Voice of the Heart

  Katharine spoke, interrupting Francesca’s thoughts. She said, ‘Thanks for coming with me, Frankie. I know how rotten you were feeling from the sun. Are you still nauseous?’

  ‘No, I’m much better, thanks. And I’m glad to drive you, to be with you, Kath. I’m as concerned as you are about Hilary and Terry.’

  ‘Norman wasn’t very articulate, or forthcoming. He gets so hysterical. I wish I’d asked him more questions. It’s the not knowing that’s so worrisome. If only we had a bit more information.’

  ‘I agree. But try and relax, Katharine. We’ll soon be there.’

  ‘It’s not easy. Shall I put the radio on?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Katharine twiddled with the knobs, settling on a station. The strumming of a guitar and the man’s voice instantly filled the little car. ‘Yo se que soy una ilusión fugaz para ti, un capricho del alma, que hoy te une a mi.’ Francesca gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles sharp and white in her tanned hands, her breath strangled in her throat. That song again, evoking so many memories. At the dance on Saturday the mariachis had played it so incessantly it had become a litany to her misery. ‘Una aventura más para ti,’ the unknown singer sang, the radio blaring in her face, and she thought of the meaning of the words, repeating them in English to herself: I know that for you I am just another affair. That after tonight you will forget me. I know I am just a fleeting illusion for you, that just a whim of the soul joins me to you. Even though you kiss me with wild passion and I happily kiss you, when the hour comes my heart dies for you.

  Victor Mason’s favourite song… and how prophetic the words turned out to be, thought Francesca. My heart is dead. And he was just an illusion for me. It’s over. I’ll never see him again. Tears sprang into her golden-topaz eyes and trickled down her face, splashed against her lips, and a sob broke free as all of the pent-up emotions of the morning finally spilled out.

  Katharine whipped her head around swiftly. ‘Darling, whatever is it?’ She touched Francesca’s arm lightly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Francesca gasped, blinking, trying to see through the mistiness in her eyes. ‘But I think I’ll have to stop for a minute.’

  ‘There’s a spot ahead where you can pull in, over there, the entrance to that house,’ Katharine cried, pointing. She was riddled with alarm, wondering what had caused this rush of tears. She turned off the radio.

  Francesca steered the car off the road and into a small gravelled area in front of tall iron gates. She braked jerkily, and bent forward, resting her head on the wheel, wracked with sobs. Katharine reached for her, held her close, stroking her hair. ‘What is it, Frankie? What’s upsetting you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca whispered through her tears, her shoulders heaving, her breath coming in gasps. She clung to Katharine, was about to confide in her, then changed her mind. She could never tell Katharine about Victor and herself. Never. Eventually the sobs subsided and she extricated herself from Katharine’s embrace, wiped her damp face with her hand, tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began falteringly, looking at Katharine, whose face was expectant and questioning.

  Francesca went on slowly, in a tremulous voice, ‘Everything’s falling apart… the beautiful summer is disintegrating in tragedy…’

  Katharine brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes apprehensive. ‘Don’t say that,’ she exclaimed.

  ***

  When they arrived at the hospital, Katharine got out and Francesca drove off to find a parking place. Katharine ran up the steps, and pushed through the doors. She found Norman Rook in the waiting room. He sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched, shrivelled in the chair like an old man. At the sound of footsteps he lifted his head wearily. When he saw Katharine his dolorous face seemed to crumple and he shook his head slowly.

  ‘Oh no!’ Katharine cried, running to him. She sat down and took his hand in hers, holding it tightly, gazing at him, afraid to ask questions, her heart in her mouth.

  He said, ‘Hilary’s still unconscious.’

  ‘And Terry?’ Katharine whispered.

  ‘Sedated right now. He became a bit difficult when I was sitting with him. Violent almost. He got out of bed, wanted to go and find Hilary. I couldn’t restrain him so I fetched the doctor. He gave him a shot.’

  ‘Just how bad are their injuries, Norman dear?’

  ‘Terry’s are all superficial, thank God. Cuts, bruises, a gash on his face, plus a broken rib and a sprained shoulder. He’ll be out of here in a few days…’ Norman’s eyes filled and he fumbled for his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly. ‘But Hilary—I just don’t know. It’s the coma that’s worrying the doctors. They’re doing more tests.’

