Playing the Game. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
be indifferent, show a total lack of interest without hurting feelings.’ ‘I know that. But does Marius?’
‘Laurie, don’t be so silly!’ Annette was both startled and shocked by this comment, and added in a firm voice, ‘Marius was only teasing me the other day – surely you of all people know that? Perhaps Christopher had ogled me a little at the party, but he’s very young, and I’m absolutely sure he’s getting the message.’
‘If you say so,’ Laurie murmured, and continued swiftly, ‘Why don’t you pick another Impressionist painting from his collection? I did notice a Morisot. Perhaps Christopher would agree to sell that.’
‘But Berthe Morisot was influenced by Manet, and later Renoir, not Degas.’
‘I know, but don’t forget she and Mary Cassatt were friends, used to paint together. And here’s another point: they were the two most important women to be involved in the Impressionist movement in the 1800s.’
‘My God, you’re right! How could I have forgotten that?’ Annette’s mind began to race, as she went on, ‘That would do it, don’t you think? If we could link the three of them, rather than Degas and Cassatt only. I shall phone him tomorrow.’
‘I know he’ll agree.’ Laurie sounded confident. She was, because James Pollard had let something slip, inadvertently, on Saturday at Knowle Court. Christopher Delaware did not intend to keep any of the art that had been left to him by his uncle. For a very simple reason. He wasn’t interested in art. But he had to go slowly because of taxes. Taking a deep breath, Laurie confided this to Annette, as well as other comments Jim had made to her.
‘Very enlightening,’ Annette responded before they both hung up. Sleep was elusive. Annette would begin to doze off and then something would awaken her with a start. The ticking of the clock, the patter of rain against the window, the rustle of the bedroom curtains as a gust of wind blew in. She had always been a light sleeper and tonight she seemed unable to settle down. Turning on her side, she shut her eyes and endeavoured to visualize the Morisot painting at Knowle Court. It was one of the artist’s earlier works, and not her greatest. On the other hand, Morisot had acquired something of a following in recent years. The painting hanging in the gallery at Knowle Court was of a woman sitting at a mirror doing her hair. Annette had liked it when she first saw it, and now, given the idea Laurie had presented to her, perhaps it would work if shown with the Cassatt. It was worth a try, and so it was worth a call to Christopher, to ask him to put it in the auction. She would phone him tomorrow.
Throwing back the bedclothes, Annette got up, went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk, then hurried down the corridor to her small office. Turning on the light, she sat down at her desk, began making notes to herself regarding the auction. Marius had teased her for years, calling her a workaholic, and she was, but she couldn’t help that. It was the way she was made. Her nature. She enjoyed work, was well-organized and adept at what she did, and she had a lot of stamina, could sit at a desk for hours.
After half an hour she put down her pen and sat back in her chair, thinking about her younger sister Laurie, who was now thirty-six.
Because of the horrific car crash, she had never been able to fulfil her desire to become an actress. Or perhaps she had lost the desire and the drive. But encouraged by Marius and herself, she had studied to be an art expert, focusing on certain Impressionist painters, mainly Degas and Cassatt. Laurie had worked for them for a number of years now, as a research assistant, and was brilliant at it. Once Marius had agreed that Annette could start her own business, Annette Remmington Fine Art, she had made Laurie the only other director of her company, and her sole heir, wanting to protect her sister’s future, give her security.
It pleased Annette that Laurie was as interested in art as she was, and that she had a job she loved, and which gave her a life. Also, she was proud of her little sister, who had made a career for herself with courage and determination. I’ll take her to New York, she decided all of a sudden. I’ll take her to the auction. We’ll go by ship: that would be a nice way to travel for a change, a little holiday. When they went to Europe they used a private plane, so flying was easy, but she was not sure Marius would let her charter a plane to take Laurie to the States. Seven and a half hours was a long flight for her sister. Yes, a sea voyage would do her good.
This decision to include Laurie brought a smile, a sudden feeling of happiness, and Annette finally left her desk, went back to bed, knowing she would soon fall asleep. But she did not … the past intruded; another memory slid out from one of its dark hiding places, and she heard them again, those innocent little girls, heard their voices in her head and floating all around her …
‘My name is Marie Antoinette and I am Queen of France. Come and dance.’ Another lilting voice echoed in the air. ‘I am Empress Josephine, favourite of the French, and there’s my husband Napoleon sitting on the bench. Emperor of France. Come and dance …’
Their voices fell away in receding echoes, and the light changed in the cold and silent house where evil lurked in the shadows … and as night came down, the girls lay trembling in their beds, always afraid now that he had come back. The monster, they called him.
‘He’s coming,’ Josephine whispered, her voice trembling. ‘I can hear him outside the room.’
‘Stay quiet, stay still,’ Marie Antoinette whispered back. ‘Slide down, pull the blankets over your head. Don’t make a sound.’
The door opened. He came creeping in, knelt down next to Marie Antoinette’s bed. He slid his hand under the bedclothes, touching her legs, lifting her nightgown, pushing his fingers into her, harder and harder, pushing them higher, hurting her. Pain shot through her. His head came down on her mouth; she tasted stale beer, averted her face and began to shake all over. ‘Please, please don’t do this,’ she begged. But he did not stop, pushed harder. She cried out again in pain. His head came down next to hers on the pillow. He harshly snarled, ‘If you make another sound, I’ll kill her. Understand?’ Terrified, she took a deep breath, pleaded with him: ‘Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her. ‘ He did not answer. His response was to pull off the bedclothes, drop his trousers and climb on top of her. He was more intoxicated than usual and could not do it tonight. He fell against her, breathing hard, his weight heavy on her. She tried to push him off, tried to slither out from under him, found she could not. Suddenly, in a rush, the door was flung open and bright light from the hall flooded the room. Alison was flying in, shouting angrily. Their cousin pulled her drunken brother off Marie Antoinette, dragged him out of the room. He was like a limp rag at first. Unexpectedly he came to life. He jumped up, pushing Alison away, but she grabbed him, struggled with him, fought him. She was tall, strong and sober. Even though she was more terrified than ever, Marie Antoinette peeped around the door again. Her grandfather appeared, hurrying out of his room, shouting at Gregory. He was fighting Alison, beating her. They had moved across the landing, were struggling hard, were too close to the top of the stairs. It happened in a flash. Marie Antoinette brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream as they both fell down the stairs. They landed in a heap in the hallway at the bottom. They lay still. Neither moved.
A cacophony of sounds. Grandfather shouting. Gregory shouting back. Not a sound from Alison. She went back to Josephine, crept into bed with her, put her arms around her and held her close … protectively, lovingly. The six-year-old girl was sobbing; she endeavoured to comfort her, stroking her red-gold hair, holding her close, promising to look after her always. And she did.
They had been sent away from that dangerous house after that … those sweet innocent girls … sent to live with their mother, and things got worse …
The scene was so vivid, so real, Annette wept into her pillow, filled with hurt for those tender little girls. She wept herself to sleep. And the memories of that fateful night of long ago stayed with her for days.
‘And I had this fantastic idea. I’m going to take you to New York with me in September. We’ll sail on the Queen Elizabeth and you’ll be at the auction and