Читать книгу Voice of the Heart - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 13

‘Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,’ Kim said with a genial smile, lolling nonchalantly against the door frame. ‘You just said you don’t have a date this evening. Come on, Francesca, be a good sport.’

Francesca was seated behind the large cluttered desk in the upstairs study of their father’s London house. She put down the pen she was holding and leaned back in the chair, regarding her brother with affection. She was amazed to discover that for once in her life she did not feel like being a good sport, not even for her adored Kim. She had been working all day, and now, in the late afternoon, she was exhausted yet determined to finish what she had set out to do that morning. Her brother’s unexpected arrival had surprised her, so absorbed was she in her papers.

Conscious he was waiting for a response, she shook her head, and said in a weary voice that was also surprisingly firm, ‘I’d like to help you, Kim, but I simply can’t. I have to finish this research. I really do. I’m sorry.’

‘You and your mouldy old books!’ Kim exclaimed in goodnatured exasperation. ‘Whenever I see you these days you’re peering into them as if your life depended on it. Who cares about Chinese Gordon anyway? If the old geezer hadn’t been dead for hundreds of years I’d say you had some sort of girlish crush on him. I don’t see the point – ‘

‘Gordon hasn’t been dead for hundreds of years,’ Francesca interrupted mildly enough, but her eyes were intense. ‘Seventy-one years, to be precise,’ she went on, ‘and anyway, you know very well I am going to write a biography about him one day.’

‘You’re wasting your time, my girl. Nobody will buy it.’

‘Yes they will!’ Francesca retorted fiercely, her weariness instantly dissipating. ‘There are a lot of people who are interested in British history, and a great soldier and hero like Chinese Gordon. I intend to take a fresh approach, to delve into the psychology of the man. It will be a modern study, and I’m going to write it in such a way it will make very popular reading. Father agrees with me. He thinks it will work, and that it might even be commercial. So there, Kim Cunningham! Shoo! Go away and leave me in peace.’

Kim was taken aback by her vehemence, and he realized, for the first time, that she was in earnest about the book, a project she had talked about for some months. Inwardly he reproached himself for his remark, which had been made in an off-hand manner, and thoughtlessly so. He had not only given offence, but hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Apart from being his sister and very dear to him, Francesca was his best friend and confidante, and they had always been inseparable.

He tried to be conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca darling. I didn’t mean to be dismissive. Father is undoubtedly right.’ He flashed her a wide smile tinged with self-mockery. ‘What do I know about books? I’m not blessed with intellectual capacities, like you and the old man. You’ve got all the brains in the family, my love. What’s a dull farmer like me to do?’ He grimaced and went on, ‘My only excuse is that I didn’t quite understand how serious you were about the book. I will be supportive, I promise. Truce?’

Francesca managed a watery smile and a nod, not trusting herself to speak. She buried her head in the papers, so that he would not see her incipient tears.

Aware of her discomfiture, Kim wisely remained silent. He positioned himself in front of the fireplace, warming his back, his long legs spread wide apart, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tweed jacket. Made of fine cloth and tailored in the best Savile Row tradition, this had long since seen better days, was worn and out of shape. But Kim had such an air of distinction about him, wore the jacket with such panache, its shabbiness was hardly noticeable.

Adrian Charles ‘Kim’ Cunningham, the 14th Viscount Ingleton, who would one day become the 12th Earl of Langley, was not handsome in the given sense of that word; however, a number of unusual qualities combined to lift him out of the ordinary. He was a pleasant-looking young man, with a fair complexion, light brown hair that was soft and straight, and a sensitively-wrought face whose chief characteristic was one of gentleness. His personality was most apparent in his generous mouth, always touched with laughter, and in his liquid grey eyes, which were, for the most part, illuminated by kindness, humour and goodwill. They rarely flashed with anger or temperament, for Kim was easy-going and placid by nature.

He had inherited the tall, lean build of his ancestors, but his slender-looking frame was deceptive. Blessed with a grace and elegance unusual in a man, he carried himself with extraordinary self-assurance that bespoke his breeding and his centuries-old lineage. All in all, at twenty-one, he was so prepossessing, so sincere, and so good natured, everyone, and most especially young women, found him to be an engaging friend and companion.

As he stood reflectively gazing at the tips of his shoes, waiting for his sister to compose herself, Kim was thinking of one young woman in particular, and wondering how to persuade Francesca to agree to his plans for that evening. After a moment he said, ‘Well, if you feel you must work, I suppose you must. But it is Saturday night, and to tell you the truth, I thought it would be fun for you to meet this girl. You’re always telling me that you love cooking and find it relaxing.’

