In many respects, the first few days had been trying, even difficult. Jerry had grown increasingly irritated and his frustration had spiralled as they had toured the county, the largest in England. Every time they came across a place suitable for exterior shooting some kind of ugly man-made tribute to the twentieth-century technology had rudely intruded, rendering it inappropriate for a film which was supposed to be set in the nineteenth century. Telegraph poles, pylons and water towers had hardly been part of the scenery in Victorian England.
Finally, in desperation, Francesca had decided to lead them much farther afield than she had originally planned. She had driven them up beyond Ripon, Middleham and Leyburn, into Swaledale, Wensleydale and Coverdale, where endless uninhabited moors were balanced by deep valleys and intersected by tumbling, fast-flowing little becks and cascading waterfalls which shimmered in the northern fight. They had stopped at Wain Wath Force, Gunnerside and Healaugh, breathtaking spots unmarred by modern inventions. At the highest point on Bellerby Moor, high-flung above the picturesque village of Grin ton, Jerry had heaved a sigh of relief as he had viewed the surrounding landscape. And he had been stunned, disbelief washing over his face, as he had scanned the unbroken expanse of undulating moorland, so bleak, so desolate, iced with vagrant patches of lingering winter snow, yet curiously beautiful, even awesome in its very austerity. Here there was an untamed wildness and immense solitude, and grandeur in the soaring fells pitched up at precarious leaning angles into the brooding cloud-laden sky. And on the valley floor, far below, there was a contrasting softness in the neat and orderly patchwork of fields, with the River Swale curving gently down to Richmond, a narrow, twisting ribbon of silver, sparkling brightly in the crystalline sunshine that occasionally broke through the cumulus mass. Jerry had not only been captivated by what he saw, but held utterly spellbound, and he had approvingly pronounced the area perfect from every point of view, and unbelievably photogenic. They were able to quickly select a number of places in which to film, mapping out the logistics as they went along.
Francesca had enjoyed her week working with the production manager and his charming assistant, and she had felt rather dishonest accepting the cheque for two hundred pounds, since she believed she had done so little to earn it. But Jerry had been adamant about the amount, and in much the same way he had been insistent that her father accept a five-thousand-pound fee for use of certain rooms in the castle, in which some of the important interior scenes were eventually to be filmed. Her father had been astounded by the amount, just as she herself had been startled when the idea had originally been presented to her.
It had all come about quite by accident, on the day of the private screening of Katharine’s test, and it was to Katharine herself that the Cunninghams owed this sudden bit of good fortune. At Victor’s lunch at Les Ambassadeurs, after many celebratory toasts and endless bottles of Dom Pérignon, the conversation had turned to the various aspects of the production. Jerry, concerned as usual with the budget, had begun to grumble about the costs entailed in building a set for the elegant ball scene at Thrushcross Grange, a key sequence in Wuthering Heights, especially the film version. Katharine, listening attentively, had suddenly interrupted Jerry’s flow of words. ‘But why don’t you use a hall or a ballroom that already exists, in a country house or stately home?’ she had suggested. ‘Langley Castle, for instance. I’ve seen a photograph of the ballroom there, and I think it would be perfect.’
There had been a small silence at the table, and it seemed to Francesca now, as she remembered, that all eyes had been suddenly focused on her intently, expressions curious, expectant and questioning. Victor had cleared his throat, and asked, ‘What do you think, Francesca? If the ballroom is suitable, would your father give us his permission to film there?’
‘Yes… I think so,’ she had said slowly, wondering if her father would acquiesce, and not really certain of the answer.
‘I bet it would be much cheaper than building an elaborate set,’ Katharine had quickly pointed out. ‘I’m sure the Earl would not ask an exorbitant fee.’
Flabbergasted by this last comment, Francesca had started to demur. ‘Gosh, Daddy wouldn’t want to be pa—’ She had bitten off the rest of her sentence as Katharine had given her a swift kick on the ankle, and she had blushed, feeling self-conscious and uncertain of what she ought to say next.
