Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

But now, as the train rattled on towards London, she was filled with ambivalence, fluctuating between depression and euphoria, torn between her cool and reasoning head and her eager heart. Her superior intelligence told her to stay away from him, out of self-protectiveness; but her emotions propelled her inexorably to him. And being young, and unscarred by life and its inevitable disappointments, hope was intact within her, and she could still dream. Perhaps he would change his mind about her, fall in love with her, as she had with him.

Francesca felt a twinge of panic. I’m not in love with him, she told herself. I’m not! I’m really not! I’m just infatuated … it’s only a silly crush.

The carriage door sliding open caused her to turn her head sharply. The Pullman car attendant was standing there, smiling warmly. His name was Beaver and he had been on the Edinburgh to London run for years. She had known him since she was a small child, travelling up to town twice a year with her father and Kim and Melly.

‘’Morning, your ladyship,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Beaver. How are you?’

‘Doing nicely, thank you. And you? And his lordship, and the young viscount?’

‘We’re all fine, thank you.’

He nodded and smiled again. ‘We’ll be serving breakfast in a few minutes, your ladyship, if you’d like to go into the dining car. Train’s pretty packed this morning, so we’ll be filling up quickly, especially after Leeds.’

‘Thank you, Beaver, I’ll pop along now.’ She picked up her handbag and Nick’s book from the seat, and rose. Beaver stepped aside to let her pass, closed the carriage door behind her, and continued along the swaying corridor of the train, in the opposite direction.

Francesca found a table in the dining car and sat down. She glanced at the breakfast menu and discovered she was not hungry, but she was longing for a hot drink. She ordered a pot of tea and toast, and then opened Nick’s book. It was one of his early novels and he had given it to her as a present, fondly inscribed. She had already read it several times, loving every page, struck as always by his extraordinary command of language, his brilliant use of words that came so vividly alive. She re-read a particular passage she liked, and then put the book down as the tea and toast materialized.

Her thoughts stayed with Nick. They had become such good friends, and there was a special kind of understanding between them. She valued his opinions and listened carefully to the advice he gave about writing, and so generously, appreciating his interest in her. Ten days ago she had asked him to read some of the first pages of her book on Chinese Gordon.

Nick’s words reverberated in her head again. ‘The pages are terrific. Keep going. And don’t look back,’ he had told her. And then, more thoughtfully, he had added: ‘Listen, kid, you’ve got talent. But talent isn’t enough. You’ve also got to have dedication, discipline, determination and drive. You’ve got to be obsessed with a book. Without that obsession it won’t work. And there’s another D. D for desire. That must be there too. You’ve got to want to write more than you want to do anything else, and you’ve got to be prepared to make sacrifices to do it.’ He had grinned in his impish way. ‘There’s a sixth D, and this one is vital. D for distraction, the enemy of every writer. You’ve got to build an imaginary wall around yourself so that nothing, no one intrudes. Understand me, kid?’

Nick often called her kid, just as he called Victor kid, and she had come to understand that in his vocabulary it was a special meaningful term, one of endearment, and used selectively. Francesca smiled to herself, sipping her hot tea, filled with enormous affection for Nick. It struck her then that she had never heard him call Katharine kid; he always addressed her rather formally as Katharine. But perhaps that was because he was in awe of her great beauty and talent as an actress. Certainly Francesca did not believe Nicky hated her friend, whatever she did. Neither did Kim. They both thought Katharine was seeing something which did not exist. Pondering this, Francesca recalled that Nick treated Katharine in much the same way he treated her, with cordiality and a sort of tongue-in-cheek amusement. But now she had to admit that at times he did appear to be a little constrained, as if holding back. Even at the celebration lunch, after his lovely compliments about the screen test, he had retreated behind a mask, curiously isolated from the jolly proceedings. On the other hand, during lunch he had confided that he thought he was coming down with the ’flu, and his face had looked drawn, pinched and white around the mouth. Perhaps this explained his behaviour that particular day. She hoped he was all right, that he was not as ill as she was beginning to feel.

After breakfast, Francesca made her way back to the carriage, relieved to see that she continued to be its only occupant. She huddled in her coat in the corner of the seat, and attempted to sleep. She did doze intermittently, but for most of the journey she was coughing and blowing her nose, and by the time the train arrived at King’s Cross she was feverish, her eyes were watering and she was running a temperature.

