Voice of the Heart (46 page)

It was then he made a solemn promise to himself: From now on every hour of his life would count, and he would live every day to the fullest, for who knew about tomorrow, and what it would bring. Indeed, who knew how many tomorrows there would be.

Francesca pushed open the kitchen door cautiously and was assailed by the waves of heat and steam that billowed out. She recoiled, stepping back for a split second, and then edged inside, peering through the vaporous haze. She said, ‘I wish you’d let me do something to help.’

Victor, who was poised in concentration over the Aga stove, swung around at the sound of her voice. She saw at once that his face was flushed and that he was the picture of domesticity in the kitchen, where all manner of foodstuffs lay scattered on the table and the counter top near the sink. He had taken off his tie, his sleeves were rolled up, and he wore one of her dainty cotton aprons tied around his waist. She hid a smile, and ventured, ‘Can I at least stir one of the pots for you?’

He shook his head slowly, giving her his lazy smile. ‘Negative. There’s a line about too many cooks spoiling the broth that happens to be the truth. Besides, you don’t think I’d let an
English
girl tamper with my specialities, do you?’ he teased. ‘I told you earlier only a
paesano
knows how to cook a real Italian dinner. So go away, and let me get back to my culinary creations.’ He grinned at her and put down the wooden spoon he was holding. ‘There is one thing you can do though.’ He strode to the refrigerator and opened the door, handing her a bottle of pink champagne. ‘Stick this in the ice bucket, over there on the table. And please go back to the drawing room. I’ll join you in a few minutes. It’s far too steamy in here, and I don’t want you catching another cold after I’ve just cured the last one.’

Francesca shivered as she went through the adjoining dining room, acknowledging to herself that Victor had been
right. Earlier in the evening, when he had first arrived, he had pronounced the dining room chilly and hardly the ideal spot for her after a bout of influenza and several days lying prostrate in bed. He had suggested they should have supper in the drawing room, and after she had produced a folding card table, he had covered it with a red gingham cloth, which he had found in the kitchen cupboard, and brought two chairs from the dining room.

Francesca eyed the table now as she walked in with the champagne. He had placed it to one side of the fireplace and set it himself, refusing to let her help, had even added a silver candlestick with a red candle and a tulip in a bud vase, charming touches she had not anticipated from a man, least of all him. Once this task had been accomplished, Victor had disappeared into the kitchen to unpack the bags of groceries he had bought in Soho, and to start preparing the meal. She had trailed after him, volunteering to help, but he had resolutely shooed her away and literally closed the door in her face. Francesca had shrugged helplessly. She had come to understand that Victor Mason could be very assertive, and just a mite overpowering. At the beginning of the week she had felt debilitated and had been unable to maintain her wails of protest, had allowed him to take charge in his masterful way. Tonight she was feeling far too happy to fight him, enjoying the attention he was showering on her.

She examined the cork in the bottle, decided to let Victor struggle with it, and moved in the direction of the fireplace. Seating herself in the wing chair, she smoothed down her skirt, adjusted the collar on her sweater and sat back, propping her feet on the fender, waiting for him to emerge from the kitchen. The heat from the blazing logs in the hearth had brought out the varied scents of the flowers and, to Francesca, the drawing room smelled and looked like a garden bower in mid-summer, the profusion of lovely blooms enhancing the inherent beauty of the charming room, so mellow and tranquil in the firelight. Several great Chinese
porcelain vases spilled with masses of the scarlet-tipped white tulips, the pale and fragile narcissi flourished in a number of smaller china bowls, whilst the Limoges
cachepot
planted with hyacinths stood in the centre of the coffee table. The mimosa had also been beautiful, and delicately fragrant, but the blossoms had faded and dried out quickly, as they always did, and reluctantly she had thrown them away on Thursday.

