Katharine had been equally sweet and devoted. She had telephoned every day, but unlike Victor, she had listened to reason and had not insisted on visiting Francesca, for she was worried as always about her health, and fearful of getting sick in view of her career commitments. Katharine’s first call had been early on Monday evening, just before she had gone on stage, and she had been delighted when Francesca had told her about the basket of fruit from Jerry and Bellissima Productions, and the flowers from Nick. The next day Katharine had sent a selection of the latest books from Hatchards, with a charming and amusing note which had made Francesca smile with affection for her friend. That same afternoon, when she had ’phoned to see how Francesca was, Katharine had wanted to bring soup and other food to the Chesterfield Street house.
‘I’ll leave everything on the doorstep and run away, so you don’t have to worry about infecting me with your germs,’ Katharine had said, laughing. ‘Please let me do this for you, darling, I’m so anxious about you.’
Thank you, Katharine, but I’m all right, honestly I am,’ Francesca had responded swiftly. ‘And I don’t need anything. Victor was here earlier today, and he brought fresh oranges and chicken soup and medicines.’
There had been a sudden silence before Katharine had exclaimed, ‘That’s the least he could do! After all, you caught that cold when you were working for him. In my opinion, he should have arranged for someone to be there looking after you. He knows you’re all alone.’
Francesca had been startled by this comment, considering it quite extraordinary. ‘But he doesn’t have to do anything at all,’ she had said slowly. ‘I’m not his responsibility. And it really isn’t his fault that I got ill when I was scouting locations in Yorkshire. Gracious, Katharine, I could have caught ’flu before I left London, for all I know.’
Katharine had murmured something about not agreeing, but then they had quickly gone on to talk about Kim, her father’s accident, and a number of other matters.
After they had hung up, Francesca had felt unusually depressed and more miserable than ever, and she could not help dwelling on Katharine’s words. Of course she was right in what she had said. Victor was simply being a considerate employer, and that was all. Francesca’s hopes that his feelings towards her had somehow radically changed were instantly dashed to the ground. For the rest of the week she steeled herself to his presence, curbing her vivid imagination, and exercising as much control over her emotions as she could muster. This had not been an easy task, since Francesca was enormously attracted to him physically, and infatuated with him to such an extent that he totally occupied her thoughts, and in consequence she was vulnerable to him in every way. It was for these reasons that she assiduously avoided mentioning his name to Katharine again, not wishing to hear her friend’s pragmatic reasons for Victor’s attentiveness, which would have been like pouring vinegar into the wound. She preferred instead to believe that, if nothing else, he came to see her out of friendship.
Francesca did have one consolation. Victor had unexpectedly dropped his jolly, fatherly posture, and he was also much less distant with her; and if he treated her rather like a chum, this was infinitely more acceptable than being cast in the role of a child. By Friday she had begun to realize that a new easiness existed between them, that there had been a lifting of certain barriers. It soon occurred to her that it would have been abnormal if it had been otherwise. After all, there was nothing more intimate than taking care of someone who was sick, which, out of necessity, bred a certain kind of familiarity and closeness. Francesca had been extremely touched by his thoughtfulness, his solicitousness, and she had begun to count on his visits, even though he kept these to the point, and relatively short. Until yesterday.
When he arrived on Friday, just after lunch, he had been delighted to see her up and dressed, and looking more like her old self. Mrs Moggs, full of oohs and ahs about meeting a famous film star, had made coffee for them, and they had sat chatting together in the drawing room for almost two hours. He had told her about the progress of the film, recounting his hectic week in the greatest detail, and with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish in its eagerness. A few minutes before he had taken his leave, he had pronounced her fit enough to enjoy a splendid Italian dinner, which, he explained, he intended to make for her on Saturday night, informing her he was not only a terrific cook but an inspired one at that. Francesca had laughed gaily, and graciously acquiesced to his idea, sheathing her excitement at the prospect of spending an evening alone with him. She had thought of nothing else since then, wishing the hours away, filled with a breathless, nervous anticipation.
