Читать книгу Voice of the Heart - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 17

The dining room was impressive, both in its dimensions and its decoration. Tonight the room was dimly lit, but attractively so. Tall white candles flickered in the heavy, chased-silver candelabra placed at each end of the sideboard and in the centre of the dining table. In this warm and golden light the mahogany table gleamed with dark, ripe colour, and its highly polished surface had the glassy sheen of mirror. Reflected against it was the gutter of Georgian silver and hand-cut lead crystal wine goblets, the sparkle of white bone china plates, rimmed in gold and bearing the Langley family crest, also in gold.

The fir green walls, as cool and dark as a bosky forest, gave the room its restful tranquillity, made a superb muted backdrop for the incomparable oil paintings. Each one was mounted in an ornately carved and gilded-wood frame, and effectively illuminated by a small picture light attached to the top of the frame. The fluttering candles and the picture lights, the only illumination in the room, infused the ambience with a mellowness that was quite lovely, gave it an intimacy that was at once both charming and inviting.

Francesca showed Katharine and Victor to their places, and then went to the sideboard to serve the turtle soup, spooning it into green-and-gold Royal Worcester bowls from a large silver tureen. Victor observed her closely, struck by her elegance. His eyes roved around the room, and with interest. He admired its beauty and style. Background was the message it telegraphed to him, and that, he thought, is something no amount of money can buy. As he absorbed his surroundings his attention was caught by the painting on the end wall. It was a full-length, life-size portrait of a woman in an elaborate blue taffeta gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled high in an intricate pompadour surmounted by several plumes of blue feathers. Topaz earrings gleamed at her ears, and a topaz necklace fell down from her slender neck to fill out the décolletage. Of course, it was Francesca, and it was an exquisite portrait, beautifully executed and with explicit attention to every minute detail. Victor had the feeling that if he reached out and touched the dress his fingers would encounter silk, so realistically was the texture of the fabric depicted by the peerless brushstrokes.

After distributing the bowls of soup, Francesca sat down at the foot of the table, opposite Kim, who was seated at the head. Victor turned to her immediately, and said with some admiration, ‘That’s a remarkable portrait of you. And it’s very beautiful.’

She stared at him uncomprehending for a second, and then followed his gaze. ‘Oh, that one. But it’s not of me,’ she said, and picked up her soup spoon. ‘It’s of my great-great-great-great-grandmother, the Sixth Countess of Langley. Traditional and classical portraits of that nature are not in vogue any more. Furthermore, they are rarely painted these days, except by Annigoni occasionally. He did the Queen, you know.’

‘Oh,’ Victor said. Rebuffed, he dropped his eyes. She’s certainly put you in your place, he thought. Only the English have the knack of making everyone else look stupid and ignorant in an insidious way, and without really appearing to be rude. As he reached for his spoon he repressed a smile. It was a long time since he had been slapped in the face, figuratively speaking, by a woman. If it was a bit demeaning, it was also something of a novelty.

Katharine, who missed nothing, was dismayed at Francesca’s tone and nonplussed by the snub to Victor. She exclaimed swiftly, ‘Well, Francesca, it does bear a striking resemblance to you. It would have fooled me. Who painted it?’

‘Thomas Gainsborough,’ Kim volunteered. ‘Around 1770. And I agree with both of you. It does look like Francesca. There is another portrait of the Sixth, as we call her, at Langley. By George Romney. The likeness is most apparent in that one, too.’ He paused, and on the spur of the moment, said, ‘I hope you will both come to Langley soon, for a weekend, and then you’ll see it for yourselves. We must make plans for a visit. I know Father would enjoy having you. Wouldn’t he, Francesca?’

Stiffening, Francesca straightened up in the chair. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone low, and she did not elaborate. She was flabbergasted. Kim was incorrigible, issuing an invitation like that. He presumed too much. If their father didn’t like Katharine, the invitation would have to be rescinded. Then Katharine would be hurt, and with good reason.

‘Kim, that would be wonderful!’ Katharine cried with genuine delight. Her face fell. ‘But, gosh, I don’t know how I could manage it, with the two Saturday performances. Unless – ‘ Her face lit up again, and she looked across the table at Victor. ‘Unless Gus drove us to Yorkshire late one Saturday night, after the play, and brought us back on Monday afternoon. That would work. Could we do it one weekend, Victor? Please.’

