The Midnight Rose

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Yes, but, Your Highness, just for the summer,’ I said. ‘After that, I feel I would like to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment as a nurse and help in the war effort.’

  ‘That’s very admirable of you, Anni, and it will prepare you well for your future. So, we are decided?’

  ‘Yes. I cannot begin to thank you enough for all you have done for me. You have been so generous, so kind.’ Tears welled in my eyes and I bit my lip to stem them.

  ‘Dearest Anni, please remember that I promised your mother I would take care of you when she handed you over to me. I wish you to remember that I’m here in her place. If there is anything that you need, you must promise to write to me, for I don’t know how long it will be before we see each other again. Come.’

  The Maharani opened her arms to me and I went into them. ‘I love you like you are my own, dear Anni. Never be afraid of asking for my help if you need it in the future.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ I whispered, my eyes full of tears. I gave thanks to the heavens that they’d brought this wonderful woman – such a rare combination of power and goodness – into my life. At that moment, I felt truly blessed.

  As the Maharani had predicted so accurately, Indira was not particularly perturbed when I told her that I was staying in England and returning to school to take my matriculation.

  ‘You will write?’ she asked me. ‘Every day?’

  ‘Maybe not every day, for I’ll be studying hard,’ I said, smiling, ‘but certainly very often.’

  As my trunk was shut and taken downstairs, she looked at me suddenly. ‘I thought you hated it here in England. Why on earth would you want to stay?’

  ‘Because I know it’s the right thing to do,’ I replied.

  It was only after I’d kissed the Maharani goodbye and hugged Indira to me for one last time, before climbing into the back of the car that would take me away from them – perhaps forever – that I realised the enormity of the decision I had made.

  Astbury Hall, 2011

  16

  Ari sat in his car on the side of the narrow road that cut through Dartmoor and thumped the satnav with his fist in frustration. Not that it would help, he knew; the signal had gone haywire ten minutes ago – which was approximately the last time he’d seen any form of signpost. He was completely lost.

  For want of something better to do, Ari climbed out of the car and took a deep breath of fresh, moorland air. It was a hot day for England and as he gazed across the undulating landscape, he appreciated the beauty his great-grandmother had described so vividly in her story. The stillness was what struck him most; barely a hint of a breeze, the silence only broken by the call of a buzzard flying over the rugged, empty moor – he doubted it had changed since Anahita was last here.

  Due to his hectic work schedule in London, coupled with jet lag, Ari had yet to finish her story. But what he had read so far on the plane had intrigued him enough to hire a car, drive down to Devon and take a look at Astbury Hall for himself. Even before reaching his destination, he’d already begun to second-guess what had taken place here.

  As he stood surveying the moors, Ari realised that these next few days would be the nearest thing to a holiday he had taken in the past fifteen years. Even if he discovered his great-grandmother’s story wasn’t worth pursuing, it would at least give him time to clear his own thoughts before he returned to face the mess he had made of his life in India.

  ‘Because . . . it is also your future.’

  Anahita’s last words had drifted back to him as he had driven towards Devon that morning.

  Ari climbed back into his car and restarted the engine. He would simply have to drive until he came across a village where he could ask for directions. For once he had no deadline to meet, so he sat back, relaxed and began to enjoy the scenery.

  An hour later, he stopped in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates and glanced along the drive that led beyond them. He couldn’t see a building from the road, but he noticed the gates were firmly closed with a security guard standing beside them. As he wondered what to do, a white van arrived on the other side of the gates. The guard nodded and opened them to let the van through.

  ‘All right, mate?’ the man in the van said as he drove past Ari.

  ‘Yes, this is Astbury Hall, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, a nightmare to find as well. I’ve just delivered some extra cable and it took me the best part of an hour to locate it. You here for the shoot?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ari lied.

  ‘If you’re looking for Steve Campion, the production manager, head straight up the drive and turn right when you reach the house. You should find him in the courtyard.’ The driver set off. As the gates began to close, Ari took the decision and drove swiftly through them.

  ‘I was told to find Steve Campion in the courtyard,’ he said to the security guard.

  The guard nodded uninterestedly and waved him on. As he passed through the parkland surrounding the house, Ari guessed the estate must now be used for business purposes, probably a hotel or conference centre. This was certainly what had happened to many of the grand old palaces in India.

  When Astbury Hall finally came into view, it wasn’t just the grandeur of it that made Ari catch his breath. Gathered on the front steps were a number of men attired in top hats and tails, and women in an array of period evening dresses. There was a vintage Rolls-Royce parked outside the house and a man stood next to it, wearing an old-fashioned chauffeur’s uniform.

  Ari slowed the car and blinked hard, for the scene in front of him was plucked from another era. It was only when he noticed the camera equipment surrounding the people that he chuckled, realising that the white van man had meant shooting a film, not a brace of pheasants.

  He saw someone waving at him urgently, indicating that he should drive round to the right of the house. They were obviously in the middle of shooting a scene. Doing so, Ari arrived in a courtyard humming with activity. Finding a space to park his car, he stepped out alongside a throng of crew and actors dressed in costume, queuing at a catering van. No one took any notice of him as he moved amongst them. He spied an open door at the side of the house and tentatively moved through a lobby and found himself in a large, deserted kitchen.

