Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

Victor was staring ahead. He could see a stone gatehouse, its white-washed façade intersected with dark wood beams, small windows with wooden shutters and brass carriage lamps on either side of a great stone arch. This cut through the centre of the gatehouse like a tunnel, and from it swung massive black iron gates hanging wide open. Victor lifted his eyes as the Volkswagen rumbled over the cobblestones under the archway. He read the name, Schloss Wittingenhof, and the date, 1833, carved in the stonework above the entrance leading into an estate of some considerable size.

Diana swung left and stopped in front of a complex of buildings adjoining the gatehouse, obviously stables and garages, and pulled on the brake. She jumped out of the car, calling to Victor, ‘Let’s release poor Cheska, shall we?’ and began tugging at the skis.

‘I’ll do that,’ he cried, also alighting, but she had already removed them when he came round to the other side of the Volkswagen. Francesca clambered out, stretched herself, and pulled a face. ‘God, I was just about ready to scream. I’m terribly cramped and stiff.’

‘Don’t blame me. I offered to get a taxi for the luggage,’ he reminded her. ‘Listen, swing your arms and touch your toes. That’ll work out the kinks.’ She did as he suggested, and he made a motion to lift his bag off the back seat.

Diana hoisted his skis onto her shoulder. She said, ‘Don’t bother with your luggage, Victor. Manfred will bring it in later.’ She set off down a patch cut through a wide expanse of clean snow, her silver-gilt hair gleaming in the sunlight as she walked in the direction of the house.

Victor retrieved his overcoat from the front seat and hurried after Francesca, who was gaily skipping along behind Diana, for all the world like a little yellow bird let out of her cage. He smiled at his comparison, his eyes fastening on her. And it was true, Francesca did seem different to him, freer and less constrained than she was in London. Perhaps her present demeanour had something to do with being in a foreign country, far away from the strictures of her everyday life and all that this entailed; it could be induced by the holiday spirit they all shared; it might even be Diana’s influence at work. But whatever had wrought the change was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. He liked her joyful, unfettered mood, for it suited her and, furthermore, it made him feel more relaxed.

Victor pulled his eyes away from Francesca and directed them sharply to the end of the path. Here stood Schloss Wittingenhof in all its ancient glory. Although Diana had said it was large, he had not envisioned a house quite this size, nor one so impressive, for in essence it was a grand manor house of some distinction. It was of excellent proportions, long and relatively low and rambling, with various wings protruding from the central structure. These wings, perfectly balanced to the main building, helped to create a flowing and harmonious effect. Roofs of blue-grey slate pitched gently down to touch stone walls the colour of eggshell, a soft off-white that had a hint of beige. The many windows were flanked by black and white shutters, whilst the double front door, with a lintel of stone, was painted white and decorated with black nail heads and black iron hinges. A series of dormer windows were cut into the roofs, which, in turn, were topped by fat squat chimneys, and all added to the charm of the picturesque architecture.

Wittingenhof nestled against a backdrop of splendid fir trees. These swept upwards over the slopes of the mountain, which continued its soaring ascent immediately behind the Schloss. The mountain, for all its immensity of size and spread and height, did not diminish the house. Rather, it threw Wittingenhof into bold relief, the grandeur of the natural setting underscoring its intrinsic beauty. The plateau upon which the house was built was on high ground, and the atmosphere was clear, bracing, and the intense glare from the crystalline snow converged with the lucency of the sky to create a light of supernatural brilliance, a light that blinded with its clarity. Victor blinked, shielded his eyes with his hand, and caught up with Francesca. ‘The Schloss looks a sensational place,’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s lovely, and wait ’til you see inside. Diana has done a marvellous job with it.’

‘Is the architecture typical of the area?’ he asked, falling into step.

‘Yes, to a certain extent. It’s very much in the Bavarian tradition, but modified, less Hansel and Gretelish. I forget who designed it, someone quite famous in his time though. Wittingenhof is considered an architectural classic, and it’s well over a hundred years old.’

‘Yes, I noticed the date on the entrance when we drove in, I guess it was built for the family, wasn’t it?’

Francesca nodded. ‘One of Diana’s ancestors owned this mountain and the surrounding land, and I understand that he built the Schloss for his young wife, who was frail in health and needed the air at this altitude. She must have had lung problems. After she died, the house fell into disuse. The family only occupied it occasionally in the summer months, for holidays. It was Diana who actually decided to open it up for full-time use, and she and Christian have made it their permanent home for a number of years now. It’s just as beautiful in the summer. These …’ She pointed to the snowy areas in front of the house, ‘are all lawns and there are meadows at the back, and a lovely lake. Oh look, Victor … you’ve got a welcoming committee!’ she cried tugging at his arm.

