The Midnight Rose (40 page)

As she walked back across the park toward the hall, Rebecca thought again that Anthony must surely be gay. Or perhaps he was simply not interested in either sex and had always known it.

Whatever his predilections, the visit to the mausoleum had confirmed one thing in Rebecca’s mind, and that was that life was too short to worry about the consequences of doing the right thing. When Jack returned from London, she would tell him what she had decided.

T
he following morning, Rebecca felt the now-familiar nausea and the beginnings of another headache. Taking two ibuprofen with the cup of tea Mrs. Trevathan had brought her, she went downstairs into Makeup.

“You’re looking peaky again, Becks,” James commented as they walked toward the drawing room together to shoot their next scene.

“I just can’t get rid of this headache,” she said, “but I’m okay.”

“You know, I really think you should get Steve to call the doc to come and check you over. You’re not yourself at all, are you, sweetheart?”

“Please don’t say anything. I don’t want them thinking I’m a typical hypochondriac American.”

“I doubt anyone would think that, given your current state,” said James reassuringly. “You have goose bumps all over you, even though it’s boiling in here.”

“I promise I’ll see a doctor if I don’t feel better soon.”

“When’s my new mate Jack back from London, by the way?”

“I’m not sure. I heard you had a fun night out together,” she replied sarcastically.

“We did indeed. A man after my own heart, your fiancé. Mind you, on the alcohol front, I take back all I said about the Hollywood crowd not drinking. Jack makes me look like an amateur.” He grinned.

After lunch, Rebecca was at loose ends until the evening, when the cast would be having a special dinner together on the terrace for Robert Hope’s birthday. She wandered downstairs and, on a whim, headed for the library. Entering it, she walked to the fireplace and stared at the portrait of Violet Astbury above it.

“Yes, the likeness is extraordinary,” said a voice from behind her.

Rebecca turned around and saw Ari Malik smiling at her from behind a high-backed leather chair.

“You startled me, I didn’t see you there.”

“Sorry.” Ari stood up and came toward her. Standing next to her,
he gazed up at the portrait. “The obvious question is: are you related to Violet Astbury?”

“As I told Anthony when he first showed me the painting, my folks hail from Chicago and they weren’t wealthy. So, as far as I know, I’m not.”

“One way or another, poor Anthony must really feel that his family’s past is coming back to haunt him just now.” Ari sighed.

“Yes, I spoke to him last night and he’s definitely unsettled by it all. He seems to worship the memory of Violet—and his mother Daisy,” Rebecca said. “Are you meeting him here today?”

“At some point, yes, I should think, although I haven’t actually seen him since I arrived. I received a call out of the blue from him yesterday evening to invite me to stay here until I left for India. Mrs. Trevathan didn’t look too happy when she showed me to my bedroom earlier, mind you.”

“Did you find what you were searching for here?”

“I’ve seen enough to be pretty certain my great-grandmother
was
here and that most of her story is true. I didn’t come here to upset any apple carts, and understandably, Anthony is very sensitive about revealing too many facts about his family’s past. I think he believes I have some kind of ulterior motive in all this.”

“And do you?”

“No,” Ari said, shaking his head, “other than to confirm my great-grandmother was here at Astbury and her son really did die in childhood as his death certificate states.”

“Do you think Anthony knows more than he’s telling?”

“Sometimes I think he does, but on the other hand, when I saw him for dinner after he’d started to read the story, he told me he couldn’t bear to read on and I believed him. The whole affair was a tragedy for everyone involved.” He sighed. “I actually think that Anthony might be right when he talks about the death of his grandparents Violet and Donald being the catalyst for the fall of the Astbury fortunes.”

“Ari, I don’t know the full story, but from what I’ve read so far, I’d surmise that maybe Anahita and Donald’s relationship was at the root of everything that happened. Would I be right?”

“You would,” Ari said in agreement.

“And if I was going to take another wild guess, it would be that, from way back when, you and Anthony are somehow related. Would I be right about that too?”

“It’s complex, Rebecca. It opens the door to so many questions.”

“The first one that springs to my mind is whether the fact that you may be related means that you could have a legal claim on this estate.”

