Barbara Taylor Bradford - Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

‘Use me! Good God, that’s a laugh. If ever she’s used anyone, it’s been you!’ Estelle regretted this remark the instant it left her mouth. Katherine had warned her not to let her antagonism towards Francesca get in the way, and she had done just that in the heat of the moment.

A bone-chilling coldness had settled over Francesca. She nodded her head slowly and with deliberation. ‘You are quite correct, Estelle. And I do not propose to be used again. Ever ,’ she intoned with such icy finality that the journalist shrank back in her chair.

‘I will show you out,’ Francesca continued in the same glacial voice. She rose and, without giving Estelle another glance, walked to the door. She opened it and stood aside. ‘Please leave.’

Estelle cleared her throat. ‘I’ll see you next Wednesday then, with the photographer.’

‘I hardly think the photographs will be necessary, since you are not going to write the story. You might as well admit it, Estelle, the interview was just a ruse to see me,’ she snapped in an accusatory tone. ‘You could have told me this on the telephone, instead of wasting hours of my time doing a bogus interview.’

Estelle’s florid face filled with darker colour. ‘I am going to write the story, so you see, I will need the photographs.’

‘Obviously I must refuse.’

Even a woman as intrinsically obtuse as Estelle could not fail to understand that she had destroyed herself irrevocably in Francesca’s eyes and, knowing she had nothing to lose, she now exclaimed heatedly, ‘Seemingly your precious charity is not that important to you after all.’ She pushed herself out into the hall, grabbed her coat from the chair and flung it over her arm. She then swung around to face Francesca, who was watching her from the doorway of the library, a look of distaste flickering in her eyes.

The jealousy and envy at the root of Estelle’s antipathy for Francesca surfaced. Self-control and all rationality left her. ‘You always were a stuck-up, rotten snob!’ she almost screamed. ‘Whatever Katherine did to you is not half as bad as the things you did to her, and when she needed you the most. It’s because of you she has been isolated from everyone all this time. You’ve added to her suffering. The least you could do is see her. You cold unfeeling bitch!’

The mask of affability had been ripped off to reveal a face that was malevolent with hatred. Estelle headed for the front door. When she reached it she flung herself around and laughed an inane laugh. ‘I do believe you are afraid to see Katharine!’

With this final strident statement Estelle flounced out and slammed the door so ferociously behind her, Francesca flinched. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Her head was swimming and a sick feeling of dismay lingered. Vaguely she heard Val’s step in the corridor and with some effort she pulled herself together, moving towards the staircase.

‘My goodness, whatever was that?’ Val asked.

‘Miss Morgan. Leaving in a huff,’ said Francesca, turning around on the stairs.

‘I thought the roof was falling in,’ Val exclaimed, glancing about, suspecting damage to the more fragile art treasures. She shook her head, and her tightened lips signalled her immense disapproval of such undignified goings on. ‘Dear, dear, all that yelling and screaming like a fishwife. So common, M’lady.’ Val, who was the youngest sister of Melly, Francesca’s old nanny, and had known her since she was a child, was motherly and protective. Now she peered closely at Francesca and said, ‘I hope she hasn’t upset you unduly, M’lady. You look a bit peaked.’

‘No, Val, she hasn’t. I’m all right, really I am. I’m also late for Mr Nelson’s dinner party.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’d better go upstairs and get ready.’

‘I’ll come and help you, M’lady.’

‘No, you don’t have to, Val,’ Francesca murmured, desperately wanting to be by herself. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’ She smiled again and retreated up the stairs.

The bedroom of the Avery duplex overlooked Fifth Avenue and the park. It was large, airy and light, an oasis of pale green highlighted with white. Cool and restful, the room was accented with touches of yellow, pink and blue, all fresh bright colours that might have been plucked from a bouquet of English flowers.

Apple-green watered silk covered the walls, and framed the two windows with long tied-back draperies and handsome matching valances. There were several Louis XVI bergères and a small Louis XVI sofa grouped in a semi-circle in front of the white marble fireplace.

It was a cheerful, happy room, one that reflected Francesca’s naturally sunny, outgoing personality and her serene disposition, as well as her good taste. But her demeanour was less tranquil than normal as she closed the door firmly behind her and hurried across the floor. She sank gratefully into one of the chairs near the fireplace and leaned back, waiting for the trembling of her limbs to subside. She was unaccustomed to such flagrant displays of emotion, whether by herself or others, had an abhorrence of turbulent scenes, which she found uncivilized and distressing. She was not only horrified by Estelle’s duplicity and her virulent tirade, but aghast at her own loss of control, finding this to be immature, and also demeaning. She closed her eyes, attempting to gather her disordered senses, to restore her equilibrium and calm herself in readiness for the evening. No sooner had she begun to relax when the telephone on the bedside table began to ring, making her start. Reluctantly, she roused herself from her reverie, and went to answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Francesca darling, Nelson here. It’s a very bad night. Snowing like the devil. I’ve sent a car for you. Dayson just left.’

‘Oh, Nelson, that’s so thoughtful of you.’ Her hand flew to her pearls and she played with them nervously. ‘I’m afraid I’m running terribly late. I haven’t changed yet. I was awfully delayed by an appointment. I’m so sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can –’

‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’ he interrupted. They had been friends for a number of years before she had married his elder brother, and he knew and understood her with a precision and insight that was rare.

‘Nothing. Truly, Nelson. Just a rather troublesome afternoon with a difficult journalist who came to interview me.’ She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, flexing her toes.

‘Oh! From which publication?’

‘ Now Magazine . She was a little hostile, but I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. Honestly, it’s all right.’

‘That’s owned by Everett Communications. Tommy Everett is one of my oldest friends. Spent all of our summers together in Bar Harbor when we were boys. Tommy is also a client of the bank. And it just so happens I’m a major stockholder of Everett Communications.’ He chuckled and, taking control in his usual masterful manner, continued: ‘So you see, there’s no problem. I’ll talk to Tommy right now. Call him at home, in fact. I’ll have the story killed and the journalist fired immediately. I’m not going to have you hounded by that particular magazine and disturbed in this way. It’s perfectly outrageous. What’s the name of the journalist?’

Francesca hesitated and, ignoring the question, said, ‘No, don’t do anything, Nelson. Please. At least not at the moment. I’m not really worried about the story. I’ll discuss it with you this evening, and then we can decide.’

Nelson sighed, knowing better than to press the point with her. ‘Just as you wish, darling. But I don’t like you to be so perturbed. And don’t deny it either, because I can tell from your voice that you are.’