Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
showed Katharine and Victor to their places, and then went to the sideboard to serve the turtle soup, spooning it into green-and-gold Royal Worcester bowls from a large silver tureen. Victor observed her closely, struck by her elegance. His eyes roved around the room, and with interest. He admired its beauty and style. Background was the message it telegraphed to him, and that, he thought, is something no amount of money can buy. As he absorbed his surroundings his attention was caught by the painting on the end wall. It was a full-length, life-size portrait of a woman in an elaborate blue taffeta gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled high in an intricate pompadour surmounted by several plumes of blue feathers. Topaz earrings gleamed at her ears, and a topaz necklace fell down from her slender neck to fill out the décolletage. Of course, it was Francesca, and it was an exquisite portrait, beautifully executed and with explicit attention to every minute detail. Victor had the feeling that if he reached out and touched the dress his fingers would encounter silk, so realistically was the texture of the fabric depicted by the peerless brushstrokes.
After distributing the bowls of soup, Francesca sat down at the foot of the table, opposite Kim, who was seated at the head. Victor turned to her immediately, and said with some admiration, ‘That’s a remarkable portrait of you. And it’s very beautiful.’
She stared at him uncomprehending for a second, and then followed his gaze. ‘Oh, that one. But it’s not of me,’ she said, and picked up her soup spoon. ‘It’s of my great-great-great-great-grandmother, the Sixth Countess of Langley. Traditional and classical portraits of that nature are not in vogue any more. Furthermore, they are rarely painted these days, except by Annigoni occasionally. He did the Queen, you know.’
‘Oh,’ Victor said. Rebuffed, he dropped his eyes. She’s certainly put you in your place, he thought. Only the English have the knack of making everyone else look stupid and ignorant in an insidious way, and without really appearing to be rude. As he reached for his spoon he repressed a smile. It was a long time since he had been slapped in the face, figuratively speaking, by a woman. If it was a bit demeaning, it was also something of a novelty.
Katharine, who missed nothing, was dismayed at Francesca’s tone and nonplussed by the snub to Victor. She exclaimed swiftly, ‘Well, Francesca, it does bear a striking resemblance to you. It would have fooled me. Who painted it?’
‘Thomas Gainsborough,’ Kim volunteered. ‘Around 1770. And I agree with both of you. It does look like Francesca. There is another portrait of the Sixth, as we call her, at Langley. By George Romney. The likeness is most apparent in that one, too.’ He paused, and on the spur of the moment, said, ‘I hope you will both come to Langley soon, for a weekend, and then you’ll see it for yourselves. We must make plans for a visit. I know Father would enjoy having you. Wouldn’t he, Francesca?’
Stiffening, Francesca straightened up in the chair. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone low, and she did not elaborate. She was flabbergasted. Kim was incorrigible, issuing an invitation like that. He presumed too much. If their father didn’t like Katharine, the invitation would have to be rescinded. Then Katharine would be hurt, and with good reason.
‘Kim, that would be wonderful!’ Katharine cried with genuine delight. Her face fell. ‘But, gosh, I don’t know how I could manage it, with the two Saturday performances. Unless – ‘ Her face lit up again, and she looked across the table at Victor. ‘Unless Gus drove us to Yorkshire late one Saturday night, after the play, and brought us back on Monday afternoon. That would work. Could we do it one weekend, Victor? Please.’
Victor nodded, and concentrated on his soup, not wishing to make another faux pas. Although Francesca’s disdainful attitude had amused him somewhat, he was experiencing a sense of discomfort. Since these feelings were unparalleled in him they were therefore all the more confusing and troubling. He tried to shake them off, and then he thought: But I’ve got to hand it to Katharine. She’s got guts, and a cool assurance, that is enviable. And she certainly seems in her natural element whenever she mixes in this upper echelon of English society. He wondered again about her background, as he had so often in the three months he had known her. Funny how she never mentioned it. The only facts he had been able to pry out of her told him virtually nothing. She had been born in Chicago. She had lived in England for almost six years. And she was an orphan. Well, she acquired her inimitable style somewhere, he commented dryly to himself. She’s to the manner born, to be sure.
It was true that Katharine was perfectly at ease. Victor’s presence had alleviated her anxiety; and his ready acceptance of her suggestion about dinner on Monday had further dispelled the notion that he was untrustworthy. There was a residue of tension lingering in her, but this was most skilfully veiled by the smiling façade she presented, the irrepressible gaiety which so readily materialized to delight and enchant them.
And as the dinner progressed Katharine took over. She was the true star. And she gave a stunning performance. She glittered. She dazzled. She captivated. She entertained. Without really seeming to do so, she dominated the conversation, discussing everything from the theatre and the movie business, to British politics and blood sports, and she did so with charm, élan, grace and intelligence. She also managed to successfully bridge the brief but acute sense of awkwardness which had prevailed at the outset of the meal, and she created an atmosphere that was light yet stimulating.
Slowly Victor found himself being drawn into the conversation quite naturally. He sipped the excellent Mouton Rothschild Kim had poured, savouring its smooth velvety texture, and he began to relax again. He discovered in Kim an unusual warmth and empathy, and a genuinely sympathetic and interested listener. Almost against his own volition, he opened up and spoke about his ranch in Southern California, his horses and his land, and the latter proved to be of common interest to the two men. Yet, withal, he was conscious of Francesca’s thoughtful manner, her silences, unbroken except when she served the various dishes and attended to their needs. She did not even both to participate in the general small talk, and he thought this decidedly odd.
Francesca knew that she was being remiss as a hostess, that the burden of the conversation had fallen on Katharine. She had not purposely set out to behave this way, nor was her coolness and reticence specifically directed at Victor. Very simply, she felt she had nothing of importance to contribute, and she had withdrawn into herself. Also, serving the meal had preoccupied her. Yet whilst she had not been rude, neither had she been very gracious, and she chided herself for this lapse in etiquette. It was inexcusable.
With an effort she turned to Victor and said, ‘Are you going to be making a film here?’
He was so startled to hear her voice he temporarily lost his own. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ She was regarding him with keen interest and her expression was friendly, and so he was encouraged to continue. ‘I’m not only starring in it, but producing it as well. It’s my first time out in charge, so to speak, and I’m looking forward to it. Obviously it’s quite a challenge.’
Katharine, whose eyes had flown to his face when he started to speak, held her breath, not daring to say a word, waiting for him to go on. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest.
Francesca spoke again. ‘Can you tell us about it? Or is it a big secret?’
‘Why sure I can. I’m about to remake the greatest love story ever written in the English language. And I hope it will be as good as the original, which has become something of a classic. I’m doing a remake of Wuthering Heights. We start shooting in two months.’ Victor relaxed in his chair. Now that he was on his own ground he felt more comfortable.
‘Love story!’ Francesca spluttered, staring at Victor in astonishment. ‘But Wuthering Heights isn’t a love story, for God’s sake! It’s a death-obsessed novel about hatred, revenge, brutality and violence. But mostly it’s about revenge. How on earth can you think it’s a love story? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!’
Francesca had spoken with such extraordinary vehemence everyone was startled. Kim looked discomfited. Victor seemed stunned. Katharine’s face had turned the colour of bleached-out bone, and she was seething. Victor might easily be influenced by these comments, especially