Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Stepping back, Francesca nodded to herself, delighted with her appearance, and most especially with her new evening gown. She had been captivated the moment she had seen it in the Model Room at Harte’s in Knightsbridge. It was a cloud of gossamer peach organza, layers of it forming a bell-like crinoline below a strapless bodice moulded to her figure. Tiny crystal beads had been stitched in random clusters all over the skirt, and the long matching stole, and they introduced an iridescent gleam to the airy floating fabric.

  It was a romantic dreamlike dress, one her father could barely afford. But he too had been entranced by it, had swept aside her protestations about the price, told her that every other dress she had tried on thereafter paled in comparison. ‘And for once in your life, you’re going to have something pretty to wear, which is not a compromise because of money, or homemade by you and Melly,’ he had insisted with unusual gruffness. Francesca had not argued with him, understanding that the dress she wore to his engagement dance was as important to him as it was to her. It was a question of his love for her, his immense pride, and so much more besides. After the evening gown had been fitted for a few minor adjustments, he had whisked her off to lunch in the grill room of the Hyde Park Hotel as a special treat. A lovely day, she thought, remembering it with clarity and pleasure.

  She touched the pearl choker at her neck. The diamond clasp, nestling in the centre of her throat, threw off prisms of sparkling light, and the creamy pearls looked even creamier against her sunburned skin. Victor’s choker is perfect, the gown is exquisite, and I do look lovely, Francesca whispered to herself. She wanted to be especially beautiful for Vic tonight, and so fervently that she had been pent-up and breathless the entire time she was dressing. She could hardly wait for him to arrive, to witness his face when he saw her. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost nine. He would be here soon, very soon now. He and Nicky and Jake had been invited early, to have drinks with the family, since Doris considered them to be part of the inner circle. The other guests would start arriving at ten, when the dance would officially begin, and supper would be served at midnight.

  Adjusting the filmy stole around her bare shoulders, Francesca picked up the peach silk evening bag that exactly matched her high-heeled pumps and hurried out. As she moved with lightness and speed down the staircase she was a picture of loveliness and grace, the peach organza floating around her like a delicate hazy mist, her face shimmering with unrestrained joy, and not a little anticipation.

  Gliding out onto the terrace, Francesca was surprised to find it entirely deserted, except for the bartender positioned behind the bar which had been set up at the far end. The terrace furniture had been removed, and small tables, covered with pink-muslin cloths and partnered with gold cane chairs, were scattered around. Every table held a bud vase with a pink or red rose, plus a votive candle in a ruby glass container, and these gleamed rosily, introducing a festive air along with huge pots of flowering plants banked in various corners.

  Francesca edged her way through the tables, asked for a glass of champagne, wandered the length of the terrace, admiring the gardens, marvelling at the effect Doris’s team of electricians and caterers had created. Always a source of aesthetic pleasure, with their lush greenery and glorious multicoloured flower beds, the grounds had acquired a fairytale quality that was magical, utterly breathtaking. Lights glowed everywhere, focused attention on the natural beauty of the setting, brought each flower, each leaf startlingly to life. Strings of tiny amber bulbs festooned the trees and bushes; colourful Chinese lanterns hung from branches, swaying gently in the breeze; small spots, strategically placed, washed the stately poplars bordering the walls with a shining radiance. It was the most spectacular scene imaginable.

  Francesca scanned the main lawn. A portable dance floor rested in the centre, surrounded by pink-skirted tables set for ten and twenty, and, at the farthest edge, a small bandstand had been erected against the backdrop of the trees. On the adjoining lawn there were several bars, and long buffet tables from which the food would be served. The strumming of a guitar caught her attention and she glanced once more at the bandstand. A number of musicians in evening dress had begun to assemble, taking out their instruments and talking amongst themselves. Doris had engaged a group of mariachis, and they too had just arrived. It was one of the mariachis, resplendent in a colourful Mexican folk costume, who was playing. Francesca closed her eyes dreamily, thinking of Victor, of being in his arms, of swaying with him on the dance floor. The guitarist suddenly began to sing, his voice echoing across the lawn, rich and melodic, the familiar song stirring poignant memories of recent rapturous evenings spent with Victor.

