The Triumph of Katie Byrne

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Sighing deeply, Katie finally sat back in the chair, biting her lip, wondering what to do about him.

  Nothing, she thought. I’ll do nothing about him.

  Deep down she hoped her lack of interest would send him a potent message, and that he would finally go away. Poor Grant, he tried so hard to please, and managed in the process only to irritate her. And irritation was hardly conducive to a good relationship.

  But it had never been all that good anyway, and she wondered now why she had ever became involved with him. She who was so very wary of all men, and distrusting of them.

  Initially, she had been attracted to him because of his looks. Yes, a physical attraction then, she knew that only too well. But there was also his extraordinary talent as an actor. She admired him on a stage. Off the stage he was…dull. No two ways about that. Grant was only interesting when he was playing the part of someone else. Perhaps that was why he was such a good actor. In real life he was a little bland, a cipher of sorts, but as a cipher he could so easily lose himself in a role, make the person he was playing really come alive. He could take on the persona of any character he wished, because he had no persona of his own.

  She frowned again, thinking this was truly a damning condemnation of someone, but however unpalatable, it was the truth. I’ll die of boredom and irritation if I stay with Grant Miller, she thought. Fortunately he was far away in New York, working in a play on Broadway. And so she didn’t have to cope with the problem of Grant and his constant pursuit of her right now.

  Once she returned, if she took the role of Emily Brontë, it would be a different matter. He would be there, seeking her out, and he would be an unwanted suitor.

  I’m not going to think about Grant tonight, she told herself, and pushed all thoughts of him to one side.

  Turning to a new page in her diary, Katie wrote:

  October 21st, 1999

  Burton Leyburn Hall

  Yorkshire

  I want to put everything down while my first impressions are fresh in my mind.

  Xenia has told me several times in the last year that Burton Leyburn Hall is special to her, the beloved house where she spent so many happy days as a child. Yet she has never really told me about the house, as a house, I mean. What it looks like, how old it is, those kinds of things.

  And so I was momentarily startled when I first saw it this afternoon…rising out of the faint mist at the end of the long, wide avenue of trees. It stood alone against the horizon, unencumbered by trees or hills or mountain tops, its chimneys and turrets precisely outlined against the backdrop of that fading pale sky.

  From a distance it seemed so…dreamlike…magical, and I couldn’t wait to see it properly. And then Lavinia drove us to the stables instead, and I missed a close-up view of the front of the house. I was so disappointed.

  Lavinia is going to take me to her studio tomorrow morning to see her paintings, but before she does I am going to take a walk around the outside of the house. In the ten months I’ve lived in England I’ve become interested in architecture, just like Dad. He favours American Colonial, although ever since he’s been coming to Ireland and England with Mom for the past nine years, his tastes have grown and expanded. Like me, he has developed a passion for Georgian and Elizabethan houses.

  I feel the timelessness of this house…and when I stepped into the front entrance hall I sensed the weight of its history and of this family. When Xenia took me into the Great High Chamber, I thought of that phrase, ‘if only walls could talk’. Cliché though it is, it’s so very true…I can only imagine what the walls of this house have witnessed. Four hundred years of one family living here…Marriages, births, deaths. Pain and suffering, joy and happiness, sorrow and heartbreak. Life eternal, from one generation to the next…

  My room is beautiful, a mixture of soft greens, and mostly French antiques, at least the pieces look French. I want to see a portrait of the woman called Lucile, known as Frenchie, who came here as a foreign bride and put her own stamp on this house, in certain ways. Yes, Frenchie intrigues me.

  So does Verity. She was such a surprise. Xenia has mentioned her sister-in-law, but she’s never described her, nor had I seen a photograph of her. Xenia’s house in London is short on photographs, so I’ve noticed. I wonder if Verity knows how glamorous she is? She has a natural glamour that comes from her classical blonde looks, the way she moves and talks, and presents herself with such grace. Xenia told me Verity’s forty-one, but she doesn’t look it. Xenia and she are more like sisters, but then they spent a lot of time together as children.