Francesca leaned forward and breathed deeply over the hyacinths, inhaling their exquisite scent. It struck her that there was something infinitely luxurious about the fresh flowers at this time of the year, particularly since it still seemed like winter to her, with the perpetual thunderstorms and gales and dark overcast skies that had not lifted all week. She touched the smooth waxy petals of the hyacinths, recalling her excitement when the delivery van had arrived from Moyses Stevens on Monday afternoon. She had held her breath as she tore open the envelope and pulled out the card, believing it to be from Victor, for only he would have been so lavish and sent a veritable truckload of flowers. Her face had dropped when she read the signatures, and severe disappointment had followed sharply on the heels of expectation, crushing her joy. She was quite certain Nick had been the initiator of the gesture, that they were actually his gift, and only his, and that he had simply included Victor’s name as a matter of course, or perhaps as a form of courtesy.

Now Francesca’s expression changed, became pensive, her mind fastening on Nicholas Latimer. Her thoughts were sad as she envisioned his grief, knowing how anguished she would feel if her beloved Kim had been so tragically killed. When Victor had told her about Marcia’s accident, she had asked him for Nicky’s address in New York. She had immediately written a short but expressive letter, offering her sympathy and condolences, filled with genuine affection and concern for Nick, who had become such a dear friend.
Victor had posted the letter for her the next day. It seemed to Francesca that Victor had been doing so many things for her this past week, and certainly she owed her rapid recovery to his devoted ministrations. She smiled. He had clucked over her and coddled her, and was continuing to do so, and she wished with all of her young heart that it would never end. But of course it would. That was an inevitability, since her health was practically restored to normal.

Francesca sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, contemplating Victor Mason, whom she now recognized was a most remarkable man, her mind dwelling on his many kindnesses to her.

Victor had made his presence more potently felt than ever several days ago, on Tuesday. That morning he had telephoned Francesca to ask how she was feeling. She had said she was a bit better, but it had not taken much insight on his part to realize that she was resorting to a white lie. Francesca had sounded dreadful with her raw, raspy throat and nagging cough. A string of pertinent questions, and a great deal of persistence from him, had left her no option but to confess she had not been visited by a doctor and that there was no one to take care of her. Under his fierce pressure, she had admitted that Mrs Moggs, who only came twice a week to clean the house, would not be returning until Friday. Imperiously brushing aside her warnings about germs and the possibility of his catching the ’flu, Victor had announced he was coming over to see her. A short while later he had arrived, armed with antibiotics and cough mixture from the doctor used by Monarch Pictures, lemons, oranges and two large glass jars of chicken soup from Les Ambassadeurs.

Francesca had been self-conscious and embarrassed when first greeting him in the hall, aware that she was looking ghastly. Here she was, confronting the only man for whom she wanted to be beautiful, and he was seeing her at her very worst. Her face had been pale and drawn, her nose red, her eyes watering, her hair rumpled and unkempt. Victor had
not seemed to notice her appearance, which, now that she thought about it, was quite normal behaviour for him. He had always been oblivious to the way she looked, had never once paid her a compliment.

Taking a cursory glance at her as they stood in the hall, Victor had bundled her back to bed without delay, waiting until she was comfortably settled before hurrying downstairs. He had left her bedroom door ajar, and faintly, in the distance, she had heard him rattling around in the kitchen. Not long after, he had returned, marching into her room unceremoniously, carrying a large tray laden with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, a Thermos flask of hot tea spiced with lemon and honey, and the various medicines. With great firmness, he had ordered her to take the antibiotics three times a day, drink plenty of the orange juice and the hot tea, and, as he had left, he had told her the chicken soup was in a pot on the stove, ready to be reheated that evening.

To Francesca’s surprise, Victor had visited her every day thereafter, and he had never once arrived empty handed, usually bringing something special which had been prepared in the kitchens of Les Ambassadeurs. She knew that John Mills, the owner of the private club, was a friend of Victor’s, and apparently he was most obliging when it came to supplying nourishing dishes for a sick girl. Although Victor was inclined to be somewhat domineering with her, he was also gentle at times, and very kind, concerned about her well being. He had also adopted a rather matter-of-fact manner whilst tending to her needs, and this had enabled Francesca to ignore her unattractive appearance, to forget it really. And anyway, she was feeling so awful those first few days, she no longer cared what he actually thought, since she knew he had no interest in her as a woman.

