Authors: Lucinda Riley
“Never heard of her,” the woman replied.
“It was over ninety years ago that she was here. I’ve been in England on business for the past few days and I thought it would be interesting to see the place I’ve heard so much about.”
“So you just walked straight in here without so much as a by-your-leave, did you?”
“Please accept my apologies—I wasn’t sure whom I should speak to. Is there a current Lord Astbury?”
“There is, but he’ll be far too busy to see you without an appointment.”
“Of course,” Ari agreed. “Then perhaps”—he reached into his jacket pocket and dug out a card—“you could give him this? It has both my cell phone number and my e-mail on it.”
As she studied it, Ari became aware of another presence in the
kitchen. He turned to the interior door and saw a young woman, tall, slender and beautiful, standing by it. She was dressed in a vintage gown of the softest silk, which draped elegantly to her slim ankles.
“Am I interrupting, Mrs. Trevathan?”
Ari noticed the young woman spoke with a soft American accent.
“No, dear, not at all. This gentleman was just leaving.” The older woman turned her attention back to Ari. “Lord Astbury doesn’t have e-mail and rarely uses the telephone. I suggest you put your inquiry in writing and post it here for his attention. Now, Miss Rebecca, what can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering whether you have any antihistamines. My nose is itchy and my eyes are watering. Is it ragweed season here?”
“I don’t know what ragweed is, but June is certainly hay fever time. His lordship suffers from it sometimes too.” Mrs. Trevathan walked to a dresser and pulled out a plastic box from a drawer. Finding some tablets, she handed the packet to the young woman.
“Thanks, Mrs. Trevathan. I’ll take one at lunch. I’m due on set right now.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Ari said, “I’ll do as you suggest and write to Lord Astbury. Good-bye.” He followed the young woman toward the door. “May I?”
“Thank you,” she said, surveying him with her enormous brown eyes as he opened it for her.
“Forgive me for being presumptuous,” said Ari as they stepped into the bright sunshine of the courtyard, “but you seem very familiar. Is it possible we’ve met before?”
“I doubt it. A lot of people seem to think they know me. Are you part of the production team?”
“No, I’m here on family business. I had a relative who worked at the house a long time ago. I’d obviously like to gain an audience with Lord Astbury, but I get the feeling that it might be a struggle.”
“Mrs. Trevathan’s very protective of him, so your instinct is probably right,” the young woman replied as they paused beside Ari’s car.
“It’s a shame, actually,” said Ari, “as he might well be interested in a slice of his family history he knows nothing about. Anyway, I’ll do as that woman suggested and put the details in writing.”
“I see Lord Astbury quite often, so perhaps I could mention that you were here?” she suggested.
“That would be very helpful, as it’s doubtful I’ll be in England for
much longer.” He pulled out a pen and another card from his wallet, and wrote on it. “Could you give him this? That’s me, Ari Malik, and the name of my great-grandmother who worked here. You never know, he might have heard of her.”
As Ari unlocked his car, the woman studied the card. “Anahita Chavan. Sure, Mr. Malik, I’ll see he gets it.”
“Thanks.” Then, on a sudden instinct, Ari reached through into the backseat of his car and grabbed the plastic file containing his great-grandmother’s story. He separated the pages he had read from those he hadn’t and handed them to her. “Perhaps you could give him this too? It’s a photocopy of part of my great-grandmother’s life story. If nothing else, it’s a fascinating glimpse of Astbury Hall and its residents in the 1920s.”
“That’s the era of the story we’re filming here,” she mused, taking the pages from him. “Will it reveal some skeletons in the Astbury closet? I’m sure this place has secrets to hide.”
“I haven’t reached the end of the story yet, but I have a feeling that it might, yes.” Ari smiled at her. He climbed into the driver’s seat. “By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
“Rebecca, Rebecca Bradley. See you around, Mr. Malik.” And with a smile and a wave, she floated away from him.
Ari watched her in his rearview mirror, still pondering why she seemed so familiar. She was certainly a beauty, although blondes were hardly his preference, he thought, as he turned the car out of the courtyard and made his way back down the drive to search for a nearby hotel.
