Silverbridge

by Joan Wolf

  “I’m afraid everything is booked for the weekend, Miss Collins,” the man replied apologetically. “There’s a big point-to-point tomorrow.” He was referring to an event for jump riders that consisted of a cross-country race from one point to another.

  A man said furiously, “All my clothes are in my hotel room. I have a meeting in the morning. What am I supposed to wear?”

  The shrill woman began to cry.

  Jon said calmly, “None of us has any clothes. I think going to Warminster is an excellent idea. It’s a large town, and we will be able to replace at least some of our wardrobes there.” He turned to the Wiltshire Arms, which now had fire blazing out of its upper windows as well. The sky was filled with black smoke, and the smell was acrid in the air. He said somberly, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to salvage anything from here.”

  “It doesn’t look that way,” Dave agreed. He turned to the hotel manager. “Can you take Miss Collins, Mr. Melbourne, and the rest of the movie crew in the hotel van? Our own drivers and cars aren’t on the premises, and I don’t want to keep Miss Collins standing about here in the cold.”

  The manager assured him that he could do that and, as he went to get the van, Tracy looked once again at the burning building. It was frightening to think that fire could take such a hold in so short a time.

  “I don’t have my car keys,” a man said agitatedly. “They’re back in the room.”

  “I’m sure you can go with someone else,” Jon said, and another man responded, “He can come with us.” Tracy smiled at Jon. Most of the actors she knew wouldn’t have evinced the slightest interest in a small, bald, pajama-clad man who had forgotten his car keys.

  There was a flash of light, one that was all too familiar to Tracy, and over Jon’s shoulder she saw the photographer. Suddenly she was swept by fury.

  “You little shit!” she yelled. “If you take one more picture of me, I’m going to have you arrested!”

  “Temper, temper, Miss Collins,” replied Jason Counes, the photographer who had been stalking Tracy for six months. “Freedom of the press, you know.” Tracy was so angry that she started for the man, intending to smash his camera. Jon grabbed her after she had taken three steps.

  “Calm down, Tracy,” he said in a soothing voice. “Look, the van is here, and we’re going.”

  Tracy was shaking. The abrupt awakening and fear from the fire had stripped away the wall she usually erected between herself and her hatred of the smarmy photographer who would not leave her alone.

  Jon kept his arm around her and began to lead her in the direction of the van. After throwing one last glare in the direction of Jason Counes, she went.

  By the time the refugees got to Warminster it was after three in the morning. The promised shelter consisted of cots and blankets in the basement of a school. Two women were brewing coffee in the kitchen. A silver-haired woman in a fur coat over her nightgown began to cry.

  “Oh please,” Gail said unsympathetically. “You might have been burned to death, lady. A night in a shelter should look good to you.”

  The woman replied angrily, “I’ll have you know that I am not accustomed to sleeping in a basement, young woman.” She sniffed. “It smells like mildew in here.” The shrill woman agreed.

  “Frank,” said someone else, “do something!”

  “What the hell do you want me to do?” her husband replied. “It’s three in the morning, for God’s sake.”

  Tracy’s emotions were still turbulent from her encounter with her nemesis, and she said acidly, “Guess what, people? I am not accustomed to sleeping in shelters either. But this is what we’ve got, and we might as well stop whining and make the best of it until the morning.”

  The silver-haired woman’s equally silver-haired husband unexpectedly said, “Miss Collins is right, Eunice. Buck up, will you?”

  “I am not going to lie down on one of those disgusting cots,” Eunice announced. “God knows who may have slept there before. For all I know, the mattresses have bugs.”

  This was a sentiment with which Tracy heartily agreed. “Then we’ll all sit around the table for the rest of the night and drink coffee,” she proclaimed.

  It was a plan of action that appealed to most of the other guests, and the majority of them wrapped themselves in the cot blankets and sat around the large Formica table drinking the coffee and tea brewed by the shelter volunteers and trying to figure out what to do in the morning.

