Voice of the Heart

  After this somewhat one-sided quarrel they had settled down to a peaceful existence and did not exchange angry words again for many months. Three days after the play closed they flew to Mexico City. They spent the night there, and then travelled to Acapulco the next morning. Their four weeks at Las Brisas were quiet, idyllic and romantic. During this time Katharine opened up to Nick even more than ever, and told him much about her childhood. She spoke eloquently and lovingly of her mother and the deep feelings they had held for each other. And he was moved by the sentiments she expressed, and recognized then that her mother’s death was at the root of the profound sadness he was aware lurked in Katharine’s heart.

  But their vacation in Mexico was also filled with laughter and light-hearted gaiety, and they had a great deal of fun together. Nick introduced her to deep-sea fishing, one of his passions, and although she did not fish herself, he saw that she enjoyed accompanying him on the boat. They swam and sunbathed, read books and lazed away the days, content to be alone with each other and isolated from the rest of the world.

  In the evenings they ventured into the town, patronizing the quaint restaurants, sampling the local dishes; they sat listening to the mariachis, sipping wine and holding hands; they danced under the stars, locked in each other’s arms, bewitched and entranced and in love.

  And on one of these balmy evenings, when they lay together in the great bed in the cool darkness of their room, Katharine came to Nick with a new eagerness, begging him to make love to her. Entwining her body around his, she told him, in a breathless whisper, what she wanted, and for a moment he was startled by the unexpectedness of this intimacy. Inflamed by her words, he began to kiss and caress her, his hands and his mouth roaming over her body, bringing her to unparalleled heights of excitement. She responded in a manner he had not thought possible, with wildness and abandonment, and her inhibitions began to drop like veils. And she gave herself up to him, crying out her desire to be possessed and to possess, and that night Katharine experienced her first real passion, her first ecstasy.

  As the days and nights passed they drew closer, became as one. Nothing marred this special time, and they knew they had never been happier in then lives. What they did not understand was that this drifting dreamlike month would never be recaptured, and that it heralded the beginning of the end for them.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Francesca sat staring at the telephone, hesitating, uncertain whether to call Nicholas Latimer or not. Looping a strand of her blonde hah over one ear, she groaned impatiently, irritated with herself. Decisive by nature, she had found herself incapable of making the smallest decision in the last eight hours.

  She supposed she was wavering about making the call because she knew that if she spoke to Nicky she would say too much. The last thing she wanted to do was to make trouble, and her revelations might conceivably do just that. Old habits die hard, she muttered to herself, tightening the belt of her robe. I’ve always tended to protect Katharine, and I’m still doing it after ten years. Oh God, she thought, how can I confide in Nicky? But there is no one else to talk to.

  With a weary gesture, Francesca rubbed her eyes. She had not slept, and a vague but debilitating fatigue hung over her. Wanting to shake off this feeling, she stood up, pushed back the chair and crossed the long spacious library to the window. The sky on this June day was a faultless blue and mild, and the verdant trees were a sea of green in Central Park, rippling under the light summer breeze. She pressed her head against the pane and closed her eyes, squeezing back the tears. Years ago, when she had been recovering from her heartbreak over Victor Mason, she had vowed no man would ever make her weep again. And least of all Ryan O’Rourke, she said under her breath. But were the incipient tears caused by him? Or by Katharine? Which one had hurt her the most?

  With a sigh, she turned away from the window, saw Lada sitting in the middle of the floor, regarding her through soulful diamond-bright eyes as black as coal.

  ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it, Lada?’ Francesca said out loud, and bending down, she picked her up, hugged her tightly. The little white dog nuzzled her, licked her face, nestled closer. ‘What shall we do, Lada?’ she murmured, continuing to voice her thoughts as she went back to the Regency ebony desk. The dog wriggled out of her arms, jumped down, flopped under the desk, and Francesca drew her engagement book towards her. Flipping through the pages for the rest of June and early July, she noted they were mostly blank, except for a few social engagements pencilled in tentatively. A dinner at Nelson Avery’s house; several luncheons; a weekend in Virginia, as a house guest of Nelson’s brother, Harrison. After contemplating her social commitments for a moment, Francesca closed the book. Her inertia fell away, was replaced by her old incisiveness. Plans started to evolve in her head. After fifteen minutes of rapid but clear thinking, she glanced at the clock. It was almost nine. She began telephoning, and at the end of an hour and a half she had set everything in motion. There was no going back now. Her last call was to Nick.

