скачать книгу бесплатно
A Sudden Change of Heart
Barbara Taylor Bradford
In the blockbuster storytelling tradition that is Barbara Taylor Bradford’s hallmark, here is an extraordinary novel about a remarkable young woman who finds a new life when her old one shatters.Laura Valiant is a successful art historian, running her own company. She and her husband, Doug, a Wall Street lawyer, share an idyllic marriage. But Laura’s trust in her husband is shaken when she discovers he has a secret life apart from her – a life which will rock their love.Clare Benson is Laura’s childhood friend. They’ve been together through thick and thin, good and bad. When Clare asks Laura the biggest favour and greatest honour of all – to be guardian to her teenage daughter, Natasha – Laura discovers her personal and professional lives become dramatically intertwined. But in true Valiant style, Laura rises to the challenges ahead and, eventually, succeeds in achieving the happiness and fulfilment she craves.From the streets of Paris and London to the art galleries and art auctions of New York, A Sudden Change of Heart takes the reader on an unforgettable journey where secrets, survival, love and redemption mesmerize the reader from the first page to the last. This is Barbara Taylor Bradford’s fifteenth novel and it is told with the emotion and feeling readers have come to expect from one of the world’s most beloved authors.
A Sudden Change of Heart
Barbara Taylor Bradford
HarperCollins Publishers
For Bob, with my love
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u8ce202c2-5277-5e33-9b3e-51ebfddf4d7e)
Title Page (#u4be75b7f-0df3-524e-8323-e3d842d548cc)
Dedication (#u664e96c2-dfb6-5761-b590-406c8d2cef8b)
Author Note (#ue2fe3920-6bd4-510f-a104-c0f18e463018)
Prologue (#ue6a89127-5cd7-5a2a-93b1-e09c7550b899)
Part One (#u9d25320a-059c-5612-b5d6-3aee23dea122)
1 (#u93c5ad1c-7ffd-54bc-8c9c-1beb0e018b46)
2 (#u37cfd643-7436-5df0-86e6-66de86e4faf8)
3 (#u5194c4aa-685a-5c29-8a60-2f7fcd10e82c)
4 (#u44dc192e-a659-517d-bf28-6f4587f1dcea)
5 (#u9f95e4e8-5db0-5658-8769-b6cb3877c337)
6 (#ua0f254be-2ca9-53be-a528-38093d854b7b)
7 (#ue409d767-d365-570f-8bf2-4528256c9bf8)
8 (#u6f9dcbaf-6c14-5fc7-a0f4-36bb9f2c10a2)
9 (#u73cae6da-d87a-5445-a518-142fda265648)
Part Two (#u2a8f81a5-67f9-5dd0-b2e7-ed9ff9db6710)
10 (#uacd0b556-0ba8-5be1-a557-9b9451a06eba)
11 (#u2a6a8371-4518-5469-8c41-93518db82f63)
12 (#ub5eb88a2-0285-577f-987e-8b19b86b0219)
13 (#uc95579e9-941e-5005-b0fe-aa78ba083e89)
14 (#udb004458-3ac6-568b-8b47-c45237687a1b)
15 (#u48baf7d4-5b27-5d92-ba18-e23c71d330a1)
16 (#ua3897693-56dd-5841-8de6-6650ef52f2a8)
17 (#u4a1f5cec-a3e8-50f1-b302-2eabff7fe9b6)
18 (#ub48f7a6a-08bd-58ae-8a93-6b97d08b7e7b)
19 (#u4468056c-1015-50f0-9523-9ad9a5ba9f4a)
Part Three (#ue68dbbe0-433a-591f-a08f-e5b080cb4f1e)
20 (#u4fdd3efb-d3d7-5cfb-9351-1f214581163f)
21 (#u6dc1572f-f50e-55d6-ab1a-e4f389d0d499)
22 (#u6f3cf799-e96e-5b07-8c9e-edfc02c11698)
23 (#ub72bb01d-1757-570c-ab08-30e739200888)
24 (#uc0aeb4d3-4712-57a8-a355-2a7c0d7c9cac)
25 (#u1ab98b93-e050-5528-ad35-fe3076207c43)
26 (#ud5356056-f59f-52b5-b277-331c4bff3414)
27 (#ucdda1f09-71ed-5454-b821-9cac2915a246)
Part Four (#u4de2ffd7-1c61-51e5-b6a9-bd4ad8dd32da)
28 (#u4625959c-fd5d-5565-9772-7b7a604f710d)
29 (#u060f5837-88e8-581c-8527-b4920292f84e)
30 (#u291ac3d4-480c-51b9-a25c-6d15274fd163)
31 (#u11fb0871-34ec-5e22-94df-6adba1b90c01)
About the author (#ue4b4176e-8292-5cf7-8fad-899bcf58394f)
By the same author (#u2b7ede29-af1f-537f-a2bc-8016d300a4c0)
Copyright (#u0c06409c-ea17-560a-bf95-439ba0403414)
About the Publisher (#ud221e77f-f308-50f4-9784-114bac9156f7)
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_55b5b6f3-7589-5a2f-b08a-7f7167064ec8)
