Authors: Lucinda Riley
“Come on, baby, I’ll be quick, promise,” he said as he groped inside her T-shirt for her breasts.
“Please, no!” Rebecca wriggled out of his grasp and reached to turn off the light.
“Spoilsport, I just wanted to make love to my girl. Just wanted to make love to my girl. I . . .”
Rebecca waited, knowing from experience that he’d be asleep within two minutes. And sure enough, she soon heard the familiar sound of snoring.
Tears pricking the back of her eyes, Rebecca did her best to doze off too.
• • •
Early the following morning, Ari drove to the Astbury stables. Debbie saddled up the chestnut stallion for him and he set off across the moors. It was a glorious morning and he rode hard. Arriving at the cottage by the brook twenty minutes later, he slid off his horse and walked toward a high wooden fence with a gate set to one side of the building. It seemed in relatively better repair than the rest of the exterior and behind it, he thought, perhaps there might be a door to the rear of the cottage. He tugged at the black ring in the center, but
it didn’t budge and he saw the lock beneath it. He made a couple of fruitless attempts to jump up and clamber over, but it was too high.
Leading his horse to stand against the fence, Ari mounted him and grabbed the top of the fence with his hands. He heaved himself up, swung his legs over and jumped down. Landing smoothly on the ground below him, he looked around and saw that he was standing in a courtyard containing a number of small outbuildings. He took a quick look in them and found them empty, apart from an old horse-drawn trap resting in the corner of one.
Turning his attention to the back of the cottage itself, he walked over to the one door and tried the handle. He was amazed when it turned easily and the door sprang open. Tentatively, he stepped inside and found himself in a kitchen.
From the impenetrable ivy-covered exterior of the cottage, and from what Anthony had said last night, Ari had presumed that he would enter a filthy, cobwebbed interior. But no. He ran his finger across the surface of the wooden table which stood in the center of the kitchen; there was a layer of dust upon it, but certainly not the filth of ninety years of neglect. As he wandered around it, he saw that cups were hung neatly on hooks, the old black range had no rust, and the plates in the dresser were cracked but clean. Looking down, he saw his feet were not making footprints in the dirt that surely would have settled over time on the tiled floor.
Then he saw a modern electric kettle sitting atop a counter to one side of the range. Ari pulled out a chair from the table and sat down abruptly. Clearly this was not an abandoned cottage which was so unsafe it was about to be demolished, as Anthony had said.
Standing up, suddenly aware that there could actually be an occupant elsewhere in the cottage, Ari walked quietly toward the kitchen door and opened it. In the hallway, he listened for sounds but heard nothing. Opening a door on the left, he saw the small sitting room. It was dark, due to the ivy that covered the windowpanes, and Ari struggled to adjust his eyes to the gloom. The fire grate showed only minimal black dust, which had recently dislodged itself from the chimney. The chair in front of it was threadbare but clean.
Walking over to the bookshelves, he saw they were full of old copies of some of the British literary classics. The books Anahita had said she loved.
Ari made his way up the narrow stairs and stood on the tiny landing
before tentatively pushing open one of the two doors. He entered a neat bedroom, with faded flower-sprigged curtains at the windows and a worn patchwork quilt covering the brass bedstead. The pillows sat snugly in pillowcases and the sheets and blanket seemed prepared for its occupant to slide beneath. On the dressing table stood various feminine lotions and potions, and a large bottle of perfume.
Ari scratched his head, feeling unsettled. Everything he saw made it obvious that the cottage had a current resident.
But who?
The cottage was the perfect hiding place, Ari thought to himself as he left the bedroom to investigate the room on the other side of the landing. No one would possibly suspect from the exterior that anyone could be living in it.
A new rush of emotion assailed him as he glanced at what this bedroom contained. A rusting iron cot took up most of the space in the tiny room; a moth-eaten baby blanket still covered the mattress. A pair of mournful eyes gazed up at him from within it and Ari reached for the ancient teddy bear and hugged it to him like a child.
“My God,” he whispered. He now believed that his great-grandmother’s story was true.
