Her Own Rules

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Piloting a small plane owned by a friend in Nairobi, he flew me over the vast expanse of land that was the Great Rift Valley. This ran from the north to the south of the country, and was bounded by soaring escarpments so high and formidable they defied description. At times the Great Rift Valley, arid and desolate in parts, seemed to resemble a giant moonscape to me, and when I mentioned this to Sebastian he agreed and said he found it an apt description.

  In contrast were the lush and verdant savannahs where we went on safari. It was here that we either drove or trekked, photographing the extraordinary wildlife—leopard, lion, elephant, buffalo, rhino, cheetah, gazelle, zebra, wildebeest, and giraffe.

  It was from the savannahs that Sebastian took me into the Maasai Mara Reserve, and once more I was stunned and overwhelmed by the beauty of the land and the big game animals roaming across their natural habitat. I felt transported back to the beginning of time, when the earth was young.

  Moving on, we drove down to Lake Victoria at a leisurely pace, spent a week relaxing on its fertile shores. When we were rested and refreshed we struck out again, heading south toward the Tanzania border and Mount Kilimanjaro.

  What an awesome sight that massive volcanic mountain was, and its elevation was so high its twin peaks were lost in clouds and mists, only visible if one dared to venture upward, upward, and farther upward. Neither of us were mountain climbers, and so we hiked only a short distance up its easier, and much lower, slopes.

  We camped in the foothills of Kilimanjaro, and explored the surrounding area, and at night we made love under its giant shadow. The night skies were incredible. We would lie beneath a sky so clear, so smooth it looked like a high-flung canopy of perfect, untouched black velvet.

  “A sheltering sky,” Sebastian would say to me time and again. One night, as we lay entwined in each other’s arms, listening to the night sounds, staring up at the crystal-clear stars, he had explained: “It was here in this land, under this same sky, that human life began eons and eons ago. This is the Cradle of Mankind, Vivi.” I listened attentively when he talked to me about Africa; I learned so much from him about that land, and about so many other things.

  Following the sketchy, somewhat loose triangle Sebastian had mapped out, we moved slowly back up to Nairobi from Kilimanjaro, in order for him to show me the lakes and highlands of that particular area which he loved and knew intimately. Here too the land was extravagantly lush and spectacular, and I was more spellbound than ever. Oh those green hills of Africa . . . how they captured my imagination and my heart. I was forever in their thrall.

  Poring over the album, my eyes settled on some snaps that had been taken of us on safari. Here were Sebastian and I, standing with our arms around one another, underneath a vivid flame tree in Thika. I thought I looked rather smart in my safari jacket, pants, and riding boots, my bush hat set at a jaunty angle.

  Next to this I had placed an enlarged shot of the two of us flanking a Maasai herdsman. He was so proud and dignified, regal in his colorful, exotic tribal dress. The Maasai were tall and slender, a nomadic tribe who mostly herded cattle but were also renowned as fierce warriors.

  And finally here we were, posing on the edge of Lake Nakura, one of the many soda lakes in Kenya, where the flamingo live. I stared hard at the pictures, marveling once more, thinking how amazing that scene was. The flamingos were a moving tidal wave of pink and flame, millions of wings spread across the vast dark waters of the lake. It was the most astonishing sight.

  I have never forgotten those months in Africa with Sebastian . . . the memories are as fresh and vivid now as if I had been there only yesterday. In fact, it had been fourteen years ago.

  Flipping the pages rapidly, not particularly interested in our other trips to other places at different times, I came at last to the old mill in Provence.

  For a moment, I was quite startled at the images of the dilapidated, tumble-down structure which I had captured so carefully on film. I had completely forgotten what a dreadful ruin it had been, truly an eyesore when we first came across it by accident.

  After leaving Kenya, Sebastian and I had made our way to France. We had spent several months at the Château d’Cose in Aix-en-Provence, which he had owned for a number of years. We had all gone there for the summers in the years when I was growing up, when my mother was still alive, and they had been memorable holidays. It was Jack’s favorite place; he felt at home there and because of his love for the château he had made a strenuous effort to learn French. And he had succeeded admirably.

