The Midnight Rose (28 page)

“I’ve never really given religion any headspace. It wasn’t part of my childhood, that’s for sure.”

“It was rather a large part of mine, although, I gave it no more thought than you have. It was simply a routine with no meaning. Deadly dull, like a science or math lesson. To be frank, I can only see the mayhem it’s caused throughout the centuries. And certainly Maud’s obsession with it didn’t help my family either. She wasn’t a  . . . warm person. Anyway, there we are.” He turned to Rebecca with a sad smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. Thank you for bringing me here, I feel privileged to have seen it.”

“It’s been my pleasure.”

“Where are your ancestors buried?” Rebecca asked, suddenly hoping the answer wouldn’t be in a vault beneath their feet.

“In what I consider to be a ghastly building in a copse in the park. I could take you to the mausoleum now, if you wanted,” Anthony offered as they walked back down the long gallery.

“Actually, I really do have a bad headache. Maybe another day.”

“Well, I do hope you’ll feel well enough to join myself and our young Indian friend tomorrow. Mrs. Trevathan always puts on a decent roast lunch.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Rebecca, I . . .” Anthony stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. “Nothing. I hope you feel better tomorrow. Is there anything you need?”

“Just some sleep, I’m sure.”

“Well, I’m back to my garden. Thank you for a pleasant day.”

Anthony walked off in the direction of the terrace as Rebecca made her way up the stairs. Closing the door behind her, she took some more ibuprofen and lay down on the bed, wishing for once that she was in a hotel and she could put a “do not disturb” sign on the door. Closing her eyes, she did her best to relax.

R
ebecca . . . Rebecca . . . ?”

She heard a voice calling her awake. Opening her eyes, she saw Mrs. Trevathan staring down at her.

“You’ve been asleep for over three hours. I thought I should wake you as it’s almost seven in the evening, and you’ll never get your rest later if you sleep any more now. I’ve brought you up some tea and scones.”

“Oh—thank you.” Rebecca felt disoriented and shaky.

“His lordship said you were suffering from a bad headache. Is there anything else I can get you? You look very pale, dear.”

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” Rebecca replied, swinging her legs off the bed and walking over to the table. “I feel better now after my nap.”

“Shall I pour the tea for you?”

“Yes, please.”

“I hear we have an extra guest for luncheon tomorrow. Apparently, you told his lordship about the Indian gentleman who came calling.”

“I did, yes.” Rebecca glanced up at Mrs. Trevathan’s expression and saw the disapproval there. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no. It’s just all so hectic at the moment. I suppose we’re just not used to having our usual routine disturbed.”

“I can imagine,” Rebecca said sympathetically. She paused. “He’s been so kind to me. But he also strikes me as a very lonely person. I’m sure it’s none of my business, but I wonder, has Anthony ever had a girlfriend?”

“Not really, no. I suppose you could say his lordship is what’s called a confirmed bachelor. He’s a one-off, he is, and that’s for sure.”

“I don’t know whether I’d want to go through my life forever alone,” said Rebecca with a sigh, taking a sip of her tea.

“Well, each to his own, I always say. We can’t all be lucky in love, can we? Right then, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Oh, by the way, I promised to give Anthony the manuscript Mr. Malik handed to me so he can read it before tomorrow.” Rebecca took
the pile of pages from the night table by the bed and handed them to Mrs. Trevathan.

She looked at the file suspiciously. “What’s all this about, then?”

“It’s mainly about life in India. And, of course, about Astbury Hall too.”

“I see. There’s nothing in it that’ll disturb his lordship, is there? He’s very”—Mrs. Trevathan searched for the word—“sensitive, and I don’t want him upset.”

“Not at all.”

“But what does this Indian fellow want, do you think?” Mrs. Trevathan persisted.

“Simply to find out more about his great-grandmother’s past. What else could it be?”

“Nothing . . . nothing,” murmured Mrs. Trevathan, clearly unconvinced. “Right, I’ll leave you to enjoy your tea in peace.”

