Voice of the Heart (94 page)

For the most part, Francesca did not participate in any of Doris’s projects, and everyone left her to her own devices. She spent her days working on the book. After returning home at the end of September, she had immediately transformed the old nursery into an office. This was a cosy room, comfortably shabby, with a great stone fireplace and immense windows overlooking the moors. Rummaging in the attics, she had discovered a serviceable Victorian desk, and Kim and the bailiff had hauled it down for her, positioning it in front of the windows. The old deal table, where she and Kim had eaten their childhood meals with Melly, was placed nearby. Still covered with a cloth patterned with nursery-rhyme characters, it now held reference books, dictionaries and the research material which had taken well over a year to assemble and coordinate.

The old nursery became her sanctuary, filled with memories and well-loved toys. Their old rocking horse, Dobbins, stood guard in a corner, her doll’s house reposed in another; bookshelves with chipped white paint sagged with children’s classics, their leaves much-thumbed; her baby doll, Clarissa, and her teddy bear, slightly mauled and missing an ear, presided over the scene with wise old eyes. No one dared to venture into this room uninvited. Francesca laboured from early morning until dusk, valiantly struggling to bring order and coherence to those first crucial chapters, which she was rewriting, following Nick Latimer’s advice. Her constant and loving companion was the small Bichon Frise, Lada, who lay curled in a ball at her feet whilst she wrote, or trotted after her when she moved around the castle. She emerged only for meals, and to take Lada for walks on the estate, the moors being forbidden territory since they were treacherous. The huge drifting banks of snow obscured paths, hid dangerous gullies, and it was easy to get lost up there in that wild country.

If her father and Doris were at all concerned about this self-imposed isolation, or disturbed by her distracted air, they made no comment, attributing her reserve and her abstraction to preoccupation with her writing. This did consume her, it also became a refuge from her anguish. But there were days when she felt disconsolate and restless, and then she would bundle up and tramp over the fields with Lada. Sometimes, on those solitary long walks, she would find herself filling up with a curious yearning, a yearning for something just beyond her reach which she could not quite grasp, and she was baffled at herself.

But one November afternoon, when she and Lada were circling Capability Brown’s ornamental lake, Francesca saw
his
face, and she knew it was Victor Mason for whom she endlessly yearned. For a fleeting moment, as she stood reflecting at the edge of the frozen water, she wondered if she had made a mistake in rejecting him. Perhaps he had
really loved her. After all, Katharine had said
their
affair meant little to him. But it meant a lot to me, she thought, with a quick intake of breath. And it would always be there, nudging in between them, creating doubts about his trustworthiness in her mind. Because of his own selfish and careless action, Victor was lost to her, could never be hers again. With dim resignation she recognized she
must
accept this, and sighing, she turned away from the lake.

The sky had darkened and a wind had blown up, and Francesca bent down and lifted Lada into her arms; then she increased her pace. Wearily she climbed the hill to the castle on its crest, and as she climbed, innumerable memories came flooding back, bitter-sweet and unsettling. She steeled herself against them, and walked on blindly, unaware that she was crying and that Lada was licking away the tears steadily coursing down her cheeks.

And slowly the long, lonely days passed, turned into weeks, and Francesca withdrew farther, shutting out the world. Very deliberately, she began to build walls around herself, erecting them brick by brick until she was completely insulated from life. Sturdy and impenetrable was this towering fortress, engineered to keep her safe, to protect her from future hurt and suffering. No one was permitted to scale its ramparts, and it would be years before these came tumbling down.

However, for a few brief days in the middle of December, Francesca did venture outside her strong fortress, letting down her guard to become her old self, if only temporarily. It was the occasion of her father’s marriage. Diana and Christian came, accompanied by their grandmother, Princess Hetti. She was old and frail, and had accepted the invitation out of deference to the Earl. Their mother was not with them. Once again Arabella von Wittingen had been unable to bring herself to leave Berlin, even for her brother’s wedding. Nick drove them from London. Doris had asked him to give her away; Kim was to be the best man. A number of
other guests were staying at the castle on the night before the wedding, and Francesca rose to the occasion. She was charming and gracious as she acted as her father’s hostess for the last time.