J
ack hadn’t stirred when Rebecca had climbed out of bed the following morning. Blocking his behavior from her mind, she pulled on a pair of track pants and went downstairs and into Makeup.
It was a long, hard day’s shoot and she felt exhausted by the time she arrived back upstairs past six that evening.
“Are you leaving?” she asked in surprise as she entered her bedroom to find Jack repacking his shirts into his overnight bag.
“Yes, but only to go to London. My new best pal, James, let me know of a film that Sam Jeffrey is making. I used the telephone in the study and got my manager to call him this morning to say I was over here, and he wants to see me tomorrow morning. Isn’t that great, honey? The guy is a serious young director and already has a couple of BAFTAs under his belt. So I got a taxi booked to take me to London. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow evening.”
“Right,” Rebecca replied, startled.
“Chasing across to England to find you is turning out to be a good move.” He came over to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. “So wish me luck and promise me you won’t fall into the arms of my new best buddy while I’m gone,” he said as he picked up his carryall and walked toward the door. “I know where he’s been. Love you, baby, bye.” Jack winked at her and closed the door behind him.
“I thought you’d come here to see me,” she whispered to herself as she sat down in a daze on the bed. After a few minutes of getting used to the idea of Jack’s abrupt departure, Rebecca stood up and went to take a bath. It was a beautiful evening, and having been cooped up inside under the hot lights all day, she decided to take a walk and get a breath of fresh air. She met Mrs. Trevathan on the main staircase.
“Don’t pass me, Rebecca. It’s very bad luck to cross on the stairs,” she said.
“Really? I guess that must be an English custom.” She shrugged.
“I expect you’re right,” Mrs. Trevathan said. Rebecca thought she looked flustered. “Has your young man gone now?”
“Yes, but he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I see. So, will you be wanting supper tonight?”
“No, thanks, I ate a big lunch earlier on set.”
“Then I’ll leave you some sandwiches and the chamomile tea you like in your room for later.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Trevathan.”
The crew had moved off to the village for the evening’s filming, so the house and gardens were quiet. Rebecca went to sit on the bench in the walled garden. The roses were coming into full bloom now and the smell was otherworldly.
“Hello.” Anthony’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Your young man gone off to London, I hear?”
“Yes. But he’ll be back tomorrow. Really, if it’s a problem, please say so and we’ll move to the hotel.”
“No, it isn’t a problem, really. Although . . .”
“What?”
“I suppose he wasn’t what I expected,” Anthony admitted. “Forgive me, I’m hardly one to talk about relationships between men and women.”
“It’s okay, Anthony, really.”
“As long as he looks after you and you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
“Yes.” Rebecca refrained from comment; at present she didn’t trust herself not to say something negative.
“So what do you think of our young Indian friend?”
“I like him,” said Rebecca honestly.
“Yes, he seems like a nice chap, but personally, I’m struggling to believe his story. If I did, it would alter my perception of Donald and Violet, my grandparents, and I’d find that most upsetting.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the full story, but I can’t see why either he or his great-grandmother would make it up,” said Rebecca.
“No, not unless he wants something,” commented Anthony darkly.
“What could he want?”
“Money? A claim to the estate?”
“Anthony, I haven’t read any more than the first hundred pages, so I can’t comment. But Ari seems to me like an honorable kind of guy. I don’t think he’s come here to cause trouble, just to find out about his own family’s past.”
“Even if he was after money, he’s now fully aware there isn’t any to be had,” Anthony replied morosely.
“From what he’s told me, Ari is a very successful businessman. I really don’t think that’s why he’s here, Anthony.”
“You don’t think so?”
Again, Rebecca felt Anthony’s almost childish need for reassurance from her. “No, I really don’t.”
“Then, in that case,” Anthony said, visibly relaxing, “I feel I haven’t been terribly hospitable. He told me last night he has nowhere to stay around here as from tomorrow. So shall I offer him a room here until he leaves for India in a few days’ time?”
“I think it would be a very sweet gesture,” she said.
“Goodness, this house won’t have seen so many guests within its walls for years,” said Anthony.
“Are you enjoying the company?” she asked him.
