Voice of the Heart (67 page)

The smile was still intact some ten minutes later when Katharine reached the lobby of the hotel and headed in the direction of the bar. In her usual way, she had convinced herself, somewhat unwisely, that she could bend life to her will; in consequence her problems had evaporated completely. And Doris Asternan had been dismissed from her mind.

The huge soaring oak doors of Langley Castle stood wide open. Bright sun poured in through this ancient portal, gilding everything to pure gold, diminishing the overriding austerity of the immense and high-flung great hall built entirely of grey stone. Dust motes rose up, insect like, in these slanting corridors of trembling light, the only motion in the quiescent air, and there was no sound at all except for the faint whispering of the trees outside.

Francesca stood poised on the staircase looking down, gripped for an instant by that sense of the past which so often invaded her at unexpected moments when she was in her ancestral home. Erected in 1360, by one James Cunningham of Langley, a great magnate and warrior knight who fought at the side of the Black Prince, it had remained relatively unchanged since the fourteenth century. Her eyes swept over the suits of armour glinting in the dappled sunshine, focused on the crossed swords mounted over the doorway, moved on to take in the shields and silken banners of their armorial bearings that spilled lively colour onto the sombre walls, settled finally on the huge bowl of flowers on the long oak table, which she had arranged early that morning. Suddenly a butterfly floated in, hovered over the mixed white blossoms, and then fluttered away, a fleeting flash of intense scarlet on the languorous air. The tranquility and beauty of the scene below her was a palpable thing, and it made her catch her breath with delight. On gleaming summer days such as this the castle was the most perfect spot in the whole world to her, and one she never wanted to leave.

Now a tiny frown marred her joyful face, and she thought wistfully: If only Victor did not insist on this continuing
secrecy we would have been able to spend the weekend here, instead of rushing off to London. How lovely that would have been. As it was, he was rip-roaring anxious to be gone, could not wait to escape from the Spa Hotel in Ripon, and the rest of the cast and crew. She knew only too well that he had found the past ten days constricting, and although she had not seen much of him, they had talked every day on the telephone. He had grumbled constantly about his lack of privacy, the loss of his free time, meagre as it was, and the tiresome role of peacemaker which had been thrust upon him by Mark Pierce’s curious irrationalities. She exhaled quietly; Victor himself could also be perverse at times, powerful and compelling in his vehement attentions to her when they were alone, detached and coolly indifferent when they were in public. Dismaying though this dichotomy in his behaviour was, most of all she hated the secrecy he was still enforcing. Straightforward of nature, deception did not sit easily on her young shoulders, and she loathed dissembling with Kim and Katharine, especially Katharine in whom she was longing to confide. But she had to abide by his wishes, or perhaps risk losing him if she did not.

The sound of subdued voices penetrated her consciousness. Several visitors were entering the great hall from the Widow’s Gallery where most of the famed Langley Collection was housed. They were escorted by Osborne, the castle guide, who conducted the tours and gave a brief history of the Cunninghams of Langley. Reaching the bottom of the wide stone staircase, she smiled and nodded to them, exchanged a quick word with Osborne before going into the private wing of the castle not open to the public. She crossed the anteroom, hurried through the vast book-filled library and out into the circular hall of their private apartments. This was smaller and cosier than the immense stone hall, panelled in dark wood and furnished with graceful Georgian pieces. Various rooms opened off the hall, and a curving staircase of elaborately carved oak led to the upper floors.

Francesca pushed open the door of the kitchen and poked her head around it. Val, the housekeeper, stood in front of a table near the windows preparing a summer pudding of mixed berries and bread. Francesca said, ‘I’m about to leave, Val.’

The housekeeper swung around quickly, her face lighting up. ‘Righto, M’lady,’ she replied. ‘Now, are you sure you don’t want me to run you into Harrogate to the train?’

‘No, thanks, Val. It’s sweet of you to offer, but you’ve enough to do today. I’ll catch the bus at the end of Langley Lane. I’ll see you next weekend, and don’t forget, my cousin will be with me.’

‘Yes, I know, M’lady. I’m really looking forward to seeing Princess Diana again, and so is Melly. I’ll have everything ready, don’t you fret. I know she likes the Lavender Suite, and it’ll be prepared for her. By the by, I sent Rosemary out to walk Lada, and to cut some flowers for you to take to London. You’ll find her in Frances’s Garden. When you leave will you send her up for lunch please, M’lady?’