You’ve been an absolute idiot, living in a fool’s paradise, Francesca unexpectedly thought, and this brought her up sharply in the chair. She gazed wistfully into the fire, her amber eyes bright and beautiful, despite the sadness now flickering in them. Tonight is the beginning of the end of our new relationship, she said to herself with dim resignation, suddenly confronting reality, preparing herself to face the pain this inevitably brought. They would drink the pink champagne, eat the Italian specialities he was so carefully preparing, consume quantities of the Soave he had brought, and he would be charming and kind, as he had been for the entire week. And then he would leave and things would never be the same again. It would be over—their newfound intimacy and easiness with each other. He would undoubtedly assume his remote and avuncular posture, and she would be… what would she be in his eyes? Solely an appendage to Katharine, and the little girl, not to be taken seriously.
But I’m a woman, she sighed. If only he could see that. Francesca stood up and crossed to the mirror hanging on the wall between the two soaring windows. She peered at herself closely, immediately admiring the new sweater she was wearing. At least she looked smart. The sweater was chic and expensive, and it had arrived that morning from Harte’s department store in Knightsbridge, a gift from the ever-generous Katharine. ‘My way of saying thank you for your help with the screen test,’ the note had read. It was made of scarlet cashmere, soft and silky, with loose, three-quarter-length sleeves and a draped cowl neckline that fell prettily around her long neck. Francesca had fastened an antique gold pin on the collar, and she wore gilt hoop earrings that matched the gilt-metal chain belt around the waist of her black felt skirt, bouffant over the stiff buckram petticoat. She tilted her head slightly, regarding her reflection critically. A little makeup, adroitly applied, had done wonders for her, and that afternoon she had washed her hair and towelled it dry in front of the drawing room fire. It fell to her shoulders, smooth and straight and unstyled, and now she wished she had attempted to set it or had piled it up in the more sophisticated pompadour she sometimes favoured. She looked so young with it hanging in simple folds around her face. On the other hand, it was clean and shone golden-bright in the muted light from the lamps. If only I were beautiful like Katharine, she thought, staring hard at herself, dissatisfied with the face that stared back. It was pale and attenuated. She rubbed her cheeks, wanting to bring a touch of colour to their pallor, regretting she had not been more generous with the rouge, and then she smoothed her hair back away from her face.
‘You look very lovely.’
Francesca started and turned quickly. Victor was standing in the doorway, his hands resting on the door jamb, regarding her thoughtfully. Mortified to have been caught preening and primping in front of the mirror, she felt the sudden heat flooding into her face.
‘Thank you,’ she finally said in a tiny voice, and looked away, moving closer to the drinks chest under the ornate gilded mirror. ‘I was about to open the champagne,’ she explained, and started to untwist the wire on the cork, averting her flushed face.
‘Here, let me do that,’ he said, striding into the room. In an instant he was beside her, his hands over hers on the bottle. His touch was like an electric shock, and for a moment her fingers remained immobile under his. She gazed down at his hands, tanned and large, and at his strong sunburned arms lightly speckled with dark hairs, and
her throat tightened with desire. She felt the heat rush into her face again, and, not daring to look at him, she extracted her hands gently and went to the fireplace, suddenly conscious of a trembling in her legs. I’ll never get through the evening, she told herself shakily, gratefully sinking into the chair. You stupid fool, she inwardly chastised herself and, swallowing hard, she took a firm grip on her emotions. And then she thought: Enjoy this evening for what it is. Don’t dwell on what it might be. That will be self-defeating, ruinous.
He was standing over her then, offering her the glass of champagne, smiling affably, his dark eyes warm. She looked up at him timorously and smiled back, taking the glass, relieved that her equilibrium was partially restored, that her hand was steady, her eyes no longer moist.
They said ‘cheers’ in unison, and Victor sat down on the sofa, lit a cigarette and remarked, ‘I forgot to ask you how your father is doing? Is he on the mend?’
