Katharine had been understanding, but she had categorically taken the Earl’s side. She had advised Francesca, rather vociferously, to double her efforts on the biography, in the hope that it would be a commercial success and earn her a bushel of money. Katharine had continued to be supportive, and a receptive and patient listener whenever Francesca wanted to discuss the book, for which Francesca was grateful.
Suddenly Francesca felt a light tap on her shoulder, and she swung her head to face Nicholas Latimer, who was leaning forward. It was almost as if he had been plugged into her mind like an amp, for he said, ‘Did you take my advice about bridging and spanning time, the early years of Gordon’s life?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I did, Nicky. Thanks so much.’
‘Keep at it, kid. You’ll write that last page one day.’
‘I hope so. Incidentally, what’s this delay about?’
Nick grinned. ‘We’re waiting for God. We can’t possibly begin until he arrives.’
‘God?’
‘Yes. The guy from Monarch Pictures. He now holds our fate in his hands, since they’re going to be distributing Wuthering Heights and, more importantly, financing it. Mind you, they’re not making a problem about who plays the female lead. All they’re really interested in is getting one of Victor’s pictures. It’ll give them the prestige they need, and it’s quite a coup that he signed with them. Metro really wanted the film too. Anyway, Vic thought Hilly Street ought to see Katharine’s test. A courtesy gesture.’
‘Hilly Street? That’s not really his name, is it?’ Francesca giggled, eyeing Nick doubtfully, aware of his penchant for teasing her unmercifully. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you just invented it.’
Nick laughed. ‘Sure I did. But years ago. And the nickname stuck.’
‘But why such a peculiar nickname?’
‘It’s appropriate. Doing business with him is like riding a bike up a very hilly street. Excessively bumpy. His real name’s Hillard Steed, which prompted my play on words, I guess, and he’s not such a bad guy. Congenitally late though.’
Victor, who had overheard their conversation, straightened up and glanced at Nick. ‘I’ll give Hilly about ten more minutes and then I’ll tell the projectionist to roll it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost eleven. As usual, Hilly’s going to be half an hour late. I told him ten-thirty.’ Victor stood up, dwarfing them with his great bulk. ‘I’m going into the projection room, Nick. Excuse me.’ He nodded rather curtly to Francesca, who managed a bleak little smile in return before he disappeared.
A knowing glint flicked into Nick’s eyes as he observed this cool and perfunctory exchange. Francesca had become something of a permanent fixture in their lives, and Vic’s behaviour when she was around was causing Nick considerable amusement. Ever since meeting Victor, Katharine Tempest had spent a great deal of her free time with him, especially when Kim was in Yorkshire, introducing him into the smartest social circles and to the crème de la crème of London society. This had not changed, except that now she had her new bosom chum trailing along in her wake. Wherever Katharine went Francesca’s presence was sure to follow, like the proverbial little lamb. Nick felt Francesca’s presence as acutely as Victor did. She was astonishingly bright and gay, articulate to the point of being rather outspoken at times, unusually self-assured for her age, and yes, enormously pretty. Quite beautiful, really, in that understated English way that was dewdrop fresh and reminiscent of a spring garden. No, it wasn’t easy to ignore the Lady Francesca, as Nick had quickly come to understand.
Victor always seemed delighted at the prospect of their company, until the girls arrived, and then his demeanour instantly changed, and radically, in relation to Francesca. He was either remote and vague and retreated into protracted silences, or became excessively jolly and avuncular, alien postures which did not sit well on him. To Nick, Vic appeared curiously transparent and out of sync when Francesca was in the same room. For a quintessential actor he was doing a pretty lousy job of concealing his feelings. In fact, his abnormal behaviour only confirmed his immense attraction to Francesca more forcibly than ever. For her part, she was completely natural, her comportment relaxed and pleasant, and she was apparently oblivious to Victor’s indisputable interest in her. Maybe I’m the only one who’s aware of it, because I know him so well, Nick thought, and another possibility quickly insinuated itself into his mind. Could it be that Victor did not comprehend his feelings for the girl? Hardly likely, Nick answered himself. Still, Vic might have buried his emotions so deep he was able to ignore them, and therefore did not have to confront or deal with them. If that’s the case, he’s being very foolish, Nick decided.
Nicholas Latimer was the first to admit he was very taken with Francesca. In the short time he had known her he had grown extremely fond of her in a brotherly fashion, and in some respects she reminded him of his sister Marcia. She took his banter exceptionally well, in the spirit it was given. Francesca was a good sport. Unlike Katharine, he commented inwardly, and smiled with acerbity. His wit and irreverent joshing fell on stony ground when directed at her. Oh she smiled, even laughed occasionally, but the eyes were so glacial he thought he would get frostbite from them one day. Because of her impeccable manners, Katharine was always civil to him, even cordial, but this could be so excessive it bordered on parody, in Nick’s view, at any rate. Frigid was the only word he could ever find to properly characterize her to himself.
