing a red satin dressing gown tied loosely at the waist. With the remote pointed accusingly at the television screen, he was flicking channels peevishly. His head turned as Lindsey appeared bearing a tray with a cup of tea and some crackers.
‘Tea. Good. I don’t know what they call it in that place but it certainly isn’t tea. Thank you Lindsey.’ He stared at the tray as she put it down on the bedside cabinet and his nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Crackers?’
‘The doctor said you should avoid anything heavy.’
Peter grunted. Then he saw Terri, hovering uncertainly in the doorway.
‘Terri. Come in, come in. Sit down.’
Lindsey slipped out and Terri moved forward. There was a small padded chair against the wall and she brought it over to place by the bed.
‘So you’re feeling better?’ she said.
‘I’m fine. Should never have rung the doctor. He fussed.’
She nodded. He was abnormally pale but there was still a familiar glint in his eye which was faintly reassuring.
‘If you’d like to be left alone...’ she began.
‘Nonsense. I’ve got things I want to talk about with you. Don’t you dare leave me.’
‘I don’t think this is the best time to talk.’
‘If you think I’ll rest without saying what I want to say, you’re wrong. And you’re supposed to be leaving tomorrow. That’s one of the things I want to talk about.’
‘Peter, I think I should tell you...’
‘Ssh. I’d like you to stay on a bit longer. Would you do that? Can you do that?’
‘Yes, I’d like to but...’
‘Good. I think we all need to draw breath. And I’d like you around for a while. Also, there’s a proposition I wanted to put to you.’ He stopped suddenly, as if the talking had exhausted him.
‘Peter, I must tell you: Josie was not my mother.’
Terri wanted to tell him before he started making plans for her but it came out too abruptly and she searched his face anxiously, concerned what effect it would have on him. He was frowning at her.
‘How do you know?’
She hesitated. Was this the time to be telling him this? But really, she had no choice.
‘Luc has found someone – a woman called Kate - who knew both my mother and Josephine in London. They were definitely two different people.’ She paused, giving him time to assimilate this. ‘But Kate saw Josie after she ran away from here. And later on, apparently, Josie moved to Australia and, as far as Kate knows, she’s still there and she’s got a family.’
‘She’s alive?’
‘Yes. They’d been exchanging Christmas cards until three years ago. Josie moved house. There was a mix-up with addresses and they lost touch. But, if you want, sometime, I could help you track her down.’
Peter’s expression had frozen.
‘Are you all right Peter?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m all right. I’m fine.’ He nodded repeatedly, staring into the distance. ‘I can’t believe it. That’s wonderful. But she...she probably wouldn’t speak to me. I mean, why would she? After all I said...’ His gaze shifted to Terri’s face, eyes puckered with concern. ‘She’d probably not want me near her.’
‘You could write her a letter first. Tell her how you feel about everything. Then it’d be up to her to decide.’
‘Yes, yes, I could do that. Good idea. Apologise...try to say...mm. Yes. Yes, that would be the way to do it.’ He tried a smile. ‘Australia eh? Well, well, Australia. Who’d have thought it? But I’m glad. I can’t tell you how glad.’
‘I think you should rest now.’ She stood up and turned to go.
‘You haven’t heard my proposition.’
Terri turned back, surprised. She’d thought the proposition was something to do with her being ‘family’.
‘I was wondering what you’d think about writing a book about me.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Of course I realise I’m not Rembrandt or Reynolds so you’d be compromising yourself somewhat.’ He screwed up his face and sucked his teeth. ‘There have been a couple of books written about me – all absolute drivel, of course. You might make a better fist of it...considering. Edited highlights only of course. What do you think?’
She smiled. ‘It’d be a challenge.’
‘Yes, wouldn’t it? I thought that. For both of us. But I’m getting old. Now is the time, I think.’
‘We could probably work something out...if you don’t argue too much.’
Peter grunted and Terri walked to the door.
‘By the way, Terri?’
She stopped and looked round.
‘I daresay you’ve heard that Angela has gone. I’m going to make sure she’s set up. She’s Lindsey’s mother...you understand? But I haven’t told Lindsey what happened and I insist no-one else does either.’ He sat forward suddenly, his face white and pinched. ‘Oh my God, the portrait’s still there in the sitting room...’
‘No, it’s not. I’ve taken it down to the studio.’
He leaned back and took a long breath, exhaling slowly. ‘Lindsey may not be my biological daughter. I don’t know and I don’t care. She can live with her mother or she can stay here or live with Thierry. She can do whatever she likes. But as far as she is concerned, we have parted amicably because we’ve grown apart.’
‘I understand. I’ve said nothing.’
‘Good.’ He looked drained now. A spot of unnatural colour had formed on each cheek. He turned his head away and closed his eyes. A moment later she saw his breathing slow and he twitched a little in his sleep. His colour settled.
Terri slipped out and went downstairs. At some point she would have to admit to exploring Madeleine’s studio, to finding Josie’s diaries and to hiding the portrait of Tom, but now wasn’t the time. She wished he hadn’t been so quick to discharge himself from hospital.
*
In the kitchen, Terri found Celia, sitting at the table with a plate of party leftovers: quiche, tapenade and toast, chicken, saucisson sec and assorted salads.
‘Lindsey said Peter’s home,’ said Celia. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s sleeping now but he looks exhausted. I hope he’s going to be all right.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s done this before you know - got worked up and had a turn. Tough as old boots is Peter. A bit of rest; he’ll rally.’ Celia picked up a piece of the sausage and bit into it. ‘Angela’s gone, you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘And we have to pretend that it’s all a friendly arrangement for Lindsey’s benefit. Though since it happened rather suddenly I imagine our Lindsey will think that a little suspicious, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure Peter has made it sound plausible. Or maybe she’ll believe what she wants to believe.’
