The Triumph of Katie Byrne

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  After their introduction, Lavinia waved her hand airily, and exclaimed, ‘Come on, let’s go! Verity instructed me to have you back in time for tea, and you know what her afternoon teas mean to her, don’t you, Xenia? They’re something of a ritual these days, and not to be ignored.’

  Not waiting for Xenia’s comment, she swung around, beckoned to the porter, who by now had stacked their luggage on a trolley, and propelled them along the platform like a bustling sergeant major. Her take-charge manner was still in evidence as she swept forward, leading the way out of the station and into the nearby car park.

  Within seconds the porter was loading the luggage into the boot of a burgundy-coloured, vintage Bentley Continental drop-head coupé with a weathered beige leather hood. Katie noticed what looked like a small family crest painted on the rim of the driver’s door, just below the window. She tried to make out the symbols without success, and was instantly filled with curiosity.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in the back, Xenia,’ Lavinia now suggested. ‘Then you will be able to point out special landmarks to Katie.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ Xenia agreed, glanced at Katie and winked, then promptly opened the car door.

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be in the front with Lavinia?’ Katie asked.

  ‘No, I’d like to be your tour guide. And she and I will catch up on the local gossip later. Lavinia loves to play chauffeur, don’t you, darling?’

  Lavinia’s light laugh rang out in the cool October air, but she made no comment, got into the car and turned on the ignition, obviously anxious to be on her way. Once the others were settled in the back, she pulled off the brake, sailing forth out of the car park and into Harrogate’s busy streets.

  They were soon in the centre of town, and Xenia glanced at Katie, then tapped the window. ‘Look, that’s the Stray over there, a piece of common ground which has grown rather famous over the centuries. It looks awfully bare right now, but in the spring hundreds of crocuses bloom, make a carpet of purple, yellow and white. And just down there are the gates into the Valley Gardens, famous for their magnificent flowers in summer. I used to go for walks there with my mother when I was a little girl.’

  Katie followed the direction of Xenia’s gaze and simply nodded. She thought she had detected a note of sadness, or perhaps wistfulness, in her friend’s voice when she’d mentioned her mother. Katie decided to change the subject, and, looking at Xenia, she said, ‘I’ve been noticing the lovely architecture…Harrogate’s quite old, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, and the terrace of houses we’ve just passed dates back to the Georgian period. Actually, Harrogate has a number of elegant terraces like that, and crescents and squares. Some are Victorian and Edwardian, as well as Georgian. The town was once a famous spa, Katie, and some really lovely houses and villas were built, along with very grand hotels.’

  From the front seat, Lavinia interjected, ‘Katie, did you ever see a movie with Vanessa Redgrave and Dustin Hoffman called Agatha?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Katie responded, frowning, trying to remember. It sounded familiar to her, but she couldn’t place it. ‘Anyway, why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it was filmed in Harrogate, in the seventies,’ Lavinia answered her. ‘And the actual events it was based on really did happen here, fifty years earlier. The story goes that in 1926 Agatha Christie disappeared. There was a big hue and cry. No one knew where she was. Then a bit later she was spotted at the Old Swan Hotel here, where she was registered under the name of Theresa Neele. After she’d been found, her publishers said that overwork had caused her to have a nervous breakdown. And that when she had seen a travel poster, at a railway station, advertising the beauties of Harrogate, she had simply taken a train up here. It was all very mysterious, like one of her novels.’

  Katie now stared out of the window again, admiring the beauty of this ancient country town, wishing they could stay longer to walk around the streets. It had an old-fashioned, quirky charm about it that captivated her. The only excursions out of London she had made in the year she had been living in England had been to Stratford-upon-Avon. Rural areas intrigued her and she wanted to explore the bucolic spots that abounded.

