Nicky sat up and opened her eyes, feeling suddenly quite irritated. Why was she so ambivalent? She had no answer, at least not exactly. However, she was fully aware of the importance of her career. It was her lifeblood, in all truth. Was that at the root of it? Was that the stumbling block? The fact was, Clee lived in Paris and liked living there, and obviously did not want to return to the States to take up residence. She lived in New York and needed to, because the network was here and she was a big number in American television.
Maybe that is the reason I’m so uncertain, she finally admitted, and grimaced wryly to herself. She obviously wasn’t prepared to jeopardize her brilliant career.
A few minutes later Nicky automatically glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to seven and time to put ATN on, to catch the evening news on her own network with anchorman Mike Fowler, to whom she was close.
Rising, she stepped over to the bookshelves where the large television set was housed, turned it on, and went back to the sofa.
The current coverage was the local New York news, and Nicky paid scant attention to this, picked up Time magazine from the coffee table, flipped the pages to the section on the press, and began to read, listening with only half an ear.
A short while later, at the sound of the familiar music, the splendid, rather grand theme that heralded ATN’s nightly national and international news, Nicky lifted her head.
There sat Mike in all his glory, looking as wonderful and as reassuring as he always did. Like Peter Jennings of ABC, Mike was extremely good looking and glamorous, but also a superb journalist. Peter and Mike were two of the best in the business as far as she was concerned—first-rate reporters who got the point, were informative and reasonable, and for those reasons they took all the ratings.
Only vaguely listening to Mike giving the headlines of the world news, she continued to read the Time piece, and went on reading it as he gave more in-depth details of the national news.
But when she heard the voice of her channel’s Rome correspondent, Tony Johnson, Nicky looked up, suddenly more attentive.
She listened carefully as he told of a shooting incident at a political rally outside Rome. Several people had been hit when a gunman had gone berserk and fired a machine gun into the crowd. Tony said there was speculation that the incident had really been an assassination attempt by the opposition party.
As the camera moved away from Tony, and slowly panned around, it lingered for a moment on a group to the left of the speaker’s platform, then settled briefly on a face in the crowd.
Suddenly Nicky sat bolt upright, and stared in shock at a face on the screen. ‘Charles!’ she said. ‘It’s Charles!’ But how could it be? Charles was dead.
Charles Devereaux had killed himself two and a half years ago, just a few weeks before their wedding. How could he be in Rome, larger than life? No, it can’t be him, Nicky thought. Charles had drowned off the English coast.
It was true, however, that his body had never been found.
Suddenly Nicky knew; yes, it was him. Charles Devereaux was alive. But how could that be? Why had he disappeared from her life? And what was she going to do about it?
PART THREE
Conspirators
False face must hide
what the false heart doth know.
William Shakespeare
NINETEEN
The house where Anne Devereaux lived was old, very old: a place of historical significance and singular beauty.
Pullenbrook was its name, and it stood on a low plateau of parkland in a dell beneath the rolling hills of the South Downs. Cradled as it was deep in the heart of the Sussex countryside, it was unusually well-secluded for a great house of its kind.
It was hidden in the folds of the soft pastoral land, and the tips of its chimneys only became visible at the very last moment of its approach. Then, unexpectedly, the manor could be seen through the lush green foliage of the high trees that fringed the edge of the park, and it never failed to take the breath away.
Built in 1565 by an ancestor of Anne’s, it was a Tudor house of exceptional distinction, typical of the Elizabethan period, with its grey-stone walls, half-timbered gables, soaring leaded windows, square-cut bays and many tall chimneys.
Clustered around the main house were the out-buildings, the stables, a small church and two walled gardens; flaring out on either side and running along the front facade was the lovely park where fallow deer grazed as they had for centuries.
A house of unchanging appearance, it had remained much the same since it was built by one Sir Edmund Clifford, a magnate and warrior knight in service to Elizabeth Tudor, the Queen of England. The lands of Pullen were granted to Sir Edmund by the Queen, in gratitude for services rendered to the Crown; later she showered him with more royal favours when she elevated him to the peerage by creating him Earl Clifford of Allendale, and giving him Castle Allendale and additional lands in Sussex.
Edmund, his eldest son Thomas, who became the second earl, and his subsequent descendants, divided their time between the manor and the castle. But by the end of the seventeenth century the Cliffords were residing permanently at the castle, which had grown in size and magnificence over the years, and in consequence the manor house was used only part of the year. However, it had always been kept in good repair and its outer structure and interiors were unimpaired over the centuries.
Fortunately, because the Clifford family lived mostly at Castle Allendale for the next few hundred years, Pullenbrook had been saved from certain and perhaps excessive modernization, so it had retained its purity of architecture and Tudor character.
It was Anne’s grandfather, the ninth earl named for the first, who preferred to live at the manor rather than at the great castle, and thus, in 1910, Pullenbrook once again became the main residence of the Cliffords. His son, Julian, the tenth earl and Anne’s father, followed this tradition and resided at the manor house until his death.
Anne Clifford Devereaux’s entire life had been spent at Pullenbrook. She was born there on 26 April 1931. As the daughter of an earl she had the honorary title of Lady, a title which was retained even after marriage.
