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Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
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kid anymore, you’re eighteen, and you must start growing up, behaving like an adult.”
Chloe nodded, her face suitably serious for once.
After coffee and hot buttered scones in front of the fire in the great hall, everybody dispersed in different directions. Stevie sent Cappi, Lola, and Chloe to help Blair and Derek unpack their voluminous luggage; Shana, the other young woman who worked with Cappi, took Miles’s bags up to his room. And his mother hurried off to the kitchen, explaining that she had to baste the turkey that was roasting in the oven.
Left alone, Miles wandered down the great hall into the dining room, and then slowly strolled through into the living room which adjoined it.
76 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
He couldn’t help admiring the ambiance his mother had created in the house. It was immensely seduct-ive, just as it was in her other homes. But he especially liked Romany Hall because it was an airy, spacious house filled with clear, crystalline light that poured in through the many windows upstairs and down, a great number of which were unencumbered by draperies.
Everything was sparkling and fresh throughout.
The white paintwork was pristine; the windows shone; the wood floors gleamed, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere. No shabby corners, worn fabrics, or frayed rugs here. His mother was something of a perfectionist, and she maintained the house at the highest level. Every piece of furniture, each object and painting, was well cared for and in its proper place.
Although it was beautifully decorated, Romany Hall was not overdone and there was no unnecessary clutter or ostentation. The air was fragrant with potpourri, perfumed candles, and the unusual chocolate smell of the Sharry Baby orchids, their curvaceous stems laden with exotic dark blooms.
Miles did not linger very long in the living room, but continued on to the solarium, a room he generally gravitated to at least once every day when he was staying with his mother.
He had always been taken with its simple yet effective beauty—white walls, warm terra-cotta—tiled floor, and the eye-catching Pierre Frey fabrics pat-Power of a Woman / 77
terned in reds, yellows, and blues that his mother had used on the sofas and chairs. The solarium had a French feeling to it, with its high-flung cathedral ceiling and beams, stone fireplace and the French Provençal furniture his mother had picked up at sales in the Loire Valley and the Maritime Alps.
The many windows and French doors made the solarium seem part of the outside, and the clarity of light was particularly noticeable here. Although it was a sunless day, and somewhat bleak, the cloudless sky was a soft bluish white, almost etiolated, and it was incandescent.
A good light for painting, he thought, and made up his mind to bring his easel and paintbox down there tomorrow. He was suddenly in the mood to do a few watercolors.
Orchids abounded throughout the house, but there was a greater profusion of them in the solarium. His mother had always been addicted to orchids; and, even as a child, he too had been fascinated by them, by the intricacy of the flowers, the fantast-ical shapes of the petals, and the truly exotic colors.
He had grown up with orchids; there had always been a plethora of them in their farmhouse on the Yorkshire moors. Once a week he had helped his mother to water them, then put them in large metal bowls to drain.
“ Sissy, sissy, sissy! ” From a long way off, in the far reaches of his memory, he heard Nigel’s voice 78 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
echoing down through the years. His elder brother had always teased him about watering the orchids with their mother. He hadn’t really cared; he had been independent even then. But his mother had cared when Nigel’s taunting had become a tiresome pattern, and his older sibling had been suitably punished.
Their mother had made Nigel clean all the lavat-ories at Aysgarth End, six in all, and he had had the last laugh,
Chloe nodded, her face suitably serious for once.
After coffee and hot buttered scones in front of the fire in the great hall, everybody dispersed in different directions. Stevie sent Cappi, Lola, and Chloe to help Blair and Derek unpack their voluminous luggage; Shana, the other young woman who worked with Cappi, took Miles’s bags up to his room. And his mother hurried off to the kitchen, explaining that she had to baste the turkey that was roasting in the oven.
Left alone, Miles wandered down the great hall into the dining room, and then slowly strolled through into the living room which adjoined it.
76 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
He couldn’t help admiring the ambiance his mother had created in the house. It was immensely seduct-ive, just as it was in her other homes. But he especially liked Romany Hall because it was an airy, spacious house filled with clear, crystalline light that poured in through the many windows upstairs and down, a great number of which were unencumbered by draperies.
Everything was sparkling and fresh throughout.
The white paintwork was pristine; the windows shone; the wood floors gleamed, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere. No shabby corners, worn fabrics, or frayed rugs here. His mother was something of a perfectionist, and she maintained the house at the highest level. Every piece of furniture, each object and painting, was well cared for and in its proper place.
Although it was beautifully decorated, Romany Hall was not overdone and there was no unnecessary clutter or ostentation. The air was fragrant with potpourri, perfumed candles, and the unusual chocolate smell of the Sharry Baby orchids, their curvaceous stems laden with exotic dark blooms.
Miles did not linger very long in the living room, but continued on to the solarium, a room he generally gravitated to at least once every day when he was staying with his mother.
He had always been taken with its simple yet effective beauty—white walls, warm terra-cotta—tiled floor, and the eye-catching Pierre Frey fabrics pat-Power of a Woman / 77
terned in reds, yellows, and blues that his mother had used on the sofas and chairs. The solarium had a French feeling to it, with its high-flung cathedral ceiling and beams, stone fireplace and the French Provençal furniture his mother had picked up at sales in the Loire Valley and the Maritime Alps.
The many windows and French doors made the solarium seem part of the outside, and the clarity of light was particularly noticeable here. Although it was a sunless day, and somewhat bleak, the cloudless sky was a soft bluish white, almost etiolated, and it was incandescent.
A good light for painting, he thought, and made up his mind to bring his easel and paintbox down there tomorrow. He was suddenly in the mood to do a few watercolors.
Orchids abounded throughout the house, but there was a greater profusion of them in the solarium. His mother had always been addicted to orchids; and, even as a child, he too had been fascinated by them, by the intricacy of the flowers, the fantast-ical shapes of the petals, and the truly exotic colors.
He had grown up with orchids; there had always been a plethora of them in their farmhouse on the Yorkshire moors. Once a week he had helped his mother to water them, then put them in large metal bowls to drain.
“ Sissy, sissy, sissy! ” From a long way off, in the far reaches of his memory, he heard Nigel’s voice 78 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
echoing down through the years. His elder brother had always teased him about watering the orchids with their mother. He hadn’t really cared; he had been independent even then. But his mother had cared when Nigel’s taunting had become a tiresome pattern, and his older sibling had been suitably punished.
Their mother had made Nigel clean all the lavat-ories at Aysgarth End, six in all, and he had had the last laugh,
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