Diary of a Painted Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  There was so much more to Gina than beauty, Astrid thought. She’d achieved a lot before she died in 1975, fifteen years after Blair. “Don’t forget Gina set up shelters for prostitutes and unwed mothers.”

  She hugged them both and moved toward the door where Laurence Gilbray talked to the producer, Harry Sims.

  Harry kissed her on both cheeks. “Hope I get to work with you again.”

  “Hope I get to work,” Astrid said, smiling.

  “It was a fine script.” Laurence said. “We were lucky to get permission to make it.”

  “How did you discover the diary? You never told me.”

  “My daughter found it in a second hand book shop of all places, where she seems to spend a good deal of time looking for inspiration–she’s a writer. I sent scouts out to find the family. Then I went to Ireland and consulted with them. Apparently, the diary went missing after the house was sold, and they were happy for me to make the film. You shall meet them at the premiere.”

  “Did the love scenes with Dylan end up on the cutting room floor?” She almost hoped they had. It still embarrassed her and she’d have to shut her eyes at that point in the premiere.

  “Are you crazy?” Laurence’s eyebrows shot up. “Those hot scenes with you and Dylan will ensure the success of the movie and all our careers.”

  Astrid left the party and walked to her dressing room. Her assistant had packed her bag.

  She took a moment to gaze around the small space that had been like home for months. Trying not to dwell on the ordeal awaiting her in Paris, she shut the door. With a glance at her name still in its slot, she rolled her case out to the waiting taxi.

  Entering the cottage, she kicked off her shoes, and padded bare foot to the kitchen. She removed a chilled bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and opened it.

  She’d just poured two glasses of wine when Dylan knocked. She went to open it. He stepped into the tiny hall filling it with his tall frame. She sighed, wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Mmm,” she murmured against his ear.

  “I’ll second that,” he said huskily and pulled her hard against him.

  Astrid tried to detach herself from her body’s swift response to his closeness. “Come and have a glass of wine. We must toast the success of the movie before I leave.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. “Who sent you that hideous flower arrangement in the hall?”

  “Alistair McNaught, with a profuse apology.”

  “Bastard!”

  “He has problems that man. I approve of the movie’s happy ending, don’t you?” Astrid raised her wine glass to him.

  He clinked his glass against hers. “You believe in happy endings then?”

  “It’s pleases me that Blair and Gina had a long, happy marriage. Eight children!”

  “They had big families in those days.”

  “Even if I began now I doubt I’d have more than three.”

  “Three’s a nice number, but four is better. Have you changed your mind? Would you consider a baby in the near future?”

  “Somewhere in my future. Not now.” How beautiful a child of theirs would be, particularly if they had his blue eyes.

  “I’ve learned something from this movie,” he said. “What constitutes true happiness. It’s not a glamorous life, or conquests, or loads of money. It’s having that special person by my side, loving me through thick and thin.” He smiled. “And bearing my children.”

  She knew his big close-knit family in Ireland influenced him. And though she agreed it was right for him, she wasn’t entirely sure a large family was for her.

  He put down his glass and removed hers from her grasp. Placing the glasses on the kitchen bench, he looped his arms around her waist and leaned back with her against the counter. “Can we meet soon? In Paris?”

  She shook her head and moved out of his arms, fighting to gain control of her emotions and think clearly. “Not now.”

  He searched her face. “You can’t mean you’re going back to him.”

  “No, but I need to end it properly, Dylan, I wish you’d understood that.”

  Dylan swung away from her. “You won’t leave him,” he said bitterness and disappointment lowering his voice.

  “I want some time by myself.” She stroked his cheek. It was hard to make him understand that she needed to learn more about herself. Not to rely on a man. Dylan was so strong and independent. She had a career, of which she was proud, but she’d been first a daughter and then Philippe’s partner, and never alone long enough to understand what she really wanted from life.

  He raised a brow. “I’ll accept that, if it’s the truth.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You think I’d lie to you?”