Francesca, who had been making a show of sifting through the papers scattered across the desk, lifted her head quickly. ‘You mean you want me to cook dinner, as well as act as your hostess for drinks! Gosh, you do have a cheek,’ she spluttered, her eyes widening. ‘And what would I cook? We’re on a tight budget this month! I only bought enough groceries for the two of us for the weekend, and I skimped at that. I thought you had accepted Aunt Mabel’s invitation to go to Gloucestershire tonight, and were not coming back until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

Kim groaned and rolled his eyes upwards, ‘I don’t know who gave you that idea. About Gloucestershire, I mean. Not I. Dotty old Aunt Mabel indeed. No, I am staying in town, my sweet.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘Come on, please say yes. It’s ages since you’ve had any fun. It’ll do you good, Frankie.’

‘Don’t think you can worm your way into my good graces by calling me Frankie. I don’t like that nickname anymore.’

‘That’s a sudden change of heart. You used to insist I call you Frankie.’

‘When I was small and wanted to be a boy like you. Because I worshipped you, misguided child that I was. It may interest you to know I don’t worship you in the way I used to, and certainly not today.’

Kim grinned. ‘Oh yes you do. Just as I adore you and always will.’ He strode over to the desk and perched on the edge, looking down at her, tenderness flooding his eyes. It occurred to him that Francesca appeared more delicate than ever, and her classical English face, with its finely-drawn features, seemed smaller and slightly pinched and pale. After studying her for a few seconds he decided it was the bulky navy blue fisherman’s sweater she was wearing and her hair style that gave her such an air of attenuated fragility. She had swept her blonde tresses on top of her head and fastened them with antique tortoiseshell combs into a loose kind of pompadour, and this seemed far too heavy for her slender column of a neck. It was an old-fashioned hairdo, harking back to the Victorian era, yet it was oddly becoming on her. A strand of hair had fallen over one of her eyes and he leaned forward and gently tucked it into place.

‘There, that’s better,’ he said and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve also got ink on your neck.’ He tweaked her ear fondly, and continued, ‘I wonder, how can I bribe you, Frankie?’

‘You can’t,’ she answered, adopting a brisk tone. She picked up her pen purposefully. ‘I must finish this research today, Kim, and I am absolutely not going to do any cooking. So stop being a perfect pest.’

Kim decided he must persevere. ‘Look here, Francesca, if this girl weren’t so special I wouldn’t ask you to do this, honestly I wouldn’t. But she is a super girl. You will love her. So will Father – I hope. I’m going to take her to Yorkshire soon. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to meet her first. Tonight.’

Francesca was startled by this statement and her face changed. She gazed at her brother with interest, her eyes searching his. This was the first time he had ever suggested taking one of his innumerable girl friends to Langley. Such an exception to his own rigid rule changed everything. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re serious about her?’ she asked, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.

‘I’m not sure that’s the right word,’ Kim said, returning her unblinking stare. He rubbed his chin, reflecting, and finished, ‘But I am keen. Very keen, in fact, and I think I could get serious about her, yes.’

In these few seconds Kim had succeeded in gaining his sister’s undivided attention. Being overly-protective of him, she was about to pronounce him too young to be serious about any girl, and quickly changed her mind. It might alienate him, or even worse, push him farther into the girl’s arms. Kim had a tendency to be impetuous at times, and she did not want to unwittingly trigger a situation that might easily get out of hand. Instead she asked, ‘Who is she? What’s her name?’

A beatific smile settled on Kim’s bright young face, and he coloured slightly. ‘Katharine. Katharine Tempest,’ he said, and waited expectantly. When he observed Francesca’s blank expression, he added with a knowing look, ‘The Katharine Tempest.’

Francesca frowned. ‘Sorry, Kim, but I’m afraid I don’t know her. You sound as if I should. Oh, wait a tick, is she related to the Tempest Stewarts? I used to go to dancing class with Lady Anne. You know, the school in Eaton Square with the crazy Russian ballet mistress.’

Kim threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, she isn’t related to Lord Londonderry. Far from it. I don’t suppose I should expect you to know who she is. You’ve always got your face pushed into a history book, living in the past. God, what am I going to do with you, Frankie?’ he asked. ‘Katharine Tempest is a fabulous young actress who is literally wowing them every night in one of the biggest hits in the West End. She is young, beautiful, talented, charming, intelligent, warm and witty. In short, she is absolutely – ‘

‘Too good to be true, by the sound of it,’ Francesca suggested dryly, smothering a small amused smile.