  After the usual greetings had been exchanged Francesca had said, ‘I realize you’re probably up to your neck, darling, but I wondered if I could possibly see you today? I suppose lunch would kill your concentration.’

  ‘I finished the final draft of the new script last night, Frankie, so I’m all yours. As a matter of fact, I was about to call you, to invite you to lunch. You just beat me to it. Where would you like to go, Beauty?’

  ‘Oh anywhere you like, Nicky. But could I come there for a drink first? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’

  Catching the odd inflection in her voice, Nick said swiftly, ‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’

  ‘Nothing. Truly. What time shall I come over? About twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Sure, that’s great. See ya later, kid.’

  ‘Yes, thanks so much, Nicky. ’Bye.’ Dropping the receiver in the cradle, Francesca thought: Kid. I’m thirty years old.

  Half an hour later, looking coolly elegant in a navy blue linen dress and pearls, her shining blonde hair swept back in a smooth chignon, Francesca sat in the sitting room drinking a cup of tea with Val, the former housekeeper of Langley Castle. Some seven years earlier, in 1959, Val had met an American, Bill Perry, at a trade fair for carpet manufacturers in Harrogate. Mutual friends had introduced them, and Bill, widowed like Val, had pursued the relationship. In 1961, they had been married, and Val and her daughter Rosemary had moved to the States. Now, in 1966, they were living in Forest Hills.

  Francesca said, ‘Thank you for coming into Manhattan on such short notice, Val, it’s awfully nice of you.’

  ‘Goodness, M’lady, it’s no trouble I’m sure. I’m glad to be of help. To tell you the truth, I get a bit bored these days. I’m not used to having time on my hands, and I do seem to have a lot of that, what with Rosemary away at college and Bill travelling so much.’

  Francesca leaned forward urgently. ‘Did you speak to Bill? Is he agreeable?’

  Val smiled, ‘Yes, M’lady. I ’phoned him at the showroom before I left. He has no objections. In fact, he agrees with you that this place shouldn’t be left empty while you’re away. The Countess has such a lot of valuables, paintings and things.’ Val glanced around, nodding to herself. ‘Not that Agnes isn’t responsible and efficient, as I’ve noticed in the past few years, but still, the flat ought to be occupied at night and at weekends. You never know. So many robberies these days.’

  Francesca concurred; she said, ‘Agnes will be coming in every day as usual, so there’s no work for you to do, and as I told you, I’m taking Lada with me. But I will be gone about two months, Val, is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Francesca. Now don’t you worry about a thing. And while you’re out to lunch I can start packing for you.’

  ‘I think that will have to wait until I get back later this afternoon. But you could start putting all the light summer clothes, shoes, bags and swimwear on the bed. We can sort through them later.’ Francesca rose. ‘I’m ru
nning a bit late, so I’d better get off. Agnes will make lunch for you, Val.’

  ‘Thank you, M’lady. By the way, what time’s your plane tomorrow night?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’ Francesca grimaced. ‘Oh dear. I haven’t given you much time to arrange things, have I?’

  ‘I’ll be installed by the time you leave, Lady Francesca, don’t you fret. Bill can always move in a few days later. I also spoke to his sister after you rang this morning, and she’s going to keep an eye on our flat for us. She lives in the same building. Now, you run along and have a nice lunch, and give my best to Mr Latimer. Such a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, I will. And thank you again, Val. I’m very grateful. ’Bye.’

