Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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another admiring glance, Francesca moved briskly across the Aubusson carpet, heaped more logs on the fire, plumped up the cushions, checked the cigarette boxes and then hurried back to the dining room to finish the table she had started earlier that evening. She took four white linen napkins from the Hepplewhite sideboard and placed one at each setting, put out several silver ashtrays and a silver condiment set, and added wine and water glasses, moving rapidly around the long oval table. When she stood back to regard her handiwork she suddenly wished she had some flowers for a centrepiece. But they were so expensive at this time of year and quickly died, and the two four-arm silver candelabra were certainly elegant with their tall white candles. She decided the table looked quite beautiful as it was and did not need any further embellishment.
Francesca turned to go into the kitchen just as Kim walked in, humming under his breath. He stopped, let out a long low whistle of surprise, grabbed her hand and twirled her around, continuing to whistle in a wolfish tone.
‘You look positively ravishing, old thing,’ he said, stepping away from her, his eyes bright with approval.
‘Thank you. But are you sure I’m not a bit too dressy?’ she asked anxiously.
He shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, and I’m certain Katharine will be dressed up.’ He scrutinized her, his head on one side, an appraising expression on his face.
Francesca smiled at him tentatively and twirled around again on her elegantly shod feet. She was wearing her favourite shoes, a pair of black silk evening pumps, in the smartest new Italian style, with the thinnest, highest heels and extremely pointed toes. Doris had bought them in Rome for her as a Christmas present, and Francesca knew they were exactly right with the outfit she had chosen – a long-sleeved grey wool top with a boat neckline and a silvery-grey taffeta skirt she had sewn herself. The skirt puffed out like a bell flower over the buckram-and-tulle crinoline petticoat Melly had made for her, another Christmas gift. This type of stiff petticoat was all the rage, and Francesca loved the bouffant effect it created because it was flattering to her legs, which she considered to be too thin.
Coming to a standstill after a final twirl, Francesca peered at her brother. ‘You’re frowning, Kim. Is there something you don’t like about my outfit after all?’
‘It’s fine, and you do look lovely, but you know, with your hair piled up in that pompadour thing your neck seems longer than ever. Don’t you have some beads, or something?’
Her hand went to her neck. ‘Not really. At least, not anything suitable. Unless I wear the antique necklace. What do you think?’
‘That’s a super idea. I’m sure it’ll do the trick.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Gosh, I’d better be going for Katharine.’
They went out into the hall together, where Kim grabbed his old raincoat from the cupboard and strode to the front door. He opened it and then slammed it shut immediately. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs all of a sudden. I was going to walk to the theatre, but I’d better take the car. And a brolly.’ He lifted an umbrella out of the stand, gave her a quick kiss, grinned and left, whistling jauntily between his teeth.
Francesca ran upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked the bottom drawer of her dressing table and took out the worn and rubbed black leather case containing her great-great-great-great-grandmother’s necklace. It was fragile and she lifted it out carefully, gazing at it with admiration. The intricate web of slender gold chains was inset with topazes that gleamed with mellow colour and threw off myriads of golden prisms in the lamp-light. How beautiful it was. But to her it was so much more than a lovely piece of jewellery. It represented an unbroken line of generations of Cunninghams and her own heritage, and as always she was assailed by an almost awesome sense of history. After fastening it around her neck she glanced in the mirror. Kim had been correct. The necklace did do the trick, adding the perfect finishing touch to her outfit. She tucked a stray curl into place and hurried back to the kitchen to finish her chores.
At one moment Francesca paused in her tasks, staring out of the small window, trying to visualize Katharine Tempest without success. Knowing her brother as well as one could ever truly know another person, Francesca was convinced Kim was already deeply involved with Katharine, perhaps more than he himself comprehended. She thought of their father, and her heart sank. Although he could be vague and absentminded, and was easy-going and good-natured, he was, at all times, conscious of class, background and breeding. He had always made it absolutely clear that he expected Kim to marry a girl who was properly endowed with all of the suitable qualities required in the future 12th Countess of Langley. Although her father was not a snob per se, he did believe Kim should select a wife from their echelon of society, one who had a similar family background and upbringing, who understood her duties and responsibilities as keenly as Kim did. Francesca sighed. An actress hardly seemed a likely candidate for this particular real-life role, and she knew instinctively that her father would be disapproving. If Kim was indeed as serious about the girl as she felt he was, then he was exposing himself to a great deal of heartache, not to mention their father’s anger. Again she wondered what Katharine Tempest was like, riddled with curiosity about her, and concerned for Kim. She found she could not even hazard a guess.
The curtain came down on the kind of applause every actor hopes and prays for and is ineluctably sustained and nourished by. Thunderous. Slowly, it rose again and the performers returned to the stage one by one, the bit players first, then the character actors, the second male lead, and the leading man. The clapping spiralled markedly upwards for him, but became a tumultuous crescendo that was deafening when finally Katharine Tempest swept on to join the two male stars in the centre of the stage. The entire cast linked hands and bowed and smiled and bowed again.
As the heavy gold-trimmed red velvet curtain fell and rose for a second time, Katharine stepped forward to ringing cheers, and ‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!’ reverberated throughout the proscenium. Her face was radiant, wreathed in smiles and she bowed low and blew kisses from her fingertips and mouthed, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
Against the backdrop of the giant-sized scenery, depicting ancient Greece in all its glory, she seemed such a small, frail figure as she stood alone before the audience at the edge of the stage, graciously accepting their adulation. Yet she did not feel alone or lonely but, rather, more like the favourite member of a large and adoring family. Her family. Her only family. She belonged to them, and they to her, and nothing could ever change this fact.
Katharine’s heart crested with joy, and euphoria swarmed through her as she felt the waves of love washing over her from beyond the glittering footlights. And mingled with the joy was a marvellous sense of fulfilment, and the reaffirmation of her talent. And then it came, as it always did, the surge of relief that she had succeeded yet again. All of the dedication and discipline, hard work and straining for perfection was worth it just for this intoxicating and uplifting feeling. It was the ultimate reward.
She longed to stand there indefinitely, savouring the triumph of her victory, basking in the fervour of their approbation, but Katharine was conscious of her stage manners, and considerate of the rest of the cast, and she knew she had to give way, to permit the other stars of the play to take their individual bows. To receive their hard-won dues.
With a grand theatrical flourish she proffered a last handful of heartfelt kisses to the audience and bestowed a final luminous smile on them, before she turned to Terrence Ogden, her leading man, and stretched out her hand. He took it and moved closer to her, bowing first to Katharine and next to the audience, who were wildly ecstatic. Katharine half turned once more, this time to her left, and John Layton, the second male lead, came forward to complete the magnetic trio, who seemingly this night had surpassed themselves. There were four more rousing curtain calls before the red velvet finally rose and fell for the last time, and the cast slowly dispersed.
Katharine hurried off stage without exchanging a few words with her fellow actors as she usually did, anxious to return to her dressing room without delay. She felt uncomfortably hot, her costume