A Sudden Change of Heart (18 page)

18
     

W
hat a blessed relief it is to be here, Claire thought, glancing around the bedroom again just as she had earlier in the day. She had always loved this room, and for as long as she could remember.

When she had first arrived at Rhondda Fach just before lunch, she had felt debilitated, terribly worn down after finishing the major photographic shoot in New York for her magazine. It had been a tough assignment, and everything that could go wrong had, but somehow she managed to pull them all through it and get the two apartments on film. She was certain they would make good spreads for the magazine. But at what cost? she asked herself as she wrapped her cashmere cardigan more tightly around her body and went to stand near the fire.

Still, after spending several hours here with Megan and Laura, whom she loved, in this house which she loved, she had begun to feel so much better. But then, just being in this marvelous old house was such a powerful restorative. She had been coming here to stay since she was ten years old, and this bedrpom was known as “Claire’s room.” And she did consider it to be hers; she had been its main occupant for all those years, even if other people did stay in it from time to time.

Throwing off her shoes, Claire walked over to the four-poster hung with blue-and-white-striped cotton, and got onto it, slipping her legs underneath the soft down comforter. Settling back against the mound of pillows in their snowy-white antique pillowcases, she let her eyes roam around the room, taking pleasure from everything in it.

There was nothing new in her room; each item was familiar and well loved, and it was just like coming home. Her eyes rested briefly on the lovely old cherrywood armoire, the pretty carved chest from France where Fenice had put her sweaters and underwear earlier, just as she had been doing for twenty-five years. Then her gaze moved on to the collection of paintings on glass. All of them were Chinese scenes; they were very old, Grandma Megan had told her once, painted by Russians, and bought in Shepherd’s Market in London’s Mayfair over forty years ago by Grandpa Owen.

Her own contribution to the room had been the blue-and-white wallpaper, which Megan had allowed her to choose when she had been redecorating some of the bedrooms at least twenty years ago now. It was an eye-catching pattern composed of Chinese ginger jars, sprays of orange blossoms, men pulling rickshaws, and Chinese ladies dressed in cheongsams and holding lutes. All of these images were colored bright blue on a pristine white background.

When she had first seen the sample, Grandma Megan had said it looked far too busy, and had ordered the rolls reluctantly; once it was up on the walls she had agreed it was as enchanting and as effective as Claire had said it would be. And she had thanked her for choosing it, told her she had a good eye.

Despite the coolness of the blue-and-white color combination, there was a certain coziness to the room; earlier, Fenice had turned on the white-silk-shaded blue porcelain lamps and put a match to the logs and paper in the fireplace. The fire was still burning brightly in the hearth, and it brought a golden glow to the room.

Just looking at the logs hissing and spurting and flaring in the grate made her feel drowsy, and Claire closed her eyes, relaxing her tired limbs, drawing comfort from the warmth in these very dear and well-loved surroundings.

As she drifted, her thoughts turned to Doug. Laura had told her only moments after her arrival about their breakup. On first hearing this, Claire had been startled, and had found it not only distressing but very puzzling. Now she wondered why she had ever considered it to be puzzling. Nothing that happened between a man and a woman should surprise her, of all people. A small sigh escaped. If men were stupid then women were surely fools. So how could they possibly get anything right?

Nonetheless, Claire couldn’t help feeling somewhat saddened because theirs was a marriage she had believed would work. Laura had said she had no explanation for its collapse; did Doug perhaps? Doug would be the loser in the long run, of this Claire was convinced. Laura was such a winner, such a positive and optimistic person, she was always going to come out on top. In her opinion, Laura had a much better chance at finding happiness with someone else than Doug did, although she wasn’t exactly sure why she felt this. She just did. Doug was far too … pernickety. Yes, that was the word that truly applied to him.

Shifting under the comforter, Claire endeavored to find
a little ease. Her bones ached today; as usual, she felt as though she were coming down with the flu, but she knew she wasn’t. Being on her feet for days on end without a break had been a punishing ordeal, and she was glad there were no more photographic shoots like this in the offing. At least shoots that she had to direct. The next two would be overseen by Giselle Cravenne, she would see to that.

For the next five days she would be at Rhondda Fach; she knew she would have a wonderful rest … doing nothing except reading, listening to music, and basking in the warmth and love of Laura’s company, and Grandma Megan’s too. This little vacation was going to be much more than a treat; it would be a great luxury for her.

Suddenly she wondered when to give Laura her news. Should she tell her later this afternoon, when they had tea, which was something of a ritual with Grandma Megan? Or should she wait until later? After a moment’s consideration Claire thought: I’ll play it by ear, that’s the best way.

Claire couldn’t help thinking about the next few weeks ahead of her, all that she had to do, and she began to make lists in her head. It was an old, compulsive habit of hers, especially when she was overburdened, which she was at the moment. She had so much to do before the summer. She wasn’t sure how she was going to accomplish it all. But she would. She had to. She had no choice.

Sliding farther down under the comforter, Claire turned on her side and stopped fighting the feeling of drowsiness that had slowly crept over her. Within minutes she had fallen off. She slept a dreamless sleep.