Kim grinned at her in a sheepish fashion. ‘I know I sound like a babbling idiot, but if only you would meet her, you’d find out for yourself. She really is very special.’

‘I believe you. But I’m not so sure Father will welcome her with open arms. An actress. Gosh! You know how stuffy he can be at times – ‘ Her voice trailed off and she thought for a minute. ‘Perhaps you had better pass her off as a Tempest Stewart, at least in the beginning, until the ice is broken. But let’s get back to the point. If she is starring in a play, how can you invite her to dinner?’

‘She’ll come after the play.’

‘That means we’ll be having dinner at eleven o’clock, or even later! Oh, Kim, you are incorrigible.’

‘When we go to the theatre with the old man we always dine afterwards. There’s nothing strange about that.’

Francesca groaned. ‘Look, I’m very tired. I don’t think I could make the effort tonight. But I’ll compromise, since I would like to meet her. I’ll make something light for you, and have a drink with you when she arrives. Then I’ll disappear to my room. You would enjoy that much better anyway. You can have a lovely romantic supper à deux.’

‘It’ll be a romantic supper à trois, I’m afraid,’ Kim responded glumly. ‘She’s bringing some chap with her. That’s another reason I wanted you to join us, to make it a foursome.’

‘How can I rustle up dinner for four! I’ve only got enough for one. Me,’ Francesca wailed. ‘And anyway, who’s the spare bod she wants to drag along? Who am I supposed to charm in the early hours of the morning? And why does she have to bring him at all?’

‘Because he doesn’t know many people in London, and she’s kind of taken him under her wing.’ Kim gave her a careful look, and then smiled. ‘And when I tell you who he is, I don’t want you to faint. Promise,’ he demanded, his eyes twinkling.

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous.’ Francesca airily dismissed such a preposterous idea. ‘And why should I faint, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Most women would. The spare bod, as you call him, is Victor Mason. And I know that even You know who he is.’

Francesca was not unduly impressed. ‘Of course I do. The whole world knows him, or rather, of him. I must say, this is a bit of a departure for you, isn’t it, an actress and a film star from – ‘ Francesca stopped abruptly and stared at Kim as another thought occurred to her. ‘You haven’t invited them already, have you?’

‘I’m afraid I have.’

‘Oh Kim!’ She considered the meagre supplies in the kitchen with dismay.

Kim put his arms around her and hugged her to him. ‘Hey, come on, you silly goose. Don’t get upset. It’s not that important. I just didn’t stop to think, that’s all. I asked Katharine to dinner tonight because I wanted you to meet her very badly. She suggested inviting Victor, not only because he’s at a loose end, but to even it out. We both thought you’d like to meet him, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I can see it was a mistake. We’ll do it another evening. Look, I’ll put them off.’

‘You can’t do that. It’s so rude, and especially at this hour.’ Francesca pulled away gently, and sat back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry to sound like a spoil-sport, Kim dear. I know I must get on your nerves, always nagging about money. But everything is so, so … well, such a struggle at times. Daddy doesn’t have a clue about anything except Langley. The amount he allocates for running this house is next to nothing. I usually have to use the bit of money from Mummy’s Trust for food and some of the bills, and that’s still not – ‘

‘You’re not supposed to do that!’ Kim interjected fiercely. ‘The Trust money is for your personal use. Pin money. And I realize it’s just a pittance. Does the old man know what you’re doing?’

‘No, and you mustn’t tell him! He has enough to worry about, what with running the estate and everything. And if he knew he might just close up the house here for economical reasons. Then I’d have to move to Langley with you and Daddy. It’s not that I don’t love you both,’ she went on rapidly, ‘I do. But I don’t want to be buried in the wilds of Yorkshire all year round, and besides, I have to be near the British Museum for my research. Anyway, I don’t mind using my money, really I don’t. I only mentioned it to you so you would understand the situation.’

‘I do understand. And as far as the dinner is concerned, well, let’s forget it.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll take them to a restaurant. We could go to Le Matelot in Elizabeth Street.’

‘Even that would be far too expensive. Let me think a minute.’

Kim walked over to the sofa and flopped down on it, all the gaiety washed off his face. ‘So much for the bloody British aristocracy,’ he said disconsolately. ‘At least the impoverished side of it.’ He ran his hand through his hair, and muttered, ‘It’s a hell of a thing when a chap can’t afford to take a couple of chums to dinner.’ And then his face instantly brightened. ‘Perhaps with a bit of luck Victor Mason will pick up the bill.’