Victor had saved her the trouble. ‘Of course the film company would pay your father a fee for the use of parts of the castle,’ he had exclaimed in a businesslike voice. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Katharine had chuckled, her eyes shining, and it was then she had apparently had yet another brainwave. She had voiced the opinion, and in a most authoritative manner, that Francesca should be hired to scout locations with Jerry, who had announced earlier that he was planning a trip to Yorkshire for this express purpose. ‘With all due respect to you, Jerry, I’m sure Francesca knows the area much better, since she grew up there,’ Katharine had said. ‘Just think of the time you’ll save, having a guide like her. Not only that, I’m sure Francesca will be able to take you to any number of beauty spots off the beaten track which you might not otherwise find by yourself.’
Victor and Jerry had exchanged looks, obviously seeing the perfect sense in this idea, and they had seized upon it at once. Francesca had found herself being swept along by their immense enthusiasm, flattered by their keenness to have her work with them, and their concerted efforts in persuasiveness had scarcely been necessary. She had agreed almost immediately, not wishing to be the only outsider, wanting, instead, to be part of it all, to participate in their exciting world, and also hoping to help Jerry solve his production problems.
Help Victor, be part of his world, you mean, Francesca now murmured under her breath. Her critical perceptions of him had long since been laid to waste, her reservations and her initial fear buried beneath layers of new and burgeoning emotions of a type she had not experienced before. In the week she had been in Yorkshire she had discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she missed him, and he had rarely been out of her thoughts. Last night, in the quietness of her room at Langley, she had sat for hours by the fire, examining her feelings, trying to be as analytical as she possibly could. Distance and separation had given her fresh objectivity, and finally she had had to accept a single stark reality: she was infatuated with Victor Mason. Frightened by the waves of panic mingled with confusion and internal turmoil that had swamped over her, she had resolutely shied away from the word love, wanting to believe her involvement with him was a passing thing and, therefore, not to be taken seriously.
Now she wondered about that. She sighed and closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the seat, considering the situation once more. It was hopeless, really. Dismay trickled through her at this realization. Victor only accepted her because of Katharine, and she knew there would never be anything but friendship between them, if even that. He treated her like a little girl, albeit tolerantly and pleasantly, but nevertheless she knew she was still a child in his eyes. Yet despite this knowledge, and her awareness of his lack of interest in her as a woman, Francesca suddenly realized it would be hard, if not indeed impossible, for her to extinguish her feelings for him. She understood, too, that up until this moment it had been enough to be in the same room with him. But what of the future? Could she bear to be near him and yet, in all truth, so far removed, knowing how she actually felt? She was doubtful. It would be agonizing.
Long after she had gone to bed last night, she had continued to think of him, unable to sleep, her mind and her heart and her body wanting him. And more than ever she had become conscious of the dangerous physical stirrings within her, of unfamiliar needs and desires and longings that inflamed her with their urgency, and made her feel like a stranger to herself, her own body suddenly alien and mysterious. She had wrapped her arms around the pillow, clutching it tightly to her, endeavouring to control her wild and vivid imaginings, to curb her fantasies about Victor and of mak
ing love with him, of giving herself up to him completely and without restraint. Sexually inexperienced though she was, she had discovered in those restless dawn hours, that her mind was an extraordinary erogenous zone, her thoughts of Victor excessively erotic and sensual, and so uninhibited she was shocked at herself and almost blushed in the dark.
That morning, when she had awakened, her arms were still holding the pillow, and she was clinging to it fiercely, as if it was Victor she so passionately embraced. If only it was him, she had thought, and slowly the tears had begun to fall, trickling down her cheeks until she was sobbing with despair, filled with the pain of unrequited love. She cried for a long rime. Later, when she had calmed herself, she made the decision not to see him ever again. Somehow she must extract herself from his tight-knit little group, although she was not exactly certain what excuses she would make to Katharine, who had no inkling of her feelings.
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: ‘Pooh, 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.