‘Yes, of course. And die flowers were a lovely thought, Val. Thanks. Cheerio.’

‘Goodbye, M’lady, and have a pleasant journey.’

Francesca hurried back to the circular hall, glancing at the Victorian grandfather clock in the corner as she did so and realizing she was running late. She picked up her small overnight case and her shoulder bag and went outside, walking rapidly along the paved terrace and down the stone steps at the end of it.

In the distance Francesca could see Rosemary and Lada, the little Bichon Frise puppy Victor had given her in April. Francesca had wanted to call the dog Enchilada, and although Victor had been highly amused, he had said the name wasn’t appropriate for such a pretty little girl. And so they had compromised, agreeing finally on the abbreviation Lada. The dog, now almost six months old, had become Francesca’s shadow, trotting after her devotedly wherever she went. Both
she and Victor had become extremely attached to the white ball of fluff, and he had insisted she bring the puppy with them this weekend.

The sunken garden was centuries old and had been designed and built by the Sixth Countess of Langley, the renowned Frances, whose great beauty had been immortalized by Gainsborough and Romney, and to whom Francesca bore such a striking resemblance. For this reason it was often referred to as Frances’s Garden, and today it was ablaze with rafts of intense colour, and aromatic with the scent of June roses, the lavender that grew in profusion along the borders and the delicate mingled fragrances of the perennial summer species now in riotous bloom.

A smile glanced across Francesca’s face as she drew closer. Rosemary, Val’s ten-year-old daughter, was walking Lada around the paved garden paths on the leash, looking sedate and important, a large bunch of roses and other flowers clasped tightly in her free hand.

‘Hello, Rosemary,’ Francesca said. Lada immediately went into paroxysms of squeaking, jumping up and down excitedly and pawing at the skirt of Francesca’s lime-green cotton frock. ‘Goodness gracious me, Lada, anyone would think I’d been gone a whole month instead of only an hour,’ Francesca laughed, patting the puppy. She said to Rosemary, ‘Thank you for walking the little one, and also for picking such a lovely bouquet.’

Rosemary beamed, handing her the flowers. ‘I made sure I got the best for you, Lady Francesca, just like me mam told me, and I wrapped ’em ever so careful like in newspaper, and tied ’em with string.’

‘So I see, and you’re very efficient. Come along, dear, I’m in a hurry.’

‘Yes, Lady Francesca.’

A thick door of aged wood, overlaid with decorative metalwork, was set in the brick wall at the opposite end of the sunken garden, and it was towards this that Francesca
and the little girl now walked, with Lada bouncing along between them. When they reached it, Rosemary bent down and hugged the white puppy affectionately. ‘Be a good girl, Lada, and come back ever so soon. I’ll miss you,’ she whispered. She gave the leash to Francesca with obvious reluctance.

Turning the old iron key, Francesca gazed down at Rosemary. ‘Lock the door after me, dear, and then go up to the castle. Your mother has lunch ready. And don’t dawdle.’

‘No, I won’t, Lady Francesca. Ta’rar then.’

‘’Bye, Rosemary.’ Francesca tugged the old door open and stepped out into the driveway, waiting until Rosemary had relocked it before striking out in the direction of the imposing wrought-iron gates at the back entrance of the castle grounds. Since this area of Langley Park was strictly private, she was startled to see a man and a youth sitting on the low wall bordering grazing pastures on one side of the driveway. Francesca paused when she drew level with them, noting that they looked unsavoury and scruffy.

‘Excuse me,’ she said politely, and went on with some firmness, ‘this part of Langley Park is not open to the public. You probably don’t realize it, but you are trespassing.’

Looking her over swiftly, the man said, with a small snicker, ‘Ever so sorry, yer ladyship. We didn’t know. We was just about to ’ave our picnic.’ He glanced at several large tattered brown paper bags on the wall. ‘If yer insists we move on, then I expects we’ll ’ave to…’ He paused, regarding her through watchful eyes.

Francesca frowned, feeling churlish and mean. It was such a glorious summer day and people like this, so obviously from one of the nearby industrial cities, hardly ever got the opportunity to breathe the clean air, enjoy the loveliness of the countryside. She said, in a slightly milder tone, ‘I am sorry to have to ask you to leave. However, this is a private area of the estate, and anyway you’d be much more comfortable if you went up to the castle courtyard. There’s a small café
which serves hot and cold drinks, and ice cream. You can have your picnic there.’

