She was not unhappy to be alone. In all truth, she was relieved that everyone had left, was delighted to have a few hours to herself. She was in an introspective mood this morning, and thus content to retreat into her myriad thoughts, without being disturbed by the continual comings and goings of the family, their constant chatter, the incessant round of activities.
An ineffable tranquillity hovered over the villa, broken only occasionally by the sounds of the staff going about their duties: the whir of the vacuum cleaner, the faint bird-like chirpings of the maids as they dusted adjacent rooms, the echo of the butler’s brisk tones issuing orders, the click of a door closing, the patter of distant busy feet. Gradually these individual noises were beginning to merge, flowed together to create a vague and muffled hum that hardly intruded at all.
Francesca lay back on the chaise longue, her body relaxed and languorous. She closed her eyes, shutting out the brilliant sunshine, the azure sky so sharp and penetrating. Instantly, an image of Victor’s face, that familiar and much-loved face, formed in minute detail and floated with tantalizing precision in her imagination, every feature clear and sharply denned. Where was he at this moment! What was he doing? Who was he with? She had no way of knowing, and she sighed inaudibly, longing for his presence, for his tenderness, the touch of his hand, the sound of his vibrant laughter. She earnestly wished he could be magically transported to this terrace, and to her. If only she could open her eyes and find him standing here, grinning irreverently, the black eyes teasing and full of humour. But that was not possible. He was enmeshed in problems in London. He was not returning to the Riviera.
He had told her that yesterday, when she had spoken to him from Nick’s suite. Hearing his voice had stilled her troubled mind, her awful anxiety. Even so his decision to remain in England had plunged her into depression. The summer was over for her. She had announced this to him on the telephone, her misery so acute that she had been unable to conceal it. With his usual perception he had picked up her mood, had chided her quietly, told her not to be ridiculous. ‘I’ll be here when you get back. Stick to your plans. Go to Paris with Doris.’ His words had held such a ring of finality that she had had little choice but to acquiesce. Even so, she had wanted to fly home without further delay. She was lonely without him, and lost. Part of her had gone with him. The best part really… her heart.
Before he had hung up, Victor had apologized yet again for spoiling her evening on Saturday. She had assured him it did not matter, wanting to alleviate his most transparent guilt, and she had meant those words. For with her intelligence, Francesca had come to terms with her crushing disappointment, reasoning that one dance gone awry was hardly meaningful in the span of a lifetime. There would obviously be many more special occasions to look beautiful for him, to enjoy with him. Years and years of occasions.
And yet it had mattered at the time… it had been the worst night of her life. She had smiled and danced and laughed and chatted, and entertained their guests with charm and vivacity. She had done her duty as she had been brought up to do it, with style and outward composure, hiding her feelings behind a mask of inscrutability. She had put up a front for her father’s sake. But the effort had been enormous and inevitably draining. Only when she had retired to the blessed privacy of her room had she loosened her iron control, permitted herself to let go, to weep out her disappointment and frustration.
She had not left her room on Sunday, claiming a headache and a hangover. She did not want anyone to see her red eyes, her swollen face. She was also reluctant to be drawn into the usual gossipy post mortem of the preceding evening, which was an inevitability. In the late afternoon, Diana had come to her room to tell her that Nick had arrived with armfuls of flowers for Doris, and a note of apology from Victor. Plus a letter for her. Francesca had opened the envelope eagerly, and with trembling fingers. As love letters went, it was neither inspired nor romantic, being brief to the point of terseness. But she supposed he had been in a hurry, and excused him. Miraculously, her tears had ceased, her heart had lifted with renewed hope, her sadness had been transmuted into pure joy. But much later that night, in the quietness of her room, she had thought how curious it was that this particular man could affect her state of being so drastically. He had immense power over her. She had found this discomfiting, alarming even.
Francesca sat up on the chaise, sloughing off the residues of Saturday night. The dance was like a bad dream, therefore not worth pondering; wasting her precious time over. And so she relegated it to the back of her mind, buried the memory so carefully, so deeply and so thoroughly, that it would he submerged, from this day on, for over two decades.
