Voice of the Heart (7 page)

‘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.