She was raised in the ancient house, married from it in 1948, and three years later she had returned to live there as a young widow with a small son. At this time in her life she had needed to be in the bosom of her family, rather than alone in the grand London town house her late husband, Henry Devereaux, had left her.
When her brother Geoffrey had inherited the Clifford earldom, estates and lands, after their father’s death in 1955, he had chosen to make Castle Allendale his home. And understanding how much his sister cared for the manor in West Sussex, he had suggested she continue to live there for as long as she wished, whether or not she remarried.
Thirty-four years later she was still in residence, châtelaine of the house for her brother. To say that Anne loved Pullenbrook was something of an understatement. In a sense, she revered it, and much of her life revolved around it; it gave her constant succour and comfort. She felt safe and protected within its familiar walls, deriving much pleasure from its ancient and stately beauty, its timelessness, the continuity of family line and history which it represented.
There were times when she often wondered what she would have done without the house, for it had seen her through many hours of unhappiness—sadness, loneliness and heartache, grief, sorrow and illness. Its very existence over so many centuries seemed to reassure her that she too could, indeed would, survive, and that she would go on—somehow.
Now on this Saturday morning in August Anne came into the Great Hall, her step light, her high heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. She stood poised in the doorway, regarding the hall, marvelling at its peaceful beauty, as she so frequently did. It never failed to hold her in its spell.
Thousands of dust motes rose up in the shafts of trembling light that slanted in through the leaded windows, but otherwise there was no motion whatsoever in the room. It was all stil
lness and quiescence, filled with bright sunlight that burnished the ancient wood pieces, gave them a mellow glow, and brought into focus the old paintings of her ancestors by such master portraitists as Peter Lely, Thomas Gainsborough and George Romney.
A fleeting smile crossed her face. Every aspect of this house gave her immense pleasure, but this room in particular was a special favourite. Moving forward to the long refectory table, Anne placed the bowl of roses she was carrying in the centre of it, stepped back, eyeing them for a moment.
The head gardener had picked the flowers earlier that morning and they were beautiful. They were in varied shades of pink, and looked perfect in the crested silver bowl set against the ripe old wood of the table. The roses were full blown, and several petals suddenly fell. She was about to pick them up, then changed her mind, left them lying where they were, thinking how natural they looked next to the silver bowl.
Turning on her heels, Anne went back through the heavy carved-wood door leading into the private quarters of the house, which were not open to the public.
The flower room where she had been working was off to one side, across a small stone-flagged foyer; Anne went in, lifted the last vase of flowers from the old deal work table and took it down the corridor to the drawing room.
This was a wonderfully spacious room with a series of soaring, leaded windows set in a square-cut bay, a huge stone fireplace and a high, coffered ceiling. The room had been decorated mostly in various shades of celadon green, and these washed across the walls, were repeated in various upholstery fabrics and in the Aubusson carpet on the floor; some of the celadons were so pale they were almost a silvery grey. Fine Georgian antiques and paintings graced the room, which, like the Great Hall, had an air of timelessness and tranquillity about it.
After placing the tall crystal vase of white roses on an antique fruitwood table in the centre of the room, Anne hurried out. Several seconds later she was sitting down behind her desk in the small parlour she used as an office. Cosy, comfortable, this seemed full of sunshine because of its yellow walls; a raspberry-coloured carpet stretched across the floor, and a loveseat covered in a raspberry-and-white striped fabric was placed in front of the fireplace.
The most important piece of furniture in the room was the Georgian walnut desk where Anne now sat going through the morning post. After reading it all, she picked up the menus she had written out the night before for Pilar, the cook, and glanced at them again. Then she looked over the list of things to do, which she had scribbled yesterday and systematically began to check off those chores she had already accomplished.
At this moment a shadow fell across the doorway, and she lifted her head, smiled warmly when she saw Philip Rawlings standing there looking slightly hesitant.
‘Am I disturbing you, Anne?’
‘No, darling, not at all. I’ve just been checking my list, and I’m happy to tell you that I’ve done everything I had to do. I’m now as free as a bird—and all yours.’
‘Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that,’ he answered and sauntered into the room. A slender man of medium height, with intelligent grey eyes in a pleasantly attractive, somewhat boyish face, Philip looked much younger than his fifty-six years, despite the silver wings in his dark hair. This morning he wore a wine-coloured paisley-patterned cravat with an open-necked pale blue shirt, dark grey slacks and a grey-checked sports jacket; his appearance was more like that of a country squire than an important member of the British Foreign Office.
‘I thought we might have a stroll before lunch,’ Philip went on, smiling as he came to a stop in front of her desk.
‘And why not? Actually, I’d rather like it,’ Anne said. ‘I was going to come looking for you, to suggest the very same thing. So, come along, let’s go to the coat room where I’ll change these shoes, put on a pair of flats, and then we can stroll up Sweetheart Hill. That’s a pleasant walk, and not too long, either.’
‘Splendid,’ Philip said.
Anne glanced at her watch as she rose, and went on, ‘We have about an hour. Plenty of time for the walk and a drink before lunch. Inez is going to serve Pilar’s cheese soufflé promptly at one. She’s making it specially for you, you know.’