The man shook his head. ‘Can’t afford nuffin like that, Lady Francesca.’ He laughed. ‘Brought us own grub and us own tea, that we did. Still, perhaps we’d best shove off then.’

‘Oh never mind,’ Francesca responded hurriedly, relenting. ‘You can stay here this time. If you should come back, please use the public areas of the park.’ She smiled at the youth, feeling sorry for him. He seemed so undernourished and sickly, and then her smile faded. He was glowering at her with hostility in his pale cold eyes. Francesca turned away with a small internal shudder, noticing, as she did, the binoculars on the wall, immediately thinking how odd it was that these two should own such an expensive item.

The man, conscious of her close scrutiny, followed the direction of her gaze, and said, ‘We’re bird watchers, Lady Francesca. My Jimmy won them there opera glasses in a school competition. He’s a right born naturalist, my Jimmy is, yer ladyship.’

‘How very nice.’ Francesca inclined her head. ‘Well, enjoy your picnic.’

She hurried off, instinctively tightening her grip on Lada’s leash, frowning as she almost ran down the driveway, anxious to get to Victor who would be parked in Langley Lane. She found herself shivering despite the warmth of the radiant sunshine, and admitted she did not like the look of the two men at all. But there was not much she could do about them just now, even if they were poachers as she suspected. There had been a spate of excessive poaching in Langley Park, and on neighbouring estates, in recent months, and her father had pressed several of the villagers into service as temporary wardens to patrol their lands. If Jimmy and his father ran into one of them they would have serious trouble to contend with, not to mention the village bobby, and possibly the West Riding county police.

She wondered how the two disreputable characters had managed to get into this private part of the grounds, and she expected to find the new padlocks on the back gates broken. To her immense relief this was not the case when she reached the entrance. Once outside in Langley Lane she took great care to secure the padlocks again, rattled the gates to make sure they held fast, and dropped the spare key Kim had given her into her shoulder bag. She peered through the wrought-iron railings, focusing on the two men sitting on the wall. They appeared to be eating their lunch with unconcerned nonchalance. Perhaps she had been mistaken after all. They were probably quite harmless. Nevertheless, when she rang Kim from London that evening she would mention the incident, alert him to the possibility of poachers roaming the vast estate.

The Bentley was parked only a few yards down the lane and Victor jumped out of the car grinning from ear to ear. Lada leapt forward when she saw him, emitting little mewls of ecstasy, tugging hard on the leash. It took all of Francesca’s strength to control the frisky puppy and manage her suitcase, her handbag and the flowers as well. Laughing joyously, she dropped the case heedlessly and ran pell-mell into his outstretched arms, burying her head against his chest. He held her very tightly, showering her hair and her face with kisses, then he reached down and patted Lada, an expression of fondness ringing his wide mouth. ‘Can’t leave you out, little one, now can I,’ he murmured softly, scratching the tuft of white fluff on her tiny head.

After a moment he straightened up, tilted Francesca’s chin and looked down into her face, his black eyes bright with eagerness. He kissed her on the mouth, then said, ‘It sure is great to have my girl back. It was getting to be a helluva strain, baby.’

‘Yes, I know. I felt as though the whole world was breathing down our necks, Vic.’

‘A large portion of it was,’ he replied, the boyish, lopsided
grin flashing engagingly. ‘But that’s all finished now. Come on, kid, let’s beat it.’ Within seconds, Victor was pulling the Bentley out of Langley Lane and turning into Harrogate Road, Lada curled up in a small contented ball between them on the front seat.

Francesca found herself relaxing, as she always did when she was with him, everything else swept out of her head. Suddenly his desire for secrecy, his odd behaviour, no longer seemed of any import. She stole a look at him and caught her breath, her heart clattering wildly. Whenever he came back to her, even after the briefest of separations, she was inevitably shaken by his looks, his overpowering presence. In spite of his back-breaking work, the constant night shooting, and all his other problems with the picture, he looked extraordinarily fit and brimming with health. He was wearing a pale blue cotton shirt and blue slacks. The shirt was expensive, and of such a fine texture it was almost transparent, revealed his tanned skin, his athlete’s body. Her eyes rested on his broad back, his well-muscled upper arms. How she longed to have those arms around her. She studied his dark and shapely head, the arresting profile, the large strong hands on the steering wheel, and all of her love for him rose up in her, and she had to quell the urge to reach out and touch him. Oh how she loved him, and with such intensity and depth of feeling it was unendurable being away from him for a single moment.