  Everyone agreed that clothing was the most important thing, and Tracy proposed that they have a local department store send over underwear, sneakers, slacks, and shirts. “At least then we can go out to shop for whatever else we may need,” she said.

  “I don’t have my credit card with me,” a man said unhappily.

  “I’ll take care of the clothes,” Tracy said. “It will be easier.”

  Everyone was happy with this arrangement, and Gail made a list of everyone’s sizes. As daylight dawned, the Americans (Gail and Tracy) were the only ones to take advantage of the single tepid shower and, promptly at nine-thirty, Gail called the local department store. The manager was delighted to be able to accommodate Tracy Collins, and by ten o’clock Tracy had shed her silk pajamas and was wearing a turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers.

  While most of the other newly clad guests headed for the stores to buy more appropriate clothing, the movie people got into company cars to drive to Silverbridge for the day’s filming.

  As soon as they arrived on location, Dave put Greg in charge of finding new lodgings for the dispossessed cast and crew. The assistant director spent a very discouraging hour on the phone to various hotels, which were all booked for the next two days. He then drove to check out personally the few bed-and-breakfasts that had reported openings. At two o’clock he returned to Silverbridge.

  He found the director watching the camera operators practice moving the camera to keep up with the actors. Everyone else was standing around. Greg went up to Dave, and said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Dave moved to stand beside the chair that had been set up for him, a chair that was presently occupied by Meg. Each day she had made herself progressively more comfortable on the set and, because she never intruded but only watched, Dave had reached the point where he scarcely noticed her.

  “There are no rooms to be had in any of the area hotels,” Greg said grimly. “Because of the big point-to-point this weekend, everything that is decent is booked.”

  Dave groaned and began to polish his glasses with a handkerchief. “There has to be something available! Did you tell the hotel managers that you wanted a room for Tracy Collins?”

  “Yes, I did. But apparently a flock of aristocracy is arriving for the race, and no one was willing to bump them.”

  Dave polished harder. “There must be something that’s open!”

  “I’ve found a B&B in Littleton that has three rooms and two B&Bs in Marlton that have two rooms each. But the rooms are tiny and don’t have private bathrooms. I really don’t think we can ask Tracy to sleep in them. Jon either, for that matter.”

  “Shit,” Dave said. “What are we going to do?”

  Greg pulled at his ponytail and looked unhappy.

  Meg said, “I have an idea.”

  The two men looked at her.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Excitement bubbled in her voice. “We have extra bedrooms. Perhaps Tracy and Jon could stay with us.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “There’s nothing available in the area,” Greg said. “We would have to go over an hour away to find anything remotely suitable.”

  Dave finished polishing his glasses and returned them to his face. He frowned as he looked at Meg. “Do you think your brother would agree to such an arrangement?”

  Meg said promptly, “If you’re willing to pay him what you were paying the Wiltshire Arms, I rather think he might.”

  There was a pause as Dave continued to frown, and Greg pull
ed once more at his ponytail. Then Dave said, “All right, Lady Margaret. Would you be kind enough to ask him and let me know what he says?”

  Meg removed her fragile frame from Dave’s chair. “I’ll go and find him now.”

  “Great. Thanks,” Dave said. Then, as Meg moved out of earshot, he rolled his eyes. “Lord Silverbridge is going to end up being half the bloody cost of this picture.”

  Greg said nervously, “Don’t you think I should look at the setup before we make a deal, Dave? The bathroom arrangements in these old places are sometimes fairly primitive. And Tracy…”

  Dave groaned. “All right, I suppose you’d better take a look at the bathrooms. But I don’t know how we’re going to tell His Lordship and Lady Margaret that you don’t find their home suitable to house a movie star.”

  “We shall just have to hope that it is,” Greg said. “Because there really isn’t much other choice.”

  Meg went first to the stables, but Harry wasn’t there. Next she tried his office, which was a wood-paneled room next to the kitchen. He had left the door partly open, and Meg stopped for a moment in the doorway to look at her brother.