‘Yes, he’s much better, thank you, and being the model patient—’
‘Like father, like daughter,’ he interjected with a lopsided grin.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she murmured softly, and went on, ‘I haven’t really thanked you properly for looking after me, Victor. You’ve been super. So thoughtful and kind. I know I owe my speedy recovery entirely to you, and your… your coddling.’
‘I was glad to do what I could.’
Francesca rose, glanced at him, flashed him a fleeting smile. ‘I have something for you. A small gift.’
‘Hey, that’s not necessary,’ he began. She stopped at the Sheraton bookcase and opened the glass doors. Admiration flicked onto his face. She’s got the greatest legs in the world. She’s verboten, he reminded himself. Watch it, Mason. He dragged his eyes away.
She was back in a moment and handed him a small package, wrapped in decorative floral paper and tied with a silver ribbon. ‘I hope you like it, Victor.’
‘You didn’t have to do this, you know,’ he muttered, nevertheless looking pleased as he began to unwrap the gift, filled with curiosity. He found himself holding a copy of Wuthering Heights, and he saw at once that it was very old. The wine Moroccan-leather binding was faded, and the pages, as he turned them slowly, crackled dryly, were yellowed at the edges by the passing of time, and fragile. He lifted his eyes and looked across at Francesca and shook his head. ‘I can’t accept this. It’s obviously an antique and rare, and most probably very valuable—’
‘It’s a first edition, and it is quite rare. If you look at the frontispiece, you’ll see the date, 1847. And you must take it. I want you to have it. I’ll be insulted if you refuse.’
‘But it must be worth a great deal of money. What about your father? I mean, won’t he object? What will he say?’
Francesca stiffened, irritated by his inference that she could not act without parental consent. He’s treating me like a child again, she thought angrily, but said, as mildly as possible, ‘It has nothing to do with my father. The book belongs to me. It’s from a collection of first edition classics my mother left me, which was handed down from her grandfather, Lord Drummond, to her father, and so on. That happens to be my mother’s family crest on the cover, not Daddy’s. And so you see, I can give it away if I wish. I want you to have it as a memento of the film.’
Victor sat back, gripping the book, unaccountably at a loss for words, infinitely moved by the gift, and not the least because it was something so very personal, part of her history, a cherished heirloom that had been passed down in her family over the years. He leafed through the pages again, his expression introspective, and for a reason he did not comprehend, a lump came into his throat. After a long moment, he said, ‘Thank you. I shall treasure it always, Francesca. It’s one of the nicest and most meaningful presents anyone has ever given me.’
‘I’m so glad,’ she said, her eyes shining with pleasure at his most obvious pleasure. Rising, she took their glasses and refilled them. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to cancel the weekend visit to Langley, because of Daddy’s accident.’ She refrained from mentioning that her father had fallen off the stepladder in the library when he had been searching for this particular book for her. She went on, ‘He’s terribly disappointed, and so is Doris. They were really looking forward to it, I know Katharine was too. But perhaps it’s just as well. It wouldn’t be the same without Nicky, would it?’ she asked, placing the drink on the table in front of him, returning to the chair.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he responded in the quietest of voices, wondering about her most apparent interest in Nick. To his amazement, and considerable annoyance, he experienced a spurt of jealousy. Good God, he thought, startled at himself, and pushed this unfamiliar emotion aside, recognizing it was unworthy of him, and also patently ridiculous. Conscious of the sudden silence, he cleared his throat a shade too noisily. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of Nick, but I guess it’s a bit too soon. No doubt he’ll surface next week. And he’ll be all right. He’s pretty resilient,’ he finished, almost to himself.
‘Yes, don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’ Francesca watched him closely, detecting die concern in his voice. In an effort to divert the subject away from Nicky, she exclaimed, with a show of cheerfulness, ‘When I spoke to Doris this afternoon, she suggested we arrange the weekend house party to coincide with the start of exterior shooting in Yorkshire, or alternatively, when you film at the castle. It would be rather fun to do it then, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it’s a terrific idea,’ he answered, brightening. ‘Who’s Doris, by the way? You’ve mentioned her several times in the past few days.’
