The many windows and French doors made the solarium seem part of the outside, and the clarity of light was particularly noticeable here. Although it was a sunless day, and somewhat bleak, the cloudless sky was a soft bluish white, almost etiolated, and it was incandescent.
A good light for painting, he thought, and made up his mind to bring his easel and paintbox down there tomorrow. He was suddenly in the mood to do a few watercolors.
Orchids abounded throughout the house, but there was a greater profusion of them in the solarium. His mother had always been addicted to orchids; and, even as a child, he too had been fascinated by them, by the intricacy of the flowers, the fantastical shapes of the petals, and the truly exotic colors.
He had grown up with orchids; there had always been a plethora of them in their farmhouse on the Yorkshire moors. Once a week he had helped his mother to water them, then put them in large metal bowls to drain.
“Sissy, sissy, sissy!” From a long way off, in the far reaches of his memory, he heard Nigel’s voice echoing down through the years. His elder brother had always teased him about watering the orchids with their mother. He hadn’t really cared; he had been independent even then. But his mother had cared when Nigel’s taunting had become a tiresome pattern, and his older sibling had been suitably punished.
Their mother had made Nigel clean all the lavatories at Aysgarth End, six in all, and he had had the last laugh, although he hadn’t dared to crack a smile. If he had, there would have been retribution of some kind. Nigel had been born a tough little bugger.
And nothing’s changed, he thought coldly.
Opening the door, Miles stepped out onto the covered porch, walked over to the balustrade, and stood looking out toward the distant hills. Kent was such a beautiful part of the world, his kind of country with its rolling wooded hills and crystal lakes. It reminded him of Yorkshire and of his childhood, a good part of which was spent there.
These days it was mostly Nigel who used Aysgarth End as a weekend home when he could get away from London, and for all the national holidays when they didn’t go to France to see Tamara’s parents. Certainly it was a marvelous spot to raise a family. When he went back to England he would go up there for a few days. He had long been planning to do an oil painting of Nigel’s two children, and he wanted to paint them against a moorland background.
Now the view of the distant Litchfield hills reinforced this idea, was quite inspirational in a way. His fingers suddenly itched to hold a brush; he would start tomorrow, do a few sketches of Natalie and Arnaud from memory. It would be the beginning of the portrait. The prospect pleased him.
Miles shifted his stance slightly and glanced down into the garden below. It looked dank and foggy, and the mere sight of the sunken rose garden stripped of all its summer radiance and color made him conscious of the cold weather. He turned away and went inside.
Drifting back to the great hall, he sat for a few moments in front of the fire, staring into the flames, thinking unexpectedly about Allison Grainger.
He had been startled, not to mention miffed, when Chloe had brought her name up in front of the others. He was loath to give his family anything to speculate about, even his mother, whom he adored. Nonetheless, like all mothers, she wanted to see him settled for life.
He liked Allison, liked her a lot in fact. She was a really great human being and a lovely young woman, and they had had a lot of fun together these past few months. But he did not want to spend the rest of his life with her—for a very simple reason. He was not in love with her.
In any event, he had learned his lesson today, and learned it well. Young Chloe wasn’t to be trusted. It was patently obvious that she was a little blabbermouth, and this disturbed him. She was always poking her nose into his business, and he was going to have to put a stop to that. He loved her, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but she didn’t know how to edit herself. Wasn’t it his fault though? He had let her into his life since he had been in New York. Oh, what the hell, he thought, no harm done, and I’d better keep my own mouth shut from now on. At least around baby sister.
Later, upstairs in his bedroom, Miles glanced around with satisfaction, noting the blazing fire, the bowl of fresh fruit, the bottled water, and the collection of magazines and newest books on a long library table behind the sofa.
His mother had always paid great attention to detail, and provided great comfort in her homes, thinking of everything. The perfect reading lamp stood close to the overstuffed armchair next to the fireside; a cashmere blanket was thrown over the back of the sofa; a plump duvet skimmed across the top of the big double bed; and naturally, orchids bloomed on tables in various corners.
