Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.’
Katharine kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Shall I read you another one? Something more cheerful?’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to lie down for a while, Katharine. I’m feeling a little 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 your money.’ There was a slight pause. ‘We use the playroom most of the time,’ she lied quickly.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Patrick said, and seated himself in the rocking chair. He was a tall, well-built man, and the chair was a fraction too small for him, but he did not seem to notice, or care about this. He regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment, his blue eyes acute. Finally, he fixed his narrowed gaze on Ryan. ‘Have you had a nice day, son?’
‘Yes, Da,’ Ryan said softly, as always intimidated by his father’s presence.
‘Good. Good.’ Patrick settled back and began to rock gently, musing to himself. Suddenly he lifted his dark leonine head and said, ‘Were your ears burning today, Ryan?’
‘No, Da.’ Ryan appeared baffled by this question and he wrinkled his nose nervously, looking confused.
‘Well, they should have been, my boy. I was talking about you, and at great length, with some of my political friends at lunch today. Ward bosses. I was downtown to make my usual, and considerable, contribution to the Democratic Party. We have the best damn political machine in the country, you know. Magnificent.’ He beamed at Ryan. ‘And the Irish control it, I might add. Don’t you ever let that slip your mind, my boy. Anyway, I told my friends that my son is going to be the greatest politician Chicago has ever seen. Yes, I told them how you’re going to be a congressman and then a senator, and I was delighted by their reactions.’
Patrick was quite oblivious to the dismay washing across Ryan’s little face, and the look of astonishment quickening on Katharine’s, as he went on: ‘I also made them a promise, and it’s a promise I fully intend to keep. I –’ Patrick bit off the rest of his sentence abruptly, and he paused dramatically as if to give additional weight and importance to his next statement.
He took a deep breath, stared hard at his children, and said with immense conviction and pride, ‘I promised them that my son is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of the United States!’ Patrick folded his hands across his vast chest, well pleased with himself, and he leaned back in the rocking chair, scrutinizing both of them, waiting.
When neither spoke, Patrick said, ‘Well, Ryan, don’t gape at me like a ninny! Haven’t you anything to say for yourself? How do you like the idea of being a politician? And then the President of this great country of ours, the greatest country in the world?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ryan whispered at last, his voice quavering. His face was as white as death, and the freckles stood out like disfiguring stains.
Patrick chuckled. ‘I don’t blame you, my boy. It’s all a bit overwhelming to comprehend immediately, I’ll grant you that. But I have great ambitions for you, son. Great ambitions. And what’s wrong with having ambitions?’ He did not wait for a response but hurried on compulsively, ‘If I hadn’t had ambitions, I wouldn’t be the multi-millionaire I am today. With a son who is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of America. And there’s nothing for you to worry your head about, Ryan. Nothing at all. I’ll do your thinking for you at all times. I’ll mastermind your career, and my money and my clout and my friends will propel you right into the Oval Office of the White House, you wait and see. You’ll make my dreams come true, Ryan, I have no doubts. And I’m going to make you the most powerful politician this century has known and will ever know. Just you leave it all to me, son.’
Ryan gulped and opened his mouth but no words came. He glanced up at Katharine, his eyes filled with mute appeal.
Katharine was flabbergasted at her father’s words. If they had been uttered by anyone else she would have dismissed them as boastful idle talk, and to be taken with a grain of salt. But she knew her father meant every word, and she trembled inwardly for Ryan. Her brother was terrified, and with good reason; she tightened her embrace, drew the boy closer to her.
She said, ‘But Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician, Father.’ She could never bring herself to call him the more affectionate Da, as Ryan did.
Patrick glowered. ‘What?’ he demanded in a low tone that was ominous, even threatening. ‘What did you say?’
‘Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician. He wants to be a painter,’ Katharine replied in a quiet but resolute voice. Her father