  ‘Does she have other injuries?’

  ‘Yes, but like Terry’s they don’t seem to be all that serious. A broken leg and arm, and one side of her face is smashed up. The doctor I spoke to didn’t seem to think she’d need plastic surgery.’ His hand tightened on Katharine’s and he exclaimed fiercely, ‘She mustn’t die, Katharine. She can’t die! I don’t know what’ll happen to Terry if she… if she doesn’t make it. He won’t make it either. Not without Hilary he won’t.’

  ‘She’s going to be all right, Norman,’ Katharine asserted gently, but nevertheless with firmness. ‘We mustn’t be negative at a time like this. We’ve got to hold good thoughts.’

  ‘Yes,’ Norman mumbled. He swung his head, stared out of the window for a few minutes, and then turned bodily, gave Katharine the most penetrating of looks. ‘It’s our fault,’ he intoned dismally. ‘We shouldn’t have done what we did.’

  Perplexed, Katharine asked, ‘What did we do? I don’t understand…’

  Norman peered at Katharine curiously, and blinked. There was a small silence. He said in a low tone, ‘We schemed and plotted, and talked them into doing the picture. It’s because of us they got involved with each other again. We meddled in people’s lives. It’s wrong to meddle. Nobody has a right to play God, Katharine.’

  She gazed at him thunderstruck. ‘How can you say such things,’ she admonished, her voice as low as his. ‘We were trying to help Terry solve his problems, remember? Be sides, we weren’t driving the car today. You’re being silly, Norman.’

  Norman Rook seemed not to hear. The dresser sat gazing down at his sandals. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if Hilary dies,’ he said at last. ‘Meddling. That’s not right. As sure as God made little apples it’s not right. We’d both better remember that.’ He stood up, moved towards the door. ‘I’m going to check on them both again. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  Katharine sat back in the chair, staring at the closed door. She was filled with distress and horrified at Norman’s extraordinary pronouncement. It was unacceptable to her. How could they be blamed for the accident? Norman was in shock, rambling, she reasoned. He didn’t know what he was saying. Rising, Katharine went to the window, stood looking out. Whilst she had counted on Hilary’s emotional attachment to Terry to achieve her own ends, she had not anticipated a rekindling of their old love affair, nor that Hilary would leave Mark and run off with the actor. What I did, I did for them, she said inwardly, self-justifying. I had the best of intentions. Whatever Norman says, neither of us is responsible. Not for anything. And least of all for the car crash.

  She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the window, recalled how beautiful Hilary had been on Saturday night at the dance. Her throat tightened. Live, Hilary, she cried inwardly. Fight. You must fight. Don’t give up. Fight for your life. For Terry. Oh Hilary, please, please live. The phrases turned and turned in her mind, and she remained immobile in front of the window, concentrating on the injured girl, sending out waves of love with every ounce of her strength.

  So immersed was Katharine in her inner thoughts, she did not hear the door opening.

  Francesca came into the waiting room quietly, paused in the middle of the floor, intently regarding the motionless figure. There was a vulnerability about Katharine at this mome
nt, and Francesca thought: She’s such a tiny little thing, and so fragile. Like a child really. Her heart filled with tenderness and warmth, washing away the last vestiges of her anger. She took a step forward, ‘Kath… Kath.’

  Katharine swung around, and shook her head, conveying her misery. ‘Things are bad, Frankie, and—’

  Holding up her hand, Francesca also shook her head, but in a positive manner. ‘It’s all right, Kath. Everything’s going to be all right. I just saw Norman talking to one of the doctors. Hilary’s finally regained consciousness. We can see her in a few minutes.’

  A smile of relief mingled with joy spread itself slowly across Katharine’s face, which was as white as bleached linen and stark with anxiety. She flew across the room, almost fell into Francesca’s arms, and the two girls stood holding each other tightly, laughter finally breaking through.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Mrs Moggs said, ‘That’s it then, Your Ladyship, the last of your suitcases.’ The hat ablaze with poppies bobbed furiously, her head moving in rhythmic conjunction with her finger as she counted the pieces of luggage they had brought down to the hall. ‘Seven cases,’ she pronounced. ‘I ’opes they’ll all fit in Mrs Asternan’s car.’