  When Xenia confided on the train that she’s a widow I was really taken aback at first. But it has always been apparent that she loved Tim so much, it didn’t really make sense to me that they had been divorced. Now I understand why she’s not particularly interested in men…she must still be grieving…

  Katie put down the pen, sat staring at the wall for a split second, then she pushed back the chair and rose. The room was suddenly icy cold and she felt chilled. Walking across the bedroom and into the bathroom, she turned on the taps of the huge tub, then seated herself on a small, white-painted chair to wait for the bath to fill. A good soak would do the trick, she decided, then wondered, absently, how they kept warm here in winter.

  There was a full-length mirror on the wall at the far end of the walk-in closet, and Katie stood in front of it, checking herself out before leaving the bedroom.

  She had dressed in a dark, fir-green crushed velvet jacket, long and loose and falling just below her hips. With it she had teamed a silk shirt of the same fir-green colour, and a pair of narrow, black silk trousers. Highheeled black silk pumps and pearl earrings completed the ensemble.

  I don’t look too bad, she thought, staring at herself critically, her head on one side. She had tied back her fiery red hair, fastened the pony tail with a black satin bow, and although the style gave her a certain severity, she liked the look it gave her…a touch of elegance, she thought.

  Turning quickly, she went back to the bedroom, and immediately noticed her diary on the bûreau plat, where she had abandoned it earlier. After returning it to her carryall, she picked up a small black evening purse and left the bedroom.

  Katie walked down the wide staircase to the second-floor landing, and pushed open the heavy oak door of the Great High Chamber.

  The room was empty, and she hesitated for a moment just inside the doorway, before walking across to the fireplace, where a huge log fire blazed on the stone hearth. The scented candles were still burning, Mozart played softly in the background, and there was a tray with drinks sitting on an antique chest.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was exactly eight-thirty, but the carriage clock on the chest near the fireplace read ten minutes earlier. Maybe her watch was fast. Stepping closer, she leaned forward to look at the photographs arranged around the clock, which she had caught a glimpse of during tea.

  There was one of Verity in an elegant, pale-blue suit and a navy-blue picture hat, obviously quite recent. She had her arm linked through that of an attractive young man with a shock of blond hair like hers. He must be her son, whom Xenia had once mentioned.

  Verity appeared in other photographs, with lots of different people. Then Katie spotted a picture of Tim with a small boy. She leaned even closer, her eyes resting on it for a moment, frowning slightly. The child bore such a strong resemblance to Xenia, Katie was startled. Had Xenia and Tim had a child?

  ‘You got down before me,’ Xenia said from the doorway, her voice sounding more clipped and English than usual as she strode into the room.

  Katie swung around and nodded, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. Had Xenia seen her fascination with the picture? Would she think her rude for prying?

  Xenia came to a stop at the drinks tray on the chest, asked, ‘How about a drop of bubbly? Or do you prefer white wine?’

  ‘White wine tonight. Thanks, Xenia.’

  A moment later Xenia was handing Katie the glass. Her
face was very pale, stark almost, and she was unsmiling. Her transparent grey eyes were sadder than Katie had ever seen them, and her manner was subdued.

  Taking the glass quickly, Katie went and sat in one of the armchairs, her embarrassment now turning to discomfort. It was as though she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Perhaps she had been. Suddenly, she knew that Xenia had seen her staring at the photograph of Tim…And her child? The boy in the picture was so like Xenia, Katie was suddenly convinced it was her son. But where was he? At school? And why had she never mentioned him?

  Xenia poured herself a glass of champagne and joined Katie near the fireplace. She said, ‘It’s just the three of us for dinner tonight. Verity did ask her friend Rex Bellamy to join us for the weekend, but he won’t arrive until tomorrow. You’ll like him, he’s very nice.’

  Nodding, Katie took a sip of wine and said, ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Xenia sipped from the champagne.

  ‘Why is he called Boy?’ Katie asked.

  ‘Because his father was also named Rex and when he was a child everyone referred to him as The Boy, or Rex’s Boy, and it became a nickname.’ Xenia shook her head, faintly smiled. ‘The English have such a penchant for giving each other nicknames, some of them most peculiar, I’m afraid.’