  Ari stared at the long, scrubbed pine table, the old-fashioned range and an upright piano against the wall. A threadbare chair sat near the fireplace. He wondered if this was the same kitchen that Anahita had sat in almost one hundred years before.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A female voice stirred him out of his reverie.

  The sturdily built, middle-aged woman looked at him questioningly. ‘There’s no food supplied in here, my love, all the film people eat outside from the catering van. And there are Portaloos round the back,’ she added.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Ari said, ‘I’m not part of the film.’

  ‘So why are you standing in my kitchen?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Astbury Hall.’

  ‘It’s not open to the public, so you can’t.’ As she stared at him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You’re not one of those journalists, are you? How did you get in here? There’s meant to be security on the gate.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Ari hastily, wondering how on earth he was supposed to explain his presence. ‘It’s a . . . family connection I’ve come about.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. One of my relatives used to work at Astbury Hall many years ago.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her name was Anahita Chavan.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ the woman replied.

  ‘It was over ninety years ago that she was here. I’ve been in England on business for the past few days and I thought it would be interesting to see the place I’ve heard so much about.’

  ‘So you just walked straight in here without so much as a “by your leave”, did you?’

  ‘Please accept my apologies – I wasn’t sure whom I should speak to. Is there a current Lord Astbury?’
/>   ‘There is, but he’ll be far too busy to see you without an appointment.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ari agreed. ‘Then perhaps –’ he reached into his jacket pocket and dug out a card – ‘you could give him this? It has both my cellphone number and my email on it.’

  As she studied it, Ari became aware of another presence in the kitchen. He turned to the interior door and saw a young woman, tall, slender and beautiful, standing by it. She was dressed in a vintage gown of the softest silk, which draped elegantly to her slim ankles.

  ‘Am I interrupting, Mrs Trevathan?’

  Ari noticed the young woman spoke with a soft American accent.

  ‘No, dear, not at all. This gentleman was just leaving.’ The older woman turned her attention back to Ari. ‘Lord Astbury doesn’t have email and rarely uses the telephone. I suggest you put your enquiry in writing and post it here for his attention. Now, Miss Rebecca, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was just wondering whether you have any antihistamine? My nose is itchy and my eyes are watering. Is it ragweed season here?’

  ‘I don’t know what ragweed is, but June is certainly hay-fever time. His Lordship suffers from it sometimes too.’ Mrs Trevathan walked to a dresser and pulled out a plastic box from a drawer. Finding some tablets, she handed the packet to the young woman.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Trevathan. I’ll take one at lunch. I’m due on set right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ Ari said. ‘I’ll do as you suggest and write to Lord Astbury. Goodbye.’ He followed the young woman towards the door. ‘May I?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, surveying him with her enormous brown eyes as he opened it for her.

  ‘Forgive me for being presumptuous,’ said Ari as they stepped into the bright sunshine of the courtyard, ‘but you seem very familiar. Is it possible we’ve met before?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she replied. ‘A lot of people seem to think they know me. Are you part of the production team?’

  ‘No, I’m here on family business. I had a relative who worked at the house a long time ago. I’d obviously like to gain an audience with Lord Astbury, but I get the feeling that it might be a struggle.’

  ‘Mrs Trevathan’s very protective of him, so your instinct is probably right,’ the young woman replied as they paused beside Ari’s car.

  ‘It’s a shame, actually,’ said Ari, ‘as he might well be interested in a slice of his family history he knows nothing about. Anyway, I’ll do as that woman in the kitchen suggested and put the details in writing.’

  ‘I see Lord Astbury quite often, so perhaps I could mention that you were here?’ she said.

  ‘That would be very helpful, as it’s doubtful I’ll be in England for much longer.’ He pulled out a pen and another card from his wallet, and wrote on it. ‘Could you give him this? That’s me, Ari Malik, and the name of my great-grandmother who worked here. You never know, he might have heard of her.’

  As Ari unlocked his car, the young woman studied the card. ‘Anahita Chavan. Sure, Mr Malik, I’ll see he gets it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Then, on a sudden instinct, Ari reached through into the back seat of his car and grabbed the plastic file containing his great-grandmother’s story. He separated the pages he had read from those he hadn’t and handed them to her. ‘Perhaps you could give him this too? It’s a photocopy of part of my great-grandmother’s life story. If nothing else, it’s a fascinating glimpse of Astbury Hall and its residents in the 1920s.’

  ‘That’s the era of the story we’re filming here,’ she mused, taking the pages from him. ‘Will it reveal some skeletons in the Astbury closet? I’m sure this place has secrets to hide.’

  ‘I haven’t reached the end of the story yet, but I have a feeling that it might, yes.’ Ari smiled at her.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘By the way, I didn’t get your name.’

  ‘Rebecca, Rebecca Bradley. See you around, Mr Malik.’ And with a smile and a wave, she floated away from him.