She cossets, he suddenly thought, that’s exactly the right word. She did the same when we were children. She’s always done it, pampered us, and everyone else. “Smothers us, more like,” he heard Nigel’s voice say. He frowned, thinking of his brother once again. Nigel had developed a very acerbic tongue of late and could be quite vituperative. “It’s as if he’s bitter,” Miles muttered under his breath, walking over to the fireplace, standing with his back to the blazing logs. He had no clue what was wrong with Nigel; Gideon deemed him the man with everything, and this was true. He had a beautiful, intelligent wife, two marvelous kids, a successful career with a guaranteed future. And one day he would be the big cheese at Jardine and Company, the Crown Jewellers of London. But seemingly this wasn’t enough. What a fool his brother was.
Miles sighed, dragged his thoughts away from Nigel, and walked into the bathroom. After washing his hands, he ran a comb through his hair and then peered at himself. He saw a reflection of his parents gazing back at him. He had his mother’s dark, wavy hair, the same finely etched face, but he had inherited his father’s long, straight nose and vivid blue eyes. And, of course, he was a replica of his identical twin.
Gideon. He had been very much on his mind of late. He couldn’t understand what was ailing him. His brother was morose, moody, and depressed. Last week, when he was in London, he had attempted to talk to Gideon; but all he had got for his trouble was a flea in his ear. And several warning glances from his brother had finally made him back off completely. But there was something wrong with Gideon. As Derek, who was always quoting Shakespeare, would say: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
6
“THE ACTOR PLAYING THE HEAVY BECAME SUDDENLY ill, and there we were, in the middle of the picture and in a mess, looking for a replacement, and, of course, everyone was mentally casting,” Derek explained to them, his marvelous voice echoing around the great hall.
“And,” he went on, “I happened to remark to the assistant producer that who we needed was Sydney Greenstreet. I told her that he’d be great as Redner, the villain. And she asked me who his agent was so that she could be in touch and try to hire him at once.”
Derek began to laugh. It was infectious. The others laughed with him, as always enjoying his anecdotes about the movies he had worked on. “Anyway, she was appallingly dense, the poor girl, and I’m afraid none of us could resist taking the mickey out of her. Most of the time too. Very young, of course. Too young for the job, as a matter of fact. Didn’t know that old Sydney had gone to meet his maker long ago. Doubt if she’d ever heard of him. Or seen The Maltese Falcon.”
“Or Casablanca,” Chloe volunteered. “I loved him in that.”
“So did I, darling girl,” Derek agreed, beaming at her.
Chloe beamed back. “Casablanca is my all-time-favorite movie. It’s awesome.”
“My favorite, too,” Miles said, and then, glancing at Derek, he remarked, “I had a similar sort of conversation the other day with one of the young women working in Wardrobe. I said that Deborah Kerr had been the greatest Anna ever, that she’d been brilliant in the part, and the girl just gaped at me, looking totally blank.”
Derek nodded, moved forward in the chair slightly, sounding serious. “Look here, I’m all for youth and a great booster of this generation,
but some of these kids in their late teens and early twenties who are working in the theater and movies today seem awfully uninformed to me. Not a bit knowledgeable about the past, even the recent past.”
“Only too true,” Miles agreed. “It’s like they’ve landed from another planet.”
“Deborah was divine in The King and I,” Blair murmured.
“And so was Yul Brynner. They don’t make stars like that anymore,” Derek said quietly.
“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that!” Blair exclaimed a trifle heatedly. “What about you, my love?”
Derek merely inclined his head and smiled at his wife.
Stevie said, “Mother’s right, of course, but I do know what you mean. So many of the great stars I love have retired or died.”