• • •
Once she had finished filming for the day, Rebecca walked across the entrance hall and into the dark study that contained the one telephone in the house. Closing the door behind her, she sat down in the torn leather chair and dialed Jack’s number. It was ten o’clock in the morning in LA and even Jack should have been in the land of the living.
“Hello?” His familiar voice sounded drowsy still.
“Hi, it’s me, Rebecca.”
“Jeez, Becks! I was beginning to wonder whether you were still alive.”
“I’ve left you voice mail messages, Jack. Didn’t you get them?”
“Yeah, sure I did . . . how are you? Is it raining there?”
“No, why?”
“It always rains across the pond, doesn’t it?”
“Not all the time, no,” she responded, irrationally irritated by his comment. “So, how are things with you?”
“Oh, you know, looking through scripts, searching for a good project—I got a couple of things that look okay, but my agent’s not happy with my billing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And you, Becks? You missing me?”
“Of course I am. I’m staying in an awesome house where the media can’t get to me. It’s really peaceful. The filming’s going well and I think Robert Hope is happy with my performance so far.”
“Good, good. So, how long are you there for?”
“Another month, I think.”
“That’s a helluva long time, honey. How will I survive without you?”
“I’m sure you’ll cope, Jack,” she replied brusquely.
“Well, maybe I’ll just fly over and see you. After all, we got plans to discuss, dates to set.”
“Jack, I . . .” Rebecca’s voice trailed off and she sighed softly. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten it was the media who had declared them engaged, while she was still yet to give him her final answer. “Let’s see how it goes, okay? My filming schedule is so tight for the next few weeks. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, sure, but I really miss you, baby.”
“Me too. I’ve got to go—I’ll try to give you a call over the weekend.”
“Yeah, do that please. It seems crazy I can’t get hold of you when I want to speak to you. You sure you’re telling me the truth about the lack of signal there?”
“Of course I am, Jack. Why would I not? Listen, I really have to go.”
“Okay, love you.”
“You too, bye.”
Rebecca put the receiver down and walked slowly up the stairs to her bedroom. She slumped down into the chair by the fireplace with a sigh. What was wrong with her? A few months ago she’d been hopelessly in love with Jack, yet, just now, she could hardly bring herself to speak to him, let alone whisper loving endearments or tell him she missed him.
Perhaps, she told herself, it was because she’d been backed into an irreversible corner. Like a deer in the headlights, she felt trapped. And here in England, she was spending time in the company of men who seemed to take themselves far less seriously than Jack did.
Rebecca had never got used to the fact that he used more moisturizer and skin care products than she did. She giggled at the thought of Lord Anthony doing the same. Probably, his only nod to personal grooming was a straight razor he’d owned since his first shave.
That reminded her, she must find Anthony and hand him Mr. Malik’s card and the pages he had given her. She glanced out of the window and saw that Anthony was in the garden, pruning the roses. Leaving her bedroom, she made her way downstairs to the terrace. As she stepped outside, he spotted her, and she saw him head across the garden and up the steps toward her.
“How are you, Rebecca?”
“It was a good day,” she said. “You?”
“Oh, the same as ever really,” he said amiably.
“Did Mrs. Trevathan mention you had a visitor earlier today?”
“No, who?”
“A young Indian guy called Ari Malik, who told us a relative of his had worked here many years ago. He asked me to give you these pages. They’re written by his great-grandmother about her time at Astbury Hall in the early nineteen hundreds. This was her name.” Rebecca proffered the card and Anthony studied it.
“Anahita Chavan . . . I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell. But if she was a servant, her name would be listed in the old staff wages ledgers that are kept in the library.”
“Well, maybe these pages will tell you more. Mr. Malik said you might like to read them.”
Anthony glanced down at them and Rebecca noticed that he looked uncertain. “Not really my thing, delving into the family history. What’s the point of reliving the past when it contains so much pain?”
“I’m sorry, Anthony, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Forgive me.” Anthony rallied and gave her a weak smile. “It’s as much as I can do to survive in the present.”
“I understand. Then, would you mind if I read them? It might give me more of an insight into the era Elizabeth lived in.”
“Elizabeth?”
“My character in the film.”