  Ari watched her in his rear-view mirror, still pondering why she seemed so familiar. She was certainly a beauty, although blondes were hardly his preference, he thought, as he turned the car out of the courtyard and made his way back down the drive to search for a nearby hotel.

  Once she had finished filming for the day, Rebecca walked across the entrance hall and into the dark study that contained the one telephone in the house. Closing the door behind her, she sat down in the torn leather chair and dialled Jack’s number. It was ten o’clock in the morning in LA and even Jack should be in the land of the living.

  ‘Hello?’ His familiar voice sounded drowsy still.

  ‘Hi, it’s me, Rebecca.’

  ‘Jeez, Becks! I was beginning to wonder whether you were still alive.’

  ‘I’ve left you voicemail messages, Jack. Didn’t you get them?’

  ‘Yeah, sure I did . . . how are you? Is it raining there?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘It always rains across the pond, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not all the time, no,’ she responded, irrationally irritated by his comment. ‘So, how are things with you?’

  ‘Oh, you know, looking through scripts, searching for a good project – I got a couple of things that look okay, but my agent’s not happy with my billing.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And you, Becks? You missing me?’

  ‘Of course I am. I’m staying in an awesome house where the media can’t get to me. It’s really peaceful. The filming’s going well and I think Robert Hope is happy with my performance so far.’

  ‘Good, good. So, how long are you there for?’

  ‘Another month, I think.’

  ‘That’s a helluva long time, honey. How will I survive without you?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cope, Jack,’ she replied brusquely.

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll just fly over and see you. After all, we got plans to discuss, dates to set.’

  ‘Jack, I . . .’ Rebecca’s voice trailed off and she sighed inwardly. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten it was the media who had declared them engaged, while she was still yet to give him her final answer. ‘Let’s see how it goes, okay? My filming schedule is so tight for the next few weeks. You know how it is.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, but I really miss you, baby.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve got to go – I’ll try to give you a call over the weekend.’

  ‘Yeah, do that, please. It seems crazy I can’t get hold of you when I want to speak to you. You sure you’re telling me the truth about the lack of signal there?’

  ‘Of course I am, Jack. Why would I not? Listen, I really have to go.’

  ‘Okay, love you.’

  ‘You too, bye.’

  Rebecca put the receiver down and walked slowly up the stairs to her bedroom. She slumped down into the chair by the fireplace with a sigh. What was wrong with her? A few months ago she’d been hopelessly in love with Jack. Yet, just now, she could hardly bring herself to speak to him, let alone whisper loving endearments or tell him she missed him.

  Perhaps, she told herself, it was because she’d been backed into an irreversible corner. Like a deer in the headlights, she felt trapped. And here in England, she was spending time in the company of men who seemed to take themselves far less seriously than Jack did.

  Rebecca had never got used to the fact that he used more moisturiser and skin-care products than she did. She giggled at the thought of Lord Anthony doing the same. Probably his only nod to personal grooming was a cut-throat razor he’d owned since his first shave.

  That reminded her, she must find Anthony and hand him Mr Malik’s card and the pages he had given her. She glanced out of the window and saw that Anthony was in the garden, pruning the roses. Leaving her bedroom, she made her way downstairs to the terrace. As she stepped outside, he spotted her, and she saw him head across the garden and up the steps towards her.

  ‘How are you, Rebecca?’

  ‘It was a good day,�
� she said. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, the same as ever really,’ he said amiably.

  ‘Did Mrs Trevathan mention you had a visitor earlier today?’

  ‘No, who?’

  ‘A young Indian guy called Ari Malik, who told us a relative of his had worked here many years ago. He asked me to give you these pages. They’re written by his great-grandmother about her time at Astbury Hall in the early 1900s. This was her name.’ Rebecca proffered the card and Anthony studied it.

  ‘Anahita Chavan . . . I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell. But if she was a servant, her name would be listed in the old staff-wages ledgers that are kept in the library.’

  ‘Well, maybe these pages will tell you more. Mr Malik said you might like to read them.’

  Anthony glanced down at them and Rebecca noticed that he looked uncertain. ‘Not really my thing, delving into the family history. What’s the point of reliving the past when it contains so much pain?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anthony, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Anthony rallied and gave her a weak smile. ‘It’s as much as I can do to survive in the present.’

  ‘I understand. Then, would you mind if I read them? It might give me more of an insight into the era Elizabeth lived in.’

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘My character in the film,’ Rebecca clarified.

  ‘Oh, of course. By all means, go ahead,’ Anthony agreed. ‘Perhaps you’d do me the honour of joining me for a drink when your filming schedule permits?’

  ‘Of course, I’d love to.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Goodbye for now,’ he said as he stuffed the card she’d given him in his pocket and ambled off back down the steps to his precious garden.

  Rebecca spent the next half an hour watching the filming of the village fête scene, which had been set up on the parkland at the front of the house. Young children – locals from the surrounding villages – dashed around excitedly to the various stalls, and Rebecca spotted the nurse she had seen that first day in the kitchen pushing an old lady in a wheelchair. She watched in awe as Marion Devereaux – legendary star of the British stage and screen – completed a long and complicated section of dialogue in one single, perfect take.