  Harry, wearing a brown wool sweater, was seated at a modern desk, his back to her, his eyes on his computer screen. The afternoon light slanting in from the high window over the computer lit his tawny hair and, as she watched, he muttered something under his breath, then slammed his open hand on the desk. The spaniels, which were lying on either side of his chair, raised their heads at the sound.

  “Not good news?” Meg asked as she came into the room.

  He swiveled around in his chair, causing Marshal to get up and look at him expectantly. When Harry didn’t get up, the spaniel lay back down again. Harry took off his horn-rim glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Meg. What are you doing here? I thought you were watching the movie shoot.”

  “I came to see you.” She went to sit in the old leather chair next to the desk. “Did you know that the Wiltshire Arms burned down last night?”

  His brown eyes widened. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

  She hooked her rain-straight hair behind her ears. “Well it did, and it has left all of the movie people who were staying there homeless. Greg—he’s the assistant director—tried to book them into other hotels today, but the point-to-point over in Castleton is tomorrow, and everything is taken.”

  Harry leaned back in his chair. “I was planning to go myself,” he said mildly. “One of my students is riding in it.”

  “Who?” Meg asked, momentarily distracted from her mission.

  “Matt Alder.”

  Meg nodded. Matthew Alder, Baron Carsford, was a jump rider, but over the winter he had taken a series of dressage lessons with Harry.

  Meg moved the conversation back on track. “Anyway, because of the point-to-point, the only lodgings available are in some bed-and-breakfasts in Littleton and Marlton. Greg says that the rooms are tiny and not appropriate for Tracy. Or for Jon.”

  Harry crossed his arms behind his head. “God forbid an American movie star should be forced to stay in an English B&B.”

  “Well you certainly wouldn’t like it.”

  He shrugged.

  “Anyway, I suggested that they stay here,” Meg said. “We have three empty bedrooms at the moment.”

  Harry’s arms dropped and he glared. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  “Why not?” Meg asked. “The film company would pay you the same amount of money they were paying the Wiltshire Arms.”

  A little silence fell. Then he said abruptly, “It’s impossible, Meg. I have managed to work around the mess the movie people are making of my grounds, but I don’t want them living in the house with me.”

  “It would just be Tracy and Jon. They’re super, honestly, Harry. And they spend most of their time on the set or in their dressing rooms. You’d probably hardly see them.”

  He said stiffly, “I would like to think that I am not yet reduced to the status of a hotel keeper.”

  “You’d be a very well paid hotel keeper,” Meg shot back. “The Wiltshire Arms charges a fortune, and both Tracy and Jon had suites.”

  “I can’t offer them a suite,” he said. “I can’t even offer them a private bathroom. Did you explain that to whomever you were talking to? Perhaps your movie star friends won’t think Silverbridge is suitable.”

  “Anyone would rather stay at Silverbridge than in a B&B,” Meg said with certainty.

  Harry pushed his hair off his forehead. “Jesus, Meggie, what’s going to happen if the gutter press gets hold of the fact that Tracy Collins is staying in my house? I really can’t go through another Dana Matthews thing.”

  “You are also training Gwen Mauley’s horse,” Meg pointed out. “Darling Gwen is going to be hanging around here as well.”

  “I know.” He sounded grim.

  “Harry, even the Examiner won’t have the nerve to say that you’re having an affair with two women at the same time and in the same place.”

  His jaw set. “In my experience, there is very little that the Examiner doesn’t have the nerve to say.”

  Meg chewed on a strand of her hair and looked at him.

  He sighed. “Oh, all right. If the film company wants to pay me the Wiltshire Arms rate, they can stay here.”

  Meg jumped up. “Great. You’ll like Tracy, Harry. She’s not like Dana Matthews at all.”

  He grunted, put on his glasses, and turned back to the computer. As she was going out the door he turned his head to call, “Tell them I want the money up front.”