“That’s not something I’ve even contemplated.”

“Well, maybe Anthony
has
. It might be an idea to reassure him. As you can see, Astbury is his life.”

“You’re right. To be honest, I can’t work Anthony out at all.”

“Maybe the subject matter is just too painful for him. Sometimes the past is,” Rebecca replied.

“I promise I’m not going to push him any further. At least there are some lines of investigation I can follow myself. Anyway, enough of me and the mysteries of the past. How are you? Is the film going well?” Ari asked her.

“I’m okay, and yes, filming has been going well. Although I’ve been suffering from some bad migraines since I’ve been here.”

“That’s strange. Are they something you’ve experienced before?” he asked, gazing at her thoughtfully.

“No, first time. But I’m determined not to let them ruin my stay in England.”

“And how is your fiancé?”

“He’s in London just now, seeing a director about a film. If I’m completely honest, Ari, we’re not in a good place.”

“I thought you said that things seemed better between the two of you when he got here?”

“I think that’s just what I wanted to believe. And I guess that I have to start trusting myself and making my own decisions.”

“You’ve more or less just quoted a line from a poem I read recently. ‘If—’ by Rudyard Kipling. It’s my father’s favorite. Do you know it?”

“No,” said Rebecca, “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, you should have a read sometime. The poem’s all about being true to yourself.”

“I’ll look it up,” she said. “Anyway, I’d better get going. There’s a big dinner on the terrace tonight for our director and I need to get ready.”

“Of course. I’m off to investigate the local graveyard to see if I can find any sign of Anahita’s son there and then on to Exeter to see if his death was officially registered.” He walked toward the door and Rebecca followed him.

“Will you let me know if you find anything? It may sound stupid,
but I somehow feel involved. I suppose it’s partly because of my resemblance to Violet. Did your great-grandmother know her?”

“Yes, apparently she did,” Ari said as they left the library and walked toward the hall. “Have a nice evening, Rebecca, and if those headaches don’t get better, see a doctor soon, won’t you?”

“I will, yes. Thanks.”

Ari watched her as she floated gracefully up the main staircase. He could understand why Anthony had been so affected by her presence here. Even he, an outside observer, couldn’t help but be unsettled by her likeness to Violet. There was also, for all her success and fame, an innate vulnerability about Rebecca. He felt that fate had placed her here at Astbury, like an innocent pawn in a complex game of chess.

It was impossible for him—let alone Anthony—to ignore the fact that it felt as if history was repeating itself: Donald and Anthony, the bachelor heirs to the Astbury estate; Violet and Rebecca, the beautiful, rich Americans; and he and Anahita, from an exotic, faraway land . . .

Ari looked above him at the great central dome and thought that if Anahita really
was
up there among the spirits she’d insisted had guided her during her life, she must be looking down now with great interest as a new generation of human players went about the intricate game of life.

•  •  •

Even though Rebecca had taken as many painkillers as she’d dared to defeat her headache, she still found it a struggle to get through Robert’s birthday dinner on the terrace that evening.

“You’re very quiet, darling,” said James as he placed an arm around her shoulder. “Still not feeling any better?”

“I’m okay, James, really. Just enjoying the party.”

“Bad-boy Jack is due back later tonight, then?”

“I think so, but he can’t contact me here at Astbury to tell me when he’ll arrive.”

“I’d take it as a real compliment that you’ve tamed him, Becks. That night in the bar he had women coming on to him left, right and center and he didn’t look twice at them. He really loves you, darling.”

“Does he?”

“God, yes!” James took a slug of champagne. “I mean, it’s going to take some kind of serious woman to have me plighting my troth to her forevermore, I can tell you.”

“I think I can take that as a compliment,” said Rebecca. “I’m going to slip away now and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Walking upstairs to her room, with the sound of laughter echoing from the terrace, Rebecca thought about James’s comments. Jack might have loved her, he might have been prepared to ignore the overtures of other women—for now—but the fact remained, he had problems that were insurmountable unless he faced them.

Or was she being too hard on him?

