A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “No, it’s not,” Megan said, sitting up straighter, giving Laura a sharp look. “And it’s not necessary for you to fuss over me as if I’m an old lady.” Megan laughed. “Well, I know I am one, but I don’t feel old. And in any case, bed is overrated. Furthermore, you die in bed, so I’m quite happy to stay up late. And most nights I do.”

  “All right, all right,” Laura said, shaking her head. “There’s no one like you, Grandma.”

  “I should hope not,” Megan shot back.

  Within a few minutes Rosa returned with a pot of fresh coffee and a selection of cookies, and as she poured the coffee into the clean cups, Laura said, “There is something I would like to ask you, Rosa.”

  Rosa lifted her head and looked over at Laura. “Please, you can ask me anything. I will answer if I can.”

  “I was just wondering … was your family arrested and murdered because they were Jews or were they murdered for the art?”

  Rosa did not reply. She passed the cups of coffee to Megan and Laura, and then sat down in the chair again. “It was for both reasons. That is what I believe,” she said finally.

  “What happened to all the paintings your father had shipped out of Paris?” Laura’s brow lifted questioningly.

  “They disappeared. When we tried to find them at the end of the war they had vanished into thin air. Stolen, of course, by the Nazis. Jacques and Phyllis were frantic, trying to find out what had transpired, but naturally they met a wall of silence. They did manage to get some information from my father’s friend who lived at the Cháteau le Beauve. Gerard de Castellaine owned the chateau and he was an old, old friend of my father’s. It was he who had stored some of the paintings in his cellars. According to Gerard, one day a truckload of German soldiers came and took the paintings away at gunpoint. That was in the winter of 1942. They had papers that described all of the paintings he was storing, and they knew where to look.”

  “But how could that be?”

  “We all believed that one of the employees at my father’s gallery in Paris had alerted the Nazis about the whereabouts of the paintings my father had removed. Not everyone was as loyal as Jacques and Phyllis, and Alain Brescon.”

  “So it was an act of plunder by the Nazis,” Laura stated.

  “It was. Just as they confiscated the Westheim Collection, so they looted the art of Maurice Duval.”

  “You read about the Westheim Collection in The New York Times when I had the press conference,” Laura remarked.

  Rosa inclined her head. “I did, and I found it fascinating. But at least Sir Maxim has a catalogue raisonné. I don’t have anything quite so comprehensive, just one record book and a couple of inventories, which Jacques managed to retrieve from my parents’ apartment in Bordeaux before we started to move around.”

  “And not everything was listed?”

  “No. Only about thirty paintings. Jacques couldn’t find the other record books and additional inventories,” Rosa explained. “Maybe my father had hidden them somewhere in the apartment for safety, or maybe they were taken when my family was arrested. It is hard to know exactly what happened to them.”

  “But at least you have the details about thirty paintings. Are they good paintings?”

  “A van Gogh, several Cézannes. Two wonderful canvases by Matisse, and a number of paintings by Picasso, Braque, and Marie Laurencin.”

  “Oh, my God, they are worth a fortune!” Laura exclaimed.

  “I am sure of that. But their whereabouts are unknown. I believe they are lost forever, as are all the others. I am certain they were sent to Germany during the war. As you know very well, Goring was looting art for himself and for Hitler. Many private collections similar to the Westheim Collection were taken in Germany, France, and other countries. The private collections of the Rothschilds, Paul Rosenberg, the Bernheim-Jeunes and the David-Weills were confiscated in France, as well as the collection of Maurice Duval.”

  A small silence descended on the room.

  Rosa sat back and looked off into the distance; a sorrowful expression settled on her face. “My father’s great collection is lost to us. I shall never see those paintings again. Who knows on whose walls they are hanging.” There was a pause before Rosa ended quietly. “It would please me to get just one back. It would be like retrieving part of my father, a piece of his soul. And a piece of my family’s soul.”

  “Are you still annoyed with me?” Megan asked as Laura followed her down the corridor to her bedroom.

  “What do you mean, Gran?”