  “No, darling. I think you haven’t made up your mind. And I’m trying desperately to help you.”

  “That’s true to a point. But you can’t help me, Dylan.”

  “You don’t love him.”

  “I did for many years.”

  He put a finger under her chin and raised it, his blue eyes pained. “You love me.”

  Astrid turned away from him. She hated to see him troubled. “Dylan, you have slept with many of your co-stars, including Maureen some years ago, according to Jenny. How do I know I’m not just another?”

  He scowled. “What? Are you implying you’re just another notch on my belt? That’s unfair, and it’s wrong, Astrid.” He sounded hurt and bitter. “All that was in the past, before I met you.”

  “I don’t regret what we shared,” she said, not wishing to remind him of the night he spent with Jenny. “Not one moment.”

  “Why stop now? We are great together.”

  “It’s better we don’t make hasty promises we can’t keep.”

  “I keep my promises.” He put down his half empty glass. “Okay. I won’t beg. I’ve never had to and I won’t start now.”

  “Of course not. You’re a beautiful man. I consider myself fortunate to have had this time with you.” She tidied his dark hair back from his forehead and smoothed his collar. “But perhaps we’re not destined to be a couple. I live in France. My life is there. We are very different.”

  “You sound convinced.”

  She fought to control her swirling emotions. “I’m not, though.” To avoid the hurt in his eyes she rinsed her glass under the tap. “And now I must hurry.”

  He tossed down the last of his drink and dug into his pocket for his keys. A corner of his mouth twitched in that smile that never failed to melt her heart. “We shall be back together very soon, darling Astrid. Interviews, the showing of the film, film festivals, we’ll see a good deal of each other.” His intense blue eyes still had the power to thrill her. “We’ll see what happens then.”

  “I believe that’s wise.” She was grateful to him for being reasonable, and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her stomach.

  He pressed his lips to hers, caressing her mouth as she stroked the silky hair at his nape. She tasted wine on his tongue, her body responding with warmth and a tug of desire.

  Then she let him go.

  The slam of the front door broke her trance. She took a deep breath as the roar of his motorbike faded into the distance. It seemed so final. She checked windows and tidied sofa cushions. Blocking their conversation from her mind, she headed upstairs. The taxi would arrive in an hour and there was still some packing to do.

  The silver jersey dress, she’d worn their first night together, lay on the bed. She held it to her nose, imagining she could smell Dylan’s aftershave as memories of their passionate union came flooding back. It was plain that what had passed between them had transferred to the screen. She understood why the director and the producer were so optimistic.

  Astrid pushed back a lock of hair and applied her lipstick in the bathroom mirror. She was relieved that the movie was finished. She’d loved her character and took something of Gina with her that she wanted to keep: Gina’s passion and determination for a life lived on her
own terms.

  Philippe would collect her from Charles de Gaulle airport in his Maserati. She’d tell him quietly at home. The word ‘home’ sounded odd now. It would no longer be her home. Philippe would fight her all the way, using everything at his disposal. She tucked her makeup case in her bag, zipped up her Versace luggage then picked up her phone to confirm her flight. As she waited for the flight information, Dylan’s intense, handsome face swam into her vision. She bit her lip hard on the profound sense of loss. Women would already be queuing up to get him into bed. Could any red-blooded man resist that?

  Chapter Thirty

  Ireland 1890

  Dunleavy House was a slice of heaven. Gina strolled along a path where birds of infinite variety sang from the trees. Sweet-scented wisteria ranged over a fence with blossoms like pendulous bunches of purple grapes. The soporific hum of bees reached her from the flower garden. She picked up her skirts and crossed the lawns to where Blair sat watching the sun kiss the blue waters of Lough Leane.

  “Where’ve you been since lunch?” He reached out to her, smiling lazily.

  The look in his sleepy, blue eyes made her want to touch him, if just to stroke his hair. They had not yet made love and she yearned for it. “I went for a walk. We’ve been here for days and I haven’t seen the gardens.”

