Power of a Woman

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “So there’s absolutely no doubt that it was Alexis Dumachev, Gideon?”

  “None whatsoever, Ma.” Gideon glanced at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty, Mother; aren’t you tired?” he asked in concern.

  “Not in the way you mean. I’m on New York time, remember, and it’s only five-thirty in the afternoon for me. But I must admit, I am a little worn out emotionally.”

  “That’s not surprising.” Gideon pushed himself up out of the chair; bending over Stevie, he kissed her on the cheek, squeezed Derek’s shoulder, and finished, “I’m going to bed.”

  “Good night, darling.” Stevie tried to smile at him. “Better news tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  “Good night, Gideon, and thanks for looking after us.” Derek stood up as he spoke, and embraced his grandson.

  Once they were alone, Derek looked at Stevie and shook his head. “You’re not eating that sandwich, just toying with it. Shall I try to get you something else? Something more appetizing?”

  “Thanks, Derek, it’s thoughtful of you, but I’m really not hungry. I will have a drink though. A cognac. I feel a bit queasy. It might settle my stomach.”

  “I’ll join you.” Derek motioned to a waiter, who was hovering nearby, and ordered their drinks. Several moments later the waiter reappeared with a bottle of Courvoisier and two brandy balloons.

  Stevie sat back in her chair, sipped her brandy, endeavoring to relax, but without much success. Eventually, she said softly, “Do you believe in premonitions, Derek? You know, of disaster, of trouble…”

  “You ask me that? A Welshman, a true Celt through and through, and right to the very marrow of his bones. Of course I do. I’m very superstitious. I believe in presentiments of doom, and portents and signs. In spirits and ghosts and the supernatural…in Merlin’s magic at Camelot…if it could happen then, it can happen now. It’s atavistic, of course; it’s in my Celtic blood. But why do you ask?”

  “On the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, I went for a walk through the meadows adjoining Romany Hall. Quite suddenly the weather changed, a fog came down unexpectedly, and I kept thinking of Aysgarth End and the Yorkshire moors. In fact, for a second I thought I’d been transported back there, the two places were so similar. Anyway, I was cold, shivering, and I had such a terrible sense of foreboding, of impending trouble, I was actually frightened. And that’s not like me.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Later, back at the house, I experienced that same coldness, that sense of doom at one moment. I pushed the feeling away again, thought of it as being irrational. I even laughed at myself—” She broke off, staring at him.

  He nodded. “Go on.”

  She could see he was taking her seriously, and so she explained further. “Ever since that day I’ve had nothing but trouble, one way or another. I wish I’d paid attention, done something about it.”

  Derek frowned at her. “There was nothing you could do, Stevie. You can’t tamper with fate. What will be will be. You know I’ve always told you that.”

  “Yes, you have, and I suppose you’re right.”

  Derek was thoughtful for a moment or two. He took several sips of brandy before he said slowly, “There are so many strange things in this world, so many things we don’t understand, and which we cannot properly explain….”

  Earlier that day, Blair had gone to Stevie’s flat in Eaton Square and packed a suitcase of clothes for her. Now, much later that evening, Stevie began to take her things out of the case, hanging them up in the bedroom of her suite at the Queen’s Hotel.

  Once she had put everything away, she telephoned Bruce in London, as she had promised she would.

  “I’m sorry I’m phoning you so late; it’s almost midnight, I know,” she said when he answered. “I was hoping to have more news by now, but I don’t.”

  “It’s not a problem, Stevie; you can phone whenever you wish. I doubt I’ll sleep tonight anyway. Since you’ve nothing to report, I’m assuming Chloe is still in a coma?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “How is Tamara?”

  “The same. In critical condition.”

  “I see. Well, at least they haven’t deteriorated. Or have they?”