She considered the next two weeks. Today was Tuesday, and nothing special was happening until Friday, when Beau Stanton was giving a dinner party at his villa in Cap d’Antibes. The guests of honour were Katharine, Terry and Hilary, and from what Katharine had told her it was going to be a rather fancy affair. The following day Katharine was returning to London to prepare for her trip to Hollywood. Kim was leaving with her, since he was needed at Langley. Diana, Christian and Nicky would depart in the middle of the coming week, and she would remain at the villa with her father and Doris. They would be the last to leave, after her father and Doris attended the special luncheon for Winston Churchill at Bunky Ampher’s house. The day after, the three of them were driving to Paris in Doris’s Rolls-Royce, and her father would proceed to England, taking the car with him. She and Doris were staying in Paris, where Diana was to join them, and they would all choose their wedding outfits at Pierre Bahrain’s couture house.
Fourteen more days away from him. Not so long really, Francesca thought, a smile breaking through. I’ll soon be back in London. With my dearest love. Her expression became beatific as she contemplated Victor. He was her reason for being.
Francesca began to daydream, planning their future life together. Once he had sorted out his problems, she knew he would ask her to marry him. Lady Francesca Mason. Mason. She repeated his surname several times, and lovingly so, liking the way it sounded. They would live at Che Sarà Sarà, she was certain of that. She didn’t care where they lived really, so long as they were together. And she would have lots of babies. Well, two at least, and they would be beautiful, just like their father, and she and Vic would be so happy, so very very happy. Her mind ran on unchecked, fantasizing about the future.
Katharine Tempest was also in a reflective mood this morning as she sat at the small desk upstairs in her room. Like Francesca, she too felt the summer was over, was eager to leave for London, since she was exceedingly preoccupied with the months ahead and all that they entailed. Hollywood. Her new film. Her career. Priorities for some weeks, they had been uppermost in her mind for the past few days, more so than usual after the telephone call from London on the Friday before the dance. The call had momentarily stunned her, for it had put all she had worked for in certain jeopardy. As the dismal facts had sunk in she had been cast down into despair, and her desperation had manifested itself in a nervousness that was extreme. To her irritation she had found this difficult to control and camouflage.
Thankfully she was feeling better. After several sleepless nights, during which she had analysed the situation countless times, Katharine had made several crucial decisions, and she fully intended to execute them, no matter what the cost to herself. So, having made her plans, she was impatient to put them into operation, to plunge ahead, galvanized as always by her nervous energies and her intrinsic need for action. Naturally exigent, and for ever in a hurry, Katharine was, however, a pragmatist, and she recognized that in this instance her desire for speedy solutions was not merely a characteristic of her basic temperament but an absolute imperative. In two weeks she was leaving for California and everything must be properly resolved by the day of her departure.
At this moment there was no doubt in Katharine’s mind that she could deal with matters in an orderly manner, and though some aspects of her solutions were a little unpalatable, the thru
sting knowledge that she, and she alone, was in control of her own destiny had a calming effect on her. And so she was convinced she could cope with the few remaining days at the Villa Zamir with self-possession and equanimity.
Katharine brought her eyes back to the list of things she had to do before she left England and, satisfied that she had forgotten nothing, tucked the sheet of paper away in her current script. Rising from the desk, she walked over to the window. Opening the shutters, which she had closed to cool the room, she glanced down at the terrace. Her gaze rested on Francesca sunning herself, and a gentle expression flitted across her face. She thought, with a stab of sadness, I’m going to miss you, my dearest, dearest friend. Francesca was closer to her than anyone, and truly understood her; the loving relationship they enjoyed would be hard, if not indeed impossible, to duplicate. There would be a gap in her life when she was in Hollywood.