Two paintings described in this novel do not exist in real life. Tahitian Dreams, by Paul Gauguin, is part of the imaginary collection of Sigmund and Ursula Westheim, fictional characters from my novel The Women in his Life, who were victims of the Holocaust in that novel. Sir Maximilian West, their son and heir, and claimant of the invented painting, is another fictional character from the same book. Moroccan Girl in a Red Caftan Holding A Mandolin, by Henri Matisse, is part of the imaginary collection of Maurice Duval, a fictional character in this novel. I took literary licence and invented the two paintings for the dramatic purpose of the story, and because I did not want to name real paintings by Gauguin and Matisse. I have no wish to make it appear that actual paintings by Paul Gauguin and Henri Matisse are under any kind of dispute, or in jeopardy.
Barbara Taylor Bradford
New York 1998
PROLOGUE (#ulink_32ecad7b-78e4-5bf7-946f-0fa896b8e477)
Summer
1972
The girl was tall for seven, dark haired, with vivid blue eyes in an alert, intelligent face. Thin, almost wiry, there was a tomboy look about her, perhaps because of her slimness, short hair, restless energy and the clothes she wore. They were her favourite pieces of clothing; her uniform, her grandmother said, but she loved her blue jeans, white T shirt and white sneakers. The sneakers and T shirt were her two vanities. They must always be pristine, whiter than white, and so they were constantly in the washing machine or being replaced.
The seven-year-old’s name was Laura Valiant, and she was dressed thus this morning as she slipped out of the white clapboard colonial house on the hill, raced across the lawns and down to the river flowing through her grandparents’ property. This was a long wide green valley surrounded by soaring hills near Kent, a small rural town in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. Her grandparents had come to America from Wales many years ago, in the 1920s, and after they had bought this wonderful verdant valley they had given it the Welsh name of Rhondda Fach…the little Rhondda, it meant.
Once she reached the river Laura slowed her pace as she usually did, meandering along the edge, walking under the branches of the weeping willows that dripped down over the water. She paused for a moment to watch the wildlife here. There were ducks circling around on the surface of the water; it was a whole family, with a mother duck nosing her ducklings along; and there were several Canada geese searching around for food on the edge of the lawn nearby. Laura scanned the river, her hand over her eyes shading the sun, as she sought out the blue heron. It was not here today, but it often came and strutted along the far bank, a proud bird. She couldn’t help laughing out loud as she watched the mother duck tending her babies. What a fuss the mother was making.
Moving on, Laura hoisted the string bag slung across her body, and made for the drystone wall and the copse where giant oaks and maples grew in abundance. Years before when he was a boy, her father and his siblings had built a tree house in one of the giant oaks. It had remained intact, and it was Laura’s favourite spot, just as it had been for other young Valiants before her.
Laura was a strong girl for her age, athletic, agile and full of boundless energy. Within seconds she had scrambled up the rope ladder which dropped down from the fork in the branches where the tree house was built.
Scrambling inside the little house, she made herself comfortable in her leafy lair, sat cross-legged, gazing out at the early morning sky. It was six o’clock on this bright and sunny July day and no one else was up, at least not in the house. Tom, the caretaker who ran the farm, was outside one of the red barns near his cottage cleaning a piece of farm machinery. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye as she had run across the lawns a few minutes earlier.