  “No, they’re holding their own, Bruce, and perhaps by tomorrow there will be some improvement, better news. I’ll call you—”

  “No, no, Stevie, you don’t have to; I’m coming up there. I’m taking the Yorkshire Pullman from King’s Cross tomorrow morning. There’s one around eight. I’ll arrive in Leeds in two hours. And it’s the fastest way to get there.”

  “All right. I’ll be at the hospital, of course. Take a taxi from the railway station to Leeds General Infirmary. It’s only a few minutes, maybe eight at the most.”

  “I’ve arranged for a car and driver. I thought it was the best. Also, a car’s useful to have on call. And a room has been booked for me at the Queen’s.”

  “I see everything’s taken care of, then.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What about Tamara’s parents? They’re flying in to Heathrow tomorrow night. Have—”

  “Again, all that’s been handled,” he explained, cutting in. “There will be a car and driver waiting for them at Heathrow, and they’ve been booked into a suite at Claridge’s.”

  “Thanks for doing that, Bruce. I know they must be devastated, and worried out of their minds. And they’ll be tired after their long flight. Well, good night.”

  “Good night, Stevie, my dear. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  After she had hung up, Stevie took a bath before going to bed. Realizing she wouldn’t fall asleep immediately, she went to the desk where she had placed her briefcase earlier.

  Sitting down, opening it, she took out her journal, which went everywhere with her. She sat for a moment, staring at the page she had written last night in New York. How swiftly and drastically her life had changed since she had made that entry. It was about the trip she was planning to make to Paris next week. Now she made a mental note to cancel it, and to phone André tomorrow. He was her closest friend, had been through so many things with her, and he would want to know. He adored Chloe, who was his godchild, and he had a very soft spot for Tamara as well. Yes, he would want to know what had happened.

  As she always did, Stevie wrote in the day and the place at the top of the page.

  Good Friday, 1997

  Leeds

  Today has been the worst day of my life, a nightmare. I’ve been through many things in the past: Ralph’s terrible, untimely death; giving birth to an illegitimate child alone, without her father. But nothing has been as difficult to handle as this.

  My beautiful sweet Chloe is lying there in a coma which she may never come out of, and there is nothing I can do to help her. And lovely Tamara is in critical condition, also fighting for her life.

  I am suddenly helpless. Me of all people, who is always in control of every situation. I’m usually so good at taking care of things, but I can’t take care of this. I’m not a doctor. I need a miracle. An Easter miracle from God. I’ve never been deeply religious, but I do believe in God and I’ve always tried to be a good woman, to do good whenever I could, and I think I’ve succeeded in many ways.

  I’ve prayed a lot today. I hope God hears my prayers. Perhaps He has already. Sometimes God needs a man to work His miracles for Him…Valentin Longdon…William Tilden. Good men, good doctors. God’s surgeons. I hope they’ve managed to repair my two girls. My two lovely, and loving, daughters. I have always thought of Tamara as a daughter, ever since Nigel married her. And I’ve loved her from the start. Such a sweet, unassuming young woman, the perfect wife for Nigel, and the most wonderful mother. I have been blessed, having Tamara as a daughter-in-law.

  All of our lives have been changed today…and in less than a day. By a madman wielding a gun. It’s unbelievable when I think about it. I always thought I was in control of my life, but I’m not. No one is, actually. We are all vulnerable, defenseless. We a
re targets. Anything can happen to us and we cannot stop it happening. We are victims of this violent age we live in, with guns available on street corners, and violence run amok. It’s quite terrifying. I’ve never really thought about it before, but perfect strangers can destroy our lives through their own irrational acts against us….

  I must be strong. For everyone. Especially for my mother and Bruce, and for Tamara’s parents when they arrive. And Nigel.

  Stevie closed her journal, put it back in the briefcase, and locked it. And then she went to bed.

  The phone rang shrilly.

  Stevie picked it up immediately. “Hello?”

  “It’s Miles, Mother.”

  “What is it, Miles? And where are you?”

