Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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 Rosahe’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.’
Katherine kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Shall I read you another one? Something more cheerful?’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to he down for a while, Katharine. I’m feeling a hide 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