She alighted from the train into drenching rain, and flew down the grimy, smoke-filled platform, heading for the ticket barrier, clutching her suitcase, praying that the queue for taxis would be short. Fortunately she was one of the first passengers to arrive at the taxi stand and she managed to get a cab relatively quickly. Within minutes the cabbie was manoeuvring through the congested traffic towards Marylebone and across town, heading in the direction of the West End and Mayfair. The rain was falling in torrents, as if there had been a cloudburst, and several times Francesca caught the flash of lightning streaking across a sky that was sombre and growing darker, and there was the cracking of distant thunder as the storm swept over London.

Francesca’s physical discomfort increased during the cab ride to the house in Chesterfield Street, and she could hardly wait to get home. She was beginning to feel miserable. Every bone in her body ached, she was shivering so much she could hardly keep a limb still, and several times she was seized by coughing and sneezing. It was with some relief that she paid the cabbie, went up the steps to the house and let herself in quickly. As she closed the door behind her, Mrs Moggs sallied forth from the dining room, a feather duster in one hand, a broad smile on her face, worn but cheery underneath the outrageous hat bedecked with flowers. Francesca wondered if she ever took it off.

‘There you are, your ladyship,’ Mrs Moggs cried, and nodded her head so hard in greeting the poppies shook. ‘Best get out of your wet fings, and have a barf. I’ve got a nice pan of ’ot soup bubbling. You can drink a cup in bed,’ she instructed in a commanding tone. ‘Got to watch these colds, that we have, M’lady.’

‘Hello, Mrs Moggs,’ Francesca managed to get in at last, smiling weakly. She put down her case, took off her damp coat and hung it in the hall cupboard. Turning, she stared at Mrs Moggs, puzzlement registered on her face. ‘And how did you know I had a cold?’

‘Mrs Asternan! That’s ’ow!’ Mrs Moggs announced, bursting with importance. ‘She rung me up ’ere this morning to tell me. To give me instructions. She said to make you some ’ot soup and get you to bed immediately. What a nice lady she is. Yes, an’ she told me His Grace ’ad ’ad a ’orrible accident.’ Mrs Moggs clucked sympathetically, and breezed on, ‘Blimey, what a shame! But them stepladders is ever so dicey, as I’m always telling my Albert when ’e’s cleaning me winders. Still, it ain’t so bad really, if you stop to think. His Grace might ’ave broken ’is bloomin’ neck.’ She nodded to herself. ‘That ’e might, your ladyship.’

Francesca shivered, conscious of chilliness in the small hall, and picked up her suitcase, stepping out towards the stairs. But she stopped and swung around, as Mrs Moggs exclaimed: ‘Oooh, I almost forgot. That there Miss Temple rung up as well. About an hour ago.’

‘Miss Tempest,’ Francesca corrected quietly. ‘Did she leave a message, Mrs Moggs?’

‘Yes, your ladyship. Miss Temple wanted to remind you about dinner. And I told ’er that you was bloomin’ poorly, and wouldn’t be up to ’aving no dinner. I told ’er Mrs Asternan ’ad rung me up, and I passed on the bad news about His Grace’s ’orrible accident. She was ever so upset, Miss Temple was. Anyways, she said she’d ’phone you later, ’cos she was orf to luncheon. In a ’urry, she was. She told me to tell you not to worry about tonight. She’s calling the dinner orf, your ladyship. And a good fing, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Honestly, Mrs Moggs!’ Francesca began crossly, on the verge of reprimanding her for being an interfering busybody. But instantly she bit back the words. Mrs Moggs was a well-intentioned old dear, and she was only being her usual bossy self. ‘I suppose you’re right, Mrs Moggs. I think I had better stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours. I do feel pretty ghastly, and it’s a perfectly awful day. I think I’ll go and have that bath. It might warm me.’ Climbing the stairs to her room Francesca realized with a tiny spurt of disappointment, that she would not be seeing Victor Mason tonight after all. It was he who had arranged the dinner, and now Katharine had cancelled it. Damnation, she muttered to herself, and then grimaced wryly, baffled by her many inconsistencies.

Chapter Twenty-One (#ulink_9fed0dca-bd84-55b3-b5c2-5d983d20a38d)

Victor Mason gave Jerry Massingham a long, hard stare and said in his briskest tone, ‘You’d better make sure we take out plenty of insurance on Langley Castle itself, apart from our overall insurance for the film. And I do mean plenty, Jerry. I sure as hell don’t want problems, should there be any accidents or damage to their valuables. In fact, I’d prefer to think we were over-insured.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Jake about it, so don’t worry,’ Jerry answered him quickly, wondering if Victor thought he was a dimwit. Certainly for the past hour he had sounded as if he was trying to teach him how to suck eggs. But then Jake Watson had also been at the receiving end of similar treatment. Jerry grinned to himself, fully aware that Victor was simply in one of his businesslike, take-charge moods this morning: the executive producer rather than the star, well-versed in every facet of the production and shrewdly assessing the minutest detail. And letting us know it, Jerry added silently.