As Rebecca ate the delicious scones, she mused on the territorial way Mrs. Trevathan spoke of Anthony. In fact, they could almost have been husband and wife. After all, she performed all the domestic duties a wife traditionally would, and they’d obviously been together a very long time. Rebecca then wondered how Mrs. Trevathan would feel if another woman
did
enter the equation. She couldn’t help finding the relationship between them strange. It was so—
intimate
, in some ways, each of them relying heavily on the other, yet so distant in other respects. Perhaps, she thought with a grimace, it was how many marriages were.

She placed her empty plate on the tray and left it outside her door as a signal that she didn’t wish to be disturbed. She sat in the chair and rationally tried to consider what her life would be like if she were married to Jack. There would be no “master and servant” relationship, because they’d both be equals. But was that possible? Jack’s ego was the size of the
Titanic
, and because her own was less pronounced and it was in her nature to avoid conflict at all costs, she supposed it would be she who would surrender first.

Rebecca stood up and went and had a bath, then climbed into bed with her script. She found it difficult to concentrate, her thoughts returning constantly to Jack and his proposal. Eventually, as her eyes grew heavy and she prepared for sleep, she realized the one thing she knew for certain was that she was not ready for a lifetime commitment yet.

•  •  •

“Ah, Rebecca, I was just about to send up Mrs. Trevathan to call you downstairs.” Anthony stood up from the dining room table to greet her. “You look much better today. Headache gone?”

“Yes, it has, thanks.”

“I believe you two have met before. Rebecca, this is Mr. Ari Malik.”

“Hello again,” said Rebecca, reaching out her hand to Ari.

“Rebecca,” Ari said, embarrassed, “I must apologize for insisting that I knew you when we last met. I’ve subsequently realized who you are.”

“Really, it’s not a problem. Actually, it’s a refreshing change,” she said with a laugh.

“I saw a photograph of you and your fiancé in a newspaper only yesterday,” Ari continued. “May I offer my congratulations?”

“Thanks.” Rebecca blushed uncomfortably.

“You’re engaged to be married?” Anthony stared at Rebecca in surprise. “I didn’t realize that.”

“I . . . yes.”

“I see. Shall we sit down?” Anthony said abruptly. “Mr. Malik, I’m not sure if the fare will be quite to your taste. My housekeeper tends to cook along traditional English lines.”

“Please, call me Ari. Don’t worry, I got used to English cookery when I was at Harrow.”

“You were at Harrow?” Anthony seemed taken aback.

“Yes, my parents believed a British education was the best in the world. And so . . .”

As Ari continued speaking, his words drifted past Rebecca as she found herself taking proper note of his physical beauty. He had thick, wavy black hair that shone with strands that almost looked blue in the sunlight streaming through the window. It was long enough for a few tendrils to touch the collar of his shirt, but not to stop him from appearing masculine. His skin was a light honey brown, and he wore an immaculately pressed and starched white shirt. But it was his eyes that held Rebecca’s attention—she couldn’t think how to describe the color because they were blue but also contained flecks of green and amber, reminding her of looking into the kaleidoscope she’d had as a child.

“What do you think, Rebecca?” Anthony was asking her.

“Excuse me.” She dragged her attention back to the conversation. “I’m afraid I missed that.”

“I was saying to Ari that since the decline of the British Empire, perhaps many of our traditions are not held in quite the same high regard as they used to be by the world.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that. We Yanks still love you Brits. I mean, here I am, making a film about your aristocracy for the American market.” She smiled.

“I agree with Rebecca,” said Ari. “Many of my country’s most ingrained customs come from all those decades of British rule. These days, though, I think we may be better at some of them than you are over here. Look at our cricket, for example,” he teased.

“Do you live in India?” asked Rebecca as Mrs. Trevathan placed soup in front of all of them.

“Yes. I’m based in Mumbai, but I spend a fair amount of my time traveling abroad.”

“What is it you do, exactly?” asked Anthony.

“My company provides technology solutions for businesses. Simply put, we design bespoke software.”

“Really? I’m afraid I’m a dinosaur,” said Anthony. “Don’t own a computer and never will. To be blunt, they terrify me.”

“Yet my six-year-old nephew can change programs on a computer as swiftly as he can turn the pages of a book,” said Ari. “Like it or not, the digital world has altered all of our lives irrevocably.”

“Except for mine,” Anthony replied without rancor. “As you may have noticed, my home and myself are both outdated and happily so. Now, please, dig in.”