  “All right.” She squinted at the columns of figures that had appeared on the computer screen behind him. “What are you working on?”

  “Bills,” he said dryly, and turned back to the machine.

  7

  The excitement over the fire had pushed Tracy’s vision of the horse rider to the back of her mind, but once she returned to Silverbridge for filming, it came back vividly.

  I must be letting the atmosphere of this place get to me, she thought, as she stood on her mark waiting for Dave to direct the cameras to roll. Clouds had come in during the course of the afternoon, and the changing light in the garden had forced them to shoot a scene near the end of the film, when Julia had begun to fear her obsessively jealous husband. Tracy’s mind, however, was not on the movie.

  I spend my days surrounded by people dressed in Regency clothes. Then I meet Lord Silverbridge, who, however rude and obnoxious he may be, is certainly a striking man. So I have this hallucination where I see a man who looks like Lord Silverbridge riding a horse and wearing Regency clothes. It’s weird, but explainable.

  The vision of the man on horseback rose again before her mind’s eye and her heart began to thud. As if from a distance, she heard Dave call, “Check her.”

  A studio makeup woman appeared at Tracy’s side, dusted a tiny bit of powder on her nose, and went away. Dave called, “Action.”

  Tracy made a great effort to close her mind to all outside thoughts, and began to walk along the path in the direction of the house. The camera, which was mounted on a dolly, moved beside her. Tracy, as Julia, looked toward the terrace, where she was supposed to see her husband awaiting her. In fact, Jon was not on the terrace. They would shoot the meeting between Julia and her husband later. Consequently, when Tracy focused her eyes on the terrace, she expected to find it empty.

  It wasn’t. A young woman with auburn hair was there, accompanied by a little boy. The woman wore a plain Regency morning dress of sprigged muslin, and the little boy was dressed in what looked like a gray jumpsuit with a short jacket over it. Even under the cloudy sky, his hair looked bright.

  Tracy stopped short, staring in disbelief at the tableau on the terrace. Her hand went to her throat in an instinctive gesture of protection. Then she shut her eyes, trying to get a grip on herself. When she opened her eyes again, the terrace was empty.

  “Cut! Dave called. “Were you able to get that, Michael? I know she wasn’t supposed to stop
.”

  “We got it,” the cameraman called back.

  “Then print it,” Dave said.

  He came up to where Tracy was standing. She had broken out in a clammy sweat, and small tremors were causing her body to quiver. Dave appeared to notice nothing of this, however. “That was brilliant, Tracy. Just brilliant.” Behind his thick glasses his eyes were glittering. “Do you think you could do it once more, just in case the first take doesn’t come out?”

  “No,” Tracy said in a thready voice. “Not now, Dave. I can’t do it now.”

  For the first time he noticed her pallor and her trembling. He put an arm around her shoulders, and said gently, “All right. I’m sure the first take will be okay. Come and sit down, and I’ll have someone bring you a glass of water.”

  Tracy nodded and allowed him to lead her to the chair that had her name on it. Gratefully, she sat down and rested her forehead on her lap.

  “You’re not going to faint, are you?” Dave asked in alarm.

  Tracy shook her head. “Where is that water?”

  “Here.” Someone put a plastic bottle in her hand, and she drank thirstily. The water was tepid, like most liquids in England, but she drank it gratefully. Finally, she was able to offer Dave an attempt at a smile.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “That’s all right,” Dave replied. “You didn’t sleep at all last night. Perhaps I should have given you the day off.”

  “No, No, I was fine. Really.”

  “Well you’re finished for today,” Dave said. He was still looking worried. “I think you ought to go home and take a map.”

  Meg said from someplace behind Tracy’s chair, “I’ll take her, Dave.”

  “Take me where?” Tracy asked a little forlornly. “My hotel burned down.”

  As Meg appeared at his side, Dave explained, “We’ve made arrangements for you and Jon to stay here at Silverbridge.”

  Tracy jerked, as if a bolt of electricity had just shot through her. “What?”