  “When we arrived at Rosa’s, you were put out with me. I don’t think you liked my surprise. In fact, I thought you were annoyed.”

  “I was startled more than anything else,” Laura replied.

  Megan made no comment until they had entered her bedroom, and then she murmured, “I thought you felt you shouldn’t be at Rosa’s because of Claire.”

  “I guess so, Gran, but I’m glad you arranged the dinner after all. Meeting her was quite a revelation.”

  “I thought it would be.”

  “I fully expected her to say something about Claire though.”

  “I think she’s afraid to, Laura dear. She knows how close you two are, and I believe she was being careful. She didn’t want to offend you in any way.”

  “I see. But she didn’t mention Natasha either,” Laura said.

  “For the same reason. She very badly wants to see Natasha, to get to know her better, eventually. And from what she’s told me, she wants to see Claire too. However, I happen to know that Rosa is afraid of being rejected,” Megan finished.

  Laura was silent as she helped her grandmother to get undressed. It was not until Megan was settled in bed that Laura said, “There’s something I don’t understand, Gran.”

  “What’s that, child?”

  “Claire’s attitude toward Rosa. In the past, I mean. How could anyone feel ill will toward Rosa Lavillard in view of what she’s been through?”

  Megan shook her head but said nothing.

  “Surely Claire must know Rosa’s story … Philippe would have told her, even if Rosa didn’t reveal it herself. Oh, I’ve just remembered something. Years ago Claire told me that Rosa had grown up alone in France, that her parents had been killed in the bombings, which I now know is wrong. So perhaps she didn’t know the truth.”

  “I think she did, Laura,” Megan responded. “But she probably didn’t want to discuss it with anyone. I can’t imagine why, but there it is.”

  “She told me Rosa was crazy, and that she’d been hospitalized.” Laura frowned. “Do you know if that’s true, Gran? The hospital part?”

  Megan said, “It’s true, Rosa was in a hospital several times. She was treated for depression. But that’s understandable, wouldn’t you say, in view of her past? Who wouldn’t be depressed, knowing your entire family had perished in Auschwitz? But crazy, no, no.” Megan shook her head vehemently. “Perhaps Claire misunderstood something Philippe confided. Or Pierre. Rosa and Pierre had a good marriage, but volatile at times, and Claire might have misunderstood him, misunderstood a comment Pierre made. In any case, Laura, Rosa wants to see Claire when she comes here later this month.”

  “I hope Claire will see her.” Laura frowned, shook her head. “I don’t know …”

  “You must arrange it, darling. It’s important to Rosa, and it will be important to Claire. You see, Rosa wants to apologize.”

  Laura stared at Megan, looking surprised. “Apologize for what?”

  “For always being cold to her, in the beginning, when Philippe and Claire first met. And then later, after they were married. Rosa confided recently that she never liked Claire, that she thought she was totally wrong for Philippe.”

  “I told you she was possessive of him,” Laura interjected.

  “Protective is a better word,” Megan answered. “Rosa knew that Claire would not be able to handle Philippe, because he was the child of a Holocaust survivor. That he had his own problems to contend with because of
Rosa’s history, and Claire would never understand him. But now she feels she should have been warmer, should have tried to like her even though she knew the marriage was doomed.”

  “How could she know that?”

  Megan shrugged. “She says she did. It would be helpful if you could get Claire to see Rosa. I should tell you that she’s devastated Claire is so desperately ill.”

  When Laura was silent, Megan pressed, “Promise me you’ll attempt it, darling. It’s important for the future, for Natasha’s future. She ought to know her grandmother … Rosa’s the only grandmother she’s got.”

  Laura went and sat on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, she kissed Megan on the cheek and said, “I promise, Gran. I think you’re right, Natasha needs a grandmother just as Rosa needs a granddaughter. And Rosa and Claire should make their peace.”

  25

  Laura worked quietly at her desk in the solarium at Rhondda Fach. She was perusing letters and catalogues about art for sale in England and Europe, as well as in the United States, and making copious notes on a yellow pad.

