She glanced away, accepting his words, realizing it was foolish to argue, and yet he did overtax himself constantly. She made up her mind to speak to his brother today. She hoped Nelson would be able to bully Harry into slowing down. She said, ‘Yes, I do understand, but you must regulate yourself to shorter hours. Far better the President has you part of the time than not at all. Promise me you’ll go home early every afternoon.’
‘I promise.’ A mischievous glint entered his eyes. ‘I want a promise from you in return, though.’
‘Anything, Harry.’ She drew closer to him at the small table in the morning room, rested her hand on his arm. ‘What is it?’
‘I want you to go back to the gallery, either today or tomorrow, and look at the Marie Laurencin again. I do want you to have it, Frankie. Now promise.’
‘All right, I promise, and I will go… after lunch perhaps. It’s not that I don’t like it. You know I love Laurencin’s paintings, but you spoil me, always giving me presents. Christmas is hardly over, and here you are on another shopping spree.’
‘And you spoil me. I don’t know what my life would have been like without you, darling.’ His tender smile became pensive. ‘Have you been happy with me, Frankie?’
‘Oh Harry yes, of course I have! And I am.’ She studied him for a moment, her tawny eyes focused on him intently. ‘I hope you’ve been happy with me. That you’re still happy.’
‘That goes without saying.’ He pushed back his chair, stood up. ‘I’ll collect my papers from the library, have a quick word with Nelson, and then I’d better leave for the airport. I don’t want to miss the next shuttle.’
‘All right, darling. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ She watched him walk out briskly, his face grave, his mind already on affairs of state. Harrison was a tall, distinguished-looking man, with iron-grey hah and a lean somewhat severe face that belied his inherent kindness and humour. It was an attractive face, nonetheless, clean-lined, keen and intelligent. Proud of bearing, he radiated strength and determination, inspired confidence in everyone. She thought of this now, and decided it was one of the chief characteristics that had made him such a great diplomat. When she had first met him in the middle ‘sixties, through his brother Nelson who was a friend of Bunky Ampher’s, he had been grief-stricken and shattered. A widower for ten years or so, his only child, Simon, had just been killed in a plane crash, along with his young wife. Simon Avery had been piloting the plane, en route to his father’s estate in Virginia, and it was only by a fluke that his two small daughters had not been in the plane. Harrison had clung unreasonably to his grand-daughters, Alison and Melanie, for the first few years after the tragic accident, had made them his entire life. One day he had realized he was being unfair to them, and had found the strength to adopt a more relaxed attitude, get on with the business of living. Francesca sighed. Poor Harrison had had his share of misery too. But then, who on this earth hasn’t? she thought, and hurried out of the morning room, across the hall and into the library.
Harrison was standing behind the desk. He glanced up, smiled, snapped his briefcase shut, said, ‘I caught Nelson before he left for the bank. He’s coming to Virginia this weekend after all, darling. He wants you to fly down with him on Friday.’
‘That’ll be lovely.’ She perched on the edge of a chair. ‘It has been nice having a weekend in Manhattan for once, hasn’t it? Have you enjoyed it, Harry?’
‘Indeed I have. We’ll have to do it more often.’ He joined her, put his arm around her shoulders and walked her out to the foyer. ‘Now, don’t forget, do go to the gallery, give some thought to the Laurencin.’
‘Yes, I will, and thank you, Harry.’ She embraced him, and he held her close, kissed her cheek. Francesca murmured against his shoulder, ‘Have a good flight, and don’t let the Chief crack the whip too hard.’
He chuckled. ‘No, I won’t. I’ll call you tonight, darling girl.’
Francesca went back to the library, wrote several letters, perused the notes she had made about the charity concert, then picked up the telephone. She dialled the international code for England, the area digits for Yorkshire and finally the number of the office on the estate at Langley Castle.
The new bailiff answered and, after exchanging a few brief words with her, he put Kim on the line. ‘Hello, Frankie,’ Kim said, sounding happy to hear her voice. ‘How is Harrison? How are you?’
‘Fine, Kim, we’re both fine. And you?’