Feeling too ill to make sense of anything further tonight, but not wanting her earlier determination to confront him to ebb away, Rebecca undressed and flopped into bed. Taking a sip of the still-warm chamomile tea which Mrs. Trevathan had left her, she looked at her watch and wondered where on earth Jack was. As she turned off the light, half of her hoped he wouldn’t make an appearance tonight so she could get an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

It was past midnight when he appeared in the bedroom.

“Hi, baby.” He walked buoyantly across the room, kissed her, then put his arms around her shoulders. He stank of stale alcohol and Rebecca, already nauseous, turned her face away.

“Are you okay, Becks? You’re a strange color.”

“It’s this headache again, it’s making me feel sick. I’m going to see a doctor if it hasn’t gone away tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Jack sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “Poor baby,” he crooned. “Hey, you don’t think by any chance I got you pregnant, do you?”

“No, Jack, that’s impossible. I’m on the pill, remember?”

“I know, but wouldn’t it be great if you were? It’d be the most beautiful child in the world, I figure. And I promise that, if you are, I wouldn’t have a problem. No, sir. It’s about time I was a daddy.”

“Jack, I’m almost one hundred percent sure I’m not,” Rebecca replied wearily. “So, how did the meeting go?”

“Great. Me and the director guy got on like a house on fire. Then afterward, we went for lunch and had what you might call a male bonding session,” he said, smiling in reminiscence.

“So, when will you hear about the part?”

“In the next few days. Right, I’m going to take a bath in that old tub down the hall, since there’s no shower here. Christ, what a crazy place to be staying.” He kissed her on the nose. “You just relax while I’m gone.”

Rebecca nodded and closed her eyes as Jack picked up his toiletry bag and left the room.

He was back fifteen minutes later and climbed into bed next to her.

“Could you find the energy to try and make a baby tonight?” he whispered, his hands reaching for her.

“Please, Jack, I really don’t feel so good. Can you leave me to go to sleep, please?”

“Spoilsport.” As he leaned over to kiss her, to her horror, she saw a smudge of white powder sitting just inside his nostril.

“I’m sorry, Becks, but you gotta realize that I’m climbing into bed with the woman that every man in the Western world wants to screw, she’s so goddamned beautiful. It’s no surprise I get turned on.”

“Please! I said I’m not feeling well and I’ve got to sleep.”

“Sorry,” he said, offended, as she rolled away from him and switched off the light.

•  •  •

In the morning, Rebecca asked Steve to call a doctor. Unable to stay in bed, as she hardly wanted to greet him with a fiancé who was still passed out cold from drugs and alcohol next to her, she staggered downstairs and waited for him in the drawing room.

Twenty minutes later, a tall, middle-aged man holding a Gladstone bag entered the room with Steve.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Steve said to her from the door as the doctor walked over and sat down next to her.

“Hello, Miss Bradley. My name is Dr. Trefusis. What seems to be the problem?”

Rebecca explained her symptoms and then subjected herself to a thorough examination.

“Right,” said the doctor, having completed his investigations. “Your pulse is faster than I’d expect and your blood pressure is also up. However, that can often be due to stress, especially when one has to see a strange doctor to find out what’s wrong,” he said, his kind eyes smiling down at her.

“I don’t understand it, I’m almost never sick,” she said, sighing.

“Well, sadly, we’re human and it happens to all of us. Now, I want you to give me a urine sample and I’d like to do some blood tests to eliminate a few possibilities. Please try not to worry, Miss Bradley. You’ve almost certainly got a virus of some kind. You don’t have a
temperature, but that could be because as you told me, you took some ibuprofen earlier.”

Rebecca took a specimen jar to the bathroom and did as requested, then looked the other way as the doctor stuck a needle into her vein. The sight of it brought back memories of her mother.

“Right, all done. Now, here’s my cell number, just in case you feel worse. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have the results of your tests. Be warned, though, it could be a few days before we get them back. Until then, I want you on bed rest. Drink plenty of fluids, keep taking the ibuprofen, and we’ll see if you improve.”

“Bed rest? But I can’t do that! My filming schedule is full for the next two days, doctor, and I won’t hold up the shoot,” said Rebecca, horrified.