  Xenia cut into her thoughts, when she remarked, ‘The town is very old, Katie; in fact I think it dates as far back as the 1300s. In any case, mineral wells were discovered here in 1571, and that’s when people started to come to take the waters. Eventually, the Royal Pump Room was built, also the Royal Baths, where people took treatments for all kinds of ailments. Eventually, Harrogate became the most advanced centre for hydrotherapy in the world. Apparently, there was also quite a smart social scene here, and anyone who was anybody visited Harrogate – kings, queens, princes, princesses, dukes and duchesses, maharajahs, politicians, actresses, singers, and writers. You name it, they all came to Harrogate. Even Byron was here once to take the famous mineral waters.’

  ‘Is it still a spa?’ Katie asked.

  ‘Not any more. Everything closed down after the Second World War,’ Xenia said. ‘In a way, it’s a shame the old mineral wells have been allowed to fall into ruin.’

  ‘But the springs are still there, under the ground,’ Lavinia cut in. ‘At least, that’s what Verity says.’

  ‘Will the wells ever be restored?’ Katie wondered out loud.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Xenia shrugged. ‘Modern medicine and proper diets have made this kind of spa redundant.’

  As they rolled down the hill and onto a flat tarmacadam road, Lavinia announced, over her shoulder, ‘We’re heading up into the Dales now, Katie. They’re a great beauty spot.’

  ‘How far is Burton Leyburn?’

  ‘Not too far,’ Xenia replied. ‘About an hour and twenty minutes, Katie. So sit back and relax and enjoy the countryside.’

  Even though it was October the Dales were still green, this gently rolling landscape cut into sections by drystone walls and dotted with sheep grazing. The leaves had not yet fallen and most of the trees were shady green bowers lining the road the car was travelling along at a steady speed.

  Katie’s nose was glued to the window, her eyes taking in everything. And she couldn’t help thinking what lush country this was, not what she had expected at all. In her mind’s eye, she had envisaged Yorkshire as bleak and forbidding, but then perhaps it was at Haworth, where the Brontës came from.

  Xenia had told her on the train that she had made arrangements for them to go over there tomorrow. The thought of this excursion excited Katie, and she was praying she wouldn’t lose her nerve at the last minute, and step away from the role in Charlotte and Her Sisters. She didn’t have to be told it was her big chance at last.

  Katie was well aware that if she turned down Melanie Dawson yet again she might never be offered another part. The famed producer and her husband, Harry, had singled Katie out when they had spotted her in an off-Broadway play several years ago. And they had taken a keen interest in her career ever since then.

  It was obvious that they appreciated her as an actress, believed she had talent, otherwise they would not have gone out of their way to keep in touch with her. They had even looked her up in London eight months ago, and shown her a great deal of kindness, taking her to plays, then for supper afterwards at the best restaurants.

  Katie turned her head, looked out of the car window once more, her eyes on the countryside as they drove on, heading for Burton Leyburn. They had already driven through various villages and the ancient cathedral city of Ripon. Now they were almost at Middleham, at least so the signpost told her.

  How calm it is here in these ancient places, she thought, and instantly envisioned New York. She bit back a sigh, and wished she didn’t feel so reluctant about going back there. It was this which was at the root of her indecision about accepting the part in Charlotte and Her Sisters.

  She knew very well that the role was a great one for her, the best she’d ever been offered. And, apart from her worry about adopting an English accent, she knew she could handl
e it. Certainly the role of Emily was exactly right for her; the other parts Melanie had dangled in front of her had been all wrong.

  Yes, playing Emily Brontë on Broadway would truly launch her acting career into the big time. She just wished she was not so alarmed about returning to New York. Her chest tightened and the familiar fear rushed through her. She took a deep breath, tried to turn away from her troubled past, the painful memories, and sat staring out of the window blindly. She did not see the landscape any more, only the faces of Denise and Carly, gone from her in life but forever in her heart and mind. Taking another deep breath, she leaned back against the car seat, waiting for the anxiety to recede, as it would eventually.

  Xenia said, ‘When we get to the top of the next hill, just ahead of us, we’ll be in Middleham. Quite a famous beauty spot around here, and an area of Yorkshire that’s saturated in history.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Middleham,’ Katie answered, forcing her voice to sound normal. ’I know that Richard III grew up there at the castle, and somewhere I read that it was once known as the Windsor of the north.’