T
he long green valley was surrounded by verdant hills that swept up toward the sky, half of them layered with Scottish pines, oaks, and ash. The entire valley and its rolling hills covered over five hundred acres, which Owen Valiant had bought some sixty years before, in the middle of the 1930s.

He and Megan had fallen in love with this lovely fertile valley in the northwestern highlands of Connecticut. They had called it Rhondda Fach, which in Welsh meant the little Rhondda, named for that most beautiful and famous of all the Welsh valleys from which they came.

The house itself was named Rhondda Fach Farm, but it had not been a proper working farm since the day Grandpa Owen had bought it. He had usually referred to himself as a gentleman farmer, and he did so smiling proudly.

Gentleman farmer though he had been, he had cultivated apple and pear orchards, herb gardens, and vegetable plots, where everything from marrows to potatoes, parsnips and carrots grew; he had also developed fields of corn, and there were large cutting gardens for fresh flowers in the spring and summer. All still flourished, gave bountiful harvests of vegetables and fruit and fragrant blooms. The caretaker, Tom Flynn, kept chickens for them, and tended to Grandma Megan’s greenhouses, where she grew tomatoes, and, most successfully, orchids of all kinds. “Tom’s good with the chickens, we certainly get a lot of eggs,” Grandma Megan would say, adding swiftly, “But he’s a genius when it comes to my orchids. He’s got a green thumb. Or perhaps I should say green fingers.”

The old clapboard house, painted white with black
shutters and a black roof, had been a small structure when it was first built in 1790; over the many decades it had acquired numerous wings and additions, and these sprawled out at each end. But the house had a lovely symmetry to it and a certain gracefulness, which added to its charm.

It stood nestled against the green foothills that rose up behind it in a great swathe like a giant-sized Elizabethan ruff, and it was backed by a copse of dark green firs that threw it into bold relief.

In front of the back terrace, smooth, manicured lawns sloped away to the gardens and a stream that meandered through the property. Beyond were rolling meadows filled with wildflowers in summer, and farther beyond there were woods where bluebells, primroses, and daisies grew alongside mushrooms under moss-covered trees.

Standing together to the right of the house was a small compound of buildings, including Tom’s cottage, the stables, and several barns. Nearby was a large pond, which Grandpa Owen had built when he had purchased the valley so long ago, and for years it had been home to all manner of wildlife. To it came Canada geese, ducks, and other fowl, and occasionally a blue heron sauntered along its banks. A family of owls nested in a stand of trees not far from the pond, which in summer was filled with pale pink water lilies floating on its surface.

To Claire the valley was a haven of tranquility and beauty, wide open land with wide open skies and nothing in sight. Lonely perhaps to some, but to her it was a refuge.

As a child she had fallen in love with it, and that love had never wavered. Now, as she walked down toward the
river and the weeping willow trees, she hoped that when they came to stay in August, Natasha would fall under its spell as she herself had done so long ago. This was such a special place; for her it was also full of memories … memories of her childhood and youth, her difficult teen years, of Laura and Megan, and the family who had given her so much love. They had miraculously made her part of them, made her feel so special, so wanted, and a Valiant herself, in a sense. She wanted this for her Natasha … a family of Valiants for her daughter.

Claire glanced up at the afternoon sky. It was a clear, bright blue, filled with soft white clouds, and the sun was still shining brilliantly. What a glorious March day it had been, more like May, unusually warm for this time of year, a soft day. But Laura had told her over lunch that the weather was going to change radically tomorrow. “It’ll be cold,” she had warned. “There’ll be a frost. Tom’s already mentioned that he’s worried about the daffodils and the other early bloomers.” Laura, like Tom, was something of a weather vane.

Circling the lawn, Claire began to walk toward the house, but stopped when she came to the group of trees at the edge of the glade where the old drystone wall ran down toward the river, where she had once almost drowned.

Spotting Owen’s old Adirondack bench, she went over to it, sat down, and found herself watching a squirrel racing up a tree. It disappeared instantly into the upper branches; she smiled to herself, thinking of the chipmunks that used to play around the back porch years ago. They had always sped away under the foundations at the sight of a human being. Although now there was one that was
fearless, and it came out and waited for nuts and other tidbits, so Megan had told her over lunch.

After a moment or two, Claire rose and walked to the drystone wall, where she stood looking downstream, her busy mind soothed at last, at least for a few moments anyway.

“Coo-ee! Coo-ee!”

Smiling, knowing it was Laura, Claire swung around and waved to her, and then she sat down on the wall, waiting for her dearest friend.

A second or two later, Laura came bounding up, flushed and out of breath. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Clarabelle,” she exclaimed, using a cherished childhood name. “You’ve been the elusive one. Fenice told me she saw you set off toward the barns, and then Megan told me you were heading toward the hills. And now I find you in our favorite glade.” She shook her head, still laughing.

“I started out that way, heading for the pond actually. But in the end I decided to linger here for a while. I find it so peaceful, and calming.” She paused, shook her head, and there was a hint of a smile on her face as she went on. “Old habits die hard. Don’t you remember, we always came here to think when we were younger; it was a place to struggle through our problems.”

“How could I forget? You’ve found me here weeping many a time in the past.”