Katharine had been equally sweet and devoted. She had telephoned every day, but unlike Victor, she had listened to reason and had not insisted on visiting Francesca, for she
was worried as always about her health, and fearful of getting sick in view of her career commitments. Katharine’s first call had been early on Monday evening, just before she had gone on stage, and she had been delighted when Francesca had told her about the basket of fruit from Jerry and Bellissima Productions, and the flowers from Nick. The next day Katharine had sent a selection of the latest books from Hatchards, with a charming and amusing note which had made Francesca smile with affection for her friend. That same afternoon, when she had ’phoned to see how Francesca was, Katharine had wanted to bring soup and other food to the Chesterfield Street house.

‘I’ll leave everything on the doorstep and run away, so you don’t have to worry about infecting me with your germs,’ Katharine had said, laughing. ‘Please let me do this for you, darling, I’m so anxious about you.’

Thank you, Katharine, but I’m all right, honestly I am,’ Francesca had responded swiftly. ‘And I don’t need anything. Victor was here earlier today, and he brought fresh oranges and chicken soup and medicines.’

There had been a sudden silence before Katharine had exclaimed, ‘That’s the least he could do! After all, you caught that cold when you were working for him. In my opinion, he should have arranged for someone to be there looking after you. He knows you’re all alone.’

Francesca had been startled by this comment, considering it quite extraordinary. ‘But he doesn’t have to do anything at all,’ she had said slowly. ‘I’m not his responsibility. And it really isn’t his fault that I got ill when I was scouting locations in Yorkshire. Gracious, Katharine, I could have caught ’flu before I left London, for all I know.’

Katharine had murmured something about not agreeing, but then they had quickly gone on to talk about Kim, her father’s accident, and a number of other matters.

After they had hung up, Francesca had felt unusually depressed and more miserable than ever, and she could not
help dwelling on Katharine’s words. Of course she was right in what she had said. Victor was simply being a considerate employer, and that was all. Francesca’s hopes that his feelings towards her had somehow radically changed were instantly dashed to the ground. For the rest of the week she steeled herself to his presence, curbing her vivid imagination, and exercising as much control over her emotions as she could muster. This had not been an easy task, since Francesca was enormously attracted to him physically, and infatuated with him to such an extent that he totally occupied her thoughts, and in consequence she was vulnerable to him in every way. It was for these reasons that she assiduously avoided mentioning his name to Katharine again, not wishing to hear her friend’s pragmatic reasons for Victor’s attentiveness, which would have been like pouring vinegar into the wound. She preferred instead to believe that, if nothing else, he came to see her out of friendship.

Francesca did have one consolation. Victor had unexpectedly dropped his jolly, fatherly posture, and he was also much less distant with her; and if he treated her rather like a chum, this was infinitely more acceptable than being cast in the role of a child. By Friday she had begun to realize that a new easiness existed between them, that there had been a lifting of certain barriers. It soon occurred to her that it would have been abnormal if it had been otherwise. After all, there was nothing more intimate than taking care of someone who was sick, which, out of necessity, bred a certain kind of familiarity and closeness. Francesca had been extremely touched by his thoughtfulness, his solicitousness, and she had begun to count on his visits, even though he kept these to the point, and relatively short. Until yesterday.

When he arrived on Friday, just after lunch, he had been delighted to see her up and dressed, and looking more like her old self. Mrs Moggs, full of oohs and ahs about meeting a famous film star, had made coffee for them, and they had sat chatting together in the drawing room for almost two hours.
He had told her about the progress of the film, recounting his hectic week in the greatest detail, and with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish in its eagerness. A few minutes before he had taken his leave, he had pronounced her fit enough to enjoy a splendid Italian dinner, which, he explained, he intended to make for her on Saturday night, informing her he was not only a terrific cook but an inspired one at that. Francesca had laughed gaily, and graciously acquiesced to his idea, sheathing her excitement at the prospect of spending an evening alone with him. She had thought of nothing else since then, wishing the hours away, filled with a breathless, nervous anticipation.