Victor nodded, and concentrated on his soup, not wishing to make another faux pas. Although Francesca’s disdainful attitude had amused him somewhat, he was experiencing a sense of discomfort. Since these feelings were unparalleled in him they were therefore all the more confusing and troubling. He tried to shake them off, and then he thought: But I’ve got to hand it to Katharine. She’s got guts, and a cool assurance, that is enviable. And she certainly seems in her natural element whenever she mixes in this upper echelon of English society. He wondered again about her background, as he had so often in the three months he had known her. Funny how she never mentioned it. The only facts he had been able to pry out of her told him virtually nothing. She had been born in Chicago. She had lived in England for almost six years. And she was an orphan. Well, she acquired her inimitable style somewhere, he commented dryly to himself. She’s to the manner born, to be sure.

It was true that Katharine was perfectly at ease. Victor’s presence had alleviated her anxiety; and his ready acceptance of her suggestion about dinner on Monday had further dispelled the notion that he was untrustworthy. There was a residue of tension lingering in her, but this was most skilfully veiled by the smiling façade she presented, the irrepressible gaiety which so readily materialized to delight and enchant them.

And as the dinner progressed Katharine took over. She was the true star. And she gave a stunning performance. She glittered. She dazzled. She captivated. She entertained. Without really seeming to do so, she dominated the conversation, discussing everything from the theatre and the movie business, to British politics and blood sports, and she did so with charm, élan, grace and intelligence. She also managed to successfully bridge the brief but acute sense of awkwardness which had prevailed at the outset of the meal, and she created an atmosphere that was light yet stimulating.

Slowly Victor found himself being drawn into the conversation quite naturally. He sipped the excellent Mouton Rothschild Kim had poured, savouring its smooth velvety texture, and he began to relax again. He discovered in Kim an unusual warmth and empathy, and a genuinely sympathetic and interested listener. Almost against his own volition, he opened up and spoke about his ranch in Southern California, his horses and his land, and the latter proved to be of common interest to the two men. Yet, withal, he was conscious of Francesca’s thoughtful manner, her silences, unbroken except when she served the various dishes and attended to their needs. She did not even both to participate in the general small talk, and he thought this decidedly odd.

Francesca knew that she was being remiss as a hostess, that the burden of the conversation had fallen on Katharine. She had not purposely set out to behave this way, nor was her coolness and reticence specifically directed at Victor. Very simply, she felt she had nothing of importance to contribute, and she had withdrawn into herself. Also, serving the meal had preoccupied her. Yet whilst she had not been rude, neither had she been very gracious, and she chided herself for this lapse in etiquette. It was inexcusable.

With an effort she turned to Victor and said, ‘Are you going to be making a film here?’

He was so startled to hear her voice he temporarily lost his own. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ She was regarding him with keen interest and her expression was friendly, and so he was encouraged to continue. ‘I’m not only starring in it, but producing it as well. It’s my first time out in charge, so to speak, and I’m looking forward to it. Obviously it’s quite a challenge.’

Katharine, whose eyes had flown to his face when he started to speak, held her breath, not daring to say a word, waiting for him to go on. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest.

Francesca spoke again. ‘Can you tell us about it? Or is it a big secret?’

‘Why sure I can. I’m about to remake the greatest love story ever written in the English language. And I hope it will be as good as the original, which has become something of a classic. I’m doing a remake of Wuthering Heights. We start shooting in two months.’ Victor relaxed in his chair. Now that he was on his own ground he felt more comfortable.

‘Love story!’ Francesca spluttered, staring at Victor in astonishment. ‘But Wuthering Heights isn’t a love story, for God’s sake! It’s a death-obsessed novel about hatred, revenge, brutality and violence. But mostly it’s about revenge. How on earth can you think it’s a love story? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!’

Francesca had spoken with such extraordinary vehemence everyone was startled. Kim looked discomfited. Victor seemed stunned. Katharine’s face had turned the colour of bleached-out bone, and she was seething. Victor might easily be influenced by these comments, especially since they emanated from Francesca. Like so many Americans, he thought anything English was classy and superior, even a little intimidating. And Francesca had sounded so authoritative. Supposing he decided to abandon the project? Damn, she thought, and not trusting herself to utter a civil word, she stared at her plate – and prayed.

Kim found his voice first. ‘Really, Francesca, you’re being a bit strong, aren’t you? And frightfully rude, if you ask me!’ Whenever she had occasion to speak about English literature, her pet subject, she became impossibly opinionated, almost overbearing, as he and his father knew only too well. Kim glared at her, hoping to convey his annoyance.