Laura sniffed. Tom had cut the lawns yesterday, and she loved the smell of the newly-mown grass and of new-mown hay. She loved everything about Rhondda Fach, much preferred it to New York, where she lived with her parents and her brother Dylan.
Imperceptibly, Laura’s young face changed as she thought of her parents. Richard, her father, was a well-known composer and conductor; he was usually travelling somewhere to conduct a symphony orchestra and her mother invariably went along with him. ‘Those two are inseparable,’ her grandmother would say, but she said it in such a way it sounded like a criticism; Laura understood that it was. And it was also true that they were hardly ever around. When her mother Maggie wasn’t travelling, she was painting her famous flower pictures in her studio on the West Side. ‘She gets good money for them,’ Grandfather Owen kept saying, making excuses for her mother because he was always kind to everyone.
And so it was that Laura and her brother Dylan, three years younger than she, were frequently left in the care of their grandparents. She loved being with them, they were her favourites, really; she loved her parents, and she was quite close to her father, when he was around to be close to, but most of the time her mother was distant, remote.
Laura thought of the rope ladder which dangled down to the ground, and she moved towards it, intending to pull it up the way her father had shown her, then changed her mind. Nobody was going to invade her private lair. Dylan was too young at four to get much farther than the first few rope rungs, and her friend Claire was afraid to climb up in case she fell. It was true that the ladder was a bit precarious, Laura knew that. She had often offered to help Claire climb up into the tree house, where Claire longed to be, but her friend never had the courage to go beyond the first few steps at the bottom.
Claire was scared of other things even though she was twelve and much more grown up than Laura. She was small, dainty, fragile, and very pretty, with deep green eyes and red hair. ‘A Dresden doll,’ Grandma Megan called her, and it was the most perfect description.
Laura loved Claire. They were the best of best friends even though they were so different. ‘Chalk and cheese,’ Grandpa Owen said about them; Laura didn’t know if she was the chalk or the cheese. Her grandfather encouraged her to be athletic and adventurous; he had taught her to ride a horse, taken her climbing in the hills, given her swimming lessons and instilled in her a confidence in herself. And he had taught her to be unafraid. ‘You must always be brave, Laura, strong of heart and courageous, and you must stand tall.’
The problem for Claire was that she wasn’t at all athletic and she shrank from most physical activity. She couldn’t swim and she was unable to ride, being afraid of water, afraid of horses. And yet they were best friends because they shared so many other things, and Claire, despite her physical fragility, had strong mothering instincts. She was warm and loving with Laura and Dylan, and this was especially meaningful to Laura.
Claire was a master storyteller, inventive and imaginative, always weaving yarns, telling them ghost stories and other fantastical tales. They played charades, wrote plays and acted in them, and they shared a love of films and music and clothes. In certain ways, Laura was in awe of Claire. After all, she was five years older and knew so much more than they did. Dylan, being only four, didn’t know much of anything, and he was very spoilt, in Laura’s opinion.
Pulling the strap of the string bag over her head, Laura fished inside for the plastic bottle of orange juice which Fenice, the housekeeper, left for her in the kitchen every morning. After taking a gulp or two, she put the bottle on a small ledge, took her diary from its secret hiding place and began to write her private thoughts, which she did every day.
Soon it began to grow warmer inside the tree house and several times Laura found her eyelids drooping; finally she put down her diary and pen, rested her head against the wall. And although she tried hard to stay awake, she began to doze.
Laura was not sure how long she had been asleep, but quite suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up with a start. Just now she had heard screams coming from somewhere in the distance. Had she been dreaming?
Then she heard it again, a faint scream, and an even fainter voice calling, ‘Help! Help!’
It had not been a dream; someone was in trouble. Crawling as fast as she could, Laura backed out of the tree house, bottom first, dangled over the edge until she found her footing on the ladder and climbed down swiftly. She was well practised in this descent and soon reached the ground.
The cries were increasingly fainter, and then they stopped altogether. But Laura knew they had emanated from that part of the river which was wide and deep, beyond the drystone wall, near the meadow where all kinds of wild flowers grew. Sensing it was Claire calling for help, Laura ran at breakneck speed, her long legs flying over the grass. It had to be Claire who was in trouble in the river, Laura was certain. Who else would be in the valley?
Coming to a stop when she saw the flower basket, Laura quickly pulled off her sneakers and jeans, and scrambled down the muddy bank just as Claire’s pale face bobbed up above the surface of the water.
