Power of a Woman

Barbara Taylor Bradford

Power of a Woman

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POWER OF A WOMAN. Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Taylor Bradford. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007330850

Version: 2017-10-25

The right of Barbara Taylor Bradford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

As always, for Bob,

who makes my world go round,

with all my love

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Thanksgiving

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Two

Christmas

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part Three

Easter

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Other Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Thanksgiving

1

A FINE MIST FLOATED LIKE PALE WATER OVER THE meadows, drifting, eddying, blurring the trees, turning them into illusory shapes that loomed against the somber sky.

Beyond these meadows, the distant Litchfield hills were purplish in the dimming light, their bases obscured by the rising mist so that only their peaks were visible now.

And all about this wintry landscape lay an unremitting silence, as if the world had stopped; everything was washed in a vast unconsciousness. The stillness was all-pervasive; nothing moved or stirred.

In the summertime these low meadows were verdant and lush with billowing grass, and every kind of wildflower grew among the grasses. But on this cold Wednesday afternoon in November they appeared bleak and uninviting.

Stevie Jardine normally did not mind this kind of misty weather, for inevitably it brought the past back to her, and happily so, reminding her as it did of the Yorkshire moors and the lovely old farmhouse she owned. Yet now the vaporous air was chilling her through and through; it seemed to permeate her bones.

Unexpectedly, she experienced a rush of apprehension, and this startled her. Pulling her woolen cape closer to her body, she hurried faster, trying to shake off the strange feeling of foreboding that had just enveloped her. Involuntarily, Stevie shivered. Somebody walked over my grave, she thought, and she shivered again. She looked up.

The sky was remote and cold, turning color, curdling to a peculiar faded green. A bitter sky, eerie; she increased her pace, running, eager now to get home. She no longer liked it outside, regretted her decision to take a long walk. The fog had closed in, but earlier the weather had been beautiful, almost an Indian summer’s afternoon, until the dankness had scuttled the day.

Her feet knew well the path across the fields, and her step was sure, did not falter as it suddenly dipped, curved down into the dell. The fog was dense on this lower ground. Shivering once more, she drew herself farther into her cape.

Soon the narrow path was rising upward as the landscape changed, became hilly; the mist was evaporating up there, where the land was higher. When she reached the crest of the hill the air grew colder, but it was much clearer.

From this vantage point Stevie could make out her house nestling cozily in the valley below, and she felt a surge of relief. Smoke curled up from its chimneys, lights glimmered brightly in the windows. It was a welcoming sight, warm and inviting in the dusk.

She was glad she was home.

The house was two hundred years old, built in 1796, and stood in a long, green valley under the shadow of Connecticut’s Litchfield hills. It had been something of an eyesore when she had first seen it five years before, an unsightly hodgepodge of additions that had been built onto it over the decades. After some skillful remodeling and restoration, its former graciousness and charm were recaptured.

Stevie moved rapidly across the wet lawn and up the steps onto the covered porch, entering the house through the side door, which led directly into the cloakroom.

Once she had hung up her damp cape she went into the great hall. This was vast, with a wide staircase at one end and a dark wood floor so highly polished it gleamed like glass. A beamed ceiling, heavy oak doors, and mullioned windows bespoke the age of the house.

Stevie always thought of the great hall as the core of the house, since all the other rooms flowed around it. From the moment she moved in, the hall had been used as a family living room, where everyone congregated. Several pink-silk-shaded lamps had been turned on, and they glowed rosily, adding to the inviting atmosphere. It was a comfortable, welcoming room, with an old, faded Savonnerie rug in front of the fireplace, antique Jacobean tables and chests made of dark carved wood. Big sofas, covered in a fir-green tapestry, were grouped with several chairs around the fire.

Stevie’s face instantly brightened as she crossed the hall. It was cheerful, safe, reassuring. A log fire roared in the big stone hearth and the air was redolent with the spicy scent of pine, a hint of wood smoke and ripe apples. From the kitchen there floated the fragrant aroma of bread baking.

Coming to a standstill at the fireplace, Stevie stood with her hands outstretched to the flames, warming them. Unexpectedly, laughter bubbled in her throat and she began to laugh out loud. At herself. How foolish she had been a short while ago when she was crossing the meadows. There was no reason for her to feel apprehensive. Her sense of foreboding had been irrational. She laughed again, chastising herself for her uneasiness earlier.