  Katie merely nodded, and then glanced at the door as it opened. Verity smiled at her as she came forward, exclaiming, ‘I’ve just sent Dodie up to turn on the heat in your room, Katie. It only just occurred to me that you must have been frightfully cold while you were dressing for dinner.’

  ‘It did get a bit chilly,’ Katie replied, smiling back. ‘But I took a hot bath and that did the trick.’

  ‘The room will be nice and cosy when you go to bed,’ Verity murmured, and added, ‘My apologies for being so thoughtless.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Katie assured her, ‘really it is. I’m fine.’

  Xenia said, ‘I’ve been looking at one of the maps in the library, Verity, trying to plot the best route to Haworth on Saturday. I guess Harrogate then across to Ilkley and down to Keighley.’

  ‘I think you might be better off going from Harrogate to Skipton, but you can ask Rex tomorrow. He’ll give you the best route. He’s rather good at things like that.’

  After this exchange, Verity poured herself a glass of champagne, then strolled over to the fireplace, stood in front of it.

  Katie, watching her, thought she looked stunning in a long, red-wool skirt, cut straight and slender, worn with a red turtleneck cashmere sweater. A collection of gold chains hung around her neck; she wore gold hoop earrings and the many narrow gold bracelets which tinkled when she moved her right arm.

  Katie thought that in contrast Xenia looked somewhat sombre in a dark-grey suit and matching sweater. Xenia wore no jewellery at all, which wasn’t like her, and she seemed out of sorts. She’s not her usual buoyant self, Katie decided, leaning back in the chair, observing her friend from the corner of her eye. It struck Katie that Xenia was sadder tonight than she had ever seen her, and she wondered why.

  Verity lifted her champagne flute in the air. ‘Cheers,’ she said.

  The other two women responded, also lifting their glasses.

  After taking a sip of champagne, Verity said, ‘It’s rather dull here in the country, Katie, so I thought I might invite a few people for dinner on Saturday –’

  ‘Oh no, don’t do that!’ Xenia exclaimed, interrupting her.

  Verity stared at Xenia, obviously puzzled.

  Katie, turning from Verity to Xenia, recognized the expression of horror sliding across Xenia’s face, immediately understood that the idea of a dinner party appalled her.

  Quickly, Katie interjected, ‘You don’t have to make a dinner party for me, Verity, although it’s very nice of you to think of doing so. I’m very happy to be alone with you and Xenia.’

  ‘All right. Then it will be just the four of us, since I’ve invited Rex to come over from York to spend the weekend with us.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Ten minutes later the three women went downstairs for dinner. Verity led the way.

  ‘Thanks,’ Xenia whispered in Katie’s ear, as they followed their hostess down the stairs.

  Katie nodded, smiled at her, but made no comment.

  When they arrived in the grand front entrance hall, Verity took hold of Katie’s arm, led her across the floor. ‘There’s a formal dining room over there: it seats a hundred people. But we rarely use it these days. The smaller one is perfect for us, for family dinners,’ Verity explained. Opening the door, she ushered Katie inside.

  Katie saw at once that it was a charming room, and quite unusual. Circular in shape, its walls were upholstered in red brocade and hung with beautiful classical landscape paintings. The round dining table, skirted in red taffeta, was teamed with three antique dining chairs, upholstered in black silk. Other matching chairs were placed against the walls; two flanked a sideboard, another one stood next to an inlaid wood chest. A crystal chandelier sparkled above the table, which was set with four silver candlesticks holding white candles, standing around a bowl of dark-red flowers. Crystal goblets and silverware completed the setting.

  A fire in the grate and the candlelight added to the cosy, welcoming feeling of the red dining room, which Katie was silently admiring.

  ‘Sit here,’ Xenia murmured, indicating a chair. ‘Verity always takes the middle chair.’

  Katie did as she was told, and she was spreading the linen napkin on her knee when a door at the far end of the room opened.