  During our travels around the provençal countryside, Sebastian and I had stumbled upon the old mill. It was situated near an olive grove amidst rolling fields, just outside the centuries-old village of Lourmarin. It was secluded enough to be absolutely private, protected by plenty of acreage, yet it was not too isolated from village life to make it boring.

  Initially Sebastian purchased it for me as a wedding gift, because I had fallen in love with it and the surrounding land, as well as with the picturesque village. However, once we started work on the reconstruction he began to recognize its great potential. He decided it would make a perfect home for the two of us in Europe, and he made the decision that we would live there for part of every year.

  For some time Sebastian had been losing interest in château life and the winery, his charity work taking precedence. More and more, he left the running of the château and the land to an estate manager, and paid only short annual visits. Since he was as enamored of the mill as I was, he gave the château, its land and the winery to Jack that year as part of his inheritance. Jack had been thrilled, had spent every summer in Aix thereafter, and had moved permanently to France once he graduated from Yale.

  In these early photographs of mine, Vieux Moulin did resemble a heap of old gray stones, a formless relic that would defeat anyone, even the most stoical, who was hoping to resurrect it, to bring it back to life. As things turned out the project had gone well. Rebuilding and remodeling the original structure and adding two new wings had been one of the most satisfying endeavors I had ever undertaken. Sebastian had enjoyed it too, and we had spent some happy years there together until our divorce. And even afterward he occasionally came back to stay with me when he wanted to escape the world.

  Moving through the album quickly, I came at last to the photographs I’d wanted to see in the first place, the finished shots of Vieux Moulin.

  How splendid it was, its pink and beige stones turned to gold, gleaming in the sunlight under a pale-blue summer sky swept with recumbent white clouds. My favorite shot was of the house from a distance, viewed across the purple lavender fields at that hour in late afternoon when the sun is just about to set. It had an unearthly golden glow about it that was captivating. And next week, all being well, I would be going back there.

  Holding this thought I closed the album and went upstairs to bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sebastian’s funeral was a distressing ordeal for me in a variety of ways, and I was sorrowful and forlorn as I sat in the front pew of the little church in Cornwall.

  Jack and Luciana were on one side of me, Cyrus Locke and Madeleine Connors on the other, and I felt wedged in amongst alien beings, even though they were the nearest thing to family I had.

  It was not that any of them had said anything unpleasant to me or behaved badly. Rather, it was their attitude that disturbed me. I detected a singular lack of grief in all of them and this made me angry inside. But I bit down on that anger, kept a calm demeanor, presented an inscrutable face to the world.

  I sat perfectly still in the pew, my hands folded in my lap, wishing this day had never come into being. We all had to die at some time or other, none of us were immortal, but Sebastian had died too young, too soon. And how had he died? That was the thing that worried me.

  Surreptitiously, I stole a look at Jack, who was seated next to me. He was pale, had dark rings under his eyes, and his expression was as inscrutable as mine. Only his hands betrayed his nervous
ness.

  I closed my eyes, tried to concentrate on the service; after a moment I realized I was only half listening to the current president of Locke Industries who was giving one of the eulogies. My thoughts were on Sebastian’s father who was sitting on my other side.

  I had expected Cyrus to resemble a cadaver, to be at death’s door. After all, he was ninety years old, but he looked surprisingly fit to me. His white hair was sparse, thinly combed across his mottled bald pate, and the skin of his face was almost transparent, stretched so tightly over his bones they were unusually prominent. Yet his eyes were bright, not a bit rheumy or vacant, and I’d noticed a spring in his step when he went up the path ahead of me earlier. A tall thin man with a mind like a steel trap, that’s how I remembered him, and he didn’t seem much different to me today. Older yes, and frail, but not quite as frail as Madeleine had made out to Jack. When he had spoken to me outside the church a short while ago he had sounded lively and sharp. It wouldn’t surprise me if Cyrus Locke lived to be a hundred.