‘Kim, that’s positively awful. We may be impoverished, but we’re not spongers. Remember, you invited them.’

‘I have the money I was saving for a pair of new riding boots.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I could blow that.’

‘I won’t let you! You know, I could make a rather splendid breakfast. After all, we are going to be eating late. I could prepare omlettes fines herbes, or maybe a kedgeree. How does that sound to you? Do you fancy either?’ Kim pulled a face and Francesca nodded in agreement. ‘You’re right. That’s out then.’

‘Do you think Father would object if I nipped out to Fortnum’s and charged a few goodies to his account?’

‘He might not, but I certainly would, especially when the bill came in.’ Quite unexpectedly, a broad smile spread across her face and she straightened up in the chair. ‘I’ve just thought of something!’ She jumped up, rushed out of the room and plunged down the staircase at breakneck speed.

‘What is it? You sound as if you’ve had a brainstorm,’ Kim called, racing after her. Francesca halted at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look up at him. ‘I have indeed. Follow me, Macbeth, down into the dark, dark dungeons. And thank God for Doris!’ She beckoned histrionically and disappeared. Still mystified, Kim followed her into the cellars underneath the house. He found her in the large pantry next to the wine cellar, rummaging through a wicker hamper.

‘What have you got there, Frankie?’

Francesca went on rummaging. ‘A Fortnum and Mason hamper. You just jogged my memory about it. Doris sent it to us at Christmas. Don’t you remember? There are still a few things left. Father gave it to me to bring back here after the holidays. I also raided the larder at Langley and put in some of Melly’s bottled fruits. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘Good old Doris. She never does anything by halves.’

‘Look what I’ve found,’ Francesca cried excitedly, her eyes shining. ‘Caviar! Only a small pot, I’m afraid, but it is Beluga. There’s a tin of pâté de foie gras Strasbourg, a crock of aged Stilton cheese with port, and three tins of turtle soup.’ She examined the label. ‘I say, quite a posh brand too. It’s got sherry in it.’ Francesca flipped down the lid of the hamper and patted it possessively. ‘I’m taking this up to the kitchen. It’s certainly part of the dinner. Why don’t you poke around in the wine cellar. I’m sure there are some bottles of champagne left from your twenty-first, and it would be nice to have it with the caviar.’

A few minutes later Kim joined her in the kitchen, a smile of triumph on his face, a bottle of champagne in each hand. ‘You were right. Moët & Chandon.’ He displayed them gleefully and then sat down at the table and eyed the items Francesca had removed from the hamper and arranged in front of her. ‘Is there going to be enough, do you think?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘It’s a beginning at least. I thought we could have the champagne before supper. I can stretch the caviar with chopped eggs and chopped onions, and lots of Melba toast, and serve the pâté as well. The turtle soup will do very well for starters, and I can make a green salad to go with the Stilton. We can finish with the bottled fruit and cream.’

‘And what do we eat after the soup and before the pudding?’ Kim teased. ‘You’ve forgotten the main course. Or is that all you intend to serve?’

‘No, of course it isn’t, silly,’ Francesca said with a smile. ‘I have some minced beef in the refrigerator. I was going to make a cottage pie with it, for my supper tonight. If I buy some more beef I can make a larger pie for all of us. Do you think Victor Mason ever had so lowly a dish as cottage pie?’ She grinned at her brother. ‘I suppose there’s always a first time for everything. He’ll probably think it quaint and very English.’

‘I’m sure Victor Mason will be more impressed with the cottage pie than with the caviar. Isn’t that what movie stars eat for breakfast every day? Tell you what though, I’ll bring up some really good wine later. The Ninth might have been a spendthrift, but he did leave us one of the best cellars in London. What about a Mouton Rothschild?’

‘That will be lovely, Kim. In the meantime, would you mind going to Shepherd Market for me, before the shops close?’

‘Of course not, and I’ll pay for whatever we need. I have a few quid.’ Observing her expression he laughed and shook his head. ‘No, it’s not from the riding boots money.’

Francesca busied herself with a shopping list and Kim’s gaze returned to the items spread on the table, his eyes reflective. He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly he said, ‘Has Father mentioned Doris to you lately?’

‘No, why do you ask?’ Francesca spoke without looking up.

‘She’s been noticeably absent from Langley of late. I wondered if they’d had a row, or even a parting of the ways.’

His sister raised her head, her brows drawing together. ‘Not that I know of; in fact, I spoke to Doris only last week. She’s gone to the South of France.’

‘Good God, in February. Whatever for?’