  A plump, grey-haired woman with apple-rosy cheeks, wearing a black dress and a white organdie apron, came into the room. Moving quickly, she went straight over to the sideboard and took a bottle of white wine from the ice bucket. ‘I thought I’d serve the wine now, m’lady.’

  ‘That’s fine, Dodie,’ Verity said. Glancing at Katie, she went on, ‘This is Dodie, who looks after us all so well. And Dodie, this is Miss Byrne.’

  Dodie nodded, smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, Madame, ’ she said, walked around the table and poured wine into Katie’s crystal goblet.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you too, Dodie,’ Katie said. ‘Thank you.’

  For a split second Dodie seemed unexpectedly flustered. She looked intently at Katie, then swiftly, almost jerkily, stepped back. She inclined her head politely, but she was no longer smiling.

  Katie, staring at her retreating figure, couldn’t help wondering what had wrought the sudden change in the housekeeper’s demeanour. Dodie had backed away from her as if she had a bad smell.

  Once Dodie had poured wine for Verity and Xenia, she returned the bottle to the silver ice bucket, and then left the dining room swiftly, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Katie stared across the table at Xenia, instantly realized that her friend had noticed Dodie’s odd behaviour.

  Xenia merely shrugged her shoulders, appeared baffled.

  Verity, who missed nothing and had seen the change in Dodie, sat back in the chair, a thoughtful look settling on her face. ‘Dodie believes she’s psychic, Katie. From the way she acted, I think she picked up some vibes from you.’

  ‘But she behaved as though they were not good ones.’ Xenia gave Verity a knowing look. ‘She did sort of…well, back away from Katie.’

  ‘I’ve never been told I give off bad vibes!’ Katie exclaimed, and let out a forced laugh self-consciously. ‘Just the opposite.’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ Verity murmured in a kindly tone. ‘I’ve known her since I was a child. She’s lived here all her life, and though she can be a little strange, she’s really quite harmless. Isn’t she, Xenia?’

  ‘Of course she is. She’s always been daft.’

  They were interrupted by the sound of voices and the clatter of dishes; almost immediately the door flew open again. A cook dressed in a chef’s white jacket and trousers came into the room carrying a large tray, and Dodie was with her.

  Katie recognized Anya, Lav
inia’s mother. She was tall, dark-haired and athletic, had a look of Lavinia, but was not quite as pretty as that younger version of herself.

  Dodie took a small, white soufflé dish on a plate off the tray, placed it in front of Katie, then gave one to Xenia and one to Verity.

  As the two women moved away from the table, Anya said, ‘This is the only way to serve, m’lady, what with Jarvis being off tonight.’

  ‘It’s not a problem, Anya.’

  Anya nodded and left the dining room, and Dodie was quick to follow on her heels.

  ‘Anya makes the best soufflés,’ Xenia told Katie. ‘Eat it at once before it falls. Oh, and by the way, I asked Verity to order your favourite plaice and chips for the next course.’

  Katie laughed, feeling at ease with them again, and dipped her fork into the soufflé.

  It was almost midnight when Katie and Xenia made their way upstairs to bed. They hugged outside Katie’s room, and she said, ‘Thanks for inviting me up here, Xenia. Verity’s so nice…it’s been such a lovely evening.’

  Xenia smiled at her. ‘Breakfast starts at eight and it’s on the go until ten. So get up when you wish. It’s served in the garden room, and you’ll find it easily enough, if I’m not down. But I probably will be. There’s tea, coffee, rolls, and things like that already put out. But you can have a cooked breakfast if you prefer. You just have to ask. Jarvis will be hovering solicitously.’

  Katie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. We’ll both be getting fat up here, if we’re not careful.’

  ‘Only too true,’ Xenia agreed with a half smile.

  Katie went into her room, closed the door, and locked it.

  Xenia, standing outside in the corridor, heard the key turn as it had earlier that day. For a moment she hesitated, and then she lifted her hand and knocked on the door.

  There was no response.

  She knocked again.

  Katie’s voice echoed through the door. ‘Yes? Who is it?’