‘We all do.’ Celia finished the sausage. ‘Have you eaten dear?’
‘I’m having dinner with Luc later.’
‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one. Still, have one of these little tarts.’ Celia examined them. ‘They’re courgette and goat’s cheese, I think.’
Terri took one and sat down at the table.
‘It’ll do Lindsey good to have you around for a bit,’ said Celia. ‘Peter too. He pretends he doesn’t need anybody but of course he’s useless by himself.’
‘How did you know that I was going to stay on?’
‘I didn’t. Seemed likely though. Family needs to stick together at a time like this.’
‘I’m not family, Celia. I’ve found out. Josie wasn’t my mother. I’ve just told Peter.’
‘Really? Oh well never mind.’ Celia looked unmoved. ‘Family is as family does. Does this chicken wing smell funny to you?’
She held it out to Terri who sniffed at it, pulled a face and drew back, nodding.
‘Why did you think I was related in the first place?’ she asked.
Celia picked up a baby tomato and popped it in her mouth. She chewed for a minute and swallowed.
‘I tried to track Josephine down after she’d gone. I even went to London in hopes of finding her. The RA exhibition was on too so that was convenient. Anyway I couldn’t find her – any friends I could find were keeping mum. So I came home but I kept buying newspapers, French, British, just in case. I knew Josie wouldn’t have killed herself.’
‘But Angela said she left a suicide note.’
‘She simply left a note saying she couldn’t stand it here any longer. She didn’t say she was going to end it all. Angela told the story she wanted to believe. Anyway Josie was artistic so I paid attention to the art press. Then it occurred to me a few years ago that her child might work in the art world too, given the family it came from. One day I saw your photograph with an article about you and I was struck by the eyes.’
‘But Celia, I’m not...’
‘But you’ve got her eyes dear. And you were the right age.’
‘Co-incidence,’ said Terri flatly.
‘Yes. Isn’t that funny? Life is full of them though isn’t it? But then Peter had his accident and I thought it was a great opportunity.’
‘But how could you be sure I’d come? Or that Peter wouldn’t give the job to someone else?’
‘I couldn’t. But I asked around – I still know a few people in London – and I knew you were at the end of a contract. And as for Peter.’ Celia grinned. ‘I manipulated him a little bit. He wasn’t feeling too well, poor dear, and he’s no good with computers and printers at the best of times. I offered to do it for him but I only sent out a couple of adverts, you see. Then I went through the applications with him, told him I’d already set aside the ones who couldn’t start immediately. I didn’t push too hard – you know how stubborn he can be – but fortunately he remembered that exhibition you’d curated so he offered it to you. He insisted on dictating the letter. Then it was up to fate. If you were meant to come, you would.’ She picked up a gherkin and studied it dispassionately. ‘I’m a great believer in fate.’
‘Well, you were right about Josephine: she didn’t kill herself.’ Terri explained where she was.
Celia stopped eating and looked up.
‘Australia? Well, I never thought of that.’ She smiled. ‘Good for her.’ She picked up the last piece of sausage on her plate and waved it vaguely at Terri. ‘Still, I’m sorry you’re not exactly related. You’ll have to adopt us.’ She shrugged and bit into the meat. ‘If you think you could cope with us,’ she added, a couple of minutes later.
*
Terri wandered back to her room and slowly unpacked her case. She came across the Indian art book and ran a finger over the smooth, glossy surface of the dust jacket, then sat down and slowly turned the pages once more. Hunting scenes and animals, deities, family gatherings, portraits - a huge range of vivid, colourful images. She remembered her father showing her the pictures when she was still too young to read the complex text, explaining the symbolism to her, dwelling on the portraits, describing how the best portrait painters always capture the character of their subjects. He’d done it with other books too. Was that how she’d first developed an interest in portraiture? Probably. She lingered over an eighteenth century portrait, the man’s finely drawn face in profile and keenly expressive. Her father’s passion for his work and for art in general had been the centre of his existence. Consciously or unconsciously, he had passed it on to her. She couldn’t deny it; it was in her blood.
How she missed him. There were so many things she’d like to tell him. Silly things mostly, like...how the wind in the trees really did sometimes sound like a song; or what amazing aniseed bread they made here; or...how Provence was just like all the paintings she’d ever seen, only more so somehow: more intense, more concentrated, an assault on every sense. Because it was only since finding his note on the catalogue in London that she’d realised he might have wanted to know what she thought about anything. And she’d have told him about Peter too, the grandfather who wasn’t, and Luc... What would she have told him about Luc? She wasn’t sure yet.
All that time she’d spent blaming her father for her mother leaving, and then resenting him for not caring that she’d gone. What a waste. Of course, he’d made it difficult - he was hardly without blame - but she thought she could have made an effort when she’d grown up, tried to get to know him better. She should have got past it years ago. So many missed opportunities; so many regrets.
Her thoughts flicked back to Peter, then to Celia. Not exactly related. After all that angst and self-examination, no-one seemed to care that she wasn’t a blood relative after all. The Stedding family was a confusion of love and heartache, discord and silence, feuds and devotion, and yet they managed somehow. They’d even get over Angela eventually. And Luc’s family wasn’t much better. Terri used to think it was only her family that was abnormal, fractured; it had made her insular and defensive. She’d been a fool and it had taken her long enough to work it out. No-one’s family was perfect. It was a matter of muddling your way through it, loving where you could, letting the bad things go.
So maybe Kate Nayland would tell her something about her mother which she could relate to, or maybe not. She was going to try not to care so much. Maybe it was time to start concentrating on the here and now and stop letting the past colour her present.
She closed the book but continued to hold it, still, thinking. Eventually she put it down. It was time to go and meet Luc - but not before she’d slipped upstairs to check on Peter.