  ‘Yes, there’s ample room in the Rolls, Mrs Moggs,’ Francesca replied. ‘Thanks for helping me. Now, let’s go into the kitchen to have that cup of tea and go over everything.’

  ‘Right yer are, M’lady,’ Mrs Moggs smiled. ‘I’ve got the kettle on.’ She stomped after Francesca, who was already swinging through the dining room. Seating herself at the kitchen table, Francesca proceeded to empty the contents of a manilla envelope on to the table.

  Pouring hot water into the brown teapot, Mrs Moggs said, ‘’Ow about a nice Cadbury’s chocolate finger with your cuppa char?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Francesca murmured without looking up.

  Mrs Moggs pursed her lips, her flinty eyes regarding Francesca with acuteness. ‘You don’t eat enough, if you don’t mind me saying so, Your Ladyship,’ Mrs Moggs clucked. ‘You’re all nice an’ brown from yer ’olidays, and you looks well, but you’re ever so thin, M’lady.’

  ‘I’m really not hungry at the moment, Mrs Moggs. I’ll have a snack for lunch before I leave for Yorkshire. Please, come and sit down.’

  ‘Ta, ever so.’ Mrs Moggs brought the tea tray to the table, shuffled into a chair opposite Francesca, commenced to pour the tea.

  ‘These are Miss Tempest’s door keys,’ Francesca showed them to her. ‘She wants you to go in once a week to dust and keep an eye on things.’ Francesca slipped the keys in the envelope. ‘Put everything in here, Mrs Moggs, so that nothings gets lost.’

  ‘Yes, I will, Your Ladyship. An’ is Miss Temple ’appy in ’Ollywood? ’Ow is things goin’ with ’er now?’

  ‘Very well. She likes it there.’ Francesca did not bother to correct Mrs Moggs, who continued to mispronounce Katharine’s name. ‘Here’s her cheque for the next three months. If she’s delayed she’ll send you another one. She has your address.’

  Thanks ever so.’ Mrs Moggs folded the cheque, put it in her apron pocket.

  Indicating the small white envelope on the table, Francesca explained, ‘Your train ticket is in here, plus ten pounds for additional expenses. I’ve also included your wages for the next few months.’

  Mrs Moggs instantly looked crestfallen, and she peered closely at Francesca. ‘Won’t you be comin’ back ’ere then, before ’is Grace’s weddin’?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Moggs. I’m staying in Yorkshire. I’ll be writing my book. You can always give me a ring if there’s a problem, and I’ll let you know if Father is coming up to town.’

  ‘Yes, M’lady. It won’t be the same, with you gone, but I’ll look after fings, don’t you fret.’

  ‘Yes, I know you will, Mrs Moggs.’

  ‘Yer won’t forget about me titfer, will you, Lady Francesca?’

  Francesca smiled her first genuine smile in weeks. ‘No, of course I won’t. As a matter of fact, I’ve started working on it, and I made good progress when I was at Langley last weekend. It’ll be ready for the wedding. A beautiful bonnet to match your blue coat and dress. You did say blue, didn’t you?’

  Mrs Moggs nodded and beamed. ‘Yes, and thanks for making the ’at for me. I appreciates it ever so much.’ Mrs Moggs hesitated. She cleared her throat. ‘I’d like somefing like the Queen Mum always wears. You know, with feathers and a bit of veil and p’raps a rose. A red rose.’

  ‘That’s just what I had in mind,’ Francesca assured her. ‘And I—’ The telephone in the hall started to ring. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Moggs.’ Francesca hurried out, picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Francesca,’ Nick Latimer said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, Nick, and you?’

  ‘Morose without Diana. I’ve decided to fly over and see her this weekend.’

  ‘Again,’ Francesca murmured, forcing a laugh.

  Nick chuckled. ‘Yep. Listen, kid, I think I’ve found an apartment. Just around the corner from you. On the corner of Grosvenor and North Audley. I wondered if you’d come and look at it, give me your opinion?’

  ‘When, Nicky?’ Francesca frowned. She had kept her departure for Langley a secret. She did not want Nick to know she was leaving that afternoon, or possibly delay her.

