Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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who was gaily skipping along behind Diana, for all the world like a little yellow bird let out of her cage. He smiled at his comparison, his eyes fastening on her. And it was true, Francesca did seem different to him, freer and less constrained than she was in London. Perhaps her present demeanour had something to do with being in a foreign country, far away from the strictures of her everyday life and all that this entailed; it could be induced by the holiday spirit they all shared; it might even be Diana’s influence at work. But whatever had wrought the change was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. He liked her joyful, unfettered mood, for it suited her and, furthermore, it made him feel more relaxed.
Victor pulled his eyes away from Francesca and directed them sharply to the end of the path. Here stood Schloss Wittingenhof in all its ancient glory. Although Diana had said it was large, he had not envisioned a house quite this size, nor one so impressive, for in essence it was a grand manor house of some distinction. It was of excellent proportions, long and relatively low and rambling, with various wings protruding from the central structure. These wings, perfectly balanced to the main building, helped to create a flowing and harmonious effect. Roofs of blue-grey slate pitched gently down to touch stone walls the colour of eggshell, a soft off-white that had a hint of beige. The many windows were flanked by black and white shutters, whilst the double front door, with a lintel of stone, was painted white and decorated with black nail heads and black iron hinges. A series of dormer windows were cut into the roofs, which, in turn, were topped by fat squat chimneys, and all added to the charm of the picturesque architecture.
Wittingenhof nestled against a backdrop of splendid fir trees. These swept upwards over the slopes of the mountain, which continued its soaring ascent immediately behind the Schloss. The mountain, for all its immensity of size and spread and height, did not diminish the house. Rather, it threw Wittingenhof into bold relief, the grandeur of the natural setting underscoring its intrinsic beauty. The plateau upon which the house was built was on high ground, and the atmosphere was clear, bracing, and the intense glare from the crystalline snow converged with the lucency of the sky to create a light of supernatural brilliance, a light that blinded with its clarity. Victor blinked, shielded his eyes with his hand, and caught up with Francesca. ‘The Schloss looks a sensational place,’ he said.
‘Yes, it’s lovely, and wait ’til you see inside. Diana has done a marvellous job with it.’
‘Is the architecture typical of the area?’ he asked, falling into step.
‘Yes, to a certain extent. It’s very much in the Bavarian tradition, but modified, less Hansel and Gretelish. I forget who designed it, someone quite famous in his time though. Wittingenhof is considered an architectural classic, and it’s well over a hundred years old.’
‘Yes, I noticed the date on the entrance when we drove in, I guess it was built for the family, wasn’t it?’
Francesca nodded. ‘One of Diana’s ancestors owned this mountain and the surrounding land, and I understand that he built the Schloss for his young wife, who was frail in health and needed the air at this altitude. She must have had lung problems. After she died, the house fell into disuse. The family only occupied it occasionally in the summer months, for holidays. It was Diana who actually decided to open it up for full-time use, and she and Christian have made it their permanent home for a number of years now. It’s just as beautiful in the summer. These …’ She pointed to the snowy areas in front of the house, ‘are all lawns and there are meadows at the back, and a lovely lake. Oh look, Victor … you’ve got a welcoming committee!’ she cried tugging at his arm.
He followed the movement of her head and his face lit up. A gaggle of geese, sleek, plump and immaculate, were marching across the snow, comical in their sedateness. Victor looked down at Francesca, his eyes laughing. ‘They couldn’t have staged this better in Hollywood. Tell me, kid, how do the geese know how to march out on cue?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Francesca grinned. ‘But they always make an appearance around this time. Feeding hour, I suppose. Come on, Diana’s waiting.’
Diana stood in the doorway, leaning on the skis. ‘I’d like to add my welcome,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay at Wittingenhof, Victor. You must consider it your home too.’
‘Thanks, Diana. You’re being very kind.’
Turning she said to Francesca, ‘Why don’t you take Victor down to the cloakroom, and I’ll go and tell Christian we’ve arrived.’ She handed the skis to Victor. ‘Would you mind carrying these, please? Francesca will show you where we store them.’
‘Sure,’ he said, taking the bag from her.
The two girls walked across the entrance foyer and Victor followed in their wake, looking around with quickening interest. The entrance was small and square, with a beamed ceiling, white stucco walls and a floor composed of terracotta tiles, glazed to a burnished hue by the sunlight shafting through the windows. A massive mirror, framed in intricately-chased silver, hung above a carved pine chest, and in its glassy depths trembled reflections of the entire area. Next to it stood a silver urn bursting with branches of red berries. At the opposite end the small foyer splayed out on either side to become an impressive great hall, with many doors opening off it and a spectacular curving staircase floating gracefully up to other floors. It was sparsely furnished, the only pieces being an armoire, several carved wooden chairs, and a desk near the stairwell, all in a rustic country style and made of oak.
This hall had baronial overtones, with a high-flung ceiling and walls painted the same soft eggshell as the exterior of the house. An immense and eye-catching tapestry, depicting a medieval hunting scene, was suspended on the rise above the staircase, a wrought-iron chandelier dropped on long chains from the centre of the ceiling, and the floor of dark wood, polished to a high gloss, was entirely bare.
Diana veered to the right, waving to them as she went into one of the rooms. Francesca guided Victor to the left, along a corridor and down a short flight of stone steps. These stopped in another hallway, on the lower level, where French windows opened onto a paved loggia and beyond, in the distance, was a view of the frozen lake and a copse of trees, their spidery black branches dripping icicles.
Marvellous aromas of food cooking floated on the warm air. Victor sniffed. ‘I guess we’re near the kitchen,’ he said, eyeing Francesca.
‘Yes, it’s down there.’ She nodded to the end of the hallway.
‘I just realized how starved I am. Ravenous. I was up at the crack of dawn to get the plane.’
‘Manfred will bring something up to the sitting room shortly. A little snack with our drinks, before lunch. Come on, put your skis in here.’ She opened a cupboard, moved on, and turned the iron handle on another door. ‘And this is the cloakroom.’
Victor propped his bag next to several pairs of skis lined up in the cupboard, closed it, and followed her. The cloakroom was a mélange of blue and white, these colours appearing in the tiles on the floor and in a faded floral paper on the walls and ceiling. Francesca stuck her yellow woollen cap on one of the pegs attached to the wall, where an assortment of anoraks, Loden jackets and capes already hung. ‘You can put your coat here, and the bathroom’s through that door, if you want to freshen up.’
‘Thanks.’
She turned to the mirror standing on the pine chest, ran a comb through her hair, then shook it free casually. ‘I’ll be in the drawing room, upstairs.’
‘I don’t think I’ll get lost, kid,’ he said.
Francesca bounded up the stone stairs, humming under her breath. She was in a happy mood, engendered by Victor’s presence in the house. Although she was not foolish enough to think this particular circumstance would bring about a change in him, or cause him to suddenly reciprocate her feelings, she did believe their friendship had a better chance of flowering here at Wittingenhof than in London. Furthermore,