The Eternal Collection

When I visited Madrid at Easter last year, I had not been to Spain for thirty years. The history of Madrid began with the Arabs in 852, but it did not become the capital of the country until 1561, when Philip II was King. Now, with its broad areas and ultra-modern buildings, it is one of the most densely populated and dynamic capitals in Europe. I was entranced by the exquisite architecture of the Plaza Mayor, built in 1617, and the Royal Palace was more impressive than I remember and is exactly how a King’s Palace should be. I visited for the second time the grim, frightening Esconal, thirty-seven miles outside Madrid, and although filled with sightseers and bathed in sunshine, there was something eerie and menacing about the great stone building. I have tried to encapsulate in the novel some of the emotions moving around in me. The plot sprang into my mind as from my bedroom window at the Ritz, I saw the long queues forming outside the Prado even before it opened. Ritz,Valeda, riding home through the woods, thought how lucky she was to have such an excellent horse to ride. Her father had bought Skylark for her just before he died and had paid more than he had intended for him. Valeda was well aware that if she had been left with only the other horses in the stable, which were all growing old, she would have found the rides she took every morning, and if possible, every afternoon, very dreary and unexciting. Skylark, however, was always ready to give his rider what Sir Rodrick Alcester had called “a good run for his money”. As if to keep Valeda on her mettle, he shied at the bough of a tree that had fallen across the mossy path and, when she corrected him, bucked to show his independence. Almost as if he were talking to her and telling her it was only fun, Valeda bent forward to pat his neck. As she rode on, she had a glimpse of the Manor House in which she had been born and thought it had a beauty that exceeded that of many larger and more impressive houses in the neighbourhood. It was, however, although she did not think of it like that, a rather dull part of the County for a young girl to live in, since there was nothing there to attract the smart Society who lived half their lives in London. Because of this, the houses were inhabited by elderly couples whose children had long grown up, married and moved away, or else, as Sir Rodrick Alcester had been, aged widowers who had no wish to marry again. Valeda had sometimes thought it was selfish of her to be glad that her father had not put another woman in her mother’s place. Instead, he had been quite content to run his small estate with his daughter’s help and to find plenty to do, as Hermione once said spitefully, “just maundering about.” “What do you expect Papa to do?” Valeda had asked. “Well, for one thing, he might take over the Hunt and offer better sport. That might attract a few more interesting men for us to meet out hunting instead of red-faced farmers and their hobbledehoy sons.” Valeda had laughed, but she had understood that being so beautiful, her sister resented having no one to pay her compliments. It was therefore, although she would have been ashamed to confess it, quite a relief when, while Hermione was staying in London with an elderly cousin, she had met the Earl of Eltsley and married him. It had all happened so quickly that Valeda, who had been only twelve at the time, could hardly believe it possible that one day her sister was there and they were a family, and the next she had disappeared. After Hermione was married, months would go by without their hearing from her. It was then, although Valeda never spoke of it, that her father was widowed. He so seldom mentioned his elder daughter that it seemed as if he had forgotten she ever existed. As she grew older, Valeda became aware she was filling the place in her father’s life that should have been taken by the son he never had. He would talk to her as if she were a boy and they planned together what should be done on the estate. They shot pigeons in the woods and, when they were lucky, partridges in the fields and, more important than anything else, enjoyed riding every moment of the day. Sir Rodrick had always been a very good judge of horses and it amused him to buy cheap some animal which he sensed would prove, when it was fully trained, very much better and more valuable than it had appeared at a first glance. Valeda found this fascinating, and through her experience of handling a wide variety of mounts she became an exceptionally fine horsewoman, although neither she nor her father thought of it as being anything unusual. Then last winter, after Sir Rodrick had caught a chill, which turned to pneumonia and he died, Valeda found it hard to believe she was completely and utterly alone. At first her sorrow at losing her father enveloped her like a dark cloud. Then, with the elasticity of youth, she knew she must go on living and enjoying life in the same way she had done when he was alive. She found it, in fact, impossible to think of her father as dead and she would find herself at the end of the day asking him if she had done the right thing and if he was pleased at the decisions she had made. She was sure she still heard him talking things over with her and advising her in exactly the same way as he had done over the last few