‘Of course, you don’t know about Doris Asternan. She’s my father’s girl friend, and a jolly nice person. Really super. I’m all for her, and so is Kim. We both wish Daddy would stop procrastinating and pop the question, then we could all relax, especially Doris.’
Victor chuckled, highly amused. ‘You seem anxious to have a stepmother, but more to the point, does your father really want a wife? That’s the key question, isn’t it?’
‘Of course he does!’ This was said with such youthful confidence, Victor was further entertained. Before he could comment, she swept on, ‘Well, let me put it this way, he needs Doris as his wife. She’s perfect for him.’
‘Is she now!’ His glance was keen, and he saw from her expression that she was being utterly sincere. But then she knew no other way to be. He found himself warming to her, admiring her. ‘Doris is damned lucky to have you as a champion, Francesca. Damned lucky. Most daughters wouldn’t react as you’re reacting, and with such open-mindedness, such generosity.’
‘Oh, children can be pretty selfish. They usually think only of themselves, and they don’t give a hoot about the single parent, or his or her problems,’ she remarked, becoming serious. ‘They don’t take into consideration the need for companionship, not to mention love and friendship and a shared life. I suppose they simply dismiss loneliness, believe it’s of no consequence. But people can die of loneliness.’ She waited, and waited, and when no response was forthcoming, she insisted. ‘Well, they can, can’t they?’
‘Yes,’ he said, taken aback by the maturity and understanding inherent in these words. ‘Living life alone is, very often, a kind of death,’ he murmured and clamped his mouth shut, realizing this was a most revealing remark. Feeling self-conscious, he jumped up. ‘How about another glass of bubbly?’
‘Thank you.’ Francesca sat back, staring after him as he went over to the chest near the windows. He’s well acquainted with loneliness, she thought with a flash of perception, intuitively understanding that nothing was ever the way it seemed on the surface. No wonder he has such a need for Nick’s friendship, she added to herself, and her tender heart filled with sympathy. He was a strong, vigorous, handsome man in the prime of his life, world famous and rich, the idol of millions, and yet there was something so… so very vulnerable about him. This had never occurred to her before, and she was surprised at the thought and stiffened in the chair. She swung her head away
as he turned around, not wanting him to see the adoration and longing written on her face.
Victor brought the ice bucket back to the coffee table, poured champagne and then loped over to the sofa in strides. He stretched himself over most of it, casually draped one arm on the back and crossed his long legs. ‘Tell me more about Doris,’ he encouraged with one of his elliptical smiles. ‘What’s this paragon really like?’
‘Oh she’s not a paragon!’ Francesca cried. ‘Far from it. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I like her so much. She’s very human and full of the most lovely imperfections, which I think help to make her a marvellous woman. She’s also a great sense of humour and she’s lots of fun, not a bit stuffy. She’s enthusiastic about everything, but at the same time she’s rather down-to-earth and sensible.’ Francesca crinkled her eyes, thinking hard. ‘Let me see, what else can I tell you? Well, she’s tall and rather pretty, with short curly red hair and the brightest green eyes you’ve ever seen. Outgoing. Effervescent. Doris really and truly cares about Daddy, and that’s the most important thing to me.’
‘Mmmm. Quite a picture you’ve painted of her. Glowing. No wonder you want her for a stepmother,’ Victor said, amusement lingering on his face. ‘Have they been dating long?’
‘A couple of years.’ Francesca picked up her glass and took a sip, her eyes focused on him over the rim. ‘Oh and she’s an American. From Oklahoma.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ he said with a flicker of astonishment, immediately recalling the Earl’s inbred elegance, trying to visualize him with a hick from the Midwest. But if David Cunningham was enamoured of the lady, then she was hardly likely to be a hick. Victor’s brows drew together as another thought struck him. ‘Did you say her name was Asternan?’
Voice of the Heart Page 37