‘Not too bad. Rather snowed under with work here though, and about to leave for London. Tomorrow. The solicitors, you know.’
‘How is the divorce coming along?’
‘Relatively amicably, but there are some snags to iron out. Mainly financial. I’ll cope. And Pandora has agreed to let me have custody of the children, so—’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ Francesca exclaimed. ‘She’s getting visitation rights, I presume.’
‘Correct. She didn’t believe they wanted to stay with me, so I suggested she talk to them herself. I think she was pretty damned stunned when Giles, Melissa and even little Rolly, her darling angel, were quite definite about where they wanted to live. With Daddy. At Langley. Giles told me that Roily piped up with, “We don’t lub Oliber, Mummy,” as usual having trouble pronouncing his Vs.’
Francesca laughed at Kim’s squeaky imitation of his younger son’s voice. Roily was only three and precocious, but endearingly so. ‘I second Rolly’s statement. I’ve never liked Oliver Remmington myself. But that’s secondary, of course. What about the trip to New York, Kim?’
‘Well, it’s a bit difficult at this particular time, Frankie, to be perfectly truthful. Now I’ve agreed to the divorce I really want to get it over with. And although Melissa and Giles will be back at boarding school, there’s Roily. I don’t want to leave him with Nanny, not when he’s given me such a vote of confidence.’
‘Bring him with you.’
‘In the spring perhaps. Not now. You do understand, don’t you, old thing?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but I’m disappointed. On the other hand, I’m pleased to hear you sounding so cheerful, full of beans. It’s a long time since I’ve noticed laughter in your voice, Kim.’
‘I am feeling better, lovey. Actually, I think making the decision finally, letting her go in my head finally has worked wonders. And as Doris has said many times, if Pandora hadn’t done a bolt with Remmington, she would have done so with someone else. I believe that too now.’
‘Oh Kim I am happy for you, darling, happy to know you’re not letting this cripple you. How is Doris by the way? I haven’t had my usual weekly letter as yet, unless it’s in today’s mail.’
‘Marvellous, as always. She’s in the South of France for a few weeks.’
‘Well, give her my love, and love to you and your little brood, Kim. Let me know what happens with the solicitors later this week.’
‘I will, darling, and apologize to Harry for me. Tell him I’ll be there in April, or thereabouts. ’Bye.’
‘’Bye, darling.’
***
Nicholas Latimer sat on the sofa holding both of Francesca’s hands in his, his face full of smiles, his bright blue eyes sparkling. ‘God, you look great, Frankie!’ he exclaimed for the third time. ‘And it’s wonderful to see you.’
‘Thank you, Nicky,’ she laughed, her face registering as much delight as his. ‘And we shouldn’t have lost touch, should we? So silly of us. I’ve no intention of letting that happen again.’
‘Me neither,’ Nick released her hands and sat back, his head on one side, saying softly, ‘I’ve missed you, Beauty. I’ve really missed you, kid.’
‘And I’ve missed you, Nicky. Old friends, the friends we make in our youth, are always the best, aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ he began and halted, was momentarily thoughtful. ‘It did occur to me the other day that perhaps you and I drifted apart because we reminded each other of the hurt and pain we’d suffered over the years.’
‘Maybe you
’re right,’ Francesca acknowledged.
‘Sometimes, one has to start afresh in life, make a whole new set of friends, in order to forget, to begin the healing process.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, whatever prompted us to go our separate ways is really immaterial. I’ve continued to love you, held you in my heart, and very dearly so, Frankie.’
‘Oh Nicky darling, what a lovely thing to say. And I have too. I only have the best and the brightest memories of you.’
He smiled, and then his face sobered. He leaned closer, took her hand in his again. ‘When I first heard she was coming back, wanted to see us both, I experienced a number of emotions, ran a computer bank of memories through my head. And then, late that same night, I had to admit I was filled with sudden fear, and I wondered if you had felt that too, when you first heard. Did you, Frankie?’
‘Oh yes indeed. I soon realized however that I wasn’t afraid of Katharine, but of myself. Afraid I would permit myself to get sucked into her life once more. You must admit she is awfully seductive, and I’ve never met anyone with her brand of charm. I’m pretty sure your fear was identical to mine… a very natural apprehension about being roped in by her, of becoming part of her again, and against your better judgment.’