years. Now as she rode home, she was saying, as if he were riding beside her, “It is a lovely house, Papa, and all the generations of Alcesters who lived here before us have filled it with love.” She could hear her father reply, “That is what I have had, my dear, with your mother and with you and I have always thought myself a very lucky man”. “And I have been lucky to have such a marvellous father,” Valeda would say, “and one who is so intelligent.” She had always found it fascinating to talk to her father in the evenings after dinner, when they would discuss subjects that covered all aspects of the world. In his youth Sir Rodrick had been an ardent traveller and he would tell Valeda stories of the countries he had visited, which to her were more fascinating than anything she could read in history books. Because he had the gift of expressing himself both fluently and picturesquely, she often felt that she had actually travelled in Greece, France, Italy, Spain and the North of Africa. Local friends had at first been surprised that when Sir Rodrick died, Valeda had remained at the Manor. “Surely, Dear,” the Lord Lieutenant’s wife had said gently, “you have some relative who could come to live with you? After all, you really should have a chaperone.” Valeda had laughed. “I assure you,” she replied, “I am more than adequately chaperoned by the servants who have been with us for so long that they are far closer to me than any relative could ever be.” The Lord Lieutenant’s wife pursed her lips and Valeda went on, “Nanny, who came to look after Hermione when she was born, has now been with us for twenty-six years and old Banks and his wife were with Papa before he married. I think their years of service amount to thirty-three.” She had laughed again before she went on, “They cosset me, protect me and worry over me like so many old hens with one chick. So, I promise you, I have no need of any other chaperone.” Another friend, who had loved Lady Alcester, had pleaded with Valeda to go to London, “Now you are out of mourning it is time you made your curtsy at a ‘Drawing Room’, my Dear,” she said. “You should have a Season as a débutante, at riding balls and receptions, which were such successes where your sister was concerned.” débutanteValeda, however, had shied away from the idea as violently as a nervous horse. “I am quite happy here, thank you,” she said firmly, “and I have no wish to go to London.” “But surely your sister realises, now that you have lost your dear father, that she should look after you?” This was a question that was to be repeated a great number of times and Valeda learnt to evade an argument by never answering it directly. She knew only too well that Hermione did not want her and had no wish to trouble herself with a younger sister now that she was orphaned, any more than she had shown any interest in Valeda from the time she had married. When her father died, Hermione had sent a very large and expensive wreath and a letter to say that unfortunately she was too indisposed to attend the funeral. Valeda was not deceived by her words of condolence, knowing that for the past seven years Hermione had never concerned herself with what was left of her family. The only information they had about her came from the Social columns of the newspapers, which always described her in glowing terms. Valeda had read, “The beautiful Countess of Eltsley was wearing a “The beautiful Countess of Eltsley was wearing agown of sky-blue velvet trimmed with satin gown of sky-blue velvet trimmed with satinribbons and lace.” ribbons and lace.”and, “There was no one more beautiful in the ballroom “There was no one more beautiful in the ballroomthan the Countess of Eltsley, whose magnificent than the Countess of Eltsley, whose magnificentdiamond tiara eclipsed those worn by every lady present, diamond tiara eclipsed those worn by every lady present,with the exception of the Princess of Wales.” with the exception of the Princess of Wales.”Sometimes there would be a photograph in a ladies’ magazine in which Hermione looked rather stiff and yet, at the same time, very beautiful. In one picture she had looked a little sad, but Valeda was sure that was due only to the incompetence of the photographer. For what could Hermione find to make her sad when she was acclaimed as a great beauty and it was obvious that she had a husband who, because he loved her, decked her out in priceless jewels. Then a little over a year ago Valeda had learned with consternation that quite unexpectedly the Earl of Eltsley had suffered a heart-attack and died. Valeda had then assumed that her sister would come. Who else would she turn to for consolation and comfort in her loss but her family? But although her father wrote and offered if she needed him to come to London immediately, there was no reply for nearly two weeks. Then, at last, when they were wondering what could possibly have happened, Hermione wrote a stiff little letter to say that there was no need for anybody to worry about her – she was perfectly well and was going abroad to stay with friends in France, taking her daughter, Mirabelle, with her. Sir Rodrick had said nothing, but Valeda, who knew him so well, was aware how hurt he had always been that Hermione had never brought his only grandchild home and he had never been invited to London to see the little girl.