There were snow flurries on the morning of the wedding, and it was icy, with a fierce wind. But miraculously the sun came out at the last minute, just as Doris and Nick arrived at the ancient Norman church in Langley village. Doris was a beautiful bride in a silver-grey wool dress and a matching cape trimmed with silver fox. Her auburn curls were covered by a silver-fox hat, and she carried a bouquet of white winter roses that reflected the milky pearls at her throat. Since it was a second marriage for both, Doris did not walk down the aisle, but entered the church from the vestry, accompanied by the groom and the other members of the wedding party. Francesca and Diana, in rose wool suits and carrying posies of pink rosebuds, followed behind the bride and groom. The church looked lovely, massed with flowers, and when they moved in a body towards the chancel the organ music swelled, the strains of the hymn
O Perfect Love
reverberating to the rafters. Francesca felt her heart squeezing as the poignant music washed over her in waves, and she almost stumbled. Diana steadied her, flashed her a worried look. Francesca’s smile was faint but reassuring, and with immense resolution she put aside her own acute unhappiness, concentrated on the ceremony. But she barely heard a word the vicar said to the bridal couple, or their responses. Suddenly David was kissing Doris, the Mendelssohn march from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
was filling the church and they were following the bride and groom in the recessional.

Snowflakes and confetti, crystal and colour swirling together, caught in the sunshine, flying in the wind. Church bells ringing joyously. Outstretched hands offering congratulations. Vivid faces. Cheerful voices. Merry laughter floating on the cold December air. Everything seemed to blur before
Francesca’s eyes. She stood on the church steps with her father and Doris and Kim and Diana and Nick, and her sadness engulfed her. Then she remembered this was her father’s wedding day, a day for rejoicing, and she smiled, and kept on smiling for the rest of the day.

After the reception and luncheon at Langley Castle, the Earl and his new Countess left for Paris where they were to spend their honeymoon, and most of the other guests took their leave in the late afternoon. Princess Hetti, Diana, Christian and Nicky remained behind. They were staying on for the weekend, returning to London on Monday, flying to Saltzburg on Tuesday. Nick was going with them to Königssee, since it was almost Christmas. The weekend sped by, but Francesca was glad to have Diana’s company, even for this short time. Neither she nor Nick brought up Victor Mason’s name. They did not dare to do so. Also, they had wearied of asking Francesca why she had changed her mind about him, for their probing questions had been met with hard stares and obstinate silences on her part. There
had
been a few quiet moments during the weekend when Francesca had wanted to take Diana into her confidence, tell her everything. But she had not done so. Her promise to Katharine stood in the way. Nor did she want to humiliate herself by discussing his unfaithfulness with her cousin.

Suddenly it was Monday morning, and Kim and Francesca were saying goodbye to their cousins, Princess Hetti and Nick, wishing them a safe journey. Feeling wistful because they were all departing, Francesca hugged each one of them warmly, and hurried up to the old nursery, leaving Kim and Nick to handle the luggage. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and Nick came in, carrying his portable typewriter. ‘This is for you, kid,’ he cried, striding across the room.

‘For me?’ Francesca’s eyes widened. She stared first at him and then at the typewriter.

He placed it on the floor next to the desk. ‘Yes. It’s my
parting gift. And it’s brand new. Only the screenplay has been written on it.’

‘I couldn’t possibly take—’

Nick bent over, caught her to him, silencing her. ‘Of course you can take it. You’ll be doing me a favour. I sure as hell don’t want to drag it half around the world.’

‘Thank you, Nicky. It’s very sweet of you, and so thoughtful.’

He said nothing, but continued to stand close to her, pressing her head to his chest, stroking the long fair hair. She broke his heart, but he had no words of comfort. Eventually he released her, walked over to the fire and stood with his back to the flames. He fit a cigarette, all the while watching her. He said, ‘Diana’s promised to visit me on the Coast in February. Want to come with her? You’d both be my guests.’

Her face changed ever so slightly. ‘You know I can’t, Nicky.’

‘No, I guess not. It was just an idea,’ he murmured softly.