  ‘That’s right, and it was indeed the seat of power. A great deal of power, actually. And it was in the hands of one man, the most powerful man in England in those days. He was known as the Kingmaker, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, a Yorkshireman, and the last of the great feudal barons and magnates. He really did have more power than King Edward IV, his young cousin, whom he put on the throne of England after the War of the Roses. You see –’ Xenia cut herself off, and exclaimed, ‘Look, Katie, over there! Those are the ruins. Slow down a bit, Lavinia, so Katie can see them properly.’

  Lavinia dutifully did as she was told and brought the car almost to a standstill as they drove very slowly past the castle. She said, ‘If you want to look around Middleham, I’ll bring you back another day, Katie. But right now I’ve got to race back to the house. Verity’s waiting for us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Katie replied, peering out of the window, straining to see the famous ruins. They appeared eerie and mysterious, the shattered battlements wrapped in deepening shadows as the cold northern light began to dim.

  Involuntarily she shivered, drew herself into her loden coat, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone. She tried to throw off the irrational feeling of apprehension that suddenly gripped her.

  Once they left the ruined castle behind them, the car began a steady climb up the hill which led out of Middleham. In a short while they were on a winding road that flowed across the top of the moorland. The sun of earlier had long since disappeared, but up here the sky was a soft, pale blue, and filled with great scudding white clouds blown along by the gusting wind. A few birds wheeled and turned against the puff-ball clouds, solitary inhabitants of the empty, rolling moors of Coverdale.

  Eventually the twisting road straightened out, then slowly fell away, and they were descending into the lush green valley below. It was a valley marked by stands of ancient trees, and pastures sectioned by drystone walls. And through this verdant valley ran a narrow silver ribbon of a river wending its way towards the North Sea.

  Ten minutes later the car was approaching another village. And this time the signpost announced that they were about to enter Burton Leyburn.

  Katie glanced at Xenia quickly. ‘We must be there!’

  ‘Not yet. The house is outside the village.’ She grinned at Katie. ‘You sound impatient to get there.’

  ‘I suppose I am. What you’ve told me about it has made me very curious.’

  Xenia smiled enigmatically, but made no further comment.

  Burton Leyburn was small, pretty, picturesque, a classical Yorkshire Dales village, clustered with houses made of local grey stone. Many of the gardens were filled with flowers which hinted at an Indian summer just passed, although the majority of the blooms were of russet, gold and amber hues, mostly chrysanthemums, a favourite at this time of year.

  Katie noticed several small shops, a post office, a pub called the White Hart, and a lovely old grey-stone church with a square Norman tower and stained-glass windows. But there were very few people about and no cars in evidence: it looked to her like a deserted spot.

  When she voiced this thought, Xenia and Lavinia both burst out laughing, and Lavinia said, ‘But it’s tea time, Katie, and everybody’s at home tucking in.’

  At the end of the main village street, Lavinia turned left, slowing her speed in order to ease the car down the narrow lane. But within seconds she was pulling onto a much broader road, and she did not slow her speed until they arrived at tall and elaborate black-iron gates. They were impressive, daunting, set between huge stone pillars, the latter surmounted by stone stags.

  The gates were closed, and Lavinia exclaimed, ‘Hang on a minute, Pell must have locked up already. I’ll have to go and punch in the code.’

  ‘I’ll do it, it’s easier,’ Xenia exclaimed, and alighted swiftly. Skirting the bushes, she went to the metal stand which held a key pad and punched in numbers. A second later she was getting back into the Bentley.

  Slowly the iron gates swung open.

  Lavinia shot through them, and sped down the drive. This was very wide, actually an avenue, and it was lined on either side by ancient trees, many of their thick trunks covered in green moss. Among the trees, deer and fawns wandered around, some of them grazing, and the animals added a natural charm to the setting, which had a timelessness about it.

