Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Rose simply smiled. ‘About the board meeting tomorrow … I don’t think you should do anything … rash.’
Surprised, Elizabeth pinned her eyes on her great-aunt, and answered, ‘I’m not one for doing anything rash, and you know that. I am very cautious, and so is Cecil. What are you getting at?’
‘The board is too big. Unwieldly. I know that. But what does it matter? At this precise moment, I mean? I think you should leave the board the way it is. Don’t get rid of anyone, don’t ask anyone to resign. Just leave it the way it is.’
‘Why do you suggest this? What’s the purpose?’
‘Don’t make any enemies, Elizabeth. Not at this moment. Get on with the business of running the company. Making changes to the board can wait … take your time about it … Make friends, not enemies.’
‘You have a point, Grace Rose.’
‘You are the largest single shareholder. You are managing director. You have assembled a good team. Just get on with it. Do the work, get Deravenels back on its feet. Then you’ll be able to do anything you want with the board.’
Elizabeth had listened carefully and Grace Rose’s words were wise, made sense to her. She nodded, asked, ‘Is that why you needed to see me?’
‘Not really. I must discuss something else with you, something which is urgent and which troubles me.’ Grace Rose pushed herself to her feet. ‘Come along, I want to give you something.’
Elizabeth followed her out of the drawing room, her curiosity aroused.
TEN
Elizabeth followed Grace Rose across the small entrance hall and into the red sitting room, one of her favourite spots in her aunt’s flat. She loved the mélange of reds predominant in the room – the crimson silk on the walls and at the windows, the tied-back draperies, the mixture of vivid reds in the carpet, the red velvet on the sofa and armchairs arranged in front of the fireplace.
To her way of thinking, the red colour scheme was a superb backdrop for the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings which Grace Rose had chosen to place in this elegant room. Yet, to Elizabeth, the elegance was balanced by a sense of welcoming warmth, even a cosiness, and the pink-silk-shaded lamps cast a lovely roseate glow, especially on this wintry afternoon.
‘Sit over there by the fire,’ Grace Rose instructed. As she spoke she went across to the Georgian desk in a corner, retrieved a bulging manila folder, joined Elizabeth.
‘I need to speak to you about the painting,’ Grace Rose began, staring intently at her great-niece. ‘That’s what this is all about. And you know the painting I mean, I’m quite sure of that.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, of course I do. The painting your father bought in about 1918 because it reminded him of Bess and you.’
‘Correct. And I want a promise from you, a promise that you will not sell it. Not unless you have to – in order to save Deravenels. That must be the only reason.’
‘I promise I won’t sell it, Grace Rose. You have my word.’
‘It might be a temptation to auction it off, you know. It must be worth a small fortune today.’
‘Oh, it is, I know that for a fact.’
‘So you had it appraised, did you?’ Grace Rose asked swiftly, giving her a keen look.
‘Not exactly.’ Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘I need to explain something to you, some decisions I made about the painting a year ago. I did this just after my half-sister told me I was no longer welcome at Deravenels, that I couldn’t work there any more. Since I didn’t know what she had in store for me, what she might do, I went to live at Ravenscar. I was sort of hiding out, if you like.’
‘I remember. You spoke to me from there, wanted me to know where you were, in case I needed you. But please continue about the painting.’
‘The week Mary told me to get out, I drove down to Waverley Court, and had Toby take the painting down off the library wall. We wrapped it carefully in blankets and I brought it back to London. I told him I was having it cleaned and restored. This is what I did. It is now hanging in my dressing room in the Eaton Square flat, where it is absolutely safe.’
Looking suddenly confused, Grace Rose murmured, ‘But Briney Meadows saw the painting only a few weeks ago. Toby had asked him to go over to Waverley Court, to help him fix the security system. There had been some sort of problem with the electrical wiring.’
A wide smile spread across Elizabeth’s face. ‘Briney saw the copy I’d had made, after the painting was cleaned and restored. During the period it was being copied, by the artist I’d hired, I realized that Toby and Myrtle might notice the frame was new, once the painting was back at Waverley Court. Because the original frame was a bit chipped, the gilt worn off in places. I told the artist to put the copy in the old frame, and the original in the new one, so they wouldn’t notice the difference.’
Grace Rose chuckled. ‘Very smart of you, my dear. But, out of curiosity, why did you move it in the first place?’
‘I thought Mary might actually steal it. No one would deny her access to Waverley Court, and certainly I didn’t trust her. Whilst she loathed the painting, she nevertheless knew it was extremely valuable, and she could easily have taken it away. No one would have stopped her. So, very simply, I didn’t want to take any chances with it. She could have sold it, you know, and given the money to Philip Alvarez.’
‘Good thinking, Elizabeth. However –’ Grace Rose cut herself off, then said carefully, ‘It was hers by right, I suppose.’
‘I’m well aware of that. She inherited it from my father through our half-brother Edward. But that particular day I made a judgement call … I decided she didn’t deserve to have it.’
Grace Rose suppressed her mirth, and after a moment she remarked, ‘Elizabeth, I think I would have done exactly the same thing, if I’d been in your position.’
‘Thank you for saying that.’ Leaning closer, Elizabeth confided, ‘It’s worth an enormous amount. A dealer, who’s an old friend of mine, told me that any Renoir is priceless, and especially this one, Les deux soeurs, because of its marvellous quality, and also because Renoir painted it in 1889, when he was in great form. When I spoke to my friend, Julian Everson, last summer, and showed him the Renoir, he was extremely impressed. He put a price on it. He said it was worth six million pounds, at least. He even added that this was a rather low estimate on his part.’
‘That sounds about right. I estimated eight million pounds. Now, this folder is for you. Inside there’s a great deal of documentation about the paintings which belonged to Jane Shaw, my father’s great friend, his mistress, actually. Bess and I inherited her art collection after her death. It was valuable then, therefore it’s very valuable today. I know what’s hanging on my walls. In here –’ She paused, patted the manila folder, and went on, ‘– in here are photographs of the paintings your grandmother inherited. When you have a moment, I want you to look for them in the various homes you inherited. Will you do that, Elizabeth? It’s important you know where everything is.’
‘I certainly will. In fact, Kat can start on it straight away. She’s working for me at the moment, checking out similar things.’
‘I’m delighted to hear this. Kat is extremely efficient. I think some of the paintings will be at the Chelsea house, where your father lived after he sold the old house in Berkeley Square. And there’re probably others at Ravenscar and Waverley Court. Well, here’s the folder. Do go through it when you have a moment. You’ll probably recognize some of the paintings yourself.’
Elizabeth had taken the bulging folder over to the desk in the red sitting room, and was examining the documentation about the paintings. Grace