‘Three marriages but no children. It wasn’t to be.’
‘I always imagined you with a large family,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Lots of obnoxiously noisy children running amok. Grandchildren too. I pictured you wanting to recreate what you believed Lady Constance had given us at Hope Hall. And I suppose in part you have tried to hang on to that life by moving back there, haven’t you?’
Something jibbed in the way he was speaking to her. He was patronising her, wasn’t he? ‘What do you mean bybelieved?’ she demanded.
‘You know, that whole happy family vibe. None of it was real back then. We weren’t a family. How could we be? We wereall so disparate. We were just commodities to a posh woman who wanted to think she was doing good in the world. We were nothing but toys to her, accessories in a pathetic fantasy she wanted to live out.’
This was too much for Venetia.‘No!’she protested. ‘That’s not true, Lady Constance genuinely cared about us, she really did! I don’t know how you could twist the past the way you are.’
‘I’m not twisting anything. I’m just telling you how it was.’
‘No you’re not. You’re just a sad, bitter old man and I won’t have you destroy my childhood! And to think I’d thought about you all these years, wondering where you were and how you were, and always hoping for the best for you!’
He flung his knife and fork down, causing a couple on the nearest table to glance over. Although in all probability they had already been having a good gawp at them during Venetia’s outburst.
‘More fool you!’ he retorted. ‘And I suppose you thought this little reunion would result in a stupid happy ending for us, didn’t you?’
What precisely it was she had expected or hoped for when at the gallery Lucien had agreed to go somewhere so they could talk properly, it wasn’t this. Walking alongside him while resting her arm on his to avoid slipping over in the snow, her heart had been bursting with the wonder of the moment, of finally being able to bring her life full circle.
Fighting against the tears that were threatening to fill her eyes, she stood up and pulled on her coat which had been on the back of her chair and in so doing knocked against the table, sending her brandy glass crashing to the floor. ‘Enjoy the rest of your meal,’ she said. ‘And the rest of your miserable life.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Aweek after the exhibition at Lavelle’s gallery and Venetia’s disastrous encounter with Lucien, a large square package arrived at Hope Hall for her. It had been left in the communal hallway downstairs and a neighbour, having seen Venetia’s name scrawled across it, brought it up to her apartment.
She was now removing the wrapping and wondering what on earth it could be. Whoever had wrapped it had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure its safe arrival. There was no end of sticky tape, cardboard and paper to deal with.
When she at last had the final layer of wrapping removed and realised it was a painting she had in her hands, she let out a gasp of shock. For there was her childhood self! It simply wasn’t possible, yet it was. It was her as a young girl sitting under a tree while staring off into the distance, her face slightly upturned, catching the dappled sunlight. There was something almost noble about her expression, a quality she surely couldn’t have possessed at so tender an age. Her eyes moved from her face on the canvas to the lower corners searching for where the artist had signed his name. There was no name, but then she didn’t need to see one to know who had painted the picture. But why? And when?
She turned the picture over and saw an envelope stuck to the back of it. Carefully putting the picture flat on the floor, andwith her heart racing, she opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Dear Venetia,
Your first reaction might be to hurl this daub of mine from the roof of Hope Hall and send it crashing to the ground, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did.
I painted the portrait of you many years ago, when I decided I might have sufficient talent to do your memory justice. In my mind’s eye this was how I thought of you, and I’d say it’s a fair likeness. But don’t go thinking it’s a peace offering or some kind of olive branch. Or even an apology. It’s not. It’s just a painting. One I’d like you to have.
I believe we said all we needed to say last week in Cambridge, and I have no desire to rake over any more old memories, or imagine we could be friends. I’m not the person you remembered, and I see no reason to inflict that on you, or anyone else for that matter.
Live the rest of your life just as you want to live it, and if our time together at Hope Hall means anything to you, please leave me to live mine how I want to live it. Alone.
Lucien.
She turned the piece of paper over, half hoping he might have written a P.S. But there was nothing. Just a blank page. She read the letter through one more time, thinking how very final that full stop was after Lucien’s name.
She put the letter down and returned her attention to the painting. Propping it up in an armchair, she studied it in more detail. The background was so rough it was hardly there, but she – the young girl with her long plaits and a sunny yellowdress which she remembered so well and was her best dress for special occasions – was very much the focus of the picture. It was uncanny how perfectly Lucien had captured her. How had he done that? Had he kept a photo of her, or had he had her image etched into his memory? Either way, she knew that to have painted the picture, she had meant something to him, and that was all that mattered.
However he had come to paint this portrait of her, she knew she would treasure it. Lucien might have dismissed it as being just a picture, but he had to have known that to her it would be so much more. And because their time together as children had meant the world to her, she would respect his wishes. Besides, if he wanted to find her, he knew where to look.
It then occurred to her that maybe he’d delivered the picture himself. Perhaps curiosity had got the better of him and he’d come for a look at Hope Hall to see it once more with his own eyes. Or was she being insensitive, that he could never come here because the place held the darkest of memories for him which he’d never been able to let go of? Certainly, from what she’d seen of his work that night at the exhibition, there was very much a dark and a light side to him.
But thanks to this beautiful painting he’d given her, all the anger and heartbreaking disappointment she had felt after their painful encounter was gone from her. Despite his protestations about the picture being just a picture, she knew it was his way of saying sorry.
Apology accepted, my dearest old friend, she murmured.Apology accepted.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Epilogue