Sighing to herself, Katharine closed the shutters, realizing she was wasting time and neglecting Francesca. She had better go down and join her immediately. After all, she had stayed behind today to keep her friend company. No, that’s not exactly true, Katharine now thought, remembering her apprehension when the invitation had arrived. She had understood at once that she was far too debilitated by her worries to face a day of hectic socializing, and had also blanched at the idea of being a captive on the yacht. She had decided she was definitely not going to be at the mercy of the two men who most made her feel ill at ease: Nicholas Latimer and Michael Lazarus. Nick with his disapproval and open hostility and bitchy one-line cracks; Mike with his obsessive attentiveness and penetrating scrutiny and probing questions. Her only regret about refusing to attend was Beau Stanton. He was the sweetest of men, kind, considerate and very chivalrous. He treated her like a person, not an object, a thing to be ogled and pawed and possessed, and so induced in her a feeling of femininity and self-worth. All her insecurities disappeared when she was with Beau, and he made her laugh a lot, brought out the best in her. She sincerely hoped he was not going to be offended by her absence. That was the last thing she wanted.
Katharine turned to the dressing table and picked up the brush, smoothing it over her flowing chestnut hair, contemplating Mike. There was no denying she found him fascinating. His personality compelled with its potency, and, being attracted to power, she could not help being impressed by the massive clout he wielded. It was like a narcotic to her. Yet withal, she was not sure she liked him, instinctively felt the need to be cautious with him. Self-protection, she murmured, and picked up a length of blue satin ribbon. She tied this around her head, fastening it in a bow on the crown, then sprayed herself with Ma Griffe, and lavishly so, liking its fresh green smell. Slipping out of her robe, she lifted the blue cotton shift off the chair and put it on, then stepped into white, low-heeled sandals. She found her sunglasses and left the room.
Halfway down the staircase, Katharine paused, struck by the realization that there was one other reason she had elected to stay behind today. She wanted to be alone with Francesca. To confide in her. Of course. This idea had been in her subconscious for days, and acknowledging it finally suddenly gave her a sense of the most profound relief. Francesca Cunningham was the only person she really trusted. Apart from this, her friend was fair minded, compassionate and caring, would see the sense in everything she was doing, without passing judgment or thinking badly of her. That was not Francesca’s way at all. Spurred on by these positive thoughts, which infected her with self-confidence and strengthened her resolve to be frank with her friend, Katharine continued down the stairs.
As she stepped out onto the terrace, the glaring light and the intense heat assaulted her in waves, and she knew that in minutes she would feel wilted and nauseated. But she pushed a smile onto her face, hurried forward and cried gaily, ‘Good morning, Frankie darling!’
Francesca sat up on the chaise longue swiftly, shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting up at Katharine hovering in front of her. ‘There you are, lazy bones! I was just about to come upstairs and drag you out of bed.’
‘I’ve been up for hours,’ Katharine retorted with a laugh. She pushed one of the chairs under the large yellow umbrella and sat down at the table, grateful for the shade. ‘I’ve been writing letters. One of them was to Anna. My new dressmaker. I told her you would be going to see her when you get back to London. With the evening gown. I’ve asked her to copy it for you. And I’ve sent her a cheque to cover the cost of making it, and the price of the peach organza and the trimmings.’
‘Oh Kath, you didn’t have to do that! Honestly, you didn’t—’
Katharine held up a hand, delighted to see the happy expression on Francesca’s face. ‘Hush, darling, I can’t bear the thought that I ruined such a beautiful dress. Besides, whatever you say, I know you’ve been down in the dumps about it ever since Saturday. And let’s face it, you can never wear it again, and I imagine it was expensive.’
‘How sweet and dear of you, Kath, and very thoughtful. Thank you. And of course I’ll visit Anna.’ Francesca gave her the benefit of a loving smile, then said, ‘There’s nobody like you in this whole world, nobody at all. You’re very special. I am going to miss you—so very much, Kath.’
‘I feel the same way about you, darling.’ A little smile played around Katharine’s mouth, and thinking out loud, she exclaimed, ‘I wish you could come with me. Why don’t you? It wouldn’t cost you anything. You could stay with me at the Bel-Air Hotel, in my suite, and I’d pay for your air ticket. And don’t look at me like that! I know you’re funny about accepting things, so let’s just say it would be my way of repaying your father’s hospitality at Langley, and this vacation.’ Katharine’s eagerness and excitement were infectious and were transmitted to Francesca, who smiled with pleasure, her head on one side as she thought it over.