Nick said quickly, ‘You took the words right out of my mouth, Frankie. I was about to explain how I eventually analysed and rationalized my own fear—came up with the same conclusions as you.’ Nick pulled a face. ‘That’s all I’m going to say about Katharine Tempest. The one thing we’re not going to do is talk about her all through lunch. We’ve done that too many times in the past. I want to hear about you, your life, what you’ve been doing.’
‘Me too, Nicky. First, let me get you a drink. Would you like wine or vodka?’
‘Wine, please.’ Nick rose and said, ‘Mind if I look at the paintings?’ He stood back, his eyes lingering on the Renoir above the sofa.
‘Of course not.’ Francesca joined him. They touched glasses and Nick said, ‘To the beautiful unchangeable Francesca.’
‘And to you, my darling Nicky, my dear dear friend,’ she smiled.
His gaze focused once more on the painting. He took in the fresh bright colours, the delicate touch of the hazy bucolic river scene, with old boats on the bank and a man and woman standing by a broken-down shed. It was perfectly beautiful. But then he thought anything Renoir had painted was incomparable. He nodded his head in appreciation.
‘I sometimes think of you when I look at this,’ Francesca told him. ‘It’s one of my favourites, and it’s called La Grenouillère—place full of frogs or marshy place—and Renoir painted it around 1869. The name evokes memories of your favourite New York restaurant!’
Nick grinned. ‘I thought of taking you there today, but decided it would evoke too many memories of you know who, and the past. Unhappy memories too, perhaps.’
She shook her head. ‘No, it really doesn’t bother me, Nicky, and Harrison and I go to La Grenouille quite frequently.’
‘How is Harrison?’
‘Marvellous… well, perhaps I shouldn’t say that. He’s tired, Nicky, and worried to death about the situation in Iran. He went off to Washington this morning, and I know what his week is going to be like. Strenuous. He’s had a couple of heart attacks, you know, and I wish he’d retire from public life, but he won’t, and I’m wasting my breath.’
‘No, I didn’t know Harry’s health was shaky. I’m sorry, darling. But he’s an active man, used to being in the mainstream, and sometimes it’s worse if you try to curtail a man of his type. It goes against the grain. He’ll be all right. Don’t worry so much.’
‘Listen who’s talking,’ Francesca retorted with a light laugh.
Nick also laughed, then ambled around the room, stopping in front of The Seine at Argenteuil by Manet, and a splendid Degas called At the Races. Nodding to himself, he murmured, ‘I’ll say this for Harry, he certainly has superb taste in art.’ As he turned away and went to rejoin Francesca, he passed a bow-fronted antique chest, and his eye fell on a silver-framed colour snapshot which had been enlarged. He picked it up, studied it, filled with a rush of nostalgic memories as the front lawn at Wittingenhof and the Schloss in the background sprang vividly to life. ‘When was this taken?’ he asked.
‘Last summer, when Harry and I were staying there.’
‘How is she, Frankie?’ he asked softly. ‘Did she ever marry?’ He placed the picture on the chest, lowered himself into a chair.
‘She’s pretty good really. And no, Dibs never did get married.’
Before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, ‘What a goddamned waste! The waste of a life.’
‘Diana doesn’t think so, although I’m inclined to agree with you. In her own way, she’s happy, Nick.’
He pursed his lips, eased himself back in the chair, stared into the distance for a moment. Then he said slowly, ‘It’s Raoul Wallenberg in Lubyanka, not her father, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so. So does Harry, and Diana and Christian are convinced of it too. But Dieter Mueller has his own ideas, insists that if Wallenberg has been there since the end of the Second World War, then there could easily be other prisoners within Lubyanka’s walls, including Prince Kurt von Wittingen. He just won’t give up, that man.’ She shook her head.
‘I almost wrote to her when the stories about Wallenberg started to break in the newspapers, but I felt it might be an intrusion, so I never did. How did she take it?’