‘To look for a villa for the summer. She wants to rent a large one, she told me, so that we can all go and stay with her. So I’m quite certain everything is perfectly all right.’

‘I wonder if Father will marry her?’

Francesca did not respond immediately. She herself had ruminated on this possibility from time to time, for it seemed to her that Doris Asternan had become a permanent fixture in her father’s life. Her mind turned to Doris, the nice American widow whom she and Kim liked so much. She wondered if Doris did have expectations, and then smiled to herself at such an old-fashioned word. It was more than likely. Her father was attractive, charming and good natured like Kim, and the title was tempting to most women, but particularly so to an American. He was quite a catch really. And what of her father? He had grieved for their mother for a number of years after her death, and then quite suddenly there had been a steady flow of women, whom he seemed to quickly lose interest in – until Doris. She wondered.

‘What do you think, Frankie? Will the old man make a trip down the aisle with Doris?’ Kim pressed.

Francesca shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know. Daddy hasn’t made me his confidante, and neither has Doris, for that matter.’

‘She’s certainly preferable to some of the others he’s had in tow. And at least Doris has pots and pots of money. Millions of lovely dollars.’

Francesca could not help laughing. ‘As if that would influence our father. He’s too romantic by far. He’s looking for true love.’

‘Christ! At his age! Well, I suppose there’s life in the old dog yet.’

‘Kim, he’s only forty-seven. You make him sound ancient.’ She thrust the shopping list at him. ‘Come on, you lazy old thing. Do the shopping for me, and leave Doris to Daddy. I have better fish to fry than to sit here gossiping with you.’ She glanced at the battered alarm clock on top of the refrigerator. ‘It’s almost five. The butcher will be closed if you don’t hurry. And I’d better prepare the dining room table and start on some chores. Now that you’ve so cleverly managed to manoeuvre me into giving this dinner, I might as well push the boat out for you.’

Kim stuffed the shopping list into his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks for going to all this trouble for me, Frankie. I really appreciate it.’ He headed for the door. When he reached it he turned around and grinned at her. ‘And you know, with Doris’s goodies and a few bottles of the Ninth’s vintage wine, we’re not going to seem so poverty-stricken after all.’

The house in Chesterfield Street, where Francesca lived most of the year, had been the London residence of the Earls of Langley for some sixty-six years, having been purchased in 1890 by Francesca’s great-grandfather, the Ninth Earl. It was a typical Mayfair town house, situated in a row of almost identical houses, tall and narrow with a relatively simple architectural façade. The exterior appearance belied the interior: graceful charming rooms, considerably larger and more generously proportioned than the narrowness of the house suggested. In particular, the reception rooms on the main floor were singularly elegant, with high ceilings, wide windows and handsome Adam fireplaces of carved oak or marble. The rooms on the second, third and fourth floors grew increasingly smaller the closer they came to the roof, but even these had a special charm of their own.

The spacious drawing room, a handsome book-lined library, and the dining room opened off a small square entrance hall, where a lovely old staircase with a carved oak banister rose to the upper floors. Beyond the dining room there was a large family kitchen, somewhat old-fashioned in design, but relatively efficient since Francesca had partially modernized it with a new Aga stove and a refrigerator. ‘They look a bit incongruous. Out of place, wouldn’t you say,’ her father had ventured cautiously on first viewing the shiny new objects. Francesca had glanced proudly at her innovations, raised an eyebrow and pronounced, ‘But they work, Daddy.’ Recognizing that her tone discouraged further discussion, the Earl had murmured, ‘Quite so, my dear,’ and retreated to the safety of the library. He had fled, the next day, to Yorkshire. The additions to the kitchen were only part of the refurbishing of the house, which Francesca had plunged into, flouting her father’s wishes. He was, for the most part, opposed to her plans, considering them far too elaborate, and far too costly.

For all of his adult life, Francesca’s father, David Cunningham, the Eleventh Earl of Langley, had been striving to make ends meet. At an early age he had wisely come to the conclusion that he could not recoup the considerable fortune his grandfather, the Ninth Earl, had frittered away on mistresses and merrymaking and the high-stepping living that was obligatory for that charmed circle who were members of the Marlborough House Set of the Edwardian era. Keeping pace with, and in step with, Edward Albert, the Prince of Wales, had brought ruin to more than one noble house of England. If the Ninth Earl had not exactly ruined the Langley family with his extravagant living, he had certainly made considerable inroads into their immense wealth, before he had died at the age of fifty-five in the delectable arms of his twenty-year-old mistress, literally in flagrante delicto.