“Very gloomy thought indeed, my dear,” Derek answered. “And I must admit, I miss quite a number of them. Larry Olivier, Jack Hawkins, Duke Wayne, Bill Holden, but most especially Rich. God, we had some splendid times together. He was such an extraordinary man, an extraordinary talent. I remember when he was in Hamlet in the fifties. I think it was 1953, when he was with the Old Vic. Claire was in it with him, played Ophelia to his Hamlet. They were fabulous together. I went up to Edinburgh to see it, to see them. Rich was bloody marvelous. Miraculous.” There was a moment’s pause, and then Derek added softly, “I always envied him his voice, you know.”
“You did!” Miles sounded surprised, and he threw Derek a curious look. “But your voice is wonderful. Everybody remarks about it, Derek.”
“Thank you, Miles, however, it’s not as great as Burton’s was. Rich had…well, probably the greatest voice that’s ever been heard on the English stage. It was a thrilling voice, and it was much more sonorous and emotional than Larry’s, in my opinion anyway. It was the Celt in him, the Welsh in him, we love words so, us Welsh do. And as they always say in our native valleys of Wales, he had a bell in every tooth. Usually they say that about a singing voice, but it can be applied to a speaking voice as well, you know. As far as Rich was concerned, that is. His voice literally rang with feeling, and I for one could listen to him for hours.”
“As we all could, and did,” Blair reminded him.
“I think I’d better check with Cappi about lunch,” Stevie exclaimed, and rose, began to walk across the great hall. “I should find out how things are progressing. And anyway, they probably need a bit of help in the kitchen.”
“I’ll come with you, darling,” Blair murmured, and followed her daughter.
Chloe called, “Do you need me, Mom?”
“No, darling, we can manage, I’m sure,” Stevie answered over her shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.
Derek strolled across to the tray of drinks on a large Jacobean chest, picked up the bottle of white wine, and swung to face Miles, showing him the bottle. “Need yours topped up?”
“No thanks, Gramps, I’m fine.”
Derek poured himself another glass of the wine and then walked back to the fireside. He sat down on the sofa next to Chloe and, glancing across at Miles, he asked, “How’re the sets coming along for The King and I?”
“Pretty good, actually. It’s a fabulous play to work on, and I can really give my imagination free rein with this one. Temple bells and Buddhas, carved elephants, exotic fabrics, lots of gold and silver. And jewels. And vivid colors. All of those things that help to recreate the palace in Siam are really very visual, and have tremendous impact from the stage. And, I have to say, the costumes are sensational, especially Anna’s…all those lovely floating crinolines.”
“As a musical, it does take a lot of beating because it is such a fabulous play to look at, quite aside from listen to.” One of Derek’s brows lifted eloquently as he now asked, “How’s Martine Mason faring? How is she as Anna?”
“She’s good, Gramps, and so is Ben Tresner as the king. He may not be Yul Brynner, and Martine’s certainly no Deborah Kerr, but I think we’ve got a winning package.”
“And therefore a hit, presumably.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears, Gramps!” Chloe exclaimed.
The two men exchanged amused looks and laughed.
Cappi appeared suddenly in the great hall and beckoned to Chloe. “Your mother wants you to come and help us, nothing too complicated. We just need another pair of hands for a few minutes.”
“I don’t care if it is complicated, you know I’m very good at complicated things,” Chloe shot back, and ran across the room, exclaiming to her brother and grandfather, “Excuse me, I won’t be long, and please don’t talk about me while I’m gone.”
Again they laughed in amusement. Derek said, “You should be so lucky.”
Once they were alone, Miles rose, took a chair closer to Derek, and began. “I want to ask you something before Ma comes back from the kitchen.”
Derek looked at him with alertness, wondering what this was all about. “Go ahead, Miles old chap. I’m all ears. What’s troubling you? And I guess you are troubled, if the look on your face is anything to go by.”
“Yes, I am troubled. I’m worried about Gideon.”
“Oh.” Derek sat up straighter, giving Miles his full attention.
“I know you saw Gideon when he came to Los Angeles on business three weeks ago, and I just wondered what you thought. I mean—” Miles paused, cleared his throat, and went on. “What I mean is…well, what did you think about Gideon? His demeanor? His behavior?”