  “I’m here in my room. Gideon just phoned me from the infirmary. Tamara’s regained consciousness.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Stevie exclaimed, feeling a surge of relief.

  “But she’s not great, Ma. I think she’s still in critical condition.”

  “We’d better go over there, then.”

  “Yes, Gid wants us to come. He went to the LGI with Nigel at five-thirty this morning. Neither of them slept. Nor did I.”

  “I didn’t either. Are you dressed, Miles?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m leaving the room now.”

  “All right.”

  Stevie hung up. She snatched a burgundy paisley shawl that matched her pants suit off the chair and threw it around her shoulders. Picking up the pen on the desk, she scribbled a note for her mother and Derek, put it in an envelope, and addressed it quickly.

  She met Miles in the lobby. Her son greeted her affectionately and kissed her. After she had given the note to the front desk, he led her outside to the waiting taxi.

  Nigel stood next to Tamara’s bed, holding her hand tightly. He spoke to her softly, telling her how much he loved her, and he was positive she understood him. Earlier, she had opened her eyes and looked at him; he thought he had seen recognition in them, but he wasn’t sure of that.

  Suddenly, her eyes opened again and she stared up at him. He felt her fingers tightening slightly on his, and it was then he noticed she was trying to speak.

  Bringing his face down to hers, he whispered, “What is it, darling? Tell me, Tamsy.”

  “Ni…gel…l…ove…y…ou…” Her eyes held his.

  “I love you, too, Tam, so very much.”

  Slowly, her eyes closed. A moment later her hand went slack in his.

  Mr. Tilden, the surgeon, who was standing at the back of the room, glanced at the monitor. The lines had gone flat. He stepped forward, put his hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Jardine.”

  An anguished cry escaped Nigel’s lips. “No!” he shouted. “No!” He clung to his wife. “Don’t leave me, Tam!”

  “She’s gone, Mr. Jardine,” William Tilden said gently.

  “Leave me alone with her,” Nigel mumbled.

  The surgeon nodded to the nurse, and the two of them stepped into the corridor.

  Stevie, who was waiting near the door with Gideon and Miles, looked at him intently. “Tamara has died….” she began, and stopped. Her throat choked up and tears rushed into her eyes.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Jardine,” he murmured.

  “Can I go in, Mr. Tilden?” Stevie asked in a shaking voice. “My son needs me.”

  “Of course,” he answered, and opened the door for her.

  Stevie went over to the bed. She gazed down at Tamara, bent over her and kissed her, touched the silver-gilt hair. My lovely girl, good-bye, she said silently. I’ll never forget you, Tam, and I’ll always love you. Her heart was full of sorrow; she thought it was going to burst. After a moment, endeavoring to marshal her swimming senses, her own grief, Stevie put her arm around Nigel and said quietly, “I’m here, Nigel. I’m here, lovey.”

  He turned his face to hers. It was wet with tears. “Why, Mam? Why, Mam?” he asked, reverting to his childhood name for her.

  “I don’t know, Nigel, I really don’t. Sweet Tam…” She tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable. His sorrow was unendurable.

  A few minutes later Mr. Tilden and the nurse returned to the room. The nurse encouraged Nigel to leave, but he would not. He persisted in clinging to Tamara’s hand, tenaciously. When Mr. Tilden attempted to escort him out, he became hysterical, his grief overwhelming him.

  “I’ll stay with him for a while,” Stevie said to the surgeon. “Until he’s a little calmer.”

  27

  A WEEK AFTER THE SHOOTING HAD OCCURRED, Chloe was still in a coma. She had been taken out of the intensive care unit and put in a private room in the Brotherton Wing. There was no noticeable change in her state of consciousness.

  Now that Chloe was out of the ICU, Stevie was allowed to stay in the room with her daughter, and for as long as she wanted until the early evening. At eight o’clock she usually went back to the Queen’s Hotel, since there were no facilities for her to sleep at the Brotherton Wing.

