Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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 littered 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 much. 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 you 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.
‘Look for a long time at what pleases you, and longer still at what pains you …’
COLETTE
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