He followed the movement of her head and his face lit up. A gaggle of geese, sleek, plump and immaculate, were marching across the snow, comical in their sedateness. Victor looked down at Francesca, his eyes laughing. ‘They couldn’t have staged this better in Hollywood. Tell me, kid, how do the geese know how to march out on cue?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Francesca grinned. ‘But they always make an appearance around this time. Feeding hour, I suppose. Come on, Diana’s waiting.’

Diana stood in the doorway, leaning on the skis. ‘I’d like to add my welcome,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay at Wittingenhof, Victor. You must consider it your home too.’

‘Thanks, Diana. You’re being very kind.’

Turning she said to Francesca, ‘Why don’t you take Victor down to the cloakroom, and I’ll go and tell Christian we’ve arrived.’ She handed the skis to Victor. ‘Would you mind carrying these, please? Francesca will show you where we store them.’

‘Sure,’ he said, taking the bag from her.

The two girls walked across the entrance foyer and Victor followed in their wake, looking around with quickening interest. The entrance was small and square, with a beamed ceiling, white stucco walls and a floor composed of terracotta tiles, glazed to a burnished hue by the sunlight shafting through the windows. A massive mirror, framed in intricately-chased silver, hung above a carved pine chest, and in its glassy depths trembled reflections of the entire area. Next to it stood a silver urn bursting with branches of red berries. At the opposite end the small foyer splayed out on either side to become an impressive great hall, with many doors opening off it and a spectacular curving staircase floating gracefully up to other floors. It was sparsely furnished, the only pieces being an armoire, several carved wooden chairs, and a desk near the stairwell, all in a rustic country style and made of oak.

This hall had baronial overtones, with a high-flung ceiling and walls painted the same soft eggshell as the exterior of the house. An immense and eye-catching tapestry, depicting a medieval hunting scene, was suspended on the rise above the staircase, a wrought-iron chandelier dropped on long chains from the centre of the ceiling, and the floor of dark wood, polished to a high gloss, was entirely bare.

Diana veered to the right, waving to them as she went into one of the rooms. Francesca guided Victor to the left, along a corridor and down a short flight of stone steps. These stopped in another hallway, on the lower level, where French windows opened onto a paved loggia and beyond, in the distance, was a view of the frozen lake and a copse of trees, their spidery black branches dripping icicles.

Marvellous aromas of food cooking floated on the warm air. Victor sniffed. ‘I guess we’re near the kitchen,’ he said, eyeing Francesca.

‘Yes, it’s down there.’ She nodded to the end of the hallway.

‘I just realized how starved I am. Ravenous. I was up at the crack of dawn to get the plane.’

‘Manfred will bring something up to the sitting room shortly. A little snack with our drinks, before lunch. Come on, put your skis in here.’ She opened a cupboard, moved on, and turned the iron handle on another door. ‘And this is the cloakroom.’

Victor propped his bag next to several pairs of skis lined up in the cupboard, closed it, and followed her. The cloakroom was a mélange of blue and white, these colours appearing in the tiles on the floor and in a faded floral paper on the walls and ceiling. Francesca stuck her yellow woollen cap on one of the pegs attached to the wall, where an assortment of anoraks, Loden jackets and capes already hung. ‘You can put your coat here, and the bathroom’s through that door, if you want to freshen up.’

‘Thanks.’

She turned to the mirror standing on the pine chest, ran a comb through her hair, then shook it free casually. ‘I’ll be in the drawing room, upstairs.’

‘I don’t think I’ll get lost, kid,’ he said.

Chapter Twenty-Five (#ulink_966c173d-c4ab-5a00-9069-730b63ee943e)

Francesca bounded up the stone stairs, humming under her breath. She was in a happy mood, engendered by Victor’s presence in the house. Although she was not foolish enough to think this particular circumstance would bring about a change in him, or cause him to suddenly reciprocate her feelings, she did believe their friendship had a better chance of flowering here at Wittingenhof than in London. Furthermore, and most importantly, she had him entirely to herself, did not have to compete with Nicky or Katharine, and the rest of his entourage, for his attention, and this in itself was most gratifying to her.

She swung down the Deer Hall, walking swiftly, still humming, but as she passed the library her steps faltered. The door was firmly closed, and it was thick; nonetheless, she heard Diana exclaiming, ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ and with such impatience Francesca was startled. Again, Diana’s voice rang out, now in a staccato burst of rapid German which Francesca did not understand; however, it was quite apparent her cousin was irritated. She did not wish to hear any more, and so she hurried on in the direction of the gallery, frowning to herself. It was unusual for Diana to sound cross, and especially so with her brother, with whom she was invariably gentle and mild. She wondered what had ruffled Diana, and instantly dropped the thought. It was none of her business, and she preferred not to delve too deeply into certain matters in this household.

When she entered the sitting room, Francesca went immediately to the cabinet where the records were stored, found a classical piece she liked and put it on the record player. Then she crossed to the high stone hearth and sat down on it, warming her hands in front of the fire.

