‘If you wanted us to sell your husband’s work then we would. I see no reason why they wouldn’t fetch a reasonable price, given the artist and his technique. It is impressionist in style and that sits well with the conservative market,’ Grace said honestly.
Dominique beamed at her. ‘Well, I wouldn’t sell them ever, they mean more to me than anything else here. My daughter has what she wants from the collection, the rest mean nothing to me.’
‘Of course,’ said Grace. ‘Needless to say, Cranfields is not the biggest auction house that has come to see you but we are the most attentive and we will certainly treat everything with the respect it deserves, particularly Henry’s paintings, if you do ever decide to put them up for sale.’
Dominique smiled at her. ‘Thank you, my dear. Just what I wanted to hear. Well then, you better see the rest before you start,’ she said, standing up.
Grace was flummoxed. ‘Start what, Mrs Calthorpe?’
‘The inventory, my dear. You have the whole house to catalogue. I know you said your auction house was small but I thought there would be more than just you,’ Dominique said as she walked through the sitting room into a study filled with art nouveau objects.
Grace stood behind her and silently clapped her hands. ‘Oh thank you, Dominique, and yes there are more of me,’ she smiled.
‘Well, you should ring for reinforcements then.’
Grace pulled out her phone and saw another message from her mother’s house, but instead she rang Cranfields. ‘Alan, it’s Grace. Yes, we got it. Get yourself down here. There is more art nouveau than I have ever seen and she has a Cassatt, yes a Cassatt!’
As Grace spoke she remembered how much Birdie loved Mary Cassatt’s work and thought about her mother and felt guilty. She quickly dialled the number that had been harassing her all morning.
‘Hi Thea, it’s Grace. Is Mom there?’ she said quietly so Dominique who was in the next room wouldn’t hear.
Grace was silent and felt the colour drain from her face. ‘I’m coming now.’
‘Dominique, Dominique,’ she cried.
The old lady rushed into the room.
‘I have to go, it’s my mother, she’s been hurt. She needs help. I’m so sorry.’
Dominique waved her hand at her. ‘Go, go, family first, always child.’
3
The de Santoval triplets stood by their mother’s bedside listening as the doctor spoke. Carlotta was the eldest by two minutes and the heaviest at birth. She was strong and impulsive and had a wild temper to match her wild auburn hair. Violetta was the middle triplet. Pretty but not beautiful, she made up for her looks by being perfectly groomed and extremely fashion forward wherever she went. Graciela was the youngest and the true beauty of the family. A willowy brunette, she may have had all of Birdie’s fine features and elegance but none of her sisters’ courage.
It had been almost two years since the triplets had been in the same room. Christmas, Grace remembered as she tried to recall when they had last seen each other.
Carlotta focused on her mother and ignored her sisters. When had she seen them last? That horrible Christmas, she thought, remembering Leon’s scathing character assassination he had given each of them over the Christmas table. She had avoided Christmas last year and would try to avoid it again this year.
Violetta snuck a look up at her sisters. Carlotta looked the same as ever. Grace looked like a mini version of her mother. Twenty-five going on fifty, thought Violetta unkindly, noticing her velvet headband.
She avoided seeing the family the most out of the three. She had nothing to do with her father and spoke to her mother only when she needed more money or an introduction. She had nothing in common with either of her sisters and no respect for them. Grace was a control freak and Carlotta was a horse freak. Violetta had nothing to share with them about her own life and wasn’t about to do it over her mother’s hospital bed.
‘You are all Cordelia’s daughters?’ asked a man with a stethoscope around his neck and a tie with golfers woven on it.
‘Birdie, she likes to be called Birdie,’ Carlotta said, her mouth set in a straight line.
‘OK, sure, I will get the nurse to change the tag above her bed,’ he said, gesturing to the crudely written name on a small whiteboard above it. ‘Shall we sit somewhere and talk?’
‘Should we leave her?’ asked Grace, still clasping her mother’s hand.
‘Your mother will be fine. The nurses will let us know should anything change,’ he said kindly.
Leading the women from the room, he guided them into a small waiting room, with sofas and a box of tissues on the small side table.
The girls sat down. ‘Your mother is in a coma. She has suffered a traumatic head injury. We will do an MRI to ascertain how much of her brain has been affected but I won’t know any more till then.’
The girls were silent. Finally Violetta spoke up. ‘Do they know how this happened? Did she slip in the bath?’