The task of replenishing the almost-denuded family coffers was one that David’s father, the Tenth Earl, had undertaken with enormous relish and only a fair amount of success. Whilst he had not decreased their worth, neither had he made them newly prosperous. He had merely plugged the dam, so to speak. And then, towards the end of his life, he had plunged into a financial venture, one highly speculative in nature, which he was convinced would enable him to restore the fortune his own father had so carelessly squandered. The failure of the scheme brought him up short and doused his enthusiasm for any type of further business activity that might endanger his family’s future. He had enjoined David, the present Earl, not to follow his example. ‘Preserve what we have,’ he had implored. His son, who had never harboured any desire to indulge in the tricky game of financial wheeling and dealing, considering it too risky by far, had willingly acquiesced at once, since he was simply adhering to the decision of his youth.

Death duties, the running of the vast estate in Yorkshire, the education of Kim and Francesca, and maintaining the style of living his position dictated continually stretched his resources to the limit. However, although David Cunningham was cash poor, he was land rich. The Yorkshire estate covered hundreds of miles of fertile farming acres, forests and parklands. In more than one sense the situation was ludicrous, but even if he had wanted to, David could not have sold off any of the land. Or, for that matter, any of the family’s other properties, comprised of Langley Castle, the Home Farm, the tenant farms, or the valuable antique furniture, Georgian silver and paintings, many by some of the great English masters. Although the Langley Collection included bucolic landscapes by Constable and Turner, that unsurpassed water-colourist being also represented by several of his marine paintings, the collection was most especially renowned for its superb examples of the work of such inimitable and celebrated portraitists as Sir Peter Lely, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Thomas Gainsborough and George Romney. In the main these were full length, life-size depictions of the Langley ancestors, presented with grace and charm in all of their elegance and finery. However, the Langley Collection, other properties and possessions and the land were either entailed or in trust. Furthermore, the Earl’s own natural instincts and inclinations would have prevented him from plundering the estate; also, he took his promise to his father seriously and he wanted to keep the holdings intact for new generations of Cunninghams.

In consequence, from an early age, Kim and Francesca had been brought up to understand and accept their responsibilities to their great family name and their ancient heritage. Scrimping, saving and making do whenever possible had become a way of life; thrift was the byword of then-youth; and keeping up the proper front on virtually next to nothing was so ingrained in them it was now second nature.

The maintenance of the Yorkshire estate, the castle, the Home Farm and the tenant farms were the first priorities, took precedence before anything else. There was rarely, if ever, any spare money available for luxuries, and one luxury the Earl deemed totally unnecessary was the redecoration of the Chesterfield Street house, despite Francesca’s arguments to the contrary: arguments which had increased as she had become ever more conscious of such things. And so the house had deteriorated into shabbiness over the years, and by 1955 it was in such a sorry state it was almost beyond redemption.

Early in January of that year, three months before Kim’s twenty-first birthday, their father had announced he planned to give a birthday party for Kim at Langley Castle in March. He also explained that he fully intended to do more entertaining in London than was his usual habit, during this important and significant year when his only son and hen-came of age. In essence, the Earl made it perfectly clear, he was determined to launch Kim into London society in the manner only fitting for a man of his standing. Francesca had once again viewed the London house with concern, worried about its dilapidated condition and disreputable appearance, in view of her father’s plans for Kim. She had immediately launched another highly voluble campaign for its refurbishing, but to her surprise her father had been coldly adamant in his refusal to accede to her wishes. She had told him angrily, and in no uncertain terms, that he was not only being cavalier in his attitude, but downright unfair to Kim. He had shrugged, uninterested in her opinion and unmoved by her words, and he told her, with unusual firmness, never to broach the subject again. It was then she decided to take the matter into her own hands, and risk the consequences of her father’s disapproval.

Francesca owned a diamond ring, an heirloom passed down through generations of women on the maternal side of the family. She had inherited it upon her mother’s death, and for years it had reposed in their bank vault in London, along with other pieces of jewellery and a seventeenth-century diamond tiara which had been worn by successive Countesses of Langley on State occasions in Westminster Abbey, all part of the family trust. Francesca had taken her ring to a leading dealer in antique jewellery, who had promptly offered to purchase it for a thousand pounds.

When he heard about this decisive and unprecedented action on the part of his daughter, who was then only eighteen, the Earl had been outraged. However, since the ring belonged to Francesca, and was not part of the Langley Trust, he could merely voice his objections not act upon them. Finally, Francesca’s logical reasoning and persuasiveness, not inconsiderable, had brought him round, if only to a degree. Realizing she had engaged in an enterprise that threatened his authority, and knowing she had acted presumptuously, Francesca had been astute enough to ask her father’s permission to use the money for the redecoration of the house, it being his property.