  A few minutes later, as she walked briskly down Seventy-Ninth Street from Fifth Avenue and turned onto Madison, Francesca concentrated on the things she had to say to Nick, wondering how much to tell him. The matter was still unresolved in her mind as she climbed the flight of steps in front of his townhouse and rang the bell. I’ll have to play this by ear, she decided, and arranged a smile on her face.

  Nick opened the door, grinning hugely, delighted to see her. He ushered her into the small front hall, pecked her on the cheek, said, ‘Let’s go up to the living room. I have a bottle of white wine on ice.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she replied.

  Francesca started to chat about inconsequential things whilst Nick filled two crystal glasses, but after only a few seconds he cut her short. ‘What did you want to talk to me about, Frankie?’ he asked crisply, bringing the wine, sitting down opposite.

  His alert shrewd blue eyes probed her face, and Francesca decided there was no point in procrastinating. She said, ‘Ryan.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nick straightened up, and his eyes narrowed. ‘What about him?’

  ‘We’ve broken up,’ Francesca said flatly.

  Nick frowned, looked slightly taken aback. ‘When? And why?’

  ‘Last night. Around midnight to be precise.’ She reached for the glass, marvelled at her steady hand, her contained tone.

  ‘But why?’ Nick repeated, his frown intensifying.

  Francesca shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. Then she said. ‘It was his idea, not mine.’

  This astonished Nick, and he muttered, ‘But he must have given you a reason…’

  ‘For someone with a silver tongue and an abundance of Irish blarney he was somewhat reticent, I must admit.’

  Nick sat back thoughtfully. Having always considered them an ill-matched pair, he was experiencing a sense of relief that their affair was finally over. In fact, privately he was delighted. He had observed the two of them for the past three years and with growing alarm, aware that Ryan was not good enough for Francesca, wanting someone more suitable for her. He studied her closely, trying to assess her present emotions, wondering how distressed she really was. This was hard to determine; self-possession and extraordinary self-control were natural traits in her. As he continued to study her, he was suddenly struck by her grace and style. She had become the loveliest of women, and he was proud of her growth as a person, her development as a writer of undeniable talent and professionalism. Yes, she had turned out well, and he was glad about this, glad she was his friend.

  Francesca said, ‘What are you thinking about, darling?’

  ‘You. Ryan. What did you mean when you said he was redeem? He’s usually very glib.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have characterized him that way, Nicky; obviously I misled you. Although he wasn’t his usual ebullient self, he wasn’t actually redeem either, especially at the end of our discussion. But mind you, I did put a lot of pressure on him, insisted he explain himself. He finally opened up.’

  ‘That sounds more like him. He’s never been short of words. Shall we talk about it, love?’ Nick, perplexed by the turn of events, was also anxious to pinpoint her state of mind and heart.

  Francesca took a deep breath. ‘Ryan was in New York yesterday, on family business. We’d made a date. He came up to the apartment for a drink and then we went to Caravelle for dinner. Ryan seemed normal, if quieter than usual. After dinner we went back to the apartment, and we—’ She stopped herself abruptly, flushing slightly. ‘Well, anyway, Ryan was very loving, and when he was dressing later he said he wanted to talk to me, asked me to get up and join him in the living room. I was baffled, surprised, I suppose, by his serious tone. I realized something was terribly wrong, Nicky, his face was so set… more determined than I’d ever seen it. He came straight to the point. He said he thought it would be wise if we didn’t see each other again.’

  The son of a bitch, Nick thought angrily. He had to get her into bed one last time. Pressing back his disgust, Nick said sarcastically, ‘And he calls himself a gentleman!’

  Francesca glanced at him, merely shrugged. ‘I know what you’re implying. I was furious about the way he handled the situation myself. I think it would have been more appropriate to tell me over drinks. Anyway, later it occurred to me that he might not have meant to tell me last night, that it was a sudden decision, made after dinner. You know, on die spur of the moment.’

  Nick doubted this. He said, ‘Possibly. But go on.’