  She bent down and kissed him. “I think of nothing but you.” He stroked her hair. “And making love to you.”

  Gina laughed, as a delightful shiver of anticipation passed through her. “I’ve been thinking of your mother, coming today to look me over,” she said. “She may well accuse me of getting you shot.”

  “Rubbish, my love.” He pulled her down on the bench beside him. His good arm around her he drew her close and kissed her again. Laughing, she struggled out of his hold. “You must be getting better.”

  Just being near him filled her with yearning, she wanted him so. But if the servants told his mother, it would make for a very bad beginning.

  Gina had nightmares about Blair’s mother. A baron’s daughter. Well, she was a baron’s daughter too, if from the wrong side of the blanket. She made Blair promise never to tell his mother the truth of her parentage. She was to be Milo’s legitimate daughter for all intents and purposes. She owed more to Milo than she ever did her father. After all, he’d done nothing to ensure her and her mother’s future before he died.

  Gina swallowed nervously when later in the day, a carriage stopped in front of the house. Blair winked at her, took her hand and squeezed it. “My mother is quick tempered, but always fair.”

  “She may not like me.”

  “How could she not?” he said, and went outside to greet his mother.

  Gina waited in the hall. She’d paid careful attention to her appearance, choosing her most sober outfit. She fiddled with the collar of her high-necked, hazelnut crepe dress. Her clothes were a little loose. She’d lost weight worrying about Blair during those last difficult weeks. After Garrick helped them reach London, they’d stayed a month in Blair’s townhouse while he slowly recovered. She was glad her new clothes had been returned to her, for it gave her confidence as his fiancée when his friends and acquaintances called to see how he fared. His injury had even been mentioned in Parliament, and in the press. Speculation about the true story was rife, but she and Blair were determined it would never be made known. Gina had begged Blair to protect Jarred.

  Gina had visited Fredrik Leighton, and sat for him one last time. The Pear’s poster she had done appeared on walls and in the underground. The company expressed a wish for her to do more in the future, but it wasn’t the right time. Blair was agreeable, but now people stared at her wherever she went. She would prefer to stir their interest for a better cause than to sell soap. Blair ignored the gossip, but she hated to think she caused scandalous talk, for his sake. He cleverly swayed the journalist’s opinion, convincing them she was a heroine who saved his life when he was attacked by a robber. Even so, she was relieved when his health improved and they could undertake the journey to Ireland.

  A frail, middle-aged woman entered on her son’s arm, her gown exquisitely embroidered at the cuffs and hem, a fringed shawl decorated with peonies on her shoulders. She had been a beauty, with a fine boned face, but ill health ravished her fair skin, and dark shadows lay beneath her brown eyes. Gina saw no sign of fragility in those eyes, however, as she met her challenging gaze.

  Gina lifted her chin. She planned to be the best wife in the world to Blair. She would fight for the chance, if she had to.

  Blair ushered his mother toward Gina. “Mother, this is Gina,” he said simply.

  “How do you do.”

  “It is good to meet you at last,” Gina said. “Blair has told me a lot about you.”

  With a curt nod Maeve turned back to Blair. “Are you better today?” She patted his cheek as they walked into the parlor.

  “I’m getting stronger every day.” Blair propped his walking stick against the sofa and sank down.

  Gina placed a pillow behind his head. She turned to his mother. “You’ve had a long journey. Would you care for tea?” She’d discovered the Irish were just as keen on their tea as the English.

  “I’m sure Sarah has already seen to it.” Maeve sat beside Blair studying him with a worried frown.

  Aware that this was Maeve’s home too, Gina said. “I’ll go and see.”

  “No need for that, surely,” Maeve said. “Just ring the bell.”

  “You don’t know Gina, Mother,” Blair grinned. “She has spent many hours in the kitchen since we came here. She’s taken cook in hand and the meals are superb.” He patted his flat stomach. “If I don’t get out of this chair soon, I’ll be as fat as farmer O’Leary’s prize sow.”

