The Midnight Rose

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Will you let me know if you find anything? It may sound stupid, but I somehow feel involved. I suppose it’s partly because of my resemblance to Violet. Did your great-grandmother know her?’

  ‘Yes, apparently she did,’ Ari said as they left the library and walked towards the hall. ‘Have a nice evening, Rebecca, and if those headaches don’t get better, see a doctor soon, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, yes. Thanks.’

  Ari watched her as she floated gracefully up the main staircase. He could understand why Anthony had been so affected by her presence here. Even he, an outside observer, couldn’t help but be unsettled by her likeness to Violet. There was also, for all her success and fame, an innate vulnerability about Rebecca. He felt that fate had placed her here at Astbury, like an innocent pawn in a complex game of chess.

  It was impossible for him – let alone Anthony – to ignore the fact that it felt as if history was repeating itself: Donald and Anthony, the bachelor heirs to the Astbury Estate, Violet and Rebecca, the beautiful, rich Americans and he and Anahita, from an exotic, far-away land . . .

  Ari looked above him at the great central dome and thought that if Anahita really was up there amongst the spirits she’d insisted had guided her during her life, she must be looking down now with great interest as a new generation of human players went about the intricate game of life.

  Even though Rebecca had taken as many painkillers as she’d dared to defeat her headache, she still found it a struggle to get through Robert’s birthday dinner on the terrace that evening.

  ‘You’re very quiet, darling,’ said James as he placed an arm around her shoulder. ‘Still not feeling any better?’

  ‘I’m okay, James, really. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Bad-boy Jack is due back later tonight, then?’

  ‘I think so, but he can’t contact me here at Astbury to tell me when he’ll arrive.’

  ‘I’d take it as a real compliment that you’ve tamed him, Becks. That night in the bar he had women coming on to him left, right and centre and he didn’t look twice at them. He really loves you, darling.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘God, yes!’ James took a slug of champagne. ‘I mean, it’s going to take some kind of serious woman to have me plighting my troth to her forevermore, I can tell you.’

  ‘I think I can take that as a compliment,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’m going to slip away now and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Walking upstairs to her room, with the sound of laughter echoing from the terrace, Rebecca thought about James’s comments. Jack might have loved her, he might have been prepared to ignore the overtures of other women – for now – but the fact remained, he had problems that were insurmountable unless he faced them.

  Or was she being too hard on him?

  Feeling too ill to make sense of anything further tonight, but not wanting her earlier determination to confront him to ebb away, Rebecca undressed and flopped into bed. Taking a sip of the still-warm chamomile tea which Mrs Trevathan had left her, she looked at her watch and wondered where on earth Jack was. As she turned off the light, half of her hoped he wouldn’t make an appearance tonight so she could get an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

  It was past midnight when he appeared in the bedroom.

  ‘Hi, baby.’ He walked buoyantly across the room, kissed her, then put his arms round her shoulders. He stank of stale alcohol and Rebecca, already nauseous, turned her face away.

  ‘Are you okay, Becks? You’re a strange colour.’

  ‘It’s this headache again, it’s making me feel sick. I’m going to see a doctor if it hasn’t gone away tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, you do that.’ Jack sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. ‘Poor baby,’ he crooned. ‘Hey, you don’t think by any chance I got you pregnant, do you?’

  ‘No, Jack, that’s impossible. I’m on the pill, remember?’

  ‘I know, but wouldn’t it be great if you were? It’d be the best-looking child in the world, I reckon. And I promise that, if you are, I wouldn’t have a problem. No sir. It’s about time I was a daddy.’

  ‘Jack, I’m almost one hundred per cent sure I’m not,’ Rebecca replied wearily. ‘So how did the meeting go?’

  ‘Great. Me and the director guy got on a like a house on fire. Then afterwards, we went for lunch and had what you might call a male bonding session,’ he said, smiling in reminiscence.

  ‘So when will you hear about the part?’

  ‘In the next few days. Right, I’m going to take a bath in that old tub down the hall, since there’s no shower here. Christ, what a crazy place to be staying.’ He kissed her on the nose. ‘You just relax while I’m gone.’