‘Thank you for the invitation, though.’

He stared at his shoes, and when he lifted his head his bright blue eyes pierced into her. ‘You’ll get over him, Francesca. Fall in love again. We do recover from our romantic tragedies.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, doubting the accuracy of his words. She turned to look out of the window.

Nick exhaled heavily, and before he could stop himself, he cried fiercely, ‘I wish to God you’d never got involved with us! We’re a bunch of killers. Your life won’t ever be the same, Francesca.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it will.’ She was finding it too painful, so she said cheerily, ‘Don’t get cross with me, but I’ve changed the title of the book.’

Nick shook his head in mock exasperation and then he began to smile. ‘Jesus, not again, kid! You’ve had
five
titles so far.’

Francesca had to laugh at his comical expression, which had brought the endearing puckish quality to his lean intelligent face. ‘This one is the best though, and it will be the
last
, honestly.’

‘So, come on, don’t keep me in suspense,’ he commanded. ‘What the hell is it?’

‘
The Sabres of Passion.
I think it’s appropriate for a biography of a man like Chinese Gordon, who raised his sabre in passionate defence of his God, his Christian beliefs, etcetera, etcetera. Well, what do you think?’

‘It’s terrific. The best you’ve had, so keep it. Okay?’ She nodded, and he came to the desk, tilted her chin. ‘You’ll be all right, Francesca. But I just want you to know that wherever I am in this world, I’m there for you. All you have to do is pick up a ’phone and call me. Promise me you’ll do that.’

‘I promise, Nick.’

‘I’ll see ya around, kid.’ He kissed her quickly, and fled before he made a fool of himself, before she saw his brimming eyes.

For a long time after Nicky had left the nursery, Francesca sat gazing out of the window towards the snow-covered moors. She was finally alone.
Alone
. For the past year she had been involved with strangers from another world, strangers whom she had grown to love. Not one of them remained. It was as if they had never existed. But they had. Birds of passage, she thought pensively, and rose. She exchanged her ancient standard typewriter for Nick’s sleek shiny portable, placing it carefully on the desk and removing the cover. He had left her a note in the typewriter. She turned the roller, pulled it out, read:

‘Yes, Nicky, I will,’ she said out loud, and sat down
purposefully. She rolled in two pieces of paper and a carbon, and began to type.

As she sat working at the desk, Francesca Cunningham could not possibly know that the book would take her almost five years to write. Nor did she have the slightest notion that when it was published, in 1962, it would make her an instant celebrity and independently wealthy, bring her critical acclaim as an historical biographer of brilliance and perception, and garner two prestigious literary prizes. All she knew that Monday morning, as the year 1956 drew to its close, was that Nicholas Latimer had gone. The last link to Victor Mason had been severed.

‘And even then, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in Memory’s rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep in that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?’

E
MILY
B
RONTË

Nicholas Latimer lolled back on the sofa in his study, propped his feet on the onyx coffee table and concentrated his gaze on his companion. Even though he was angry, he could not suppress the disbelieving laughter in his throat, and finally he threw back his head and roared. But the sound was hollow, lacking in merriment, and as easily and as swiftly as it had bubbled up, the laughter fled.

Swinging his feet to the floor, he leaned forward, his blue eyes frosted with ice. ‘I wonder if you ever listen to yourself, Carlotta? Hear the things you say? You’re out of your mind sometimes. Stark raving bloody bonkers, as the English would say.’

‘I am not!’ she shot back with spirit, her face as furious as his.

‘I beg to differ.
You’re
going to leave me and take the baby back to Venezuela.
You’re
going to sequester him in the bosom of your family.
You’re
going to bring him up in the Catholic faith.
You’re
going to do this and that and run and jump through hoops and scream and throw tantrums, and to hell with me. To hell with you, lady. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do—absolutely nothing!’ His voice had risen, and he shouted, ‘There’s another thing. Stop all this muttering about your poor little baby. You sound as if he’s still in swaddling clothes. He’s four years old, for Christ’s sake, and he’s certainly not
poor
. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He’s not only loved and adored, but surrounded by everything money can buy.’