Philip put his arm around Anne’s shoulders as they walked out into the corridor together. ‘The problem in this house is that you all spoil me,’ he murmured genially, spontaneously kissing her cheek.
Anne looked at him and began to laugh. ‘You’re worth spoiling, my darling,’ she said, her pretty eyes mirroring the love and affection reflected in his.
***
Sweetheart Hill rose up behind the house, an extraordinary vantage point with spectacular views for miles around.
Several hundred years before, in 1644, during the ill-fated reign of Charles I, one of Anne’s female ancestors had climbed the hill every day for months. The Lady Rosemary Clifford had hoped and prayed to see her sweetheart returning from the Battle of Marston Moor, during the bloody Civil War which had racked England at that time—and this was how it had acquired its romantic and charming name.
A stone bench had been built on top of the hill for the Lady Rosemary, so that she could sit and watch and wait in comfort. She had waited in vain, as it turned out. Her Royalist sweetheart, Lord Colin Greville, had been killed by the Roundheads—Cromwell’s men—and had never returned to claim her as his bride. Eventually, she had recovered from her sorrow and had married some other young nobleman, but the place where she had so devotedly waited had been known as Sweetheart Hill ever after.
Anne and Philip now sat on that bench, enjoying the mild air, and the serene and splendid views of the great Tudor house and the surrounding bucolic countryside on this glittering summer’s day.
‘You’re glad Nicky is coming for the weekend, aren’t you?’ Philip said, breaking the silence that had settled between them after their climb up the hill.
Anne turned her face to his, and nodded quickly, her blue eyes lighting up. ‘Oh yes, very happy, Philip. I’ve missed her terribly… but then you know that. I can’t wait to spend these few days with her. Nicky has always been unusually special to me.’
‘I know, and I’m delighted she phoned from London, and that she more or less invited herself down here.’ He smiled at Anne, and remarked, ‘Actually, I have to admit I’m looking forward to seeing her myself. There’s no one quite like Nicky Wells.’
‘Wasn’t it lucky we went to Tarascon?’ Anne did not wait for an answer, but hurried on, ‘And to think that we almost didn’t go to stay with the Norells.’
‘Not only that, if we’d listened to them we wouldn’t have gone to Les Baux for dinner that evening. Remember how they kept telling us it was a tourist trap in the summer months?’
‘Yes. But it was meant to be… that we ran into Nicky the way we did.’
Philip did not say anything. He put his arm around her and brought her closer to him, and after a moment he said softly, against her hair, ‘There is something else that is meant to be, Anne.’
She swung her head to look at him, her eyes questioning.
‘Marry me, Anne. Please.’
‘Oh Philip,’ she began, and was about to reject him, but her voice faltered as she looked into his face. There was such a silent plea in his eyes, and his expression was so loving, so full of sincerity, she felt her breath catching in her throat. As far as she was concerned, there was no one who could hold a candle to Philip Rawlings. He was a man of great kindness and generosity, and he had been inordinately loyal and a source of great strength to her over many years. He had asked her several times to marry him during the past six or seven years, and always she had refused. Now, suddenly, she realized how cruel she had been, and was being, to this truly good man who cared so much about her, and her well-being.
She took a deep breath. ‘You simply want to make an honest woman of me, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’ she said, adopting a light tone, one echoing with gaiety, and she laughed.
He shook his head
very slowly and emphatically. ‘No, that’s not it at all, Anne. I don’t care what the world thinks of me, or of you, or of us, or of the fact that we’ve been living together for years. I want to marry you because I love you very much indeed… and I thought you loved me in the same way.’
‘But I do! Oh darling, you know I do! But marriage seems so… well, to be honest, irrelevant at our age. As far as I’m concerned, we are married. What difference does a little bit of paper make in the long run?’
‘It makes a lot of difference to me. You see, I want you to be my wife, and it’s important to me that you bear my name, that we are… married.’ He began to laugh as lightly as she had a split second before, even a bit self-deprecatingly, and added, ‘Having just said I don’t care about the world, perhaps I really do, after all. Maybe I want the world to know that I belong to you, and that you belong to me. I believe I need us to be married, Anne. We’ve been together an awfully long time, darling, and marriage seems to me to be the natural, logical and most wonderful conclusion to our relationship.’
Anne nodded, but found she was quite unable to say anything for a moment. She averted her head, sat gazing out across the landscape, her eyes reflective, her face full of sudden contemplation.
Everything Philip said was true, of course. They had known each other for fifteen years, and had been deeply involved with each other for fourteen of those years. They had met in 1974, just after Philip had left his wife, and what had begun as a friendship had eventually developed into a full-blown affair of the heart. She had dropped the man she had been seeing at the time, Philip had become her lover, and for them both it had been a relationship made in heaven. They were ideally suited to each other, temperamentally and sexually, and they had quickly bonded. Philip’s divorce had taken four years, and by then they had settled into a perfectly happy, congenial, and contented routine, seeing each other every weekend when Philip came down to Pullenbrook, and during the week whenever she was up in London.