In contrast, he thought of Francesca as warm and loving and sunny of nature. An uncomplicated young woman who was lots of fun, and had a terrific sense of humour. In particular, Nicky liked her smart mind. She was also keen and incisive and he admired her vast knowledge of history.
On that tedious Sunday evening, a couple of weeks earlier, when Victor had been inveigled by Katharine into giving a supper party in his suite, Francesca had started to look as bored as he was feeling. She had drifted over to join him during cocktails, and had remained resolutely glued to his side thereafter. Nick had been delighted to have her company. He had sensed rather than observed her irritation with Estelle Morgan’s ridiculous affectations and inanities. In fact, Francesca’s distant manner was a reflection of his own attitude, and his growing impatience with the journalist, whom Nick mentally categorized as a pushy New York broad of the worst kind.
That evening he and Francesca had spent several hours discussing the historical figures who most intrigued them. She had talked about Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, known as the Kingmaker, that glittering figure who, in the fifteenth century, had placed Edward Plantagenet on the shaky throne of England after the Wars of the Roses. Nick had listened to her in astonishment, discovering she had an amazing ability to make both the man and the events surrounding him come vividly alive in the manner of a born storyteller. He had been encouraging her efforts to write ever since, had volunteered to help her in any way he could, and had already spoken to his English publisher about her book.
Now, as he reflected, Nick could not remember enjoying an evening so much in a long time. Yes, there was something unique about Francesca Cunningham. His only regret was that she was so very young. Otherwise she would have been perfect for Victor. Exactly the kind of woman he needed in his life. Too damned bad, Nick muttered under his breath, and then he frowned. Who had decided she was too young? Victor, of course. But I did tease him about her age, Nick thought, regretting this now, wondering if he had sounded disapproving. I’d better correct that impression, he resolved.
Again, Nick found himself focusing on Katharine Tempest, contemplating the test he was about to see. Was it really any good? Victor had been close-mouthed, even cagey, about it and for once Nick had been unable to read his best friend. When Nick had pestered him, Vic had merely said, ‘I think you’d better see it for yourself. I don’t want to influence you in advance. And listen, old buddy, I want an honest opinion from you.’
Nick strictured himself to be unbiased, to keep an open mind. He must not let his dislike of Katharine a
s a woman becloud his judgment of her as an actress. Nick merely tolerated her company out of deference to Victor, who was oddly attached to her. Sometimes he wondered about that attachment.
Hillard Steed finally arrived. He and Victor were chatting in the doorway, and Nick sauntered over, greeting Hilly with amiability. Victor interrupted sharply, with, ‘Okay boys, let’s get this show on the road. You can talk later.’ Nick winked at Hilly, gave Victor a smart military salute and edged along the row. A second later, Victor lowered himself into the next seat, swung his head, and indicated to the projectionist peering out of the booth window that he wanted to start.
Francesca gave Katharine’s hand a quick squeeze without looking at her. Her eyes were glued to the screen and she sat perfectly still. Katharine herself was suddenly petrified and she wanted to flee, but that would be cowardly and she prided herself on her courage. Her nervousness increased and she felt as if her heart was in her mouth. Outwardly she remained contained and unruffled, but she was glad Francesca was there to lend her support. Katharine closed her eyes, and she, who was not particularly religious, found herself saying a small silent prayer: Please God, let me be good. So much depends on this. My future and Ryan’s too. Her eyes opened and she settled back against the seat, willing herself to relax.
The overhead lights were doused, and there was a flickering on the screen, but it went black and a collective groan rose and echoed around the screening room. Almost immediately the reel started and the tides on a clap-board read: SCREEN TEST: MISS KATHARINE TEMPEST: WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
And so the scene began.
Ann Patterson, the actress playing Nelly Dean, sat in the kitchen of Wuthering Heights, the Earnshaw farm, singing a lullaby to the baby Hareton, actually a doll wrapped in a shawl. In the Bronte novel, Heathcliff had been present, talking to Nelly a moment before she had lifted the child from its crib. Then he had walked across the room and flung himself down on a bench against the wall, hidden from view by a large settle. He had remained in the kitchen.
Francesca had included this in her version, since she believed it was Heathcliff’s hidden presence that helped to give the chapter a great deal of its dramatic impetus, in that Heathcliff overhears the unflattering things Cathy has to say about him, as opposed to Edgar Linton, and the recitation of her feelings for them both.
However, Victor had limited Bruce Nottley to only one other actor to play opposite Katharine, to keep the costs of the test down to a minimum. And so the first few pages of Francesca’s relatively short, twenty-eight-minute script had been dropped by the director, eliminating the need for an actor to play the role of Heathcliff. Katharine had been concerned that this tampering with the script, minor though it was, would diminish the values in the scene. But Bruce had managed to reassure her, explaining that Ann could easily indicate to the viewer that there was an eavesdropper present, simply through worried glances directed to the far end of the kitchen, her vain attempts to silence Cathy increasing Nelly’s nervousness. Katharine had no choice but to acquiesce, since Bruce, as the director of the test, had the last word.