A dreamy expression suffused her face, and she leaned back, her thoughts caught up with Victor and the five days stretching ahead of them. Last night, after she had explained the situation to Diana, told her of the need for secrecy in view of Victor’s complicated life, his impending divorce, and his worry about Confidential Magazine, she had confided in her cousin. But the confidences had only been partial ones, for as always Francesca held back her innermost feelings. Being essentially an exceedingly private person, she deemed these to be too intimate to impart to anyone, even someone close to her. This was chiefly the reason she had not said anything about Victor to Katharine, although fear of appearing foolish and juvenile had also induced reticence, along with a reluctance to give Katharine an opportunity to fill her ears with tid-bits about Victor’s many love affairs, as she was prone to do. Francesca was wise enough to understand this knowledge would only underscore her anxiety and undermine her self-confidence.

After Francesca had finished her carefully-edited recital about her attraction to Victor, Diana had been thoughtful for a while. Eventually she had said, ‘I think you must ignore his attitude towards you, otherwise you’ll be miserable the entire time you’re here, darling. I also think you should be completely natural with him, even let him see you’re attracted to him, like him as much as you do.’ Diana had stopped, her laughter breaking loose, her eyes merry. ‘Don’t look like that, Cheska! You can make him aware of your interest in him without being flagrant, or throwing yourself at him.’

Diana had leaned forward and squeezed Francesca’s arm. ‘Listen to me, darling. Men can be very peculiar, quite odd. And they’re as afraid of rejection as we are, you know. So sometimes they need a little gentle encouragement to make them feel more at ease. And there’s another thing. If I were you I’d forget my age, forget his age, and also forget who he is. He might be a famous movie star, but he’s a man like any other man. That’s how you should view him. Apart from anything else, you’ll feel more relaxed if you do. And who knows, he might pick up on that, and relax himself.’

The cousins had continued to talk along these lines for some while longer, and when Francesca had gone to bed she had felt positive and optimistic, and had decided to take Diana’s advice. What do I have to lose? she asked herself now. Nothing, she concluded. I might even have a lot to gain.

So preoccupied was she at this moment, she was unaware that Diana was standing in the arched doorway to the sitting room. Diana was regarding Francesca closely, but lovingly so, filled with the tenderest of feelings for her cousin. She was suddenly glad Francesca was visiting them at this time, for her presence was comforting, reassuring even. That’s because she’s so down-to-earth, and so very steady, Diana thought. She has a normalizing effect on us all.

Diana now took a deep breath, trying to still the troubling thoughts that continued to nudge at the back of her mind in the most maddening way. She was a little upset, she had to admit. Upset with Dieter Mueller, currently ensconced in the library with Christian; upset with herself, too, for allowing her irritation with Dieter to show so blatantly.

Francesca lifted her head, saw her cousin and smiled. Diana moved forward, heading for the fireplace. She sat down heavily on the hearth next to Francesca, and said in a low tone ‘Cheska … Mummy’s in Munich.’

Francesca tried to keep her expression bland, but she knew it reflected the concern swamping her. ‘Is she coming here?’ she asked, her voice equally subdued.

Diana shook her head. ‘No. But she’s in Bavaria because of my birthday. She came specially to see me, so I’m meeting her on Friday. For the day.’ Her voice trembled slightly, as she added, ‘I’m dreading it, I really am.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Francesca volunteered at once. ‘Perhaps I can be of some help.’ She genuinely meant this; nevertheless, the prospect of making the trip filled her with dismay, and her heart dropped.

Diana was silent, considering, and then she said, ‘No, it’s not necessary, and there’s no point. Your father saw her last summer, when he was here with Doris, and it didn’t do a bit of good …’ Her voice trailed away, and her eyes filled up. ‘I adore Mummy, Cheska, you know that, so it’s unbearably painful for me to see her like this – so troubled and distracted.’ She blinked, brushed her eyes with her hand, swallowed hard. ‘I feel utterly at a loss. I don’t know what to do to help her any more … so frustrating …’

‘Oh Dibs darling, don’t tear yourself apart, please, please don’t. Your love helps her. It truly does, and in so many different ways.’ Francesca took Diana’s hand in hers, held onto it tightly, wanting so much to comfort and reassure. ‘And your immense courage gives her such a lot of strength. Don’t forget, you and Christian keep her going, and there’s not much more you can do than that. Unless you can persuade her to take Daddy’s advice to go home to England, to live on the estate at Langley. That would be the best solution I’m su –’

‘You know she’ll never leave Berlin! Never.’

‘I suppose not.’ Francesca bit her lip and shook her head resignedly, knowing Diana was right in this assumption. She asked, ‘Is Christian going with you to Munich?’

‘Yes, of course. Try to keep him away. He’s in the same boat as I am, as far as Mummy is concerned. He adores her, worries about her, and is constantly seeking a way to make her lead a more normal life. Anyway, we’re leaving very early on Friday morning, around six o’clock, and we’ll get back in time to have supper with you’

‘That’s such a short visit. Look, why don’t you stay longer?’