Francesca swung to face Victor. ‘I do apologize. I really didn’t mean to be rude. Truly I didn’t,’ she said, but a faint hint of defiance flickered in her eyes. ‘However, I’m afraid I can’t apologize for my opinions, particularly since I believe my concept of the book to be correct. And by the way, it is a concept shared by many scholars of English literature, and a number of well-known critics. Of course, there is no denying it is a book of great genius, but nevertheless, it is a paean to death. Emily Brontë was obsessed with death all her life, you know. Anyway, if you don’t want to take my word for it, I will be happy to lend you some books about Emily Brontë and her work, and also some critical studies of Wuthering Heights. Then perhaps you’ll understand it’s not a love story after all. Honestly, it really isn’t. You see, I read English literature, and did a thesis on the Brontë sisters, so I do know what I’m talking about.’

Katharine could not believe her ears, and she desperately wished Francesca would shut up. She could cheerfully strangle her. Didn’t the girl know she was being tactless and inflammatory? For once in her life Katharine was speechless. Her agile, inventive mind raced as she sought a way to smooth the situation over again, to break the deafening silence at the table. Yet unaccountably, she remained at a loss to know what to do or say, and so she picked up her glass and sipped the wine, staring fixedly at the wall opposite, her face stony. Kim fiddled with his fork, poking at the fruit on his plate. Victor continued to frown, musing thoughtfully, and only Francesca appeared tranquil, apparently oblivious to the impact she had made.

However, although Victor was frowning, he was not angry or upset. Oh, the terrible arrogance of the young, he thought. They are so sure. So absolute. So certain they have the answers to everything. He was astute enough to recognize Francesca had not intended to be rude, or to offend. Quite simply, she was too straightforward and too honest a girl not to speak her mind about a subject seemingly of great importance to her. She had been in earnest and had meant every word in all sincerity, without realizing she was being provocative. And she was so very young. ‘You don’t have to apologize to me, and I respect your opinion. In fact, you could be right about the book. But the original movie of Wuthering Heights was made as a love story, and that is the way I aim to film it. I would be foolish not to do so. I just hope I can make as good a picture as Sam Goldwyn did in 1939. He spoke with an assurance that absolutely forbade argument.

‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Francesca said hurriedly. In the last few seconds she had noticed Katharine’s stricken face, the panic in her eyes, and Kim’s glowering expression had also registered, and most forcefully. Somehow, and quite unintentionally, she had upset them both, although she was not sure why. Curiously enough, Victor seemed unconcerned.

Francesca lifted her glass. ‘I’d like to make amends for my hasty comments by proposing a toast.’ She smiled weakly at Katharine and Kim, who lifted their glasses silently, still put out with her. ‘To the remaking of Wuthering Heights, and to your success, Victor.’

‘Thank you,’ Victor said and touched his glass to hers.

Wishing to be even more friendly Francesca rushed on, ‘And who is going to play Catherine Earnshaw to your Heathcliff, Victor?’

‘The role hasn’t been cast yet. Naturally every actress worth her salt wants it. But – ‘ He stopped mid-sentence and chuckled. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be the young lady sitting right here.’ His eyes rested fondly on Katharine. ‘I’ve arranged a screen test for you. And in colour. You’re getting the whole enchilada, honey. And if it’s good I know my partner” will go along with me, and give you the part.’

Katharine was not sure whether she was going to laugh or burst out crying. For a split second she was unable to say anything. She felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She pushed them back, said in a quavering voice, ‘Oh, Victor! Thank you! Thank you!’ Radiance flooded her face and those matchless eyes shone with excitement. She was thrilled, almost beside herself with happiness. ‘How can I ever repay you?’

‘By making a terrific test, honey.’

Francesca, who was now beginning to understand everything, was again dismayed by her thoughtless remarks. Poor Katharine. No wonder she had been so distressed. She said, ‘You’ll be marvellous in the part, Katharine! You’re absolutely perfect for it. Why it’s made for you, isn’t it, Kim?’

‘Indeed it is.’ Kim’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Congratulations!’

Katharine thought she would explode from sheer excitement, and her laughter filled the dining room. ‘Don’t congratulate me yet. I’ve got to do the test first, before I even have a chance of getting the part.’

‘You’ll be perfectly bloody marvellous!’ Kim’s eyes shone with pride in her. ‘This news calls for a toast. Let’s go into the drawing room and have some brandy with our coffee. Come on all of you!’ He pushed back his chair purposefully, stood up and ushered everyone out.