‘I’m here, Claire!’ Laura shouted, dived in and swam towards her friend.
Claire’s head went under again, and Laura took several gulps of air and dived once more. At once, she spotted Claire floating underwater.
Swimming to her, Laura grabbed her under the arms and swam them both up to the surface as best she could. She was tall and strong for her age, and she managed somehow. But then when she started swimming them both towards the bank Laura was pulled back along with Claire who was clinging to her.
‘It’s my foot,’ Claire managed to splutter. ‘It’s caught on something.’ Terror etched her stark white face and her eyes were wide with panic.
Laura could only nod. The girl glanced around frantically, wondering what to do. She had to get Claire’s foot free from whatever was holding it underwater. Yet she could not let go of Claire, who would sink if she released her. Laura spotted the branch of a tree a short distance away from them. It was a large limb, half on the bank, half in the water, and she was smart enough to know it was probably too heavy for her to lift. But she decided she must attempt to swivel the part which was in the water towards them. If she was successful, Claire could hang onto it, use it as a raft.
Staring at Claire she said, ‘I’ve got to let go of you, Claire, so that –’
‘No, no, don’t! I’m scared!’ Claire gasped.
‘I’ve got to. I’m going to get that branch over there, so that you can hang onto it. Then I’ll get your foot loose. When I let go of you, start flapping your arms in the water and keep moving your free leg. You’ll stay afloat, you’ll be okay.’
Claire was unable to speak. She was terrified.
Laura let go of her, shouted, ‘Flap your arms! Move your leg!’ Once Claire started to do this, Laura swam upstream in the direction of the branch. It rested on top of the water, and after a bit of tugging and pulling it began to move; unexpectedly, the other end came away from the bank. It flopped into the river with a splash. Grasping the leafy part of the branch, Laura tugged and tugged for a bit longer until it began to float alongside her. Dragging it with her with one hand, she struck out, heading for Claire.
Although she had gone under several times, Claire had kept on moving her arms and leg in the water and had managed to hold her own. As soon as Laura pulled the branch nearer to her, Claire grabbed for it and hung on tightly.
So did Laura, who needed to catch her breath and rest for a few minutes. When she had recouped, she dived underwater, went down to the bottom of the river bed and slowly came up, swam closer to Claire to see what had happened.
Laura was frightened when she saw that Claire’s foot was caught in a roll of wire netting, part of which had unravelled. Claire’s sneaker was wedged in, entangled with the loose part of the netting. Laura attempted to free her foot, but she could not; nor could she get the sneaker off, try though she did. She floated up to the surface, took several big gulps of air and rested her arms on the branch.
Peering into Claire’s worried face, she said, ‘I’ll have to go and get Tom to help me.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ Claire whispered tremulously, sounding more nervous than ever.
‘I have to. Just don’t let go of that branch,’ Laura instructed and swam across to the river bank.
After hauling herself up out of the water, the girl pulled on her jeans and sneakers, and set off across the meadow. She ran at a good speed, heading for the farm’s compound of buildings in search of Tom. When he was nowhere to be found, and knowing there was no time to waste, Laura dashed into his tool shed, found a pair of garden scissors and headed back to the river. After undressing once more, Laura dived into the river, and swam over to Claire who still clung to the tree branch, looking scared.
Showing Claire the garden scissors, Laura explained, ‘I can’t find Tom. I’m going down, I’m going to cut your sneaker off.’
Claire nodded. She was shaking uncontrollably and goose bumps had sprung up all over her body from being too long in the cold water. Laura dived down into the river, but it was hard for her to reach Claire’s foot at first, and she had to try from various angles. Finally, she managed to manoeuvre her right hand and the garden scissors underneath the wire netting. Her first attempt to release the trapped foot was to cut up the front of the laces. She succeeded, but Claire’s foot would not come out of the sneaker; after struggling for a few seconds longer Laura had to rise to the surface to breathe in air.
Within minutes she dived down again. This time she cut each side of the sneaker, tugged at Claire’s ankle and finally freed her foot. Filled with relief, Laura swam up, flopped against the tree branch, holding onto it and resting, breathing in large gulps of air.
‘I’m sorry,’ Claire whispered. ‘Are you all right, Laura?’
