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

the time you’ll save, having a guide like her. Not only that, I’m sure Francesca will be able to take you to any number of beauty spots off the beaten track which you might not otherwise find by yourself.’

      Victor and Jerry had exchanged looks, obviously seeing the perfect sense in this idea, and they had seized upon it at once. Francesca had found herself being swept along by their immense enthusiasm, flattered by their keenness to have her work with them, and their concerted efforts in persuasiveness had scarcely been necessary. She had agreed almost immediately, not wishing to be the only outsider, wanting, instead, to be part of it all, to participate in their exciting world, and also hoping to help Jerry solve his production problems.

      Help Victor, be part of his world, you mean, Francesca now murmured under her breath. Her critical perceptions of him had long since been laid to waste, her reservations and her initial fear buried beneath layers of new and burgeoning emotions of a type she had not experienced before. In the week she had been in Yorkshire she had discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she missed him, and he had rarely been out of her thoughts. Last night, in the quietness of her room at Langley, she had sat for hours by the fire, examining her feelings, trying to be as analytical as she possibly could. Distance and separation had given her fresh objectivity, and finally she had had to accept a single stark reality: she was infatuated with Victor Mason. Frightened by the waves of panic mingled with confusion and internal turmoil that had swamped over her, she had resolutely shied away from the word love, wanting to believe her involvement with him was a passing thing and, therefore, not to be taken seriously.

      Now she wondered about that. She sighed and closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the seat, considering the situation once more. It was hopeless, really. Dismay trickled through her at this realization. Victor only accepted her because of Katharine, and she knew there would never be anything but friendship between them, if even that. He treated her like a little girl, albeit tolerantly and pleasantly, but nevertheless she knew she was still a child in his eyes. Yet despite this knowledge, and her awareness of his lack of interest in her as a woman, Francesca suddenly realized it would be hard, if not indeed impossible, for her to extinguish her feelings for him. She understood, too, that up until this moment it had been enough to be in the same room with him. But what of the future? Could she bear to be near him and yet, in all truth, so far removed, knowing how she actually felt? She was doubtful. It would be agonizing.

      Long after she had gone to bed last night, she had continued to think of him, unable to sleep, her mind and her heart and her body wanting him. And more than ever she had become conscious of the dangerous physical stirrings within her, of unfamiliar needs and desires and longings that inflamed her with their urgency, and made her feel like a stranger to herself, her own body suddenly alien and mysterious. She had wrapped her arms around the pillow, clutching it tightly to her, endeavouring to control her wild and vivid imaginings, to curb her fantasies about Victor and of making love with him, of giving herself up to him completely and without restraint. Sexually inexperienced though she was, she had discovered in those restless dawn hours, that her mind was an extraordinary erogenous zone, her thoughts of Victor excessively erotic and sensual, and so uninhibited she was shocked at herself and almost blushed in the dark.

      That morning, when she had awakened, her arms were still holding the pillow, and she was clinging to it fiercely, as if it was Victor she so passionately embraced. If only it was him, she had thought, and slowly the tears had begun to fall, trickling down her cheeks until she was sobbing with despair, filled with the pain of unrequited love. She cried for a long time. Later, when she had calmed herself, she made the decision not to see him ever again. Somehow she must extract herself from his tight-knit little group, although she was not exactly certain what excuses she would make to Katharine, who had no inkling of her feelings.

      But now, as the train rattled on towards London, she was filled with ambivalence, fluctuating between depression and euphoria, torn between her cool and reasoning head and her eager heart. Her superior intelligence told her to stay away from him, out of self-protectiveness; but her emotions propelled her inexorably to him. And being young, and unscarred by life and its inevitable disappointments, hope was intact within her, and she could still dream. Perhaps he would change his mind about her, fall in love with her, as she had with him.

      Francesca felt a twinge of panic. I’m not in love with him, she told herself. I’m not! I’m really not! I’m just infatuated … it’s only a silly crush.

      The carriage door sliding open caused her to turn her head sharply. The Pullman car attendant was standing there, smiling warmly. His name was Beaver and he had been on the Edinburgh to London run for years. She had known him since she was a small child, travelling up to town twice a year with her father and Kim and Melly.

      ‘’Morning, your ladyship,’ he said.

      ‘Good morning, Beaver. How are you?’

      ‘Doing nicely, thank you. And you? And his lordship, and the young viscount?’

      ‘We’re all fine, thank you.’

      He nodded and smiled again. ‘We’ll be serving breakfast in a few minutes, your ladyship, if you’d like to go into the dining car. Train’s pretty packed this morning, so we’ll be filling up quickly, especially after Leeds.’

      ‘Thank you, Beaver, I’ll pop along now.’ She picked up her handbag and Nick’s book from the seat, and rose. Beaver stepped aside to let her pass, closed the carriage door behind her, and continued along the swaying corridor of the train, in the opposite direction.

      Francesca found a table in the dining car and sat down. She glanced at the breakfast menu and discovered she was not hungry, but she was longing for a hot drink. She ordered a pot of tea and toast, and then opened Nick’s book. It was one of his early novels and he had given it to her as a present, fondly inscribed. She had already read it several times, loving every page, struck as always by his extraordinary command of language, his brilliant use of words that came so vividly alive. She re-read a particular passage she liked, and then put the book down as the tea and toast materialized.

      Her thoughts stayed with Nick. They had become such good friends, and there was a special kind of understanding between them. She valued his opinions and listened carefully to the advice he gave about writing, and so generously, appreciating his interest in her. Ten days ago she had asked him to read some of the first pages of her book on Chinese Gordon.

      Nick’s words reverberated in her head again. ‘The pages are terrific. Keep going. And don’t look back,’ he had told her. And then, more thoughtfully, he had added: ‘Listen, kid, you’ve got talent. But talent isn’t enough. You’ve also got to have dedication, discipline, determination and drive. You’ve got to be obsessed with a book. Without that obsession it won’t work. And there’s another D. D for desire. That must be there too. You’ve got to want to write more than you want to do anything else, and you’ve got to be prepared to make sacrifices to do it.’ He had grinned in his impish way. ‘There’s a sixth D, and this one is vital. D for distraction, the enemy of every writer. You’ve got to build an imaginary wall around yourself so that nothing, no one intrudes. Understand me, kid?’

      Nick often called her kid, just as he called Victor kid, and she had come to understand that in his vocabulary it was a special meaningful term, one of endearment, and used selectively. Francesca smiled to herself, sipping her hot tea, filled with enormous affection for Nick. It struck her then that she had never heard him call Katharine kid; he always addressed her rather formally as Katharine. But perhaps that was because he was in awe of her great beauty and talent as an actress. Certainly Francesca did not believe Nicky hated her friend, whatever she did. Neither did Kim. They both thought Katharine was seeing something which did not exist. Pondering this, Francesca recalled that Nick treated Katharine in much the same way he treated her, with cordiality and a sort of tongue-in-cheek amusement. But now she had to admit that at times he did appear to be a little constrained, as if holding back. Even at the celebration lunch, after his lovely compliments about the screen test, he had retreated behind a mask, curiously isolated from the jolly proceedings. On the other hand, during lunch he had confided that he thought he was coming down with the ’flu, and his face had looked drawn, pinched