Walking across the hall, Katharine thought: Victor kept his promise after all. He did it. As only he could do it. No one else would have been able to arrange a screen test for me so easily. She was filled with a feeling of great buoyancy, a buoyancy not only of the spirit but of the body as well. She felt as light as a feather, as though she was floating three feet above the ground on balmy air, and the anxiousness and worry which had burdened her for the past few weeks had been vanquished. She paused to wait for Victor at the door of the drawing room. They walked in together, and she took hold of his arm and squeezed it, gazing up at him. ‘I meant it, Victor. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’

He returned her gaze unflickeringly. The humorous smile still played around his mouth, but his black eyes were alert and the look he gave her pierced through her. ‘You know how, Katharine,’ he said, sotto voce.

There was a silence. ‘Yes.’ Her tone was as soft as his, and her heart missed a beat.

‘It was nice of you to stay and help me with the dishes,’ Francesca said, swirling the water over the last remaining glasses in the sink. ‘You really didn’t have to, you know. I could have managed.’

‘It was the only way I could get Katharine to go home. She was so insistent about helping you,’ Victor replied. ‘But I saw she was bone tired and falling apart. Two performances in one day are taxing. She suddenly looked done in to me.’

‘Yes, I noticed, and it is very late.’ Francesca handed him another wine goblet to dry. ‘Still, I doubt that she’ll sleep. She’s too worked up about the screen test.’

‘That’s true, and I hope it goes well, that none of us is in for a big disappointment when we see the footage.’

‘What do you mean? Why shouldn’t it go well? After all, Katharine is so beautiful, and from what I understand she is a good actress.’

‘You’re right on both counts. But – ‘ Victor hesitated. He was sorry he had made the remark. He had spoken without thinking, had left himself wide open to innumerable questions, none of which he felt like answering. He also wondered, suddenly, what the hell he was doing standing in this kitchen in London, in the early hours of the morning, washing dishes with a teenager. Well, she was hardly that.

‘Please tell me what you meant,’ Francesca persisted stubbornly. ‘You sounded so pessimistic’

Victor sighed. ‘Look, forget I said it, okay? I’m sure she’ll make a terrific test. Was that the last of the glasses?’ Francesca nodded. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and slowly fastened the sapphire cufflinks. ‘I’d better be shoving off,’ he added, and went out of the kitchen.

Francesca followed him slowly, frowning. ‘I don’t mean to be a pest, but I wish you’d explain. It was a strange remark to make. Why are you testing her, and considering her for the part, if you think she won’t be any good?’

Victor halted in the hall and spun around to face Francesca. ‘I didn’t say that!’ he snapped. ‘And I’m not going to embark on a long discussion about movie acting with you, particularly at this hour. It’s far too late, and I’m not sure you’d understand what I’m talking about anyway.’

Concern had settled on her face and her eyes held a plea. He felt a stab of remorse for his brusqueness and impatience. ‘Oh, what the hell! Come on, give me one for the road, and I’ll try to explain as best as I can, in simple terms.’

‘And I’ll endeavour to understand,’ Francesca retorted. She walked ahead into the drawing room, bristling with irritation. Earlier, over coffee and liqueurs, her reservations about him had started to crumble, and she had even begun to like him. He had been warm and understanding, and a marvellous raconteur, keeping them entertained with hilarious anecdotes, and had shown a lovely sense of humour. But once again he had brushed her the wrong way. Her back was up.

Victor poured Remy Martin into two large brandy snifters and carried them over to the fireplace, where Francesca had seated herself, her body rigid in the chair. Her face was closed and her pretty mouth had narrowed into a thin sût of obduracy. Victor’s glance swept over her and unexpectedly a corner of his mouth twitched, but he swallowed his amusement and handed her a snifter silently. He sat down opposite her, picked up his brandy and contemplated for a few moments. Then, without looking at her, he started slowly, ‘Katharine Tempest knows more about acting in her little finger than I do in my whole body, and I’ve been at this game much longer. She’s instinctive, the consummate actress. She’s quite brilliant, in fact. On a stage. But great stage actresses don’t always make great movie stars.’

‘Why not?’ He had fully captured Francesca’s interest and she leaned forward, her irritation forgotten.

‘Because on a stage everything is more pronounced, slightly exaggerated. By that I mean mannerisms, movements, voice projection. It must be just the opposite on film. Understated. Underplayed, if you like. It’s the camera, of course. A movie camera is lethal.’ He laid great emphasis on the last word. ‘Really lethal. And for one very simple reason. The movie camera photographs your thoughts, and sometimes it even appears to photograph your very soul. You see, movie acting has to do with thinking and intelligence, much more than histrionics and an expression of excessive emotion. And actors who have been trained for the stage don’t always grasp that properly.’