After a few seconds she turned away from the fireplace and crossed to the staircase, heading upstairs. She loved every corner of this lovely old house, in particular the small study that opened off her bedroom. As she pushed open the door and walked in, she could not help admiring the room. It was beautifully proportioned, with a cathedral ceiling, tall windows at one end, and a grand fireplace flanked on either side by soaring bookshelves.

Stevie had had the study decoratively painted by an artist, who had layered innumerable coats of amber-colored paint on the walls, then given them a glazed finish. This Venetian stucco treatment created a soft golden sheen, as if sunshine had been perpetually trapped within the confines of the room.

Lovely paintings, selectively chosen over the years, family photographs in silver frames, a variety of treasured mementos, and well-loved books were the things that made this room hers, and very special to her.

The fire was laid and she went and knelt in front of it. Striking a match, she brought the flame to the paper and within seconds a roaring fire was blazing up the chimney.

Rising, she walked across the floor and seated herself at the oval-shaped Georgian desk in the window area. Papers from her briefcase were neatly stacked on it, but after a quick, cursory glance at these she turned away from them, sat back in the chair. Her mind was suddenly far, far away.

She found herself gazing at various objects on her desk, an absentminded expression etched on her delicate face…the Art Nouveau lamp she had picked up for next to nothing in the flea market in Paris, a Georgian silver inkwell her mother had given her years before, a plethora of photographs of those she loved, her grandmother’s Meissen cream jug in the Red Dragon pattern filled with small pencils, and a copy of an ancient Hindu saying displayed in a mother-of-pearl frame.

Staring intently at this, she read it again, perhaps for the thousandth time in her life: “He who buys a diamond purchases a bit of eternity.”

This old saying had been written out by Ralph in handwriting so beautiful it was like calligraphy, and he had given it to her not long after they were married. As he would so often tell her, the saying summed up what he felt about diamonds. They were his business, he loved them; and it was from him that she had learned so much about them herself.

Stevie’s light gray-green eyes strayed to the photograph of Ralph and her, taken on their wedding day in November 1966. Thirty years ago to this very day. Ever since early this morning, Ralph had been in and out of her thoughts, and once again she fell down into herself, for a moment contemplating him and their early years together.

He had been such a good man, the best person she had ever known, so very loving, adoring even, and devoted to her from the first moment they met. And certainly he had taken a strong stand against his parents when they had fiercely objected, and vociferously so, to the idea of their marrying.

Bruce and Alfreda Jardine had disapproved of her right from the start, because, they said, she was far too young. And also an American, not to mention a girl with no background or fortune, although her nationality and the word money had never crossed their lips.

Stevie had always somehow known deep within herself, had actually understood without ever being told, that had she been born an heiress with a great fortune to bring to the marriage, her age and her nationality would have been of little or no importance to the Jardines.

To her, Ralph’s parents were as transparent as glass. They were snobs who had long harbored grand ideas for their son, formulated grand plans for him, at least where matrimony was concerned. But Ralph was not having any of that. Always his own man, he had been unshakable in his determination to make her his wife. He had openly defied them, and in so doing had ruined their elaborate schemes, thwarted their ambitions for him.

From a very long distance she heard a faint echo reverberating in her head. It was Bruce Jardine’s aristocratic English voice raised harshly in a shout of rage, as he uttered the most ugly words she had ever heard, words she had never forgotten.

“For God’s sake, man, you’re twenty-seven! Surely by now you know enough about sex to take care of matters properly! Why didn’t you have your way with her without getting her pregnant? You’d better make arrangements for her to get rid of it. Talk to Harry Axworth. He’s a bit of a bounder, I’m the first to acknowledge, certainly not someone I would normally wish you to associate with. However, because of his nefarious indiscretions, he’s the best chap for this purpose. He’ll be able to point you in the right direction. He’s bound to know a doctor down on his luck who’ll no doubt do the job for fifty pounds.”

She had been waiting for Ralph in the grandiose front entrance hall, sitting on the edge of a chair, a nervous wreck, her hands trembling, her heart in her mouth as Bruce Jardine’s voice had echoed through the closed mahogany door.

Ralph had chosen not to dignify his father’s words with a response. He had walked out of the library and straight into her arms. After holding her close for a moment, calming her, he had then led her out into the street and away from the Jardine mansion in Wilton Crescent. His face had been white with fury, and he had not said a word to her until they were safely inside his bachelor flat in Mayfair. Once there, he had told her how much he loved her, and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

They were married two weeks later in the register office in Marylebone. She had been sixteen years old, younger than Ralph by eleven years, and four months pregnant by then.

