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

stated. Her face lit up and her smoky, amber-hazel eyes glowed with affection. ‘She’s a marvellous girl, isn’t she, Kim?’

      ‘She’s absolutely the tops. Super!’ he declared, his own face wreathed in smiles. ‘And don’t forget to give her my love, will you? ’Phone her the moment you get in.’

      ‘How could I possibly forget. You’ve repeated yourself half a dozen times in the last hour,’ she laughed. The sound of carriage doors slamming and the guard’s whistle caught her attention, and she glanced out of the window. ‘You’d better be going, Kim, otherwise you’ll get whisked off to London with me.’

      ‘I wouldn’t mind that at all,’ Kim asserted, thinking longingly of Katharine. He groaned and pulled a face. ‘Unfortunately, duty calls, and I’m needed at Langley more than ever right now.’ He stood up, bent over to kiss her on the cheek, and squeezed her shoulder lovingly. ‘Have a nice journey, Frankie, and do take care of that awful cold.’ He moved to the carriage door, then swung around and reassured, ‘Dad’s in good hands, so please try to relax. Remember, I’m at Langley and I’ll make sure he follows doctor’s orders.’

      ‘I know you will. ‘Bye, darling.’

      ‘Bye,’ he smiled, and jumped swiftly onto the platform, slamming the carriage door shut as the train started to roll slowly along the tracks, pulling out of Harrogate railway station and heading on its long journey south.

      Francesca sat back, settling herself in the corner, burrowing deeper into her heather-toned tweed top coat, shivering slightly even though she was wearing a matching heavy tweed skirt and a woollen twinset under the coat, as well as a cashmere scarf and boots. But it was chilly in the carriage, the steam heat slow in circulating. Also, she had caught a cold earlier in the week and had been unable to shake it off. Melly, their old nanny who lived in retirement in an estate cottage at Langley, had poured all manner of old-fashioned concoctions down her, but even these tried and tested remedies of her childhood had been to no avail. She had the cold, and, if anything, it was much worse.

      Francesca opened her handbag and took out the packet of throat lozenges Melly had pressed into her hand yesterday, smiling to herself, filled with fond thoughts of Melly, who had raised her. The lozenges were called Fisherman’s Friend, and, according to Melly, had been specially formulated for the Fleetwood deep sea fishermen working in the Icelandic frost and fog conditions. She and Kim had been force-fed them as children, and they were so strong they almost blew the head off, but Melly swore by them, and they were effective in helping to ease a raspy throat. Francesca popped one into her mouth and sucked on it, gazing out of the window, watching the landscape flying past as the train hurtled through the Dales towards Leeds. The fields were black and barren, covered with a fine coating of hoary frost, and the stark unadorned trees were like proud and solitary sentinels, rising up against a fading sky that was daunting in its coldness. Spring would be late this year, and there were none of the usual signs of gentling greenness, baby lambs gambolling or early daffodils billowing in the breeze, even though it was already the first week of March. A telegraph pole came into her line of vision a short way ahead, sprouting up between the trembling hills to ruin the beauty of the graceful rolling vista. To Francesca it was a sharp reminder of the problems she had encountered in the past week, when she had been guiding Jerry Massingham and his assistant Ginny around Yorkshire, helping them to scout locations for the film.

      In many respects, the first few days had been trying, even difficult. Jerry had grown increasingly irritated and his frustration had spiralled as they had toured the county, the largest in England. Every time they came across a place suitable for exterior shooting some kind of ugly man-made tribute to the twentieth-century technology had rudely intruded, rendering it inappropriate for a film which was supposed to be set in the nineteenth century. Telegraph poles, pylons and water towers had hardly been part of the scenery in Victorian England.

      Finally, in desperation, Francesca had decided to lead them much farther afield than she had originally planned. She had driven them up beyond Ripon, Middleham and Leyburn, into Swaledale, Wensleydale and Coverdale, where endless uninhabited moors were balanced by deep valleys and interesected by tumbling, fast-flowing little becks and cascading waterfalls which shimmered in the northern light. They had stopped at Wain Wath Force, Gunnerside and Healaugh, breathtaking spots unmarred by modern inventions. At the highest point on Bellerby Moor, highflung above the picturesque village of Grinton, Jerry had heaved a sigh of relief as he had viewed the surrounding landscape. And he had been stunned, disbelief washing over his face, as he had scanned the unbroken expanse of undulating moorland, so bleak, so desolate, iced with vagrant patches of lingering winter snow, yet curiously beautiful, even awesome in its very austerity. Here there was an untamed wildness and immense solitude, and grandeur in the soaring fells pitched up at precarious leaning angles into the brooding cloud-laden sky. And on the valley floor, far below, there was a contrasting softness in the neat and orderly patchwork of fields, with the River Swale curving gently down to Richmond, a narrow, twisting ribbon of silver, sparkling brightly in the crystalline sunshine that occasionally broke through the cumulus mass. Jerry had not only been captivated by what he saw, but held utterly spellbound, and he had approvingly pronounced the area perfect from every point of view, and unbelievably photogenic. They were able to quickly select a number of places in which to film, mapping out the logistics as they went along.

      Francesca had enjoyed her week working with the production manager and his charming assistant, and she had felt rather dishonest accepting the cheque for two hundred pounds, since she believed she had done so little to earn it. But Jerry had been adamant about the amount, and in much the same way he had been insistent that her father accept a five-thousand-pound fee for use of certain rooms in the castle, in which some of the important interior scenes were eventually to be filmed. Her father had been astounded by the amount, just as she herself had been startled when the idea had originally been presented to her.

      It had all come about quite by accident, on the day of the private screening of Katharine’s test, and it was to Katharine herself that the Cunninghams owed this sudden bit of good fortune. At Victor’s lunch at Les Ambassadeurs, after many celebratory toasts and endless bottles of Dom Pérignon, the conversation had turned to the various aspects of the production. Jerry, concerned as usual with the budget, had begun to grumble about the costs entailed in building a set for the elegant ball scene at Thrushcross Grange, a key sequence in Wuthering Heights, especially the film version. Katharine, listening attentively, had suddenly interrupted Jerry’s flow of words. ‘But why don’t you use a hall or a ballroom that already exists, in a country house or stately home?’ she had suggested. ‘Langley Castle, for instance. I’ve seen a photograph of the ballroom there, and I think it would be perfect.’

      There had been a small silence at the table, and it seemed to Francesca now, as she remembered, that all eyes had been suddenly focused on her intently, expressions curious, expectant and questioning. Victor had cleared his throat, and asked, ‘What do you think, Francesca? If the ballroom is suitable, would your father give us his permission to film there?’

      ‘Yes … I think so,’ she had said slowly, wondering if her father would acquiesce, and not really certain of the answer.

      ‘I bet it would be much cheaper than building an elaborate set,’ Katharine had quickly pointed out. ‘I’m sure the Earl would not ask an exorbitant fee.’

      Flabbergasted by this last comment, Francesca had started to demur. ‘Gosh, Daddy wouldn’t want to be pa –’ She had bitten off the rest of her sentence as Katharine had given her a swift kick on the ankle, and she had blushed, feeling self-conscious and uncertain of what she ought to say next.

      Victor had saved her the trouble. ‘Of course the film company would pay your father a fee for the use of parts of the castle,’ he had exclaimed in a businesslike voice. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

      Katharine had chuckled, her eyes shining, and it was then she had apparently had yet another brainwave. She had voiced the opinion, and in a most authoritative manner, that Francesca should be hired to scout locations with Jerry, who had announced earlier that he was planning a trip to Yorkshire for this express purpose. ‘With all due respect to you, Jerry, I’m sure Francesca