The elderly actress continued to croon softly to the child, and the screening room was now completely hushed, the silence broken only by the gentle whirring of the projector. The tension and expectancy were high, seemed to vibrate like waves in the air. Everyone was keyed up and waiting, wondering if they were about to witness a disastrous failure or the birth of a new star. Only Victor knew the answer and he had given none of them the vaguest clue.
The kitchen door flew open and Katharine Tempest was on the screen. Her first lines, spoken in a whisper, were, ‘Are you alone, Nelly?’ All eyes were focused on her as she floated forward to join Nelly Dean by the hearth, in the foreground of the shot. She looked like a dream in a white muslin frock sprigged with tiny cornflowers. Her thick chestnut hair was parted in the centre and held back at each side with small blue-velvet bows, and it fell softly to her shoulders in loose waves. The camera dollied in for a close-up and there were several quite audible gasps as it lingered there to reveal the perfect features, the purity and innocence in those matchless eyes.
Katharine seemed to leap out from the screen, blazingly alive, larger than life. Her acting was superb, but the force she projected had little to do with this, or her grace of movement, her facial expressions, the mellifluous ring to her voice, although, indeed, all were in great evidence. It was something far beyond these attributes which came across so powerfully and magnetically, which stunned with its impact. It was sheer force of personality. Katharine had incredible presence, and glamour, and charisma personified, and all spelled STAR in no uncertain terms. And the camera truly loved her.
As the scene unfolded, Katharine ran the gamut of emotions. Her initial quiet anxiety on entering was quickly replaced by lighthearted gaiety tinged with skittishness, which in turn moved on to indignation and a hint of imperiousness. She was also defiant, cajoling, sweetly endearing and, finally, was held in the grip of a passion so intensely, so eloquently expressed it was heart-stopping in its pathos and realism. Francesca was mesmerized and on the edge of her seat, clasping her hands tightly together. Gooseflesh ran up her arms when Katharine began Cathy Earnshaw’s famous declaration of her all-consuming love for Heathcliff. She was unusually familiar with the words, had heard them said many times before; but it seemed to her that Katharine was giving them new life and meaning and with a depth of feeling that was remarkable. She was touched and moved in a way she had never been before in her young life, and she knew she was watching genius. Katharine Tempest was spellbinding.
On the screen Katharine was at Nelly’s feet, one hand on her knee, and, as she looked up at her, those huge turquoise eyes beseeched, were flooded with mingled suffering and ecstasy and final acceptance of her overpowering love. Slowly she said:
‘“My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”’ Katharine paused for a beat and in that dramatic, split-second pause the tears seeped out of her eyes and trickled unchecked down her cheeks. And then she declared: ‘“Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable—”’
Katharine buried her head in the folds of Nelly’s skirt, racked with sobs, and there was a slow fade-out as the camera pulled back for a final long shot of the two women. The screen went black, and the scene, which had run for exactly twenty-four and a half minutes, came to an end.
The test was electrifying.
There was total silence in the screening room. Not a single person stirred until the overhead lights finally went on, and then a hubbub broke out, and everyone was excitedly talking at once. Francesca, wiping a tear, caught a glimpse of Hillard Steed surreptitiously doing the same, looking sheepish.
Francesca quickly turned to Katharine, her eyes watery, and threw her arms around her, hugging her friend tightly. ‘Oh, Katharine, Katharine, you were absolutely marvellous!’
Katharine blinked several times, feeling curiously numb, and before she could fully take hold of herself they were suddenly crowding around her. Slowly she stood up, still looking slightly startled, smiling with uncertainty, overcome by shyness. They began to congratulate her in the most lavish terms, and the accolades were flying so fast and furious around her she could hardly take them all in. Victor hovered at the edge of the group, beaming, and exuding an air of quiet pleasure and much pride, and a hint of possessiveness besides.
Only Nicholas Latimer remained seated. Being decent and fair, and very much the professional, he was not one to begrudge credit where it was due, especially to a creative artist who excelled at what she did. And he fully intended to offer Katharine congratulations once he had recovered his equanimity.
He was still considerably shaken b
y her performance. Nick had known, within the first few minutes of the test, that she was pure magic. She would be a star. Not a run-of-the-mill star either, but big, very big. Probably the biggest of them all. She was unadulterated box-office material, for she had the extraordinary ability to project the stuff of romantic dreams, and that was what mass audience motion pictures were all about. Her staggering looks, her sexuality mingled with a touch of innocence, her incredible brilliance as an actress were more than enough to guarantee her the most glittering place in the Hollywood firmament of stars. And she would go to Hollywood. There was no doubt in his mind about her eventual destination.
Voice of the Heart Page 30