  ‘Yo se que soy una aventura más para ti

  Que después de esta noche

  Te olvidarás de mi.

  Yo se que soy una ilusión fugaz para ti

  Un capricho del alma

  Que hoy te une a mi.’

  It was one of Victor’s favourites, one of hers now, a Mexican ballad that was popular on the Riviera this year, and especially with the crowd who frequented La Chunga, a charming restaurant-club in Cannes. Victor loved to go there, to listen to the mariachis serenading, to watch the flamenco dancers. The music washed over her. Francesca’s heart crested with euphoria. What a wonderful evening this was going to be. Romantic. Memorable. So very memorable. Blinking, she lifted her head and looked up. An indigo sky. Clear, cloudless, brilliant with stars and a shimmering crystal moon. A balmy breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the tangy salt smell of the sea to mingle with the spicy scent of the eucalyptus, the sweeter fragrance of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine. Francesca thought her heart would burst with love for him, and she knew then, deep within herself, that tonight he would ask her to marry him. She would accept, and when his divorce came through they would be joined in holy matrimony in the picturesque Norman church in the village of Langley, where her father would soon be marrying Doris.

  ‘All alone, Frankie?’

  She swung around, waved to Kim and Katharine who were walking out onto the terrace together. Katharine was dressed in white georgette, and she looked exquisitely dainty and fragile. The gown was an off-the-shoulder style, with a wide frill that fell from the gathered neckline to cover part of the bodice, and the billowing skirt was finished at the hemline with another deep frill. Her chestnut hair tumbled around her face in a mass of waves and curls, held back at each side with rhinestone combs. She wore no jewellery other than the diamond bracelet Victor had given her.

  Kim looked his sister up and down when they came to a halt, and whistled. ‘My God, you do look smashing, old thing. Whatever have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Thanks for the backhanded compliment,’ she retorted sharply.

  ‘Oh you know what I mean, you silly girl,’ he placated, smiling, his eyes fond and admiring.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to this idiot farmer with me,’ Katharine cried, hugging her. ‘You always look lovely, but tonight you surpass yourself.’

  ‘So do you, Kath.’

  The two girls smiled at each other affectionately and Katharine, tucking her arm through Francesca’s, walked her over to the bar, where she asked for a glass of red wine. Kim did the same, and once they had their drinks, Francesca said, ‘Come and look at the gardens; they’re out of this world.’

  Kim whistled again, and several times said, ‘Doris certainly knows how to do things, and she doesn’t mind spending her lovely dollars. The grounds are enchanting.’

  Katharine agreed, and she and Kim stood surveying the scene, discussing the overall effect, talking about the dance in general.

  Francesca took little sips of her champagne, preoccupied with Victor. But although she was caught up in her internal world, she was a sensitive girl, attuned to others, and very soon began to realize that Katharine was unusually nervous tonight, puffing constantly on her cigarette, drinking the red wine a little too quickly, speaking in a tone that was singularly high-pitched for her. France
sca became aware of Katharine’s extreme pallor, wondered if her friend was not feeling well. She dismissed this idea at once. Unlike everyone else at the villa, Katharine was avoiding the sun because of her impending film. In consequence, her paleness was unique, stood out markedly. Examining that extraordinarily beautiful face more closely, Francesca noticed the faint dark smudges under Katharine’s eyes—tell-tale signs of sleepless nights. I hope everything is all right between her and Kim, Francesca thought, worrying about them. Of course it is, she told herself firmly. The past week had gone smoothly, without incident, and they had laughed a lot, enjoyed themselves. Except for yesterday. Now Francesca remembered Katharine’s unexpected moodiness, the curious agitation which had taken hold of her around mid-morning. She had been morose and uncommunicative all through the rest of the day and well into the evening.

  Katharine said, ‘You’re daydreaming, Frankie darling. I asked you what Doris is wearing.’