  Stevie had been keeping a steadfast vigil by her daughter’s side, touching her constantly, holding her hands, talking to her, endeavoring to stimulate her, hoping and praying for a reaction from her. Any kind of reaction, even the slightest, would have been welcome. There was none. Chloe lay in the hospital bed pale and inert, as if she were in a deep, untroubled sleep.

  Stevie was never alone with Chloe for very long. Members of the family were constantly in and out of the hospital room, underscoring Stevie’s own efforts to stimulate Chloe, to communicate with her. Bruce, Derek, and Blair had been regular visitors, as had Miles and Gideon.

  Nigel had gone to London on Monday, accompanying Tamara’s body in the private ambulance. Lenore had driven the children and Agnes back to town the same day, and Gideon had followed in his own car on Tuesday morning. His main purpose for going was to help Nigel make all the arrangements for Tamara’s funeral. This had taken place yesterday, and every member of the family had attended, except for Stevie and Derek.

  Loving Tamara as she had, Stevie wanted to be present when her daughter-in-law was laid to rest. But she had been afraid to leave Chloe alone in case she came out of the coma. She wanted to be there for her daughter, to comfort and reassure her. Stevie’s decision to stay in Leeds had been accepted, indeed endorsed, by everyone, Nigel included. Derek had insisted on staying with Stevie, in order to give her moral support, and also because he was so close to Chloe, like a father to her in so many ways.

  Now, on this Friday morning at the beginning of April, Derek sat with Stevie in Chloe’s room. Thinking out loud, he said, “It occurred to me that I might try reciting to her again. Bits and pieces from some of my roles, especially my Shakespearean roles. You know she loves Shakespeare.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Derek. Her favorite role of yours is Hamlet. Why don’t you recite the soliloquy?” Stevie suggested.

  Derek thought for a moment, then he said, “I don’t think it’s appropriate, Stevie. There’s something rather sad about it…. Hamlet is talking about dying. The other day I recited some of the sonnets, but I know she likes Byron. We spoke about him at Christmas.” Derek rose, walked over to the window, stood looking out for a few moments, composing himself, running the lines of various poems through his head. One of his great talents was his extraordinary ability to commit long speeches and reams of poetry to memory; in fact, he was renowned for this remarkable accomplishment. And like Richard Burton before him, he was able to recite Shakespeare and other writers virtually on request, so well versed was he in their works.

  Turning around, he looked across at Stevie holding Chloe’s hand, and nodded, smiled at her encouragingly.

  Stevie proffered him a faint smile, sat back in the chair, ready to listen to him. But her eyes automatically swung to Chloe, and she gave her daughter all her attention, watching her closely and with enormous intensity.

  Derek began to speak softly, his mellifluous voice car
rying around the hospital room:

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellow’d to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impair’d the nameless grace

  Which waves in every raven tress,

  Or softly lightens o’er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

  And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

  But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!”

  Derek finished speaking and walked over to Stevie, returning her smile. “My favorite poem by Byron.”

  “It was beautiful,” she said.

  “I thought of our lovely Chloe as I was speaking, and it fits her well, doesn’t it?”

  “Why, yes, it does.” Stevie turned back to her daughter and examined her face intently; unexpectedly, she stiffened.

  Noticing this, Derek exclaimed, “What is it?”

  “I might be imagining it, but I thought I saw a slight movement under her eyelids.” Stevie sighed. “But I was wrong. There’s nothing, no reaction. She’s just lying there motionless.”

  “Do you want me to recite something else, perhaps—” He cut himself off and glanced over his shoulder as Bruce Jardine walked into the room.

  “Good morning,” Bruce said. “I just arrived from London and came straight here from the railway station.” He shook hands with Derek, and then went to kiss Stevie on the cheek.

  Bruce stood looking down at Chloe, studying her carefully as they all did from time to time, frowning to himself. “No change, I suppose?” he said at last, addressing Stevie.