“Yes, I think I am. Although Mrs. Trevathan doesn’t approve, of course. Well, now, thank you for your advice, Rebecca. I’ll go inside and telephone Mr. Malik.” He smiled briefly at her and walked off in the direction of the house.
Rebecca turned toward the park at the front of the hall. She wanted some time to clear her head and consider what to do about Jack. It had taken her less than twenty-four hours in his presence to remember why she had struggled to say yes to his proposal. As she wandered across the sun-dappled grass through the great chestnut trees that dotted the park, she realized that the two weeks she had spent here at Astbury had changed her. She was able to see things much more clearly, as if the physical space around her mirrored the space in her mind. And the honest truth was that last night, when Jack had turned up in the bedroom drunk and stoned, he had disgusted her.
Against the backdrop of Astbury, everything about him looked and sounded like a stereotypical Hollywood cliché. In Tinseltown, Jack’s behavior, his ego and self-indulgence, might be seen as normal. But in the real world—in the world where ordinary people simply got on with their lives and struggled through day by day—it most certainly wasn’t. No matter how many times she tried to excuse it, Jack’s dependence on drugs and alcohol was not something she could live with. She knew from bitter experience it was a road to nowhere.
There was simply no way she could accept his proposal. So what if
the world didn’t understand? It wasn’t the world who had to live with him. Rebecca knew she must tell him it was a no-go unless he cleaned up his act. At least, she thought, if she told him now while she was staying at Astbury, she would be protected within its secure surrounds from the media fallout. Her agent would go wild, but Rebecca was also beginning to acknowledge that too many other people—most of them men—had been in control of her destiny for the past few years. She had to be responsible for herself again, whatever it took.
Perhaps her refusal to marry him would be the shot across the bow Jack needed to help him face his demons. But somehow she doubted it.
She looked up then and realized she had wandered into a part of the park she had never visited before. In front of her, surrounded by a copse of trees, was a building reminiscent of a Greek temple, out of place in its pastoral English setting. Walking toward it, she climbed up the steps between the white marble columns. She expected the vast door to be locked and was surprised that it opened when she turned the handle.
Stepping into the cool, shadowy interior, Rebecca shivered as she remembered Anthony mentioning that his ancestors were buried in a mausoleum in the grounds. Her instinct was to leave immediately, but as she looked around the walls at the great stone plaques naming those whose bones lay behind them, she was intrigued. She read of Astbury ancestors dating back to the sixteenth century, husbands and wives interred together for all eternity. Rebecca moved to the more recent tombs and stood in front of Lord Donald and Lady Violet Astbury’s resting place.
D
ONALD
C
HARLES
A
STBURY
B. 1
D
ECEMBER 1896—D. 28
A
UGUST 1922
A
GED 25
V
IOLET
R
OSE
A
STBURY
B. 14
N
OVEMBER 1898—D. 25
J
ULY 1922
A
GED 23
A frisson ran up Rebecca’s spine as she double-checked the date of Donald Astbury’s death. He’d died so young . . . and only a month after Violet. Was it a coincidence? Rebecca wanted desperately to
know. Next to Donald and Violet’s memorial stone—having survived for thirty-three years longer than her son, dying at the age of eighty-three in 1955—was Lady Maud Astbury. She was interred with her husband, George, who had predeceased her by forty-four years, dying in 1911. The most recent stone was that of Anthony’s mother:
D
AISY
V
IOLET
A
STBURY
B. 25
J
ULY 1922—D. 2
S
EPTEMBER 1986
A
GED 64
A
NTHONY
D
ONALD
A
STBURY
B. 20
J
ANUARY 1952—D.
The final date below Anthony’s name had not yet been carved.
Below the stone stood a large vase full of fresh roses. Rebecca knelt down and smelled their scent, pondering the fact that Anthony’s father was obviously not buried with Daisy, his mother. Instead, it would be Anthony’s bones that would eventually lie with her. Shivering suddenly from the chill, Rebecca left the mausoleum wondering why Anthony had chosen twenty-five years ago to be buried with his mother, rather than alongside a possible wife he might take in the future.