The Earl had given his blessing, albeit reluctantly, believing it to be a ridiculous extravagance. Later he did confess he thought her gesture was admirable and touching. Kim had been overwhelmed by her unselfishness, but, understanding her obstinate nature, he had not wasted time protesting, and by then it was already too late. He had thanked her profusely and then shown his appreciation by plunging into the transformation of the house as energetically and enthusiastically as she.

There was barely enough money to do everything required, and Francesca portioned it out in the most practical way, stretching the thousand pounds as far as she could. She had the roof and the exterior walls repaired, the interior walls replastered wherever this was necessary, and she put in new pipes and electrical wiring. The remainder of the money from the ring was used for what she termed ‘my cosmetic job’, and it was exactly that. The scuffed parquet floors in the dining room, the library and the drawing room were refinished and polished; the wall-to-wall carpets in the bedrooms and the upstairs study were shampooed; and the draperies and slipcovers still in good repair were dry-cleaned. Francesca threw away the worn Oriental carpet which had lain on the dining room floor since ‘spendthrift Teddy’s’ day, and the slipcovers on the furniture in the drawing room quickly followed suit. The Aubusson carpet in this room was sent to a restorer of old tapestries and rugs, where it was hand-cleaned and painstakingly repaired. To Francesca’s delight it came back looking like the lovely museum piece it was. The Hepplewhite and Sheraton furniture in the two reception rooms, family heirlooms and valuable, were also repaired and refinished to their original beauty.

To save money, Francesca and Kim undertook the painting themselves. Wearing old clothes, surrounded by ladders and buckets, and amidst peals of laughter, the two of them happily set about the task, splashing as much paint on each other as on the walls. But they succeeded in doing a relatively professional job, working down from the upper floors to the drawing and dining rooms. Francesca selected fir green for the dining room, repeating the colour of the leather upholstery on the Hepplewhite chairs, and used pristine white paint for the doors, chair rail, and mouldings to offset the dark green walls. The drawing room, which she and Kim had always thought looked barren and cold, acquired a wholly new appearance when the grubby ivory walls were washed with a dark coral paint that was almost terra cotta in tone. Her only purchases, other than the paint, were yards and yards of moss green velvet for new curtains and slipcovers in the drawing room, white damask for the dining room curtains, various pieces of coloured silk for cushions, and new shades for the lamps.

Francesca’s father had a great sense of fair play, and when he at last viewed the finished results he was quick to congratulate her on the miracle she had performed, and his pride in her knew no bounds. The family heirlooms were shown to advantage for the first time in years, and he also had to admit that her improvements had given the house a new graciousness, whilst enhancing its actual value as well. The Earl conceded it was more valuable than ever before, and could readily be turned into cash, being neither entailed nor part of the trust. It struck him that Francesca had shown great foresight, and he determined to repay the thousand pounds as soon as possible. That May, on her nineteenth birthday, he presented her with the gold filigree and topaz necklace which had been made for the Sixth Countess of Langley in 1760. However, this was only on loan to her until his death, when it would pass to Kim, since it was part of the trust.

Now, as she stood in the doorway of the drawing room on this Saturday evening in February, a year later, Francesca smiled with pleasure. The room looked truly beautiful. Kim had lighted the fire an hour earlier and the logs were crackling brightly in the huge carved oak fireplace, the sparks flying merrily up the chimney. He had also drawn the curtains to shut out the depressing drizzle and dampness of the cold evening, and turned on the leaf-green Chinese jade lamps shaded in cream silk.

The atmosphere was inviting and the lovely old furniture gleamed in the refracted fight. The coral-tinted walls made the perfect backdrop for the classical Hepplewhite Pembroke tables, a large Sheraton bookcase with glass doors, made of mahogany inlaid with fruitwoods, and for those bucolic English landscapes brushstroked in variegated greens and blues. These were now most effectively set off by their newly-gilded wood frames, enterprisingly touched up by Kim with a pot of gold-leaf paint. Rafts of the new moss-green velvet rippled at the three stately windows, and covered two large sofas and four armchairs, and this verdant colour added to the richness of the scheme. The green sofas were enlivened with cream, coral and blue cushions, which Francesca had made from the remnants of silk, whilst her great-grandmother’s collection of Meissen and Wedgwood ornaments introduced additional fragile colour accents on the wood surfaces.