  ‘Naturally I was floored by his announcement, stunned really. It was the last thing I’d expected.’ Francesca smiled faintly. ‘To tell you the truth, I found it hard to absorb for a few minutes. I poured myself a brandy, smoked a cigarette, tried to compose myself. I remember thinking Ryan seemed nervous, even embarrassed. He wouldn’t have a drink, was anxious to leave. But I demanded an explanation.’

  Nick leaned over the table. ‘And what reason did he give?’

  ‘Ryan said he felt he wasn’t being fair to me, that he was wasting my time… because there was no future for us.’ Her face changed, became still and cold. ‘He pointed out that I was thirty, not getting any younger, that I ought to be thinking about getting married, having children. Therefore, since he could not marry me, he was giving me my freedom, a chance to make a good life for myself with someone else.’

  Nick pursed his lips. ‘Did he say could not, or didn’t want, to marry you?’

  ‘Could not.’ Francesca blinked. ‘I asked him why. It was then that he started to hedge. I badgered him. Finally Ryan told me he was too young to saddle himself with a wife at this crucial period in his political career, that he had no time to devote to a wife, or to start a family right now. I said this was a silly attitude, and he retorted that he didn’t want those heavy responsibilities, could not cope with them. He then gave me a long speech about his political aspirations, explained that these came first, were his priorities. He did not neglect to point out that he was overburdened with work as a Congressman. You know what Ryan’s like, Nicky. So ambitious for himself.’

  ‘You mean his father’s ambitious for him,’ Nick cut in sharply. ‘The old man’s behind this, Frankie. He pulls the strings of the puppet.’

  Shaking her head violently, Francesca disagreed. ‘No, no, you’re wrong. I don’t think Mr O’Rourke had anything to do with Ryan’s decision. I even asked him if his father objected.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ryan said not really. He remarked that his father rather liked me.’ A rueful smile flicked into her amber-hazel eyes. ‘Ryan had to qualify this, of course, by saying that although his father detested the English, and especially the ruling class because of the things they’d done to Ireland, he nevertheless found me to be the exception to the rule.’

  Nick snorted. ‘I don’t buy this story, Frankie. It’s goddamn phony. Ryan is twenty-nine, exactly the age when he should be marrying and starting a family. As for saying he’s too busy to devote himself to the domestic scene, that is absolute nonsense. For a junior Congressman he’s certainly got plenty of aides and sidekicks, more help than most Senators. Which brings me to another point. The O’Rourke money. They have millions, probably billions. A man of Ryan’s enormous wealth doesn’t have to cope with the normal hassle and responsibilities of a family. He can afford
dozens of servants, nannies, what have you.’ Nick took a cigarette, went on. ‘You would be a tremendous asset to him in Washington, not to mention campaigning. And he’s bound to run for the Senate in a few years. That’s written in cement.’ Nick shook his head as vehemently as Francesca had. ‘No, none of this gels with me, Frankie. Poor reasons—all of them.’

  ‘Despite what you might think, Ryan doesn’t believe I’d be an asset to him,’ Francesca said softly. ‘Just the opposite in fact.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Nick cried, his blond brows lifting, his expression incredulous.

  ‘He listed all the things about me which he considers would be detrimental to him, to his career, and with his constituents.’ She lifted a hand, began ticking them off on her fingers. ‘I’m English. I’m the daughter of an earl. I have a title in my own right. I’m a career woman, dedicated to my writing. Obviously of no use as a political wife.’ She laughed coldly. ‘And get this, I’m a socialite. I’m just not acceptable, apparently, and then there’s the—’

  ‘You have got to be kidding!’ Nick exploded.

  ‘And then there’s the question of religion,’ she proceeded firmly. ‘That’s really at the root of it.’

  Nick stared at her. ‘Religion?’ he echoed.

  ‘Yes. Ryan felt it necessary to remind me he is a Catholic, pointed out he could not risk offending other Catholics—presumably the voters—by marrying a non-Catholic. Especially one who would not convert, would not agree to raise his children in the faith, and one who was known to be prejudiced.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not following you.’ Nick seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Ryan thinks I’m anti-Catholic and that my family is anti-Catholic.’