  Rebecca nodded and closed her eyes as Jack picked up his toiletry bag and left the room.

  He was back fifteen minutes later and climbed into bed next to her.

  ‘Could you find the energy to try and make a baby tonight?’ he whispered, his hands reaching for her.

  ‘Please, Jack, I really don’t feel so good. Can you leave me to go to sleep, please?’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ As he leaned over to kiss her, to her horror, she saw a smudge of white powder sitting just inside his nostril.

  ‘I’m sorry, Becks, but you gotta realise that I’m climbing into bed with the woman that every man in the Western world wants to screw, she’s so goddamned beautiful. It’s no surprise I get turned on.’

  ‘Please! I said I’m not feeling well and I’ve got to sleep.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, offended, as she rolled away from him and switched off the light.

  In the morning, Rebecca asked Steve to call a doctor. Unable to stay in bed, as she hardly wanted to greet him with a fiancé who was still passed out cold from drugs and alcohol next to her, she staggered downstairs and waited for him in the drawing room.

  Twenty minutes later, a tall, middle-aged man holding his Gladstone bag entered the room with Steve.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Steve said to her from the door as the doctor walked over and sat down next to her.

  ‘Hello, Miss Bradley. My name is Dr Trefusis. What seems to be the problem?’

  Rebecca explained her symptoms and then the doctor subjected her to a thorough examination.

  ‘Right,’ he said, having completed his investigations. ‘Your pulse is faster than I’d expect and your blood pressure is also up. However, that can often be due to stress, especially when one has to see a strange doctor to find out what’s wrong,’ he said, his kind eyes smiling down at her.

  ‘I don’t understand it, I’m almost never sick,’ she said, sighing.

  ‘Well, sadly, we’re human and it happens to all of us. Now, I want you to give me a urine sample and I’d like to do some blood tests to eliminate a few possibilities. Please try not to worry, Miss Bradley. You’ve almost certainly got a virus of some kind. You don’t have a temperature, but that could be because, as you told me, you took some ibuprofen earlier.’

  Rebecca took a specimen jar to the bathroom and did as requested, then looked the other way as the doctor stuck the needle into her vein. The sight of it brought back memories of her mother.

  ‘Right, all done. Now, here’s my cellphone number, just in case you feel worse. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have the results of your tests. Be warned, though, it could be a few days before we get them back. Until then, I want you on bed rest. Drink plenty of fluids, keep taking the ibuprofen, and we’ll see if you improve.’

  ‘Bed rest? But I can’t do that! My filming schedule is full for the next two days, Doctor, and I won’t hold up the shoot,’ said Rebecca, horrified.

  ‘You can’t help being sick, Miss Bradley. You’re certainly in no fit state to be filming anything at present. Why don’t I have a word with the chap who showed me in? I’ll explain the situation.’ Dr Trefusis closed up his bag and walked towards the door, pausing suddenly in afterthought. ‘You don’t think you could possibly be pregnant, do you?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m on the pill,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Nonetheless, we’ll do a pregnancy test from your urine sample this afternoon, just to rule it out for sure. Goodbye, Miss Bradley.’

  Rebecca lay back on the sofa, feeling ill and guilty for being ill in equal measure. She wished she could go upstairs to her bedroom, shut the curtains and go to sleep. But the thought of having to face Jack whilst she felt so fragile was not palatable.

  Ten minutes later, Steve came into the room. ‘Right, all sorted, darling. I’ve had a word with Robert and we’re currently rescheduling so you can take a couple of days off and recover.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Steve, I feel so bad for causing all this trouble.’

  ‘Rebecca, stop being paranoid. Everyone on set loves you and they’ve already seen how dedicated and hard-working you’ve been. We’re just sorry that you’re not well. Anyway, let’s hope that with a couple of days’ rest you’ll be on the mend.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, why don’t you go up to your room and try to sleep?’ Steve suggested.