  ‘Oh sorry. A gown by Madame Grès. Draped chiffon, with one shoulder. Sort of Grecian, Kath.’

  ‘And the most incredible necklace you’ve ever seen,’ Kim told them. ‘I saw her a little earlier, and I was positively blinded.’

  ‘As usual!’ Katharine’s laughter was shrill in the tranquil silence. She thought of Doris with some animosity. How that woman irritated her. Wisely, she went on in a softer voice, ‘I’ve never seen such fabulous jewels. Every piece is unique.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Francesca agreed. She looked at Katharine with keenness, immediately recalling her nickname for Doris. Diamond Lil. It had sounded rather mean when Victor had repeated it. But Katharine was never mean. Perhaps she thought the name was amusing, Francesca decided, for certainly it was not in this sweet and loving girl to ever be vindictive.

  Kim exclaimed, ‘Here come the engaged couple now, avec Christian, looking rather splendid in his togs.’

  Doris and the Earl, flanking Christian in the wheelchair, strolled towards them. Doris was a vision in the pale turquoise gown, the collar of diamonds, sapphires and turquoises blazing around her neck. The three of them paused when they were a couple of feet away, their faces wreathed in smiles as they regarded Francesca, and they were so generous with their compliments that she found herself blushing furiously.

  The Earl could not take his eyes off his daughter. He saw a new sophistication in her face and he thought: My little girl has grown up. His heart clenched with love for her. I’ll be losing her soon, in the not too distant future. Some young buck is going to sweep her off her feet, carry her away.

  Francesca walked up to her father, took his arm. ‘Thank you, Daddy. For the dress. For everything.’

  ‘Nothing I could ever do is quite enough for you, my darling,’ he murmured, patting her hand resting on his arm. ‘And Doris is right. You’re simply breathtaking. You do me proud on this very special night of my life, Frankie.’

  Katharine was on the sidelines, out of the limelight for once. She was silent, watching, drawing on her cigarette. Her mind strayed to the news she had received yesterday and worry gripped her again, quenching the brightness in her eyes.

  David, turning to Katharine, said kindly, ‘And you also look ravishing, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you, David.’ She smiled at all of them, then addressed Doris, ‘If Francesca is the fairytale princess tonight, then you are the fairy godmother. You’ve certainly waved a magic wand and created a superb effect in the gardens.’

  ‘How nice of you to say so,’ Doris responded, summoning a smile. Try as she did, she could not warm to Katharine. Clearing her throat, Doris went on with briskness, ‘However, I didn’t do very much. I left most of it to the caterers and the staff. Now, David, shall we get a drink?’

  ‘Immediately, my dear. We must toast my beautiful bride-to-be. What would you like, Christian?’

  ‘I think champagne’s in order, Uncle David, since we’re going to drink to Doodles.’

  The Earl and Doris headed for the bar, and Christian said to Francesca, ‘Diana’s a bit tardy.’

  ‘Oh she’ll be down in a few minutes, don’t worry.’ Bending her head to his, Francesca dropped her voice and asked gently, ‘Was Aunt Arabella all right, when you spoke to her earlier?’

  ‘Yes. In fact she sounded stronger, better than usual. Uncle David was with us when we ’phoned her, and she talked to him for a few minutes. He was disappointed she’d changed her mind, but glad she was in happier spirits.’ Christian brought his cigarettes out, struck a match. ‘Diana was right when she said Mother wouldn’t leave West Berlin. But the trip would have done her good, and I know Grandmother was crushed when it was cancelled at the last minute.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll attend the wedding. I know Daddy has high expectations that they will.’

  The Earl and Doris returned with glasses of champagne. David proposed a toast to his beaming fiancée, and everyone drank her health, wishing them both the greatest of happiness. David led Doris to a table, and they sat down, holding hands, smiling into each other’s faces, lost in their own world. Kim began a discussion with Christian about the speech he intended to make during supper, and Francesca slid away, her mind focusing, as always, on Victor. She wished he would arrive. She was taut and feverish with excitement. Hurry up, hurry up, her restless heart cried, and she drifted along the terrace, calming herself, aware the others would notice if her behaviour was at all unusual. She edged down the marble steps, regarding the gardens. But she saw only Victor’s face, for her whole being was filled with him.