Suddenly conscious of Victor’s dark eyes resting on him, Jerry felt obliged to add, ‘I also intend to remove most of the lamps, vases and ornaments in the rooms we’ll be shooting in, and I’ll be replacing them with reproductions, to be on the safe side –’

‘Yes, you’d better,’ Victor cut in. He leaned back in his chair, flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his dark blue jacket and remarked, ‘I imagine the place is full of expensive carpets, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. The Earl pointed out an Aubusson, several Savonneries and a couple of antique Orientals. Seemed a bit worried about them, but I explained we’ll be using transparent plastic sheets underneath the cameras and the other equipment, whether there are carpets down or not. And we’ll take up the rare carpets I’ve just mentioned. Actually, Victor, the castle is jam-packed with the most incredible treasures, priceless objects of art, so we can’t take any chances.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘It’s an amazing old place and extraordinarily beautiful. And the paintings!’ He whistled in admiration, shaking his head again. ‘My God, they’ve got to be worth a small fortune. But look, don’t worry, I’ve got everything well in hand. I don’t miss a trick.’

‘I know you’re a stickler for detail, but then so am I, Jerry. I like to be doubly sure, and surprises don’t sit well on me. Particularly nasty surprises.’ Victor threw Jerry a brief smile, and turned his attention to the many black and white photographs Jerry had taken in Yorkshire the previous week. He spread them out on the table, studying them closely and with keen and expert eyes.

Jerry sat back, tensely waiting for judgment to be passed, as he knew it would be. Victor could be relied upon to speak his mind, and with a candour that sometimes startled in its bluntness.

Victor was concentrating on the photographs. ‘When will the colour shots be ready?’ he asked without raising his head.

‘Later this week. And you’ll be stunned. Yorkshire is quite a magical place. I hadn’t realized that before. Actually, the scenery took my breath away.’

‘Yes, I can see from the black and whites exactly why it did. You hit on some truly great photogenic spots.’ Victor looked up, nodding approvingly, impressed. A wry smile touched his mouth. ‘Better than the back lot any time, eh, Jerry?’

‘Not half,’ said Jerry, happy to hear this unexpected approbation. ‘And I do think we found some superb locations, I really do. ’Course that was no accident. It was entirely due to Francesca. Lovely girl. Surprisingly diligent, and very sweet. Not a bit toffee-nosed, like the usual deb.’

Victor’s ears pricked up at the mention of Francesca’s name, and innumerable questions flew to his tongue. He muffled these, and adopted a cautious tone as he asked, ‘She worked out okay then? You thought it was worth having her along?’

‘God, yes! I’d have been lost without her. She saved us a lot of time, not to mention aggravation.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Victor murmured, wondering whether or not she was back in London. He was about to question Jerry, but instantly changed his mind, considering it wiser to remain discreetly silent. ‘How did you get on with the Earl?’ he asked, draining his coffee cup.

‘Very well. He’s a nice chap. Rather down-to-earth, I thought, and most obliging. Made us feel very much at home. He seemed tickled we want to film at the castle, looking forward to all the excitement probably. A farmer’s life is pretty dull, I suppose, and that’s what he is really. A gentleman farmer. And I must say, he was startled when I told him the fee. I don’t believe he expected so much. If anything at all.’ Jerry paused and drew on his cigarette, meditating. After a moment, he voiced the thought which had nagged at him all weekend, when he stated, with a touch of dourness, ‘Maybe you’ve been over generous, old chap. You could have paid him much less, and he’d still be ecstatic.’

‘Come on, Jerry, don’t be such a tight wad!’ Victor reproved, although his voice was tinged with laughter. ‘We’re well within the budget, and I understand from Katharine Tempest that the Earl’s pretty short on walking around money.’ Noting the baffled look on Jerry’s face, he grinned and explained, ‘Ready cash.’ He reached for the second set of photographs, fanned them out, and commented, ‘These rooms look exactly right for the interiors of Thrushcross Grange. We’ll be saving ourselves a fortune on sets. So I’m glad to help the family if I can. Listen, it’s cheap at the price.’

‘I suppose so,’ Jerry agreed grudgingly, and then on a more defensive note, he continued, ‘And be happy I am a tight wad. I’m keeping the budget under control, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, and for that I’m very grateful, Jerry. So is Jake Watson. You’re making life a lot easier, I can tell you. And speaking of our brilliant line producer, where in hell is he?’