The elder Jardines, always contentious, had shown their disdain and anger by boycotting the marriage of their only son. So had Alicia, Ralph’s sister.

But her mother had been present, her beautiful mother, Blair Connors, once the most famous model in the world, a supermodel before the term had even been invented.

Accompanying her mother that morning had been her new husband, Derek Rayner, the great English stage actor who everyone said was the heir apparent to Larry Olivier’s crown.

After the wedding ceremony, Derek had taken them all to lunch at The Ivy, London’s famous theatrical restaurant, which the elite of stage, film, and cafe society favored. And then they had gone to Paris for their honeymoon.

Ostracized by Ralph’s parents, Stevie and Ralph had lived for each other, and the world had been well lost to them.

A wistful sigh escaped her. For a long time now she had recognized that the weekends and holidays she had spent on the Yorkshire moors had been the most happy of times for her, perhaps the happiest in her entire life. It saddened her that they could never be recaptured, that this particular kind of happiness would never be hers again.

So young, she thought, I was so young then. But already the mother of three: Nigel, born when I was just seventeen, and the twins, Gideon and Miles, when I was nineteen.

A smile animated her face as images of her children leapt into her mind unbidden. Three towheaded little boys, each with eyes as blue as speedwells. Grown men now. And she was still young herself, only forty-six, but a grandmother for the past two years, thanks to Nigel.

Stevie laughed inwardly. How often she was mistaken for her sons’ sister, much to Nigel’s chagrin. He did not like it; the twins, on the other hand, gleefully encouraged this deception whenever they could. They were incorrigible, loved to pass her off as their sibling to those who were unsuspecting of the truth, and they were usually successful at their mischievous little game.

Gideon and Miles were proud of her youthful looks, slender figure, energy, and vitality. Nigel felt just the opposite. It seemed to her that everything about her was an irritant to him. A small frown furrowed her smooth brow as Nigel’s presence nudged itself into her mind. Swiftly, she pushed aside the flicker of dismay that flew to the surface.

She loved her eldest son, but she had always known he had a lot of his grandfather in him. And Bruce Jardine had never been one of her favorites, although as the years had passed, he had behaved decently toward her. Most especially after Alfreda’s death. But as long as her mother-in-law had been alive, that awful contention had persisted, at least as far as Alfreda was concerned.

A small sigh escaped her and she turned her head, looked toward the fire, her mind sliding back in time as she remembered Alfreda and Bruce as they were then….

Four years after she and Ralph had been married, his sister, Alicia, had died of leukemia. The elder Jardines had been forced to reconsider the situation and effect a compromise, in order to come to terms with them. Ralph and she were the parents of their only grandchildren, their heirs, three boys who one day would follow in their grandfather’s and father’s footsteps, running Jardine and Company of London, the Crown Jewellers.

Eventually she and Ralph had succumbed to his parents’ conciliatory overtures, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and certainly with a great deal of trepidation. They had accepted the proffered olive branch. As it turned out, they were forever fighting off interference from the senior Jardines, who tried, without success, to take over the rearing of the boys.

Their great escape had been the trips to Yorkshire to stay at Aysgarth End, the farmhouse on the moors above the Dales, where they had fled with the children whenever they had been able to get away. Large, rambling, in constant need of repairs, it was, nevertheless, their blessed haven, a little bit of heaven on earth, the place they really called home.

They liked their apartment in Kensington; it was spacious and comfortable, ideal for rearing a growing young family. For some reason Aysgarth End meant so much more to them emotionally. Stevie had never really been able to fathom what it was exactly that made the farm so special, except that it was full of love and laughter. And a special kind of joy.

She still believed, as she had all those years ago, that this joy sprang from Ralph’s natural goodness, his genuine spirituality. He was truly a pure man, the only one she had ever known, filled with kindness and compassion, and he had had such an understanding heart.

That absolute joy in each other and their children had flourished at Aysgarth End until the day Ralph had died. He had been only thirty-four. Too young, by far.

She had become a widow at twenty-three.

And it was then that her troubles had begun.

Of course it was her parents-in-law who were the troublemakers. Endeavoring to brush her aside, ignoring her terrible grief and the enormous sense of loss she was experiencing, they had tried to wrest the children away from her. Foolishly so. They did not have a leg to stand on. She was the perfect mother, exemplary, without blemish, and untouched by any kind of scandal or wrongdoing.