  ‘Jack’s still resting. He was exhausted after London. I’ll just stay down here until he’s woken up.’

  ‘Okay –’ Steve shot her a strange look – ‘but our priority is you and you need to be tucked up in bed. I’ll have a word with Mrs Trevathan and see if she has another room you can use in the meantime.’

  As he left, Rebecca squirmed in embarrassment. Here she was, too sick to work and with a liability of a boyfriend sleeping in her bedroom upstairs.

  ‘Hello, my love.’ Mrs Trevathan arrived in the drawing room a few minutes later with a sympathetic look in her eyes. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Awful,’ said Rebecca, her reserve crumbling at the sight of the motherly figure. Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away.

  ‘There, there, dear.’ Mrs Trevathan put a kindly hand on Rebecca’s. ‘Steve explained the situation, so I’ve organised another bedroom for you in the meantime.’

  Half an hour later, Rebecca was lying in an enormous, canopied bed while Mrs Trevathan bustled in and out with water, tea and toast and some magazines she thought Rebecca might like to read.

  ‘I think you’re in a couple of them,’ she said teasingly as she handed them to her.

  ‘This is such a lovely bedroom. I guess I’ve been upgraded,’ Rebecca said with a forlorn smile.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? This was Lady Violet Astbury’s suite of rooms and certainly, in the forty years I’ve been working here, I’ve never known it used. It was His Lordship himself that suggested you should move in here when I asked him where I should put you this morning. It has the best view over the gardens and moor and is the only bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. There’s also a private sitting room and a dressing room through that door,’ she said, indicating it.

  ‘Well, please thank Anthony for me. I promise it’s only temporary until Jack wakes up.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d stay here until you’re feeling better. You get some shut-eye, dear.’

  ‘Thank you so much for all your kindness.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, that’s what I’m here for.’ Mrs Trevathan smiled at her and left the room.

  Rebecca woke later feeling a little better and sat up in bed sipping the tea Mrs Trevathan had brought her. For the first time, she took in the details of the room she was occupying. It was hard to believe it had remained empty of human presence for so many years. Everything in it was immaculate – even the paintwork on the skirting boards looked fresh and new. Her glance fell on the highly polished Art Deco dressing table and she saw perfume bottles, a hairbrush and a string of beads hooked over one side of the three-faced mirror. Climbing out of bed, she walked over to it, picked up a perfume bottle and sniffed it. With a start, she realised it was familiar . . . it was the light, flowery scent she was sure had hung in the air some nights in her room.

  Padding barefoot next door, she entered a bathroom. Again, the pristine fittings took her by surprise. The bathtub was old, but without a sign of the wear that was so prevalent in other parts of the house. A long line of mirrored wardrobes took up the entirety of one of the walls. Rebecca opened one and gasped as she saw the array of beautiful clothes, immaculately preserved in clear plastic hanging bags.

  ‘Violet’s clothes,’ she murmured. Closing the door hastily, she wandered back into her bedroom and across to the other door. Beyond it was a small but beautifully furnished sitting room. Photographs in silver frames stood on a bureau and she saw Violet’s face – her own face – staring back at her. Next to her stood a handsome young man in evening dress; it had to be Donald, Anthony’s grandfather.

  Another door led to a starkly furnished smaller room – a male room, containing none of the accoutrements of femininity. Realising this must have been Donald’s dressing room, she saw there was a narrow wooden bed, a mahogany wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a packed bookshelf. Rebecca studied the titles on the shelf, everything, ranging from children’s books to Thomas Hardy. One in particular caught her eye: the name ‘Rudyard Kipling – If’ was embossed in gold on the spine of a thick brown leather volume. Remembering the poem ‘If’ that Ari had mentioned to her only yesterday, which was written by the famous writer, she drew it out carefully. There was an intricate gold insignia stencilled on the front of it. She sat down on the bed and opened it carefully. On the inside cover was an inscription in faded ink:

  Christmas 1910

  My dear Donald, this very special gift was given to me by His Highness, the Maharaja of Cooch Behar, when I left to return to England after spending five years as Resident there. He had it commissioned especially for me, as he knew Rudyard Kipling was my favourite author and poet. It contains a beautifully handwritten poem at the front of the book, but it is in fact, a diary. Use it as you wish.

