ambitious, at least not when it came to possessing the company and amassing power. All he wanted was to create flawless diamonds from the rough…make beautiful things. Gideon did worry her on a personal level, and she had been worried about him for some time now. He had not looked well, had seemed Power of a Woman / 65
distracted, fretful, and impatient when she had seen him at the London showroom in late September.
She remembered how pale and gloomy he had looked. In her opinion, he hadn’t been himself since he had broken up with Margot Saunders. Had he cared for that young woman more than he’d let on?
She would talk to Miles about his twin during the weekend.
Her face instantly changed, took on a warm glow, and her eyes brightened. Miles was her pride and joy; she admitted it freely…in the privacy of her thoughts.
And Miles would help to take Chloe in hand too; she could rely on him to do that. Chloe and Miles had always had an affinity for each other and he was good with his little sister. Unlike Gideon, who had considered her to be a bit of a nuisance. And now Chloe wanted to learn from her brother Gideon. Stevie shook her head. People were so very strange.
She had often thought how odd it was that although Miles and Gideon were identical twins and looked alike, when it came to their personalities and characters, they were as different as chalk and cheese.
Miles was so much lighter, more carefree, gentle, well balanced, and a genuine charmer. Conversely, his twin was introverted, stubborn—more like Nigel in that way—and a perfectionist who at times seemed ridiculously persnickety, almost old-maidish.
And yet he could be gener-
66 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
ous to a fault, and he truly did have the soul of an artist. He loved anything and everything that was beautiful, be it a woman, a painting, a sculpture, a tree, a seascape, a garden, a priceless gemstone, or a piece of jewelry. And he had an extraordinary eye, refined and exquisite taste.
Picking up her pen, Stevie looked down at the page and realized she had put nothing on paper so far other than the day and where she was.
Slowly she began to write, and when she had filled two pages, she screwed on the top of her fountain pen, took the diary in her hands, leaned back in the chair, and read it.
Thanksgiving Day, 1996
Connecticut
When I think of my children and the things they do, it seems to me they are like strangers.
Except for Miles. But then, he is the child of my heart, so like me in so many ways. Of course, I love them all, but he has always been special to me since he was small. I wonder, are all mothers like I am? Do they favor one child more than the others? I’m sure that it is so, but it’s hard to ask anyone that kind of…leading question. And do the children know? Do they detect it, sense it, feel it? Do they know there is one who is the real favorite of the mother?
Power of a Woman / 67
Each of my children is different. Yet I can see traits in them that are mine. And some are Ralph’s. There are traits in them that come from Bruce. Fortunately, none of them have inherited anything of their grandmother, Alfreda, and for that I can honestly say I’m thankful. She was not a nice woman; she was cold, repressed, and bitter. She never had a kind word for me or anyone she considered to be her inferior. It is their other grandmother who shows up in them.
My mother. Chloe has inherited her beauty, her willowy figure, her pleasing personality, and her desire to please; Miles has inherited her sense of humor and geniality .
I love them. I love all of my children. It’s the truth, I do. Maybe too much. And yet somewhere along the way I suppose I hurt them, damaged them without meaning to do so. But then we’re all damaged goods, aren’t we? Life damages us, people damage us, we even damage ourselves.
I must have caused them pain and heartache.
And hurt their feelings. We do that so often to those we love the most without even
distracted, fretful, and impatient when she had seen him at the London showroom in late September.
She remembered how pale and gloomy he had looked. In her opinion, he hadn’t been himself since he had broken up with Margot Saunders. Had he cared for that young woman more than he’d let on?
She would talk to Miles about his twin during the weekend.
Her face instantly changed, took on a warm glow, and her eyes brightened. Miles was her pride and joy; she admitted it freely…in the privacy of her thoughts.
And Miles would help to take Chloe in hand too; she could rely on him to do that. Chloe and Miles had always had an affinity for each other and he was good with his little sister. Unlike Gideon, who had considered her to be a bit of a nuisance. And now Chloe wanted to learn from her brother Gideon. Stevie shook her head. People were so very strange.
She had often thought how odd it was that although Miles and Gideon were identical twins and looked alike, when it came to their personalities and characters, they were as different as chalk and cheese.
Miles was so much lighter, more carefree, gentle, well balanced, and a genuine charmer. Conversely, his twin was introverted, stubborn—more like Nigel in that way—and a perfectionist who at times seemed ridiculously persnickety, almost old-maidish.
And yet he could be gener-
66 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
ous to a fault, and he truly did have the soul of an artist. He loved anything and everything that was beautiful, be it a woman, a painting, a sculpture, a tree, a seascape, a garden, a priceless gemstone, or a piece of jewelry. And he had an extraordinary eye, refined and exquisite taste.
Picking up her pen, Stevie looked down at the page and realized she had put nothing on paper so far other than the day and where she was.
Slowly she began to write, and when she had filled two pages, she screwed on the top of her fountain pen, took the diary in her hands, leaned back in the chair, and read it.
Thanksgiving Day, 1996
Connecticut
When I think of my children and the things they do, it seems to me they are like strangers.
Except for Miles. But then, he is the child of my heart, so like me in so many ways. Of course, I love them all, but he has always been special to me since he was small. I wonder, are all mothers like I am? Do they favor one child more than the others? I’m sure that it is so, but it’s hard to ask anyone that kind of…leading question. And do the children know? Do they detect it, sense it, feel it? Do they know there is one who is the real favorite of the mother?
Power of a Woman / 67
Each of my children is different. Yet I can see traits in them that are mine. And some are Ralph’s. There are traits in them that come from Bruce. Fortunately, none of them have inherited anything of their grandmother, Alfreda, and for that I can honestly say I’m thankful. She was not a nice woman; she was cold, repressed, and bitter. She never had a kind word for me or anyone she considered to be her inferior. It is their other grandmother who shows up in them.
My mother. Chloe has inherited her beauty, her willowy figure, her pleasing personality, and her desire to please; Miles has inherited her sense of humor and geniality .
I love them. I love all of my children. It’s the truth, I do. Maybe too much. And yet somewhere along the way I suppose I hurt them, damaged them without meaning to do so. But then we’re all damaged goods, aren’t we? Life damages us, people damage us, we even damage ourselves.
I must have caused them pain and heartache.
And hurt their feelings. We do that so often to those we love the most without even
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