Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

in ruining a lovely evening.’

      ‘Oh please, Victor, don’t be silly,’ Christian said. ‘There’s no need to keep apologizing. And you haven’t spoiled the evening, has he, Diana?’

      ‘Hardly. In fact, you’ve made it extra special and memorable.’ She smiled at Victor. ‘But would you mind if we drop the subject now? I’d like to concentrate on the present, the next few days to be exact.’ She took a deep breath and, adopting a more cheery tone, went on, ‘Christian and I are going to Munich tomorrow, to spend the day at Grandmother’s, with our mother. I won’t be able to take you skiing on the Rossfeld. However, Astrid and Vladimir will go with you. Is that all right?’

      ‘Sure. That’ll be great,’ Victor said, pulling his mind away from his troubled thoughts, looking at her with admiration. There was something very unusual in this girl, a certain indomitability that took his breath away. ‘But what about Francesca? She’ll be all alone here.’

      ‘Oh don’t worry about me, I’ve got lots of things to do,’ Francesca assured him with a warm smile. ‘You will be back for lunch though, won’t you?’

      Before he could respond, Diana said, ‘Astrid wants both of you to have lunch at her house, Cheska. It’ll be fun for you, and I know Victor will enjoy seeing the von Böler estate. It’s most impressive and puts Wittingenhof to shame.’

      ‘That’s nice of her,’ Francesca said. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the place myself. Kim told me it’s like a miniature Versailles.’

      ‘That’s true.’ Diana stood up. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to tell Manfred to lock up, and then get off to bed. We have to leave very early in the morning.’ She kissed Francesca and Christian, and then moved across the floor to Victor. He rose and hugged her to him. ‘You’re an extraordinary person, Diana,’ he said, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

      ‘So are you,’ she responded, squeezing his arm, her expression affectionate. She turned and walked to the doorway. ‘Good night everyone.’

      Shortly afterwards, Christian also took his leave of them. The minute they were by themselves, Victor said, ‘I guess you can’t take me anywhere, kid. I’m a dumb idiot.’

      ‘Hush!’ Francesca exclaimed, and moved over to sit next to him on the sofa. She took his hand in hers, and insisted, ‘Please do let’s forget all this, Vic. Diana’s right, we must put the tragedy of Uncle Kurt out of our minds. Just as she and Christian do most of the time. And honestly, they’re not angry or upset with you. Neither am I.’

      ‘That’s a helluva relief.’ He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. ‘Mind if we sit here for a bit?’

      ‘Not at all. Would you like another drink, darling?’

      ‘Sure, why not. One for the road, I guess.’ He released his hold and his eyes following her as she walked across the room were filled with tenderness. ‘Do me a favour, baby, kill the lights in here, please.’

      ‘All right. Shall I put on a record, one of the Sinatras maybe?’

      ‘Terrific idea … the Cole Porter selection … together those two are an unbeatable team, about the greatest.’

      Within minutes the room was entirely in darkness, its edges grey and murky, but the fireside was bathed in roseate tints and the logs spurted and flared in the grate so that a pool of isolated golden light surrounded them like a nimbus. They sat for a long time on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the romantic ballads, speaking hardly at all, content to be alone together. At one moment Victor turned his head and glanced out of the windows which intersected the wall opposite. Beyond the glass, an indigo sky, speckled with the brightest stars, was being intermittently streaked with silver radiance as the moon came out from behind black clouds. It clearly illuminated the landscape, breathtaking even at this hour in its white and silent beauty.

      It’s so peaceful out there, he thought, just as this room is also enveloped in tranquillity. Victor averted his face and stared into the fire, his eyes reflective now. Images of the dinner party danced before him in the flames. It had been perfect down to the last detail. And so civilized. The guests had been charming, cultured, intelligent and well informed, the men elegantly attired, the lovely women exquisitely gowned and bejewelled, and all had been gathered together in the most gracious of settings, partaking of excellent food and vintage wines. yes, it had been an occasion of gaiety and joyfulness as befitted Diana’s birthday.

      Coming so quickly after this glittering, happy scene, the story of Kurt von Wittingen had been chilling, had had a curious unreality about it to Victor, as though it were somehow out of sync. Yet this was not the case, and it was only too real, just as Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Dachau had been real, as Christian’s ruined legs were real. Victor dwelt on all that had been said in the last hour and his disquiet returned, and he felt a sudden and terrible coldness in the region of his heart. Evil had cast its dark shadow over this night. But evil is always there, lurking, he found himself thinking, as it has lurked since the beginning of time when man first discovered his immense capacity for it. And as long as man walks this earth it will flourish, for it is man’s invention not God’s. A sigh rippled through him and he closed his eyes.

      Francesca shifted her body against his, swivelled her head and looked up into his face. ‘What is it? Is something wrong, Vic?’

      He opened his eyes and stared at her. He was tempted, for a moment, to voice his thoughts, but changed his mind. ‘I’m okay. Nothing’s wrong, Ches,’ he murmured and lifted his hand and touched the top of her head, and she relaxed and settled back in his arms and a silence fell between them again. It was long after the music had stopped and the fire had burned low to dying embers that Victor finally roused himself. He led her out of the sitting room, down the long gallery and up the great staircase, and not once did he let go of her hand so tightly clasped in his.

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Three months later, Terrence Ogden walked briskly across the ancient Market Place in Ripon, dropped a large manilla envelope in the post box and went into the first tobacconist’s shop he saw. He bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes, exchanged a friendly word with the girl behind the counter, and swung through the door of the shop, whistling under his breath.

      He headed out of the Market Place, past the Town Hall and the Wakeman’s House, and down the hill at a rapid pace, returning to the Spa Hotel at the edge of town where the cast and crew of Wuthering Heights were staying.

      It was a Saturday morning in late June, and the kind of glorious summer day he remembered so vividly from his childhood, but which had been sadly infrequent in the ensuing years. Or so it seemed to him. Terry wondered absently if, in the way that memory can play peculiar tricks, he had simply imagined those golden days of his early boyhood. Perhaps the summers had been as inclement then as they were now. A faintly ironic gleam flashed in his light blue eyes. It was odd how the lovely weather, whether real or a figment of his imagination, was the only pleasant thing he remembered about those poverty-stricken years of growing up in Sheffield. All his other recollections had a desperate, almost Dickensian flavour to them. Empty belly. Patched clothes. Socks so darned they were all darn. Broken-down shoes letting the snow and the rain seep through. Dad on the dole. And when he was working, it was down the pit, filling his lungs full of coal dust. Mam scrubbing and cleaning, washing, ironing, charring for the rich. Old before she was young.

      Terry shrugged and blinked and discarded these thoughts. They served no purpose now. Those days were long gone. Times had changed in merry old England and he, thank God, had been able to change his parents’ lives. And for the better. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, feeling healthier than he had in years. Terrence Ogden was also a somewhat chastened man after his drunken brawl with Rupert Reynolds earlier in the year. He was fully conscious that he had had a close call, a brush with death, and he had taken himself in hand, with firmness. If he was not exactly abstinent,