  Eventually Francesca walked back up the steps. Katharine, who was at the bar getting another glass of wine, waved, then floated towards her. Francesca would never know exactly how it happened, but as Katharine drew level with her she seemed to stumble or trip, lurched forward, and then regained her balance awkwardly. Francesca stepped aside. Unfortunately her reflexes were slower than usual, and she was a fraction too late. The red wine streamed out of the glass wobbling dangerously in Katharine’s unsteady hand, struck Francesca’s evening gown on the bodice and splashed onto the skirt just below the waistline.

  Horrified, Francesca stared down at the dripping peach organza, gasping, ‘Oh no! My dress! My dress!’ She was unable to move, could only gape at the disfiguring stains, the dripping fabric, through eyes wide with shock and disbelief and welling with tears. The evening gown was a disaster.

  Katharine cried, ‘Oh my God, Frankie! I’m sorry! It was an accident. I tripped.’

  Doris, her face cold with anger, had leapt up and was hurrying over to the two girls. Without pausing, she shouted, ‘Kim, get soda water from the bar. And salt. I think there’s salt on the bar.’

  Christian, wheeling himself furiously behind Doris, called over his shoulder to his cousin, ‘And bring serviettes, Kim.’

  Doris took hold of Francesca, who was trembling uncontrollably, and guided her back to the table, murmuring soothing words. David, also on his feet, stepped forward anxiously, his face etched with concern. He pressed Francesca into the chair gently, endeavoured to calm her. He felt completely helpless. He knew his daughter did not have another gown that was beautiful enough to wear to the dance, or even one that was remotely suitable. Dismay brought a shadow to his light eyes.

  Doris said, ‘Don’t worry, my darling, we’ll fix it somehow.’

  Fresh tears sprang into Francesca’s eyes, trickled down her cheeks, streaking them with mascara. ‘We’ll never fix it,’ she sobbed. ‘The dress is ruined before he… before the dance has even begun.’

  Katharine hovered nervously, clutching the empty glass. Her white face had turned ashen, was stark. She was unable to speak. But Doris had not lost her voice. She pivoted to Katharine, hissing. ‘You’re not usually so clumsy. Quite the contrary, I’d say.’ The look she gave the other girl expressed her distaste, her fulminating rage.

  Spots of colour flamed on Katharine’s cheeks. She drew in her breath, cried heatedly, ‘It was an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose. I’d never do anything to hurt Frankie.�
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  Oh no, Doris thought. I bet you wouldn’t, you treacherous little monster. She grabbed the napkin and soda water from Kim, bent over Francesca, and started to clean the dress, dabbing it carefully. She sprinkled salt on the stains, watched the wine lift off, colouring the salt pink. She brushed the fabric quickly with a dry napkin, gave the salt cellar back to Kim. ‘No more of this. It’ll take the colour out.’

  Kim turned to Katharine. ‘What on earth happened?’ he asked, his expression troubled.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Katharine moaned, her distress evident. ‘I must have slipped on the marble.’

  Kim bit his lip, at a loss. Like his father he felt useless in this emergency. He also knew the situation, was aware his sister’s wardrobe was meagre. Damn and blast, he said inwardly, annoyed with Katharine. A muscle worked in his temple.

  Christian pulled out his handkerchief, passed it to Francesca. ‘Mop your eyes, darling, your beautiful make-up is running.’

  Diana arrived, glanced from one to the other, saw the gown. Astonishment and alarm registered at once. ‘Oh Cheska, your beautiful dress!’

  Christian explained what had transpired, and Diana cried, ‘We must get the dress off immediately, iron out the dampness, and then cover the stains with something. But what? Let me think.’

  Doris, her face brightening, exclaimed, ‘Flowers, Diana! How about a long trailing corsage of fresh flowers? Pink roses, honeysuckle. There’s lots to choose from in the gardens, and I have a vase of fresh pink rosebuds in my room.’