  From time to time she glanced up and looked across at Claire, who was resting on the big overstuffed sofa and had fallen asleep. Laura stood up and walked across the room, wanting to check on Claire but moving softly so as not to awaken her.

  It was a hot morning in the middle of July and brilliant sunlight streaked through the many windows. It highlighted Claire’s auburn wig, turning it into a fiery halo of curls around her narrow face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and in repose she looked better than she had in days. Underneath that wig there was a stubble of hair growing, spiky and still thin, but new hair nonetheless, and it was her natural red. Another good sign, at least according to Claire.

  Being at the farm had worked wonders for her; she had seemed to acquire more energy, both mentally and physically, and Laura was suddenly hopeful once again. Perhaps her dearest friend would make it after all. Maybe she would be one of the lucky ones, like Alison’s sister, Diane.

  Claire and Natasha had arrived three weeks earlier, in plenty of time for the Fourth of July picnic that Megan had traditionally given for years; and how they had enjoyed it.

  Megan had wanted Rosa Lavillard to come for the Fourth of July picnic and to spend the weekend at Rhondda Fach. Laura had balked at this suggestion, explaining to her grandmother that it was too soon.

  Laura knew that Claire wasn’t up to it yet, even though she had been settled in at the farm for over a week. “Not yet, Gran, let’s give her a chance to get on her feet, to acclimatize herself.” Megan had immediately agreed that Laura was right; and so she had come up to Connecticut alone.

  Laura was relieved that Claire had finally made the decision to come back to New York to live. She had resigned from her job at the magazine in Paris and put her apartment on the market. Hercule was supervising the crating and shipping of her furniture and all of her other possessions. He was constantly in New York because of his decorating and design assignments, and he had accepted Laura’s invitation to come and stay at the farm whenever he wished. “I can’t wait to be with you all, with my darling Claire,” he had said to Laura only the other day, and she was now expecting him this coming weekend. Just like Laura, Hercule was endeavoring to be optimistic about Claire’s eventual recovery, and he was encouraged by Laura’s reports of the improvement in her.

  Laura had told Claire she should have the furniture shipped to the farm, where it could be stored in one of the outbuildings; she had also offered her an old barn as a weekend home. “Convert it into a studio for Natasha and yourself,” Laura had said. Claire had leapt at the idea, and in moments when she had the strength she was creating designs. “It’ll be a place of your own in the place you’ve always loved the best,” Laura had said encouragingly, praying that the highly aggressive chemotherapy was working. Claire had been thrilled at the idea of remodeling one of the red barns. She saw it as a project for the future.

  Natasha had settled in comfortably and quickly, much to Laura’s relief, and Claire’s as well. She would be fifteen in a few weeks. Thankfully, she loved the farm and had adapted with ease to the country environment. Next week she would take the entrance exam at the Chapin School on East End Avenue. Laura was confident she would pass and be accepted at the private high school, considered to be one of the best in Manhattan.

  Of course Laura knew deep inside that Claire’s health was precarious, and that she might not go into remission, that she could die. But there was the slim chance that the heavy doses of chemo were working. She clung to this hope; they all did.

  Unexpectedly, Claire opened her eyes and stared at Laura. “I knew you were standing there, looking down at me.”

  “Liar!” Laura exclaimed, laughing. “You didn’t know I was here. Not at all.”

  “Oh, yes, I did, I can sniff your presence out even when I’m sleeping.”

  Laura smiled and sat down on the low-slung Voltaire chair next to the sofa, pleased that Claire was revitalized after her nap and obviously in a bantering mood. “Men came and went in our lives, but we were always there for each other,” she said.

  Claire grinned. “Bet your ass we were. We were steadfast when it came to each other … I’ll always be there for you, Laura.”

  “As I will for you, darling.”

  “You’ve already proven that. And I know I couldn’t have lived through the last few months without you. You’ve been my rock, my strength, Laura. You and Natasha. She’s been so supportive, such a source of help and comfort to me.”