Francesca pondered for a moment. ‘Stoically, and perhaps relieved as well. But she wept for Wallenberg and his family, knowing what they had suffered, and were suffering. Of course, finding out about that poor man, realizing he was the mysterious prisoner in the Moscow jail, didn’t solve the enigma of Uncle Kurt’s fate. We still don’t know what actually happened to him. But, as you know, Diana had always harboured the belief that her father was killed in the fighting, when Berlin fell to the Allies in 1945. And she’s more than ever convinced of that now. So is Christian. Mind you, I think they desperately want to think their father is dead, buried in some unmarked grave somewhere, and not in Lubyanka with that poor Swedish martyr. They’ve both lived with the thought that their father might be alive all these years, and it’s been sheer bloody torture for them. And it’s wrecked their lives, particularly Diana’s, who sacrificed her own personal happiness to look after Christian and their mother.’
‘You’re damned right on that score, kid! What about their mother?’
‘Aunt Arabella is a very old lady, in her late seventies, and a bit senile. I don’t dunk she’s aware of what’s going on any more, lives in her memories, I suppose. A few years ago, when she started to deteriorate, Diana took charge, insisted she came to live with them at Wittingenhof.’
‘Diana ought to have married me—married someone!’ Nick saw Diana in his mind’s eye, and as always the terrible sadness enveloped him. After a moment, he turned to Francesca. ‘She really is all right, isn’t she, Frankie? I cared deeply for her once, and I can’t bear to think she might be unhappy.’
‘Oh, she’s not unhappy, Nicky darling.’ Francesca hesitated, then continued, ‘Years ago, at Langley, Diana told me she believes there is a grand design to life, and incomprehensible as that design might be, its meaning would be made clear to us all one day.’ Her gaze intensified, and she held Nick’s eyes. ‘Didn’t she ever mention this to you, darling?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Several times, and I felt she was talking about a kind of predestination. At least, that’s the way I see it.’
‘Yes… Diana truly believes that everything that happens is God’s will. Her religion is an enormous comfort to her. More than ever these days, from what I’ve observed. Last summer, when we were in Bavaria, she told me she has a faith so monumental it leaves no room for doubt. Obviously it is her inner conviction which sustains her, gives her the strength to continue.’
Nick did not speak, and Francesca saw the hint of sorrow on his face. She reached out and touched his hand lovingly.
‘Don’t be sad, not for Diana. In some ways she’s luckier than most people, having her religion to fall back on. And she is content, leads a full life. Please believe that, Nicky.’
‘I do, and I’m glad she has peace. That’s rare.’
‘Yes… let me refill your glass.’ Francesca took it from him, went to the ice bucket. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, ‘I’ve read every one of your books in the last few years, and loved them all. I’m still your greatest and most devoted fan, my darling. I assume you’re working on a new one?’
‘Naturally. It’s almost finished.’
‘What else is happening in your life, Nicky?’
‘Not much. But I do have a son,’ he said proudly, taking the wine goblet from her. ‘He’s four years old, and a beautiful little boy. Enchanting.’
‘Then he obviously takes after his Daddy,’ she teased. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Victor.’
She blinked, then said softly, ‘Oh yes, of course, that would be his name. I’d love to see him, Nicky. Perhaps you would bring him to lunch or tea one day.’
‘Hey, that’s a terrific idea, kid! By the way, I’m not married. I just live with Carlotta, his mother.’
‘Yes, so I’d vaguely heard. She’s Venezuelan, isn’t she?’
‘Yep. She’s down there at the moment. In Caracas. Her father hasn’t been well, so she flew off last week for a short stay. It’s giving me a chance to move the novel along. I hope to be finished by the end of February or early March. Why haven’t you continued writing? I was hoping to see another of your marvellous historical biographies published—’ He broke off, smiled engagingly. ‘So come on, I want an explanation. I’m your mentor, remember.’
Francesca shifted on the sofa, smoothed the skirt of her amber-coloured wool dress, and said, ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t found a subject. I must be running out of historical figures, at least ones who appeal to me. I’ve been toying with the idea of one of the Tudors.’ She laughed. ‘But my books take so long, involve so much research. Oh dear, that does sound like a lame excuse, doesn’t it?’
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