“Oh, of course. By all means, go ahead,” Anthony said. “Perhaps you’d do me the honor of joining me for a drink when your filming schedule permits?”
“Of course, I’d love to.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Good-bye for now,” he said as he stuffed the card she’d given him in his pocket and ambled off back down the steps to his precious garden.
Rebecca spent the next half an hour watching the filming of the village fête scene, which had been set up on the parkland at the front of the house. Young children—locals from the surrounding villages—dashed around excitedly to the various stalls, and Rebecca spotted the nurse she had seen that first day in the kitchen pushing an old lady in a wheelchair. Rebecca watched in awe as Marion Devereaux—legendary star of the British stage and screen—completed a long and complicated section of dialogue in one single, perfect take.
Yawning suddenly, Rebecca returned to her room. She curled up on the bed and ran through her lines for half an hour, then found her attention wandering to the plastic file Ari Malik had handed her.
When she next looked up, Rebecca saw it was past midnight. She climbed under the covers and fell asleep immediately, dreaming that night of maharajas, rubies and an exotic Indian prince with blue eyes.
F
or the next three nights, the weather was warm and dry, with a full white moon shining bright in the star-filled sky. Consequently, Robert had decided to shoot the night scenes, so it had been past two in the morning by the time Rebecca had sunk wearily into bed. Tonight, sighing as she waited next to James for them to elope together in the vintage Rolls-Royce, it looked as if it would be even later.
“And they say being an actor is a glamorous profession,” James said, yawning in the darkness. “I’m more than happy to run away with you anytime, Becks. Although repeating it seven times at one in the morning and only getting as far as thirty yards each take is trying my patience. What a ridiculous way to earn a living.”
“At least we’re outside in a beautiful location, not stuck in an over-air-conditioned soundstage on a Hollywood back lot.”
“True, true. So, is it possible that our American sweetheart is falling in love with England? I saw you chatting with our host the other day in the garden. What’s he like? He seems rather aloof.”
“Anthony’s a nice guy, actually. Just a little shy, I guess.”
“ ‘Anthony,’ is it? Not ‘Lord Astbury’? Very chummy, aren’t we?” quipped James. “How do you fancy a title, Becks? You’d be following in the footsteps of your wealthy American forebears. Many heiresses swapped their family fortune for a place in the British aristocracy. Come to think of it, ‘Lady Rebecca Astbury’ has a certain ring to it,” he teased her.
“Ha ha,” Rebecca muttered under her breath as the sound technician indicated they were finally ready to go.
“Twenty seconds!”
“Seems to me this old place could do with a shiny new American fortune. I’d watch out if I were you, darling. Lord Anthony may be after your money.”
“Ten seconds!”
“He’s sweet, but hardly my type,” Rebecca whispered.
“Five seconds!”
“What
is
your type?”
Rebecca had no time to answer further as the clapperboard slammed in front of the windscreen and once again James steered the car down the drive.
After a few minutes, the assistant director announced they had finally got a good take and they were wrapping for the night. Steve opened the door for her and she climbed out of the car.
“Okay?” he asked her.
“Yes, thanks.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got an early call again tomorrow morning, but after that, we all have a couple of days off at the weekend,” he said as the three of them mounted the giant steps up to the front door of the house. “Are you happy to stay here at the hall, or would you like me to ask Graham to drive you to London?”
“Yes, come with me to London,” suggested James. “I’ll take you sightseeing.”
“It’s kind of you, but I have a heavy schedule next week. So I think I’ll just stay here and learn my lines in peace, and maybe do some exploring locally.”
“No problem. Graham will be on call to take you anywhere you want to go,” Steve assured her. “Right, then, I’ll see you at six a.m. tomorrow.”
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come with me, Becks? I don’t like to think of you here all alone, at the mercy of the mysterious Lord Astbury and the hall’s very own version of Mrs. Danvers,” James teased. “Anyway, if you do change your mind, I’m leaving straight after the shoot ends tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks. Good night, James,” she replied, heading inside toward Wardrobe to change out of her costume. Perhaps it was simply that she was exhausted tonight, but currently she had no inclination to leave Astbury Hall. Besides which, knowing her luck, she and James would be spotted together and immediately there would be a shot of the two of them beamed around the globe.