He took another swallow of the brandy, and continued, ‘Let me give you an example. Clarence Brown was a wonderful director who made many of Garbo’s pictures, including Anna Karenina. When he was making that particular film, he kept thinking she wasn’t giving him what he wanted, and he would shoot a scene over and over again. But later, when he saw the takes of the scene on the screen, he realized she had had what he was after all the time, from the very first take. You see, Garbo did something not visible to the human eye, but very visible to the camera’s eye. She projected her innermost thoughts to it, and yes, her soul, and all this was beautifully captured on film. When that happens, it’s extraordinary, and quite magical. Another director, Fred Zinnemann, always says, “The camera’s got to love you.” And he’s absolutely right. If it doesn’t, if that chemistry isn’t there, then you’re dead. Do you follow me?’

‘Yes, you explain it very well. What you’re saying is that you’re not sure Katharine will have this … this chemistry with the camera.’

‘Exactly. Oh, I know she has talent, great ability, a wonderful speaking voice, and that she’ll photograph magnificently in colour, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Acting in front of a camera is a very special technique. I’m lucky, in that I have always had great rapport with the camera, and yet I’m not so sure I would be as good as Katharine on a stage. I might fail miserably, as many other movie stars have in that medium. It’s funny, but you simply can’t he to the camera. If you do, the lies are there on film.’

‘But surely Katharine must understand about this special technique. She is a professional – ‘

‘I don’t know whether she does or not. To be honest I’ve never discussed movie acting with her. I should have done, I suppose, but I wanted to fix the test for her first.’

‘But you will help her, talk to her, won’t you?’

‘Sure. I plan to do it some time next week. I can give her a few hints, and the director I’ve chosen to make the test will take her through her paces first.’

‘I should jolly well hope so!’

Victor looked at her with some amusement. ‘And tell me, Francesca, why are you so interested in Katharine’s career?’

‘Because I like her, and I know how tremendously important the test is to her. It was easy to see that, after the way she reacted at the dinner table. That’s why I feel so ghastly about the awful things I said. About the book, I mean. It was none of my business, and you didn’t ask my opinion. I’m not a bit surprised she was so upset. And I’m sure you wanted to kill me, too.’

‘Not at all.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But I’ll have to keep you away from my screenwriter. I don’t want you planting any radical ideas in his head.’

‘Gosh, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that!’

‘I’m kidding. Knowing Nicky, I’m sure he’s more than well acquainted with the intrinsic truths in the novel.’

‘Nicky?’

‘Nicholas Latimer.’

‘Do you mean the novelist?’

‘That’s right. America’s boy wonder of literature. I can see, by the look on your face, that you’re wondering why I’m using an American to adapt an English classic for the screen. And that you disapprove.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Francesca protested.

He grinned. ‘Nick Latimer does happen to be a Rhodes Scholar, as well as a hell of a fine writer.’

‘I’m a great admirer of his.’

‘Then you have good taste.’ Victor tossed down the last of his cognac, and rose. ‘Well, now that I’ve enlightened you a bit about movie acting, I’m going to let you go to bed.’ He picked up his jacket and put it on, and together the two of them went out into the hall.

Victor took his trenchcoat from the cupboard and threw it over his arm. He turned to say goodnight, and as he looked at Francesca he experienced that same curious shock of récognition which had so startled him at the beginning of the evening. She hovered near the drawing room door, shrouded in shadows. In the diffused light her face was partially obscured, the pristine features blurred, and she seemed, at that moment, terribly familiar to him, although he knew tonight was the first time he had ever set eyes on her. And yet … an evanescent memory stirred in some remote corner of his mind, and was gone before he could grasp it. He stepped closer to her, in order to see her more clearly, and an unanticipated surge of desire rushed through him; he had the spontaneous urge to take her in his arms and crush her to him. For one awful moment he thought he was going to be stupid enough to do so.

Instead, he found himself saying, somewhat hoarsely, ‘How old are you, Francesca?’

She lifted her face and looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous. ‘Nineteen,’ she said.

‘I thought as much.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Thanks for a swell evening. Good night.’

‘Good night, Victor.’

He turned and left. She stared at the door for several seconds, frowning, and then she went to switch off the lights. As she moved from room to room, she wondered why she felt strangely let down and disappointed.