  It was Luciana who had startled me the most when we had greeted each other as we had alighted from our cars. I had not seen her for a couple of years and her appearance was appalling. She was so bone thin she looked ill, and yet I was certain she had no real ailments. Her extreme thinness came from excessive dieting, I was convinced of that.

  If Luciana ever did get pregnant she would probably have a hard time carrying the child. This was unlikely; pregnancy was not a priority with her, she had constantly proclaimed to the world that she did not want children.

  The sad thing was she had lost her looks, lost the lusciousness that had sat so well on her when she was young, and had made her so pretty and appealing. Her head appeared to be too big for her wasted body and her legs were spindly. It didn’t seem possible she was only twenty-eight. She looked much older.

  At least she was wearing black, thank God. She was so contrary, so determined to be different, to flout the rules, I had half expected her to show up in a bright red ensemble. One thing was certain, she had obviously not managed to persuade her husband to come to the funeral; or maybe she had not invited him. Gerald Kamper was noticeably absent.

  Jack coughed behind his hand, and began to fidget; I roused myself from my thoughts and focused my attention on the person speaking. It was Allan Farrell who had been Sebastian’s assistant at the Locke Foundation. He spoke beautifully about Sebastian and with enormous sincerity. I was touched by his eloquence about a man he had been devoted to and with whom he had worked so closely for so many years.

  About fifteen minutes later the service came to a close, and we all filed out of the little, white clapboard church with its red door and headed for the cemetery at the top of the hill in Cornwall.

  The impact of seeing Sebastian’s coffin being lowered into the ground was overwhelming. I began to weep, finally understanding that this was the end. I would never see him again. He really was dead—and almost buried.

  I heard a strangled sob, and swiftly I glanced at Cyrus standing to my left. He turned to me helplessly and I saw the tears trickling down his ancient cheeks, saw the pain on his face. I knew then that he was suffering as much as I was.

  Taking hold of his arm I helped to support him, as Madeleine was doing on his right. He and I huddled together under the trees, shivering in the cold, but drawing a measure of comfort from each other in our mutual grief.

  A sharp wind had blown up, was scattering the leaves, whirling them around our feet as we walked away from the graveside and down the path to the cemetery gate.

  I experienced an overwhelming feeling of sadness and a sense of finality as we left; a part of my life had come to an end. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  At one moment I lifted my eyes, glanced up at the sky. It was clear and cloudless and a very bright blue, as his eyes had been.

  Jack had heeded my advice and had invited everyone back to Laurel Creek Farm for lunch. Mrs. Crane, on duty again in full force, had had the good sense to cater the lunch, and she had hired plenty of local help to assist her. A splendid buffet table had been set up in the dining room, but I did not feel like eating.

  Madeleine led Cyrus into the drawing room and I followed closely behind. The three of us sat down near the fire, the old man reaching out eagerly to warm his hands in front of the blazing logs once he was seated in a chair.

  As a waiter approached with a tray of drinks, both Madeleine and I took a glass of sherry, and I turned to Cyrus and said, “Why don’t you have one too? It’ll warm the cockles of your heart.”

  He looked at me alertly, then nodded his acquiescence.

  As I handed him my glass and took another one for myself, he murmured, “My mother used to say that . . . when I was a boy growing up. ‘It’ll warm the cockles of your heart, Cyrus,’ she used to say.” He looked off into space, and intently so, as if he saw something we could not see. Confronting ancient memories, perhaps, conjuring up long-dead faces, going back to his youth.

  “To be sure and it’s an Irish expression,” Madeleine volunteered, breaking the silence. “It was one I grew up with myself. Back in Dublin.”

  “I thought it was English,” I said. “Gran Rosalie said it was, anyway.”

  “Sylvia. That was her name,” Cyrus murmured. “My mother’s name was Sylvia.”

  “Yes, I know,” I replied. “I think I know every single name in the Locke dynasty. Sebastian told them to me, going all the way back to Malcolm from Arbroath.”

  “Dynasty,” he repeated, and stared at me over the rim of his glass, his narrowed eyes flinty and sharp. “Are you mad, Vivienne? There is no dynasty. It’s kaput, gone, finished, extinct.” His glance sought out Jack and Luciana mingling with the guests at the far end of the room, and he added acidly, “And those two poor specimens are not likely to provide any future heirs in order to regenerate it.”