After another admiring glance, Francesca moved briskly across the Aubusson carpet, heaped more logs on the fire, plumped up the cushions, checked the cigarette boxes and then hurried back to the dining room to finish the table she had started earlier that evening. She took four white linen napkins from the Hepplewhite sideboard and placed one at each setting, put out several silver ashtrays and a silver condiment set, and added wine and water glasses, moving rapidly around the long oval table. When she stood back to regard her handiwork she suddenly wished she had some flowers for a centrepiece. But they were so expensive at this time of year and quickly died, and the two four-arm silver candelabra were certainly elegant with their tall white candles. She decided the table looked quite beautiful as it was and did not need any further embellishment.

Francesca turned to go into the kitchen just as Kim walked in, humming under his breath. He stopped, let out a long low whistle of surprise, grabbed her hand and twirled her around, continuing to whistle in a wolfish tone.

‘You look positively ravishing, old thing,’ he said, stepping away from her, his eyes bright with approval.

‘Thank you. But are you sure I’m not a bit too dressy?’ she asked anxiously.

He shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, and I’m certain Katharine will be dressed up.’ He scrutinized her, his head on one side, an appraising expression on his face.

Francesca smiled at him tentatively and twirled around again on her elegantly shod feet. She was wearing her favourite shoes, a pair of black silk evening pumps, in the smartest new Italian style, with the thinnest, highest heels and extremely pointed toes. Doris had bought them in Rome for her as a Christmas present, and Francesca knew they were exactly right with the outfit she had chosen – a long-sleeved grey wool top with a boat neckline and a silvery-grey taffeta skirt she had sewn herself. The skirt puffed out like a bell flower over the buckram-and-tulle crinoline petticoat Melly had made for her, another Christmas gift. This type of stiff petticoat was all the rage, and Francesca loved the bouffant effect it created because it was flattering to her legs, which she considered to be too thin.

Coming to a standstill after a final twirl, Francesca peered at her brother. ‘You’re frowning, Kim. Is there something you don’t like about my outfit after all?’

‘It’s fine, and you do look lovely, but you know, with your hair piled up in that pompadour thing your neck seems longer than ever. Don’t you have some beads, or something?’

Her hand went to her neck. ‘Not really. At least, not anything suitable. Unless I wear the antique necklace. What do you think?’

‘That’s a super idea. I’m sure it’ll do the trick.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Gosh, I’d better be going for Katharine.’

They went out into the hall together, where Kim grabbed his old raincoat from the cupboard and strode to the front door. He opened it and then slammed it shut immediately. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs all of a sudden. I was going to walk to the theatre, but I’d better take the car. And a brolly.’ He lifted an umbrella out of the stand, gave her a quick kiss, grinned and left, whistling jauntily between his teeth.

Francesca ran upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked the bottom drawer of her dressing table and took out the worn and rubbed black leather case containing her great-great-great-great-grandmother’s necklace. It was fragile and she lifted it out carefully, gazing at it with admiration. The intricate web of slender gold chains was inset with topazes that gleamed with mellow colour and threw off myriads of golden prisms in the lamp-light. How beautiful it was. But to her it was so much more than a lovely piece of jewellery. It represented an unbroken line of generations of Cunninghams and her own heritage, and as always she was assailed by an almost awesome sense of history. After fastening it around her neck she glanced in the mirror. Kim had been correct. The necklace did do the trick, adding the perfect finishing touch to her outfit. She tucked a stray curl into place and hurried back to the kitchen to finish her chores.

At one moment Francesca paused in her tasks, staring out of the small window, trying to visualize Katharine Tempest without success. Knowing her brother as well as one could ever truly know another person, Francesca was convinced Kim was already deeply involved with Katharine, perhaps more than he himself comprehended. She thought of their father, and her heart sank. Although he could be vague and absentminded, and was easy-going and good-natured, he was, at all times, conscious of class, background and breeding. He had always made it absolutely clear that he expected Kim to marry a girl who was properly endowed with all of the suitable qualities required in the future 12th Countess of Langley. Although her father was not a snob per se, he did believe Kim should select a wife from their echelon of society, one who had a similar family background and upbringing, who understood her duties and responsibilities as keenly as Kim did. Francesca sighed. An actress hardly seemed a likely candidate for this particular real-life role, and she knew instinctively that her father would be disapproving. If Kim was indeed as serious about the girl as she felt he was, then he was exposing himself to a great deal of heartache, not to mention their father’s anger. Again she wondered what Katharine Tempest was like, riddled with curiosity about her, and concerned for Kim. She found she could not even hazard a guess.