  Your devoted father,

  George

  Rebecca remembered from the stone plaque in the mausoleum that George Astbury had died only a few weeks later, in January 1911.

  She turned the first yellowing page and saw the poem, as Donald’s father had indicated, handwritten, with exquisite gold decoration on the page. She read through the verses, and knew that there could never be a more poignant last gift from a father to a son.

  The words, one hundred years on, made her feel empowered too. She stood up, about to return the book to the bookshelf, when an ink stain on the bottom of one of the later pages made her turn the following leaf over.

  She sat back down as she read the first immaculately written entry.

  January 1911

  Father died four days ago. I was told at school and am now at home for the funeral. Mother is at chapel most of the time and insists we go with her. Frankly, just now, I don’t have much faith in HIM, but I will do my best to support her in her grief. Selina, too, is distraught. I understand that I’m the man of the house now and must be brave and strong. Father, in truth, I miss you awfully and do not know how to comfort the women.

  The rest of the page was blank with no further entries, but turning over, Rebecca saw the diary restarted in 1912, with occasional entries during the following three years, and then again in earnest in February 1919, which Rebecca realised was just after the First World War had ended.

  Rebecca heard her name being called. She reluctantly returned the diary to the bookshelf and walked swiftly back to the bedroom.

  ‘How are you feeling, dear?’ said Mrs Trevathan, who had just walked in.

  ‘I’m a little better.’

  ‘At least you have a bit more colour in your cheeks now. Rebecca, Jack is awake and wishes to see you. I’ve said you’re asleep for now. I wanted to ask whether you’re up to a visitor?’ The look Mrs Trevathan gave her let Rebecca know she understood.

  ‘Not really, no,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘Well, would you like me to make sure he’s occupied until tomorrow? I could suggest he goes out to the hotel in Ashburton with his actor friend later. Mr James
enquired after you earlier by the way, and sends his love,’ she added.

  ‘That would be very kind of you. But if Jack does go out with James, he may be in late. And—’

  ‘Yes, dear, I understand,’ said Mrs Trevathan. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him.’

  ‘Please, if he causes a problem, send him to me.’

  ‘I can assure you that I’ve dealt with far worse than your young man in my time,’ she interjected crisply. ‘Now, I’ve left you some supper, plenty of water and a glass of warm milk that His Lordship insisted I bring you. He, too, sends you his regards, by the way, and wishes you a speedy recovery. Oh, and that Indian gentleman we now have staying was also very concerned and wanted to see you,’ she added. ‘Well, now, I’ll go and make sure that you’re not disturbed tonight by any of your male admirers.’ Mrs Trevathan’s eyes twinkled. ‘If there’s anything you need, ring the bell by the side of your bed.’

  Rebecca looked at it. ‘It still works?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear, it still works,’ Mrs Trevathan replied. ‘Why don’t you take a nice long soak in that tub and then have an early night? I can bring you some of your things from your old room.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. And you’re right, I do need some peace.’

  ‘I know, my love, I can see it. As I said, leave it to me.’

  On instinct, Rebecca went to Mrs Trevathan and gave her a hug. ‘Thank you.’

  Clearly surprised and embarrassed by such a display, Mrs Trevathan quickly extricated herself from Rebecca’s arms and walked briskly to the door. ‘Goodnight, dear, sleep well.’

  ‘I will.’

  Feeling calmer now that she knew that Jack was not going to appear at any moment, Rebecca took a bath, then retrieved the leather-bound diary from Donald’s dressing room. Climbing into the bed, she turned to the pages after the First World War. The first entry talked about ‘A’ boarding a ship for India.

  Surely, Rebecca thought suddenly, Donald must be talking about Anahita?

  If he was, then this innocent-looking book, which had sat unnoticed on the shelves amongst the rest for decades, could contain the proof Ari needed to confirm Anahita’s story.