  Maeve’s delicate brows rose as she turned to look at Gina. “You cook?”

  “I enjoy it.” Gina met her gaze unflinchingly.

  “She can ride like the devil and drive the trap,” Blair said. “Took a meal out to John Talbert, this morning. He’s been poorly.”

  “On her own?”

  “Couldn’t talk her out of it,” Blair said despairingly.

  “You are finding your way around then, Gina,” Maeve said, her tone softening.

  “I enjoy it. Ireland is so beautiful.”

  Blair told his mother how Gina had persuaded Jarred to take him to a doctor. And how, after he’d recovered sufficiently, she’d tended to him on their journey home. “Saved my life. No question,” he said with a warm smile at Gina.

  The critical expression faded from Maeve’s eyes. “I plan to stay until the wedding,” she said. “Now that Blair is recovering; you shall need a chaperone. After your wedding, I intend to make my permanent home in Dublin. Young people need time to be alone. Do you know,” she said, studying Gina’s figure, “Your figure is similar to mine when I was married. You might be able to wear my wedding gown with little alteration. If you would care to, of course. I kept it for the daughter I never had. It’s made of fine Venetian lace.”

  “How lovely! I would be honored. Thank you.” Gina, never able to hide her feelings for long, rushed to hug her.

  The woman’s slim body felt fragile in Gina’s arms. But she relaxed and her eyes grew misty. “Call me Mamma, I don’t hold with modern ideas.”

  * * *

  The wedding was to be held in the small stone village church, attended by a few close friends and relatives, and some of the parishioners and tenant farmers. Blair had not wished Gina to be intimidated by a society wedding held in Dublin, he shared her desire for a small country wedding and surprisingly his mother agreed.

  He was inordinately pleased when she expressed a fondness for Gina. “You have chosen well,” she said when they were alone. “Gina will make you a good wife.”

  “I had a good model.”

  “Surprisingly, she is a little like me when a young woman. She has spirit.”

  Fully restored to health, Blair discarded his cane. He and Gina enjoyed their first ride together. He proudly
showed her about his estate.

  They reined in beside the lough and dismounted, and he held his bride-to-be in his arms. “I want you so much, Gina,” he said into her hair. It was torture seeing her every day and not being able to make love to her. He wanted her with every fiber of his being.

  “I want you too, Blair, but….” Gina hesitated. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  He drew back in amazement. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “The only knowledge I have of making love is the advice my friend, Mabel gave me. And I’ve forgotten most of it.”

  He gave a peel of laughter. “Thank God you have forgotten it.” He kissed her so soundly until they drew away breathless. “I shall delight in teaching you, my love, but I feel you have much to teach me.”

  The day of the wedding dawned sunny and warm. Blair was overwhelmed with emotion as he watched Gina walk down the aisle. She was stunning. His mother’s lace wedding gown floated around her, and white flowers decorated her hair. She had not demurred when Maeve took over the arrangements with her usual efficiency. “She will enjoy being busy,” Gina had said with her usual wisdom. “Mamma has so little to do these days.”

  As he’d expected, Maeve had excelled in the task. Her enormous urns arrived from Dublin and were filled with fragrant flowers. The only thing Gina had fought Maeve on was her bouquet. She insisted on yellow roses. Blair had learnt the significance of the roses from Gina’s childhood. How right she’d been, they were perfect.

  The wedding breakfast was held in the Dunleavy House ballroom. Old Ben Quayle, a local farmer, drank too much whiskey and began to sing. He was forgiven, however, for he had a fine voice. The Irish love to sing, he’d told Gina. “So do the Italians,” she’d answered smiling at him. The fiddlers struck and Blair led his beautiful bride in the bridal waltz.

  True to her word, after the last guests left, Maeve had her trunk taken out to the carriage. She took Gina’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “You’ll do, daughter,” she said softly.

  She departed for Dunleavy Court, leaving the lovers alone.