Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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,