  “You never know, Cyrus, you never know,” Madeleine soothed. “Don’t be so negative.”

  “Who can help it,” he muttered, tossed back his drink, handed me the empty glass, and went on, “Another sherry, please, Vivienne.”

  “Do you think you should?” Madeleine fussed and scowled at me. “You’ll get tiddly,” she warned, clucking to herself.

  Giving her a scathing look, he said, “Nonsense, woman. And even if I do, so what? I’m ninety years old. What can happen to me now that’s not happened to me in the past? I’ve seen it all, done it all, lived several life times already. Might as well get drunk. Nothing else to do.”

  “Of course I’ll get you another sherry, Cyrus,” I said, hurrying off with his empty glass.

  When I returned with the refill, he thanked me, took a quick sip and said to Madeleine, “I’m hungry. Can you fetch me something to eat, please?”

  “To be sure and that’s a grand idea!” she exclaimed, looking pleased as she stood up.

  I watched her walking across the floor in the direction of the dining room, a plumpish, handsome woman in her late sixties with a kind face and bright red hair that most obviously drew its color from a bottle these days. I thought it curious that after fifty years of living in America she still had a pronounced brogue.

  Once we were alone, Cyrus tugged at my sleeve, pulled me closer and peering into my face, he said, “We loved him too much, you and I. Far too much. That was the trouble. He couldn’t accept it. Frightened him.”

  I gaped at the old man, startled by his words. “Yes . . . yes,” I said slowly, “maybe you’re right.”

  “You were the only one, Vivienne. You were the best. The best of ’em all. The only one who was any good. Except for what’s her name . . . Jack’s mother? She might’ve measured up one day.”

  “Josephine,” I said. “Jack’s mother was called Josephine.”

  “Breeding was there, but no stamina,” he muttered almost to himself, then drew himself up slightly and stared into my face again. “You were the best,” he reiterated, nodding his head.

  “Oh,” I said, and hesitated, at a
sudden loss. “Well, thank you for saying that. I’m not sure it’s true, though. The—”

  “Write a book,” he interrupted, tugging at my sleeve again. “Write a book about him.”

  “Oh Cyrus, I don’t know about that—” I began, and paused, shaking my head. “That’s a hard one, a tough assignment for anyone. And he’s certainly a tough subject to write about. There was always something so . . . so elusive about Sebastian, and I don’t think I’m the right person anyway. I could never be objective.”

  “Do it!” he snapped and his eyes fastened on mine.

  “Do what?” Madeleine asked, returning to the fireside with a plate of food for him.

  “None of your business,” he said, sounding irritated.

  “Now, now, don’t be cantankerous,” she murmured, “Come along, let’s eat, shall we?”

  “Stop treating me like a child,” Cyrus muttered, glaring at her.

  I rose quickly. “I think I should go and talk to a couple of people . . . some of those I know from the Locke Foundation,” I said. “Excuse me Madeleine, Cyrus, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I made my escape and headed toward Allan Farrell who stood talking to Jordan Nardish, a colleague from the foundation. I told Allan how moved I had been by his eulogy. Jordan agreed that it had been very touching, and the three of us stood talking about Sebastian for a few moments before I excused myself. Slowly I made my way around the room, acknowledging everyone I knew, talking to them for a moment or two, hoping to make them feel welcome. And we all shared our reminiscences of Sebastian, spoke sadly of his untimely passing.

  I was on my way back to join Cyrus when suddenly Luciana was standing in front of me, blocking my way.

  “You’re something else,” she said, her dark brown eyes hard, her expression frosty.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what—”

  “Don’t give me that!” she exclaimed in a peremptory manner. “You know very well what I mean. Waltzing around here, playing the grand hostess, acting as if you’re the grieving widow. You’ve been divorced from him for over seven years, for God’s sake, and married to someone else in between. Enjoying it though, aren’t you? Being the center of attention again.”