  Xenia observed Katie staring at the deer. ‘I forgot to tell you, but Burton Leyburn Hall is set in a deer park. There have always been deer here, ever since Queen Elizabeth I gifted the lands to Robert Leyburn, who eventually built the hall on them. These days we’ve got about fifty deer, stags, and fawns.’

  Katie had been thinking about her mother’s problems with the deer in Malvern, deer which ate all of her flowers, but she decided not to mention this now. Instead, she asked, ‘How old is the house?’

  ‘It’s late Elizabethan. It was built in 1577, which is the date over the door, and that’s probably when the house was actually finished. So it’s over four hundred years old. But you’ll see it in a moment. It’s rather charming.’

  The woods on either side of the wide drive soon gave way to a vast expanse of flat green parkland, and in the distance, poised against the blue horizon, stood the house. Katie realized that Xenia’s description of it as being ‘rather charming’ was something of an understatement.

  It did not look like a country house, or a manor house. Nor could it be termed a mansion. Burton Leyburn Hall was much, much more. It fell into the category of stately home, of that Katie was absolutely certain. Even from this distance she could see that it was magnificent.

  But much to her disappointment, Katie did not get a chance to view the house properly in the way she wished to; as they approached the front façade, Lavinia suddenly, and rather quickly, veered off to the right.

  She sped down a dirt road and turned into a large cobblestone yard, exclaiming, ‘These are the stables, Katie,’ and brought the vintage Bentley to an abrupt standstill.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling on the brake and turning off the ignition simultaneously. ‘We’re late for tea. We’ll deal with the luggage later.’

  ‘So sorry to bring you through the back way,’ Xenia apologized once they had alighted from the car. Taking hold of Katie’s arm, she led her across the cobblestone yard.

  Katie heard snorting and whinnying, and glanced over her shoulder. She saw two beautiful horses looking out over the stall doors. Then, a split second later, she was ushered into the house.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A cacophony of sounds greeted them as they came into the back entrance hall, which also served as a mudroom-cloakroom and was filled with a diverse collection of riding boots, green wellies, raincoats, and Barbours.

  A woman’s voice, singing in a foreign tongue, rose above the clatter of pots and pans, a dog barking, a kettle whistling and muted voices in conversation. All emanated from the nearby kitchen, from
which delicious smells were wafting, reminding Katie suddenly of home.

  ‘That’s Anya singing, of course.’ Xenia grinned as she shed her black coat and scarf, and hung both on a peg. ‘I want you to meet her, but it’ll have to be later. Right now I think we should join Verity for tea.’

  Katie nodded, put her loden coat alongside Xenia’s, then straightened the jacket of her wine-coloured trouser suit. She glanced at her watch and frowned. ‘It’s almost five, aren’t we a bit late?’

  ‘No, only a few minutes.’

  ‘But I thought the English always had afternoon tea at four.’

  ‘Anywhere between four and five. And here it’s always been later, around quarter to five, mostly because dinner’s usually about eight-thirty or nine. But Verity doesn’t mind if people are a few minutes late for tea.’ She shook her head, added, ‘It’s Lavinia who always makes such a fuss about being on time for tea. Come on, follow me.’

  Xenia left the mudroom and headed down a long corridor. This was somewhat gloomy, despite wall sconces which hung at intervals on the side walls. Katie, who was right behind her, soon found herself stepping into a large, square entrance hall filled with late-afternoon light, plus sparkling illumination from a huge, carved-wood chandelier dropping down from the ceiling. The sudden change made her blink, and she adjusted her eyes to the brightness.

  Xenia turned, waved her hand in the air, and said, with sudden vivacity, ‘This is where you should have come in, Katie, and isn’t it a lovely entrance hall?’

  ‘It certainly is, and very impressive,’ Katie exclaimed, smiling with pleasure. Glancing around, she took in the four tall leaded windows, the high-flung, beamed ceiling, the stone urn of chrysanthemums and branches on an oak table, and faded but beautiful wall tapestries.