Throughout lunch, Rebecca was content to sit back and listen with interest as the two men discussed British and Indian history and the strange but enduring intertwining of two such different cultures it had produced.

When the meal was over, Anthony said, “Shall we move into the drawing room for coffee?”

Once they were all settled in the drawing room and Mrs. Trevathan had poured coffee for the men and a chamomile tea for Rebecca, Anthony retrieved the pages from a bureau and handed them back to Ari.

“Thank you for letting me read this. I found it fascinating, especially the insight into the India of 1911. It’s the world my great-grandfather was part of.”

“Yes, I learned many things about my own culture from these pages too.”

“But,” Anthony continued, “having read what I have so far, I can’t quite see what relevance it would have to my family or Astbury Hall.”

“No, I can understand that. However, now that I’ve read my great-grandmother’s story in its entirety, I can assure you that there is great relevance in the story.”

“Your great-grandmother describes how she worked here, yes, but as I said to Rebecca, I couldn’t find any record of her in any of the staff wages ledgers from that period.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you found no trace of her at all documented at Astbury Hall. Sadly, her time here did not have a happy ending for anyone involved.”

“Then I’m not sure I want to know,” Anthony stated flatly.

“Actually, the reason I came to Astbury was to see if you could help me with a missing piece of the jigsaw from my own family’s history,” said Ari.

“And what might that be?”

“To cut a long story short, just after Violet Astbury’s death, Anahita was told her son had died. But for the rest of her life, she refused to accept it.” He indicated the folder containing the rest of the story. “It’s complicated, but I really think she explains it all far better than I possibly could. Would you like to read the rest?”

“Perhaps.” Anthony stood up suddenly, obviously agitated. “Rebecca, you mentioned yesterday that you’d like to take a ride across the moors.”

“So I did.”

“Do you ride, Ari?” Anthony asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t the two of you go and blow away some cobwebs? I have some work to do in the garden.”

“It’s such a beautiful day, I’d love to take a ride,” Rebecca said. “Do you want to join me, Ari?” she asked encouragingly. It was obvious Anthony wanted them to leave.

“Yes, of course, if you’re both sure. The lunch was delicious, Anthony, thank you for your very kind hospitality,” said Ari, taking the hint and following Rebecca across the room to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. “But I don’t have any boots or other riding clothes with me.”

“Turn left and the stables are about half a mile past the courtyard,” Anthony said. “Tell Debbie I sent you. She has riding togs down there. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” said Rebecca, “see you later.”

“I’ve obviously upset him,” Ari said to her when they were out of earshot.

“Maybe he knows more than he’s telling?” She shrugged.

“Possibly. Are you staying here with him?”

“Yes. I know Anthony comes across as a little peculiar, but he’s been very kind and hospitable to me. Thanks for agreeing to come riding anyway,” she said as they entered the yard. “I think he needed some time alone.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Wait here and I’ll go and find this Debbie,” she said, and walked along the row of horses, patting their velvet noses.

Debbie, the stable girl, suggested a sleek gray mare for Rebecca and a chestnut stallion for Ari. Saddling up the horses, she pointed them in the direction of the moors. “Follow the bridle path when you get there,” she said. “Until you know the area better, I wouldn’t go off piste. You may have a devil of a time finding your way back otherwise. I’ll be here until six,” she said as the two of them clopped out of the stables.

“What a glorious afternoon,” commented Ari. “The English climate is so temperate—it rarely goes to extremes. Much like the people who live in it,” he added with a hint of irony in his voice.

“I seem to recall your great-grandmother writing much the same thing. Certainly, the English are far less demonstrative than us Americans.”

“And we Indians too! But I was educated here, and taught to hold my emotions in check.” He smiled. “Now,” he said as they reached the edge of the moor, “how are you feeling? Are you up for a canter?”

“I’ll give it a try, but if I lag behind, you carry on ahead if you want to.”

Ari tapped the horse’s flank and his chestnut stallion galloped off. Rebecca gave a slight pressure with her heels and followed behind him at a more sedate pace. As she gathered confidence, she began to speed up and was soon flying along by his side. Neither of them spoke as the horses let rip. Eventually, when all four of them were panting, Ari spotted a brook running in a crevice of moorland.