Without even having to think about this, Derek answered immediately. “He seemed relatively normal to me. But what are you driving at?”
“I saw him last week, when I was in London for a few days, and…well…frankly, I thought he seemed a bit under the weather, not himself at all.”
“I see. However, Miles, I can honestly say I didn’t notice anything different about him. No, not quite true, actually. He was a bit vague the second night we saw him for dinner. I’d even go so far as to say he was remote, and now that I think about it more carefully, he was somewhat distracted.”
“He was depressed when I was with him, and morose,” Miles said.
“He’s always been a bit gloomy, Miles, even as a child,” Derek pointed out. “You might look alike, but your personalities are very different.”
“I know. But listen, his moroseness has been more pronounced than usual. And you didn’t notice it then?” Miles stared at his grandfather.
Derek shook his head. “No, and neither did your grandmother, or she would have mentioned it to me. As I just said, he appeared to be distracted, as if he were preoccupied about something, and he was a bit distant. Looking back now, I remember I thought his mind must be on business. But that’s all.” Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. “Tell me something, why didn’t you want your mother to hear this conversation?”
“You know how she worries. And about everything.”
“Yes, but she’s always coped, no matter what’s been flung at her. And brilliantly so, I might add.”
“That’s true. But I didn’t want to bring Gideon up today, not on Thanksgiving. You know, it’s her most favorite holiday of all. I didn’t want to spoil it for her, voicing my concern about my twin.”
Derek was chuckling. “Oh, I know it’s her favorite holiday, and none of us has escaped it. Ever. I’ve eaten more of your mother’s turkey over the years than I care to remember, and it’s not even my favorite bird. I prefer duck, pheasant, or partridge any day. But she hasn’t ever listened to me, at least not about turkeys anyway.”
Miles half smiled, and wondered whether to bring up his elder brother. After a moment’s thought he decided he would do so, since Derek had always been his confidant, and like a father to him all his life. He said slowly, “Has Ma mentioned Nigel to you?”
“No, she hasn’t, but then, Blair and I haven’t seen her in New York. We’ve been back from Los Angeles only a few days, and she seems to have been awfully busy at Jardine’s. Is there something wrong with Nigel too, in your considered opinion, Miles?”
&n
bsp; “No, not that I know of. However, Ma’s indicated to me a few times that she thinks he’s…sort of—” Cutting himself off, Miles hesitated, and then, dropping his voice an octave, he finished in a stage whisper, “Plotting against her.”
“Ah, I see.” There was a dramatic pause. Then, holding Miles with his eyes, Derek intoned, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
“I suppose there’s truth in that. Shakespeare always got it right, didn’t he? And you should know, you’ve been in enough of his dramas.”
A thoughtful look crossed the actor’s expressive face, and he was silent for a moment or two, and then he asked quietly, “Do you believe he’s plotting, Miles?”
“I…I just don’t know.”
“I know your mother. She doesn’t imagine things, she’s far too pragmatic for that. Therefore, if she thinks he is, then he is. Although, to be truthful, I’m damned if I know the reason he would do such a thing. After all, the business will be his one day.”
“Maybe he’s in a hurry.”
“I can’t imagine the reason.”
“Neither can I, Gramps.”
Derek sighed. “Ambition. Greed. The lust for power. It’s toppled many a throne, caused murder and mayhem on a grand scale. We’ve only got to look at the Plantagenets and the Tudors to understand that.” He shook his head, and a sad, rather regretful expression settled on his handsome face. “Nigel always was something of a mystery to me, Miles, I must admit. I never really understood him when he was a child. Nor did I understand his actions when he was a teenager. But then, that’s another story altogether, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I didn’t understand all that mess either.”
Derek stared off into space for a moment, lost in memories of the past, before saying eventually, “How is Nigel’s marriage? Is that all right? No problems with Tamara?”
Power of a Woman Page 6