  “She’s been incredible, actually. Now, what would you like to have for lunch?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” Claire murmured, and pushed herself up to a sitting position on the sofa and settled against the many cushions.

  “There must be something you fancy?”

  “Strawberries and cream! I’d love that. And maybe a piece of watermelon for dessert.”

  Laura smiled, shook her dark head, and sighed. “My darling Claire, you’re not going to build yourself up on a bit of fruit. But all right, it’s a deal, providing you’ll try and eat a little scrambled egg first.”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, I will, I’d like a taste of scrambled eggs with a slice of bread and butter.”

  “That’s the spirit. I’ll have to go to Balsamo’s for the fruit. Do you mind if I leave you alone for a while?”

  “No, I don’t. Anyway, Natasha’s somewhere around, isn’t she?”

  “She’s gone riding with Tom’s son. Lee has taken her up on the trails through the hills where we used to ride.”

  Claire smiled. “Those trails are so beautiful. Anyway, I’m enjoying resting here, relaxing. Could you lower some of the shades and turn the air-conditioning up a bit, please, Laura? The sun’s making it very warm in here.”

  “Of course,” Laura said, and then, bending over Claire, she kissed her cheek. After making the room cooler, she hurried out of the solarium, glancing at her watch as she did. It would take her a good half hour, maybe a bit longer, to drive to Balsamo’s, but the trip was worth it. They had the best produce in the area.

  Claire drifted, half dozing, and slowly she tumbled down into herself. Thoughts of the past intruded, memories flooded her mind. Mostly they were happy memories of her younger days, spent here with Laura and the Valiants. At one moment bad memories began to insinuate themselves, but she pushed them away. She wanted to recall only the good times. They filled her with joy … remembrances of her childhood and those growing-up years … spent here at Rhondda Fach … All the seasons of the year … She had loved them all …

  Winter days of icy skies and crystal light. Snowflakes blowing in the wind. Icicles dripping from the trees. Cool sunlight on snowdrifts taller than a man. Stalwart horses carrying them up through the trails. Up into the hills high above the valley. The green swathe of spring and summer gone. The splashy red-gold of fall obliterated. A great spread of white and crystal far below. Stillness. A silent landscape.

  The crunc
h of hooves on powdered snow. The bray of horses. Laura’s laughter tinkling on the air. Her own voice echoing back to her. Coo-ee! Coo-ee! Calling to the Harrison boys waiting at the top. Geoffrey. Hal. Tall in the saddle astride stallions gleaming dark in the sun. Boyish laughter. Fumbled hugs under the trees. Tender kisses. Shy looks and pounding hearts. Young love blooming under icy skies.

  Sultry summer nights. Diamond stars. A sheltering sky like black velvet. Hal’s mouth on hers. His gentle hands touching, stroking, learning her. Hands insistent, greedy. Hot breath against her cheek. Strangled cries lodged in her throat…

  “Mom, Mom, are you all right?” Natasha asked, her insistent voice tight with concern as she peered at Claire on the sofa.

  Slowly Claire’s eyes opened, focused on her daughter, and on her worried expression. “I must have dozed off. I was dreaming. Or remembering. Or both.”

  “You cried out,” Natasha explained. “I was studying over there at the desk. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

  “I’m fine.” Claire smiled at her daughter. “I was back here when I was young, when I was your age, darling. Remembering things.”

  “What things?” Natasha asked, sitting down in the chair, taking hold of her mother’s hand, stroking it.

  “I guess I was remembering my first boyfriend, my first love.” Claire shook her head and smiled again. “So long ago.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Hal. Harold Harrison. He and his brother, Geoffrey, lived on the other side of the hills above the valley. They used to ride up to meet us at the top, in the woods there. Geoffrey was Laura’s boyfriend. We often rode on the trails where you’ve been this morning with Lee.”

  “It’s so beautiful up there, Mom. Awesome. I know why you’ve always loved Rhondda Fach. I didn’t before … I guess I was too young to appreciate it, to understand. Now I love it too.”

  “I’m glad you do, darling. It’s a special place. How’s your studying coming along? For the exam?”