Ralph’s best friend, James Allerton, had also been his solicitor, and with Ralph’s death he had become Stevie’s legal representative. It was to James that she had turned when her in-laws had started to make their moves.

At a meeting with the Jardines, James had almost, but not quite, laughed in their faces, and had told them to go to hell, in more polite terms, of course. Not only was the law of the land on her side, there was the matter of Ralph’s will. In it he had made his feelings for her abundantly clear. He had reiterated his love and admiration of her, not to mention his confidence in her ability to rear their sons. He had left her everything he owned, and in so doing had ensured her financial security. He had also made her entirely independent of his parents.

The trusts he had inherited from his grandparents he had passed on to his three sons; he had named his wife as the administrator of the trusts and executrix of his will.

As James so succinctly pointed out to the Jardines, Stevie was holding all the cards and she had a winning hand. They slunk away, defeated; for once they had been outmaneuvered.

It was her resentment of the Jardines, and her anger at them, that had served her so well in 1973. Especially the anger. She had turned it around, made it work to her advantage; it had also fueled her determination to keep her sons close at all times.

Although she did not know it at that moment, the anger had kindled her ambition as well, and eventually it would spur her on to do things she had never dreamed possible. At the back of her mind a plan was developing, a plan that would make her indispensable to Bruce Jardine, and ensure her control of her children until they were old enough to fend for themselves. That year, beset as she was with problems and crushed by grief, the plan did not come to flower. But the seed had been sown.

Stevie was a pragmatist at heart. She never forgot that one day her sons would inherit the family business, and that they must be properly educated and prepared for this. Founded in 1787 by one Alistair Jardine, a Scottish silversmith who had made his way to London and opened a shop there, Jardine’s had always been run by a Jardine.

And so in 1974, as she began to recover from Ralph’s death and regain her equilibrium, she had contacted his parents. Her main purpose was to affect a rapprochement, which she eventually was able to do with the help of James Allerton; but it was an uneasy truce at best. Alfreda seemed determined to upset her, or cause trouble, and whenever her mother-in-law could make her life difficult, she did.

Nonetheless, Stevie realized that her sons must come to know their grandparents, most especially their grandfather, who was the key to their future. It would be Bruce who would train them, lead them through the labyrinths of the family business, so that when he retired they could take over.

Jardine’s had been the Crown Jewellers since Queen Victoria’s day. It was important that her sons understood their inheritance, the great jewelry company that would be theirs one day, and the family dynasty into which they had been born.

The ringing of the telephone made her start, and, as she reached for it, Stevie was pulled back into the present.

“Hello?”

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Jardine, please.”

“This is she.”

“Hello, Stevie, it’s Matt Wilson.”

Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “Hello, Matt! And where are you calling from?” She glanced at her watch; it was five-thirty. “Not Paris, surely? It’s very late at night there.”

He laughed, and said, “No, I’m in Los Angeles. With Monsieur. We arrived yesterday to see a client. He would like to speak with you. I’ll put him on.”

“Thank you, Matt.”

A moment later André Birron was at the other end of the wire. “Stephanie, my Stephanie, comment vas-tu?”

“I’m wonderful, André,” Stevie said, smiling with pleasure on hearing his voice. At seventy-five, André Birron was considered to be one of the greatest jewelers, perhaps even the greatest jeweler, in the world. Known as the grand seigneur of the jewelry business, he had been her lifelong friend. He had always been there for her whenever she had needed him.

“It is a pleasure to hear your voice, Stephanie,” he went on, “and it will be an even greater pleasure to see you. I am coming to New York in about ten days. For the Sotheby’s auction. You plan to be there, I am certain of that.”

“I do. And I hope you’ll have time for dinner, André. Or lunch.”

“Whichever, or both, ma chérie.” There was a small pause before the Frenchman asked, “You are going to bid on the White Empress, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would. You have always wanted to own it.” He chuckled. “You have dreamed about it, Stephanie.”

“Salivated, actually,” she responded, laughing with him. “And how well you know me, André. But listen, who wouldn’t want to own it? I consider the White Empress to be one of the most beautiful diamonds in the world.”

“You are correct; however, I shall not bid on it, Stephanie. Out of deference to you, really. If I bid, I would only escalate the price exorbitantly, and there will be enough people doing that. And, of course, I do not have the love for this diamond that you do, although I can admire its beauty. Yes, it is a diamond you and only you should own.”