Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

      She stared at a photograph of a painting by Camille Pissarro, one she had loved for as long as she could remember. It depicted a group of old houses with red roofs situated in a stand of trees which were almost leafless. This hung in the dining room at Waverley Court, and so did an eye-catching snow scene by Armand Guillaumin. She had grown up with these two paintings, and liked how well they worked together in the same room. The red rooftops of Pissarro’s houses blended with the russet leaves of the trees on the snowy hillsides of Guillaumin.

      A Claude Monet snow scene, a painting composed entirely of shades of black, white, cream and grey, had been one of her father’s favourites, and this still hung at Ravenscar in the room where he had worked.

      There were several more photographs of other paintings, and she recognized the style of Matisse, Van Gogh, Sisley and Manet. These four paintings, which seemed familiar to her, were definitely not at Ravenscar or Waverley Court. Maybe they were hanging in the Chelsea house.

      At this moment Grace Rose reappeared, and exclaimed, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, Patrick doesn’t usually keep me on the phone for such a long time. But he wanted to tell me all about his girlfriend … he’s about to get engaged. He’s bringing her to London later this week to meet me.’

      ‘Oh, how nice,’ Elizabeth said, looking up, smiling.

      ‘It is, and he’s thoughtful, he always likes to include me in family affairs whenever he can. Now, about the paintings, you must be familiar with some of them. They should be in one or another of the houses, in fact.’

      Putting the photographs back in the folder, Elizabeth got up from behind the desk, and went to join Grace Rose near the fire. ‘They are, and let me show you those which are actually in my possession. I also remember seeing some of the others, but the problem is I’m not sure where … more than likely those are in the Chelsea house. Unless they have been sold.’

      ‘There’s always that possibility, of course. But I don’t think your father sold any art, and anyway, the paintings are by well-known artists. So I would have known if they had come onto the market. And I’m positive Mary didn’t sell any, for the same reason. I would have known about it.’

      Elizabeth said, ‘I am going to ask Kat to go over to the Chelsea house again, to check on the paintings. She was there last week, starting to organize everything, but I never thought to tell her about the paintings in the house.’

      ‘And what about that house, Elizabeth? Are you going to keep it? Or sell it?’

      ‘I think I will sell it, Grace Rose. It’s a lovely old place, I know, but, well, it seems rather large for a single woman on her own.’

      Grace Rose threw her an appraising look, and exclaimed, ‘But you’re not going to be on your own forever. You’ll get married, have children one day.’

      Elizabeth gaped at her, a look of horror crossing her face. ‘I’m never going to get married. Not ever.’

      ‘Come, come, my dear. Don’t say never like that. One doesn’t know what might happen … all sorts of unexpected things occur in life.’

      ‘No, I shall never get married. I’m far too independent a woman – and besides, I don’t want a man bossing me around, telling me what to do. I want to be my own … boss. I don’t want to be somebody’s appendage. And I don’t want children, I want a career.’

      Grace Rose gave her a long, reflective stare but remained silent.

      ‘When I was eight,’ Elizabeth suddenly said, ‘I told Robert Dunley I would never get married, and if you ask him, he’ll tell you that I’m speaking the truth.’

      Grace Rose bit back a smile, then murmured in a lighter tone, ‘And was that when he first proposed to you, Elizabeth?’

      ‘Don’t be silly, Grace Rose! He didn’t propose to me then. Nor has he ever, for that matter. Nor will he in the future, I can assure you of that.’

      Grace Rose swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue. She was about to tell Elizabeth that she was totally wrong. Robert Dunley had been captivated by Elizabeth Turner’s allure since he had been … yes, an eight-year-old like her. They had spent a lot of time with her at Stonehurst Farm when they were youngsters, and she could easily recall how he had hung on her every word, been utterly entranced with her.

      Unable to let the subject go, Elizabeth now announced, ‘Robin’s like family, like my brother. He feels exactly the same way about me.’

      ‘Does he now?’ Grace Rose murmured. ‘I know he’s become Director of Operations at Deravenels … I hope you’ll bring him over to see me one day soon. He was such a darling boy.’ Not waiting for an answer, moving on swiftly, Grace Rose finished, ‘You must let me know what Kat finds at the Chelsea house, in regard to the paintings. I shall be anxious.’

      ‘I’ll get her on to it in the morning, so no doubt I’ll be able to give you a few answers tomorrow night. Now, let me show you the paintings I have in my possession.’ Opening the folder, Elizabeth took out the Pissarro first and handed it to her great-aunt.

      After she had left Grace Rose and gone home, Elizabeth thought about her great-aunt’s reference to Robin proposing to her. Obviously Grace Rose had forgotten about Robin marrying Amy Robson, about eight years ago now, or thereabouts. Everyone else had because she was nowhere to be seen; it was as if Amy had disappeared into oblivion.

      Blanche Parrell had once told her Amy lived in Cirencester and never came up to town, because she and Robin had separated. Robin never mentioned her, and Elizabeth had not thought about her for ages until tonight. Yes, seemingly it had all gone awry, that teenage marriage. Blanche had remarked. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ At the time a lot of people had thought it was a shotgun marriage, but apparently not. There were no children of that misguided union.

      Robert Dunley lived like a bachelor, was relaxed and fancy-free, seemingly. He lived and worked in London, and never went to Cirencester. Elizabeth thought about Amy. How could any woman let a man like him slip through her fingers?

      ELEVEN

      ‘Diplomacy and dissimulation, those are your best tools. Use them with skill, Elizabeth, and everything will be fine,’ Cecil Williams said.