  ‘I was hoping you could meet me there now—say in about half an hour. Is that an imposition?’

  ‘No… no, that’s all right. What’s the address?’

  Nicky gave it to her, then said, ‘I’ll be waiting in the apartment. It’s on the first floor, I mean ground floor, to the left, after the entrance hall. See ya, kid, and thanks.’

  ‘Goodbye, Nicky.’ She replaced the receiver and returned to the kitchen. ‘I think we’ve covered everything, Mrs Moggs.’ She leaned over the table, returned all the items to the envelope, handed it to Mrs Moggs. ‘I’ve got to pop out for a while. I’ll be back in about an hour.’

  ***

  The late-September morning was one of filtered sunlight and milky clouds adrift in a periwinkle sky. It was another lovely Indian summer day. And yet the streets of Mayfair were oddly alien to Francesca as she walked briskly in the direction of Grosvenor Square at eleven-thirty. The tall grey buildings were somehow forbidding and gloomy, and she could not wait to get back to Langley. She longed for the comforting familiarity of her home, the gentle peace of the ancient castle, the silence of her beloved moors. Up there on those remote and drifting hills, tinted purple now as the heather bloomed, where the air was cool and bracing and the light had a unique and shimmering clarity, she was able to find a degree of ease, a brief respite from the constant and inescapable pain of a love that was lost. She could walk for miles with her little dog Lada without encountering a single soul in that vast and awesome landscape, and the solitude was a benediction.

  Ever since she had returned from Paris with Doris, Francesca had been retreating into herself, perpetually looking inward, living in her internal meanderings, shutting out the world. She felt isolated from everyone, found solace only in Lada and her work. Her research at the British Museum was finished, and the long and lonely days of real writing were about to begin. She welcomed them. Delving into the past, reliving history, were her means of escaping the present which had become so burdensome to her.

  As she approached Grosvenor Square her thoughts swung to Nick, and the flat she was about to see. He had decided to stay in London until Christmas, when he was leaving for Wittingenhof to spend the holidays with Diana and Christian. From there he would return to New York in January, to visit his parents, and then go on to California. He was currently working on his screenplay, had explained he wanted the isolation London afforded to finish it as quickly as possible. But she knew Diana was the real reason he lingered on this side of the Atlantic. Francesca hoped things would work out for her cousin and Nicky, who were very much in love. But are there ever any happy endings? Very rarely, she answered herself dismally, conte
mplating her own misery, the unhappiness her brother would soon be confronting.

  Katharine had telephoned from California last night, full of excitement about the film and Hollywood and all the people she was meeting. She had then gone on to extol the virtues of Beau Stanton, seemingly her constant companion both on and off the set. Only at the end of the long conversation had Kim been mentioned, when Katharine had reiterated her intention of breaking off with him—but not until after their father’s marriage to Doris, now scheduled for December. Francesca’s heart sank. Her brother would be shattered.

  Terrence Ogden was also in California, and Katharine had chatted about him for a few minutes. Hilary was not with him. She was still recuperating from the car crash, and had entered the London Clinic for new tests. There was something peculiar about her balance and coordination, and the doctors were baffled, would not let her fly to America until they had diagnosed the cause. When Francesca had visited her last week, Hilary had finally broken down and wept, had expressed her longing for Terry with such eloquence and emotion Francesca had been moved, fully understanding her feelings. So many tears lately, Francesca thought sadly. She increased her pace, blocking out the spectres that haunted her.

  Before she realized it she was standing in front of the building where the flat was. It was rather imposing, with huge double doors made of wrought iron and heavy glass. She pushed them open, crossed the entrance hall, found the flat and rang the bell. Nick opened the door immediately, stood grinning down at her.

  ‘Hello, Nicky,’ she said warmly, always pleased to see him.

  ‘Welcome, Beauty,’ he replied, still grinning. He pulled her inside and into his arms. After hugging her affectionately, he held her away, examining her face, assessing her mood. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘I’m glad to be of help, Nick.’ She glanced around the large foyer, and nodded her head approvingly. ‘Well, if this is anything to judge by, I think you’ve found the right place.’ Her eyes took in the handsome antique pieces, the crystal chandelier, the Oriental rug on the white marble floor. ‘Who does it belong to? It is rather grand.’