‘When I went out to get us coffee, he was interviewing Harry Pendergast. The set designer. He’s damned good by the way.’

‘Damned expensive too,’ Victor pointed out. ‘Oh, by the way, I was talking to Jake over the weekend, and we both came to the conclusion we might need an auxiliary generator for the kliegs. Did you think to check that out?’

‘I did. I spoke to the Earl on Friday, just before I left for London. He seemed a bit vague about the capacity of the generator at the castle, and Francesca promised to follow it through for me.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Glad you brought it up, old chap. She stayed on to spend the weekend with her father, but she was due back this morning. I think I’ll give her a tinkle right now. Get the matter settled. Excuse me a minute, Victor. I’ll just pop back to the production office to make the call. I left some of my notes there.’

Victor rose and crossed to a small table at the far end of the conference room. He poured himself another cup of coffee, dropped in a spoonful of sugar, stirring absent-mindedly, thinking of Francesca. So she had returned to London after all. She had sounded vague about her plans before leaving, had been uncertain about joining them for dinner tonight. Tonight. He smiled, feeling a little surge of elation at the thought of seeing her. There was no point in lying to himself. He had noticed her absence.

Whistling merrily, he carried the cup of coffee back to the table, sat down and picked up Jerry’s photographs of the ballroom at Langley Castle. Jerry had taken a number of different angles, and he could see that the dimensions were exactly right. But it looked to him as if it needed a paint job, and a bit of sprucing up. Beautiful crystal chandelier and candelabra though, he commented to himself. He turned to the rough sketch of the room on which were indicated the possible areas for setting up the cameras, the klieg lights and other mandatory movie equipment. There was obviously plenty of space in which to shoot a superb ballroom scene, a brilliant and glittering scene, with beautifully attired guests waltzing to a small orchestra. Jake agreed with him that this touch of real glamour, Hollywood style, was vital. He sifted through the other views of various interiors, which Jerry had selected for potential scenes, carefully following the action in Nick’s screenplay. There was a period bedroom, a handsomely-appointed drawing room and a book-lined library, and the Earl had been most accommodating in agreeing to make all of them available if they were required.

So this is where she was born and raised, he mused, eyeing the photographs again, and from an entirely different point of view, no longer seeing them as possible locations for his film, but as rooms in someone’s home. Her home. He picked up a coloured picture postcard Jerry had purchased in the village of Langley. It was an exterior of the castle itself, a long shot taken from a distance. It showed a portion of a lovely crystal lake, partially bordered by trees, and a verdant, grass-covered hillock sweeping up from the water’s edge to the castle. This was poised on the crest of the hill, under a wide and iridescent sky that was china blue and cloudless. The castle was ancient and proud, with its crenellated walls and high-flung towers, the bleakness of the time-worn grey stones softened by rafts of dark-green ivy rippling over much of their surface. To one side of the castle were several grand, stately old oaks and plump clumps of rhododendron bushes abloom with delicate mauve and pink flowers. Victor could see that the shot had been taken in early summer, and there was a pastoral beauty to the scene, a quiet timelessness which was essentially and indigenously English.

He was struck by the imposing beauty of the castle, conscious of all that it stood for, mindful of the things it represented. The evidence leapt out at him, could not be denied; it was an integral part of the ancient history of this country, the symbol of an impressive lineage and of a family name that was centuries old. It hit him more forcibly than ever that Francesca was a true aristocrat of great breeding and background.

Victor wondered, curiously, what it had been like to grow up in a place like this. He had an instant mental picture of that crowded kitchen in the small house in Cincinnati … redolent with the delicious aromas of spicy Italian food cooking … the walls reverberating with the sounds of laughter raised in raucous competition with the phonograph … and above the perpetual ear-splitting din, his mother’s strong and loving voice shouting … ‘Vittorio, Armando, Gina, stopya horsing around. I’ma listening to the greata Caruso!’ He smiled, remembering, and a bitter-sweet nostalgia overtook him. What a funny kid he had been. Smartassed, sassy, street-wise, always fighting, nose always bloodied, experienced too young in the ways of exigent men and a cold, uncaring, indifferent world. And yet despite his clenched fists, eternally raised to do battle, his contentious attitude and his tough, combative approach to life, he had been oddly addicted to the most unlikely things: books, an avid if secretive reader; music; the theatre; and movies. All had been his means of escape, and they had helped to fire his imagination, had, in a sense, helped to shape his life and led him inevitably to where he was today.