‘Gosh, that would be fun, Kath!’ Immediately Francesca’s face fell. ‘But it’s not possible. There’s the wedding coming up, and Daddy will want me to be at home during the Christmas holidays. Tradition, you know, and I have to help with the Yule party at the church, all the activities at the castle for the estate workers and the villagers. But it was a lovely thought on your part. Anyway, you’ll be busy with the picture, and I’m going to be working hard myself. I think the book on Chinese Gordon will go pretty smoothly now, thanks to Nicky. To be honest, I don’t think I could have tackled it without him, I really don’t.’
‘Oh but you could!’ Katharine cried with some fierceness, her face changing noticeably. ‘You don’t need anyone to babysit with you. You’re as talented as Nicholas Latimer, and then some!’
Francesca merely smiled at these compliments, and made no further comment about Nick. In view of Katharine’s antipathy towards him, she knew her words would fall on stony ground. She stood up, ‘Yves brought out a jug of citron pressé. Would you like a glass? I’m going to have one.’
‘Yes, thanks. It’s very hot out here. This terrace is a real sun trap.’ A copy of the latest New York Herald Tribune was lying on the table, and Katharine picked it up, fanned herself with it. ‘I don’t know how you can stand this heat.’
Francesca, busily pouring the lemonade, laughed merrily. ‘I love the sun. I suppose that’s because I come from a cold climate.’ She returned to the table with the glasses and sat down with Katharine. ‘What are you wearing to Beau’s dinner on Friday? Do you know yet?’
‘I was going through my clothes earlier and decided on the white silk tunic and matching pants.’
‘Oh!’
Katharine took off her sunglasses, looked at Francesca quickly, noted her crestfallen face. ‘What’s wrong, darling? Does mine conflict with your outfit?’
‘Well, sort of,’ Francesca admitted with a rueful grin. ‘Doris and I saw a lovely two-piece in Monte Carlo the other day. It’s a bit similar to yours, narrow Capri pants and a loose top made of white silk. Doris loved me in it, and she’s insisted on buying it for me. Today, after the boat trip. But I can wear my blue silk dress after all, i
f you’ve deci—’
‘No, no, don’t be silly. I’ll choose something else.’ Katharine did not want to deprive Francesca of the opportunity to wear the new outfit, conscious, as she was, of her paltry wardrobe. ‘Come to think of it, I’m too pale to wear white, but it will look super on you with that fabulous tan. I’ll probably go in the pink taffeta with the halter neck. It’s settled. No arguments.’
‘Are you sure, Kath?’
‘Positive.’ She picked up the glass of lemonade, took a sip, stole a glance at Francesca, over the rim. I can’t put it off any longer, she thought. I must tell her. I need to tell her. She put the glass down carefully, cleared her throat. ‘I’m glad we have this chance to be alone together, Frankie. I have something to say to you, explain to you…’ She found she was unable to proceed, and her voice, slightly tremulous, faltered. She looked down at her hands, twined them nervously.
Francesca was immediately conscious of the grave tone, saw the deep frown furrowing Katharine’s smooth brow. ‘You sound upset, Kath dear. It occurred to me several times over the weekend that you’re troubled. I have a broad shoulder, and I’m your best friend. If you can’t confide in me, who can you confide in?’ She waited expectantly.
Katharine was silent, gazing out towards the shimmering Mediterranean, and her extraordinary turquoise eyes were curiously empty and flat, her face was pensive in repose.
After a minute or two, Francesca asked softly, ‘Is it something to do with Kim?’
Katharine swung her head, nodded, swallowed hard. ‘Yes. I’ve—I’ve decided to break off with him.’
Francesca had not expected anything quite so drastic, and she was thunderstruck. ‘You can’t mean that, Katharine!’ she cried, her eyes wide with surprise and disbelief.
Voice of the Heart Page 69
