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

He muffled these, and adopted a cautious tone as he asked, ‘She worked out okay then? You thought it was worth having her along?’

      ‘God, yes! I’d have been lost without her. She saved us a lot of time, not to mention aggravation.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Victor murmured, wondering whether or not she was back in London. He was about to question Jerry, but instantly changed his mind, considering it wiser to remain discreetly silent. ‘How did you get on with the Earl?’ he asked, draining his coffee cup.

      ‘Very well. He’s a nice chap. Rather down-to-earth, I thought, and most obliging. Made us feel very much at home. He seemed tickled we want to film at the castle, looking forward to all the excitement probably. A farmer’s life is pretty dull, I suppose, and that’s what he is really. A gentleman farmer. And I must say, he was startled when I told him the fee. I don’t believe he expected so much. If anything at all.’ Jerry paused and drew on his cigarette, meditating. After a moment, he voiced the thought which had nagged at him all weekend, when he stated, with a touch of dourness, ‘Maybe you’ve been over generous, old chap. You could have paid him much less, and he’d still be ecstatic.’

      ‘Come on, Jerry, don’t be such a tight wad!’ Victor reproved, although his voice was tinged with laughter. ‘We’re well within the budget, and I understand from Katharine Tempest that the Earl’s pretty short on walking around money.’ Noting the baffled look on Jerry’s face, he grinned and explained, ‘Ready cash.’ He reached for the second set of photographs, fanned them out, and commented, ‘These rooms look exactly right for the interiors of Thrushcross Grange. We’ll be saving ourselves a fortune on sets. So I’m glad to help the family if I can. Listen, it’s cheap at the price.’

      ‘I suppose so,’ Jerry agreed grudgingly, and then on a more defensive note, he continued, ‘And be happy I am a tight wad. I’m keeping the budget under control, aren’t I?’

      ‘Yes, and for that I’m very grateful, Jerry. So is Jake Watson. You’re making life a lot easier, I can tell you. And speaking of our brilliant line producer, where in hell is he?’

      ‘When I went out to get us coffee, he was interviewing Harry Pendergast. The set designer. He’s damned good by the way.’

      ‘Damned expensive too,’ Victor pointed out. ‘Oh, by the way, I was talking to Jake over the weekend, and we both came to the conclusion we might need an auxiliary generator for the kliegs. Did you think to check that out?’

      ‘I did. I spoke to the Earl on Friday, just before I left for London. He seemed a bit vague about the capacity of the generator at the castle, and Francesca promised to follow it through for me.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Glad you brought it up, old chap. She stayed on to spend the weekend with her father, but she was due back this morning. I think I’ll give her a tinkle right now. Get the matter settled. Excuse me a minute, Victor. I’ll just pop back to the production office to make the call. I left some of my notes there.’

      Victor rose and crossed to a small table at the far end of the conference room. He poured himself another cup of coffee, dropped in a spoonful of sugar, stirring absent-mindedly, thinking of Francesca. So she had returned to London after all. She had sounded vague about her plans before leaving, had been uncertain about joining them for dinner tonight. Tonight. He smiled, feeling a little surge of elation at the thought of seeing her. There was no point in lying to himself. He had noticed her absence.

      Whistling merrily, he carried the cup of coffee back to the table, sat down and picked up Jerry’s photographs of the ballroom at Langley Castle. Jerry had taken a number of different angles, and he could see that the dimensions were exactly right. But it looked to him as if it needed a paint job, and a bit of sprucing up. Beautiful crystal chandelier and candelabra though, he commented to himself. He turned to the rough sketch of the room on which were indicated the possible areas for setting up the cameras, the klieg lights and other mandatory movie equipment. There was obviously plenty of space in which to shoot a superb ballroom scene, a brilliant and glittering scene, with beautifully attired guests waltzing to a small orchestra. Jake agreed with him that this touch of real glamour, Hollywood style, was vital. He sifted through the other views of various interiors, which Jerry had selected for potential scenes, carefully following the action in Nick’s screenplay. There was a period bedroom, a handsomely-appointed drawing room and a book-lined library, and the Earl had been most accommodating in agreeing to make all of them available if they were required.

      So this is where she was born and raised, he mused, eyeing the photographs again, and from an entirely different point of view, no longer seeing them as possible locations for his film, but as rooms in someone’s home. Her home. He picked up a coloured picture postcard Jerry had purchased in the village of Langley. It was an exterior of the castle itself, a long shot taken from a distance. It showed a portion of a lovely crystal lake, partially bordered by trees, and a verdant, grass-covered hillock sweeping up from the water’s edge to the castle. This was poised on the crest of the hill, under a wide and iridescent sky that was china blue and cloudless. The castle was ancient and proud, with its crenellated walls and high-flung towers, the bleakness of the time-worn grey stones softened by rafts of dark-green ivy rippling over much of their surface. To one side of the castle were several grand, stately old oaks and plump clumps of rhododendron bushes abloom with delicate mauve and pink flowers. Victor could see that the shot had been taken in early summer, and there was a pastoral beauty to the scene, a quiet timelessness which was essentially and indigenously English.

      He was struck by the imposing beauty of the castle, conscious of all that it stood for, mindful of the things it represented. The evidence leapt out at him, could not be denied; it was an integral part of the ancient history of this country, the symbol of an impressive lineage and of a family name that was centuries old. It hit him more forcibly than ever that Francesca was a true aristocrat of great breeding and background.

      Victor wondered, curiously, what it had been like to grow up in a place like this. He had an instant mental picture of that crowded kitchen in the small house in Cincinnati … redolent with the delicious aromas of spicy Italian food cooking … the walls reverberating with the sounds of laughter raised in raucous competition with the phonograph … and above the perpetual ear-splitting din, his mother’s strong and loving voice shouting … ‘Vittorio, Armando, Gina, stopya horsing around. I’ma listening to the greata Caruso!’ He smiled, remembering, and a bitter-sweet nostalgia overtook him. What a funny kid he had been. Smartassed, sassy, street-wise, always fighting, nose always bloodied, experienced too young in the ways of exigent men and a cold, uncaring, indifferent world. And yet despite his clenched fists, eternally raised to do battle, his contentious attitude and his tough, combative approach to life, he had been oddly addicted to the most unlikely things: books, an avid if secretive reader; music; the theatre; and movies. All had been his means of escape, and they had helped to fire his imagination, had, in a sense, helped to shape his life and led him inevitably to where he was today.

      I bet she had a wholly different childhood, he reflected. Undoubtedly hers must have been a privileged, protected and excessively strictured childhood. He contemplated Francesca, endeavouring to envision her as she must have been then, his mind forming images of a small, angelic, fair-haired little girl, playing hide-and-seek in that great castle, romping with puppies, riding a pony, flying through the air on a garden swing, being taught by a governess. She must have been the most adorable child imaginable.

      What the hell, she is still a child! This thought brought him up sharply in the chair. Victor lit a cigarette, glowering. He had better take himself in hand immediately. Thoughts of her had intruded far too frequently of late. But Francesca Cunningham was off limits. Absolutely off limits. He had made that decision weeks ago and nothing and no one could induce him to reverse it. He agreed with Nick’s assessment of Francesca. Anyone in their right mind would. She was lovely, and charming and bright, and she was a pleasant companion. But he now refused to acknowledge she was anything more than that, and, like Katharine, merely an antidote to boredom and loneliness. The situation would remain exactly the way it was, and under his tight control. He could not afford distractions, or God forbid, any entanglements, particularly with a girl like her. The circumstances