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

now.

      The decades dissolved. It was a gradual dissolve, like a film running in slow motion before her eyes, and everyone was in perfect focus, and brilliantly captured on the film of her memory – the way they were then. And the year 1956 was as real to Francesca as it had been twenty-three years ago.

      It was now.

       Act One Downstage Right 1956

      ‘The most decisive actions of our life … are most often unconsidered actions.’

      ANDRÉ GIDE

       Chapter Five

      ‘Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,’ Kim said with a genial smile, lolling nonchalantly against the door frame. ‘You just said you don’t have a date this evening. Come on, Francesca, be a good sport.’

      Francesca was seated behind the large cluttered desk in the upstairs study of their father’s London house. She put down the pen she was holding and leaned back in the chair, regarding her brother with affection. She was amazed to discover that for once in her life she did not feel like being a good sport, not even for her adored Kim. She had been working all day, and now, in the late afternoon, she was exhausted yet determined to finish what she had set out to do that morning. Her brother’s unexpected arrival had surprised her, so absorbed was she in her papers.

      Conscious he was waiting for a response, she shook her head, and said in a weary voice that was also surprisingly firm, ‘I’d like to help you, Kim, but I simply can’t. I have to finish this research. I really do. I’m sorry.’

      ‘You and your mouldy old books!’ Kim exclaimed in good-natured exasperation. ‘Whenever I see you these days you’re peering into them as if your life depended on it. Who cares about Chinese Gordon anyway? If the old geezer hadn’t been dead for hundreds of years I’d say you had some sort of girlish crush on him. I don’t see the point –’

      ‘Gordon hasn’t been dead for hundreds of years,’ Francesca interrupted mildly enough, but her eyes were intense. ‘Seventy-one years, to be precise,’ she went on, ‘and anyway, you know very well I am going to write a biography about him one day.’

      ‘You’re wasting your time, my girl. Nobody will buy it.’

      ‘Yes they will!’ Francesca retorted fiercely, her weariness instantly dissipating. ‘There are a lot of people who are interested in British history, and a great soldier and hero like Chinese Gordon. I intend to take a fresh approach, to delve into the psychology of the man. It will be a modern study, and I’m going to write it in such a way it will make very popular reading. Father agrees with me. He thinks it will work, and that it might even be commercial. So there, Kim Cunningham! Shoo! Go away and leave me in peace.’

      Kim was taken aback by her vehemence, and he realized, for the first time, that she was in earnest about the book, a project she had talked about for some months. Inwardly he reproached himself for his remark, which had been made in an off-hand manner, and thoughtlessly so. He had not only given offence, but hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Apart from being his sister and very dear to him, Francesca was his best friend and confidante, and they had always been inseparable.

      He tried to be conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca darling. I didn’t mean to be dismissive. Father is undoubtedly right.’ He flashed her a wide smile tinged with self-mockery. ‘What do I know about books? I’m not blessed with intellectual capacities, like you and the old man. You’ve got all the brains in the family, my love. What’s a dull farmer like me to do?’ He grimaced and went on, ‘My only excuse is that I didn’t quite understand how serious you were about the book. I will be supportive, I promise. Truce?’

      Francesca managed a watery smile and a nod, not trusting herself to speak. She buried her head in the papers, so that he would not see her incipient tears.

      Aware of her discomfiture, Kim wisely remained silent. He positioned himself in front of the fireplace, warming his back, his long legs spread wide apart, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tweed jacket. Made of fine cloth and tailored in the best Savile Row tradition, this had long since seen better days, was worn and out of shape. But Kim had such an air of distinction about him, wore the jacket with such panache, its shabbiness was hardly noticeable.

      Adrian Charles ‘Kim’ Cunningham, the 14th Viscount Ingleton, who would one day become the 12th Earl of Langley, was not handsome in the given sense of that word; however, a number of unusual qualities combined to lift him out of the ordinary. He was a pleasant-looking young man, with a fair complexion, light brown hair that was soft and straight, and a sensitively-wrought face whose chief characteristic was one of gentleness. His personality was most apparent in his generous mouth, always touched with laughter, and in his liquid grey eyes, which were, for the most part, illuminated by kindness, humour and goodwill. They rarely flashed with anger or temperament, for Kim was easy-going and placid by nature.

      He had inherited the tall, lean build of his ancestors, but his slender-looking frame was deceptive. Blessed with a grace and elegance unusual in a man, he carried himself with extraordinary self-assurance that bespoke his breeding and his centuries-old lineage. All in all, at twenty-one, he was so prepossessing, so sincere, and so good natured, everyone, and most especially young women, found him to be an engaging friend and companion.

      As he stood reflectively gazing at the tips of his shoes, waiting for his sister to compose herself, Kim was thinking of one young woman in particular, and wondering how to persuade Francesca to agree to his plans for that evening. After a moment he said, ‘Well, if you feel you must work, I suppose you must. But it is Saturday night, and to tell you the truth, I thought it would be fun for you to meet this girl. You’re always telling me that you love cooking and find it relaxing.’

      Francesca, who had been making a show of sifting through the papers scattered across the desk, lifted her head quickly. ‘You mean you want me to cook dinner, as well as act as your hostess for drinks! Gosh, you do have a cheek,’ she spluttered, her eyes widening. ‘And what would I cook? We’re on a tight budget this month! I only bought enough groceries for the two of us for the weekend, and I skimped at that. I thought you had accepted Aunt Mabel’s invitation to go to Gloucestershire tonight, and were not coming back until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

      Kim groaned and rolled his eyes upwards, ‘I don’t know who gave you that idea. About Gloucestershire, I mean. Not I. Dotty old Aunt Mabel indeed. No, I am staying in town, my sweet.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘Come on, please say yes. It’s ages since you’ve had any fun. It’ll do you good, Frankie.’

      ‘Don’t think you can worm your way into my good graces by calling me Frankie. I don’t like that nickname anymore.’

      ‘That’s a sudden change of heart. You used to insist I call you Frankie.’

      ‘When I was small and wanted to be a boy like you. Because I worshipped you, misguided child that I was. It may interest you to know I don’t worship you in the way I used to, and certainly not today.’

      Kim grinned. ‘Oh yes you do. Just as I adore you and always will.’ He strode over to the desk and perched on the edge, looking down at her, tenderness flooding his eyes. It occurred to him that Francesca appeared more delicate than ever, and her classical English face, with its finely-drawn features, seemed smaller and slightly pinched and pale. After studying her for a few seconds he decided it was the bulky navy blue fisherman’s sweater she was wearing and her hair style that gave her such an air of attenuated fragility. She had swept her blonde tresses on top of her head and fastened them with antique tortoiseshell combs into a loose kind of pompadour, and this seemed far too heavy for her slender column of a neck. It was