Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

was more protective of him than ever, anxious about his well-being and state of mind. He had simply not been the same since Pandora had left him, and Francesca understood the reasons why. She, too, had been completely astounded by Pandora’s extraordinary behaviour, for it had been the perfect marriage, and outwardly the happiest union she had ever encountered. Kim’s stunned shock, his heartbreak and profound hurt had been hers, for she had felt them just as acutely.

      Will he never recover from that blow? Francesca asked herself, and she did not like the resounding ‘no’ that reverberated in her head. A proud young woman, and infinitely more pragmatic than her brother, Francesca had long since come to believe that broken hearts were the stuff of romantic dreams and bore no relationship to the true reality of everyday life. You picked up the pieces, glued them together, and went on living as best you could, until the pain receded. That was exactly what she had done years before, and she was fully convinced that no one was irreplaceable. Despite these beliefs, and because she was blessed with considerable intelligence and insight, she realized Kim was different, knew intuitively that he would mourn Pandora, not replace her, as most other men would have done.

      She shook her head sadly. He was so isolated in Yorkshire, and lonely with his two elder children away at boarding school. She wished he would spend more time in London with his friends, but then had to admit this was not always feasible. His responsibilities kept him tied to Langley for most of the year. On the other hand, if she were in England she might conceivably be able to exercise some influence over him, persuade him to lead a more active social life than was his custom.

      Francesca decided she must go home to England at the end of the month. Harrison would not object, she was certain of that, and perhaps he would accompany her if he was not overburdened with work in Washington. Since his retirement from the Foreign Service a year ago, her husband seemed to be busier than he ever was as an ambassador. He was the country’s foremost elder statesman, and consequently he was constantly being sought out by senators and political bigwigs and members of the cabinet; and then again, his role as an adviser to the President on Foreign Affairs was time-consuming and exceedingly tiring. Although he had fully recovered from his two heart attacks and was enjoying good health, Francesca watched over him like a hawk, for ever stricturing him to slow down and take things at a gentler pace. Harrison always readily concurred, and then did exactly as he pleased, caught up in the complex machinations of politics and thoroughly enjoying every exciting minute of it. A trip to England would be a tonic for Harry, as well as an enforced rest, and she resolved to take him with her, was determined to brook no argument from him.

      Francesca took out her engagement book and opened it. The meeting of the charity committee had been arranged for one o’clock, and then at four she had the interview with Estelle Morgan of Now Magazine. She grimaced as she contemplated this. There were so many other more important obligations to be dealt with, but Estelle had pressed hard for it, and Francesca remembered from past experience the woman’s unflagging persistence. It had been far easier on the nerves, and more expedient, to agree immediately.

      Also Francesca had wisely acknowledged, when she took on the charity, that she would have to submit to a certain number of interviews. She did not delude herself into thinking the charity needed her solely for her practical turn of mind and her organizing ability. They also wanted her because they felt she had a certain cachet and glamour -how she hated that word – and was, in their minds, the ideal candidate for their publicity purposes. She was dedicated to the charity and took her responsibilities seriously, and refusing to see Estelle would have appeared churlish and even mean-spirited to the committee. Well, it was in a good cause and she had made the date. The simplest thing would be to deal with Estelle quickly, and with the best possible grace. Her thoughts shifted to her engagements for the remainder of the week. She glanced at her book to refresh her memory. Francesca walked across the room to the window, thinking again of her brother. She parted the curtains and looked out across Fifth Avenue to Central Park, an absent-minded expression on her delicately-etched face.

      It was a very cold, very January day. Portions of the window had iced up and the frost made funny little patterns composed of diamonds and stars and circles on the surface, so that the glass was opaque in parts, and her view of the park was faintly blurred. The patterns and the opaqueness produced a strange optical illusion, one of dreamlike diffusion. It had apparently snowed hard for the past few days, and huge banks drifted over seats and railings and rambling paths, obscuring the familiar landscape with an unbroken sweep of glistening white, like an ocean of rising waves, their crests frozen into rigid immobility; and the skeletal black trees were festooned with crystalline flakes that transformed the branches into fragile feathered plumes.

      Behind them, the skyscrapers on the West Side merged to form an indistinguishable grey mass of granite that rose up like a rugged mountain range into a vaulted sky. Images ran together in her head … the snow-scape of the city became the soaring pristine mountains above Königssee … changed into the high-flung Yorkshire fells which overshadowed her childhood home … those were the familiar places that took shape as she stared through the frosty tracery of the glass. She squinted through half-closed lids, and saw in her mind’s eye the famous oil by Monet, which he had painted on a trip to Norway around 1895. It was called ‘Mount Kolsaas’, and she knew it well, for Harrison had always wanted it. But it was owned by another collector and unlikely ever to be his. This fact did not stop him hankering after it. That which is beyond our reach is always the more desirable because of its very unattainability, she thought. Just as Pandora is out of Kim’s yearning reach.

      Francesca touched the icy window with a polished pink fingernail and abstractedly scratched at it, her thoughts returning to her brother. She had not been able to suggest a cure, at the very least an antidote for what ailed him.

      Perhaps one doesn’t exist for Kim, she reflected forlornly, unless, quite simply, it is time. The passing of time had worked miracles for her, but she was uncertain of the effect it would have on him. It struck her then that her going to England was hardly a solution to Kim’s problems. Might, it not be infinitely better if he came to New York? The more she thought about this, the more Francesca was convinced it was the most effective and practical solution. She would remove him from his normal environment and propel him into a round of social activities on this side of the Atlantic. Francesca was nothing if not decisive and she hurried to the desk, picked up the telephone and dialled her home in Virginia.

      ‘Hello, Harrison. It’s me,’ she said when her husband answered.

      ‘Ah, darling, so there you are. I was just going to call you. Why didn’t you awaken me before you left? You know I like to say goodbye. Creeping off like that was grossly unfair of you. Ruined my day, I don’t mind telling you.’

      As he was speaking Francesca was, as always, conscious of the rich timbre of his voice, and touched by the warmth and love it exuded. He was such a dear man. How lucky she was. She smiled into the telephone. ‘You were sleeping so soundly, my darling, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.’

      ‘Did you have a nice trip? How are things at the apartment?’ he asked.

      ‘Smooth trip, and everything is fine here.’

      ‘I forgot to tell you last night, I’d like you to stop by at the gallery and chivy Ledere about the Utrillo, if you don’t mind. I’d really appreciate it, and I think a personal visit would be more effective than a ‘phone call. Any time this week will do, whenever you can fit it in.’

      ‘Of course, darling. Actually, Harry, I called you for a couple of reasons, apart from wanting to say hello. I wondered if you’d like to come up for a couple of days? Perhaps on Wednesday. You could bring the girls. They would enjoy it, and so would I, and we can all fly back to Virginia together, on Friday.’

      ‘I’d love to, Francesca, but I can’t. I have some special meetings in Washington, which I must attend, and a Democratic dinner. So sorry. Next week maybe. If you’re going to New York again,’ he said, regret echoing in his voice.

      ‘Fine,’ she said, suppressing her own disappointment. ‘There’s another matter I must discuss with you, Harry dear. I’ve received a rather disturbing letter from Kim.’ She went on to tell him about its contents and her