‘This all you brought with you, Miss Bradley? Film stars like you normally have a container full of luggage,’ he teased her good-naturedly.
‘I packed in a hurry,’ Rebecca admitted as she followed him across the courtyard towards the house.
‘Well, just remember, Miss Bradley, I’m on call for the whole of the shoot, so if there’s anywhere you need to go, you just tell me, okay? It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Ah, you made it!’ A lean young man strode towards them. He held out his hand to Rebecca. ‘Welcome to England, Miss Bradley. I’m Steve Campion, the production manager. I’m sorry to hear you’ve had to run the gauntlet of our appalling gutter press this morning. You’re safe from them here, at least.’
‘Thank you. Do you know when I’ll be able to go to my hotel? I could use a shower and some sleep,’ said Rebecca, who was feeling bedraggled and travel-weary.
‘Of course. We didn’t want to put you through another ordeal at the hotel after the airport this morning,’ said Steve. ‘So, for now, Lord Astbury has very kindly offered you a room here in the house to use until we find you alternative accommodation. As you may have noticed –’ Steve indicated the huge building and grinned – ‘he has a few going spare. Robert, the director, is very keen to start shooting tomorrow and didn’t want your concentration, or that of the other actors staying at the hotel, to be disturbed.’
‘I’m sorry to be the cause of all this fuss,’ Rebecca ventured, blushing with a sudden wave of guilt.
‘Well, never mind, that’s what we get for having such a famous young actress in the film. Right, the housekeeper said to find her when you arrived and she’ll take you upstairs to your room. There’s a full cast call in the drawing room at five p.m. tonight, so that gives you a few hours to sleep.’
‘Thank you,’ Rebecca repeated, not missing the timbre in Steve’s voice. She knew she’d already been labelled ‘trouble’ and was sure that the cast of talented British actors – none of whose fame or box-office power could currently match her own – would agree with him.
‘Wait there and I’ll go and find Mrs Trevathan,’ Steve said, leaving Rebecca to stand uncomfortably in the courtyard, watching the camera crew heave their equipment past her.
A minute later, a plump, middle-aged woman with greying curly hair and a rosy complexion bustled out of the door towards her.
‘Miss Rebecca Bradley?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, of course it is, dear.’ The woman smiled broadly. ‘I recognised you immediately. And let me tell you, you’re even more beautiful in real life. I’ve seen all your films and it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mrs Trevathan, the housekeeper. Follow me, and I’ll take you up to your bedroom. It’s a long walk, I’m afraid. Graham will bring up your case later,’ she commented as Rebecca made to pick it up. ‘You can’t imagine how many miles I cover each day.’
‘I probably can’t,’ agreed Rebecca, struggling to understand the woman’s thick Devon accent. ‘This house is totally amazing.’
‘Less amazing now there’s just me and some daily help here to care for it. I’m run ragged. Of course, many years ago, there were thirty of us working here full-time, but things are different now.’
‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ Rebecca said as Mrs Trevathan led her through a series of doors into a huge kitchen, where a woman in a nurse’s uniform was sitting drinking coffee at the table.
‘The servants’ stairs are the fastest way to the bedrooms from the kitchen,’ Mrs Trevathan said, as Rebecca followed her up a steep and narrow flight of steps. ‘I’ve put you in a nice room at the back of the house. It’s got a lovely view of the gardens and the moor beyond. You’re very lucky Lord Astbury agreed for you to use a room here. He doesn’t like houseguests. Sad really, this house could once sleep forty comfortably, but those days are long gone.’
Finally, they emerged through another door onto a wide mezzanine landing. Rebecca gazed up in wonder at the magnificent domed cupola above her, then followed Mrs Trevathan along a wide, shadowy corridor.
‘You’re in here,’ she said, opening the door to a spacious, high-ceilinged room dominated by a large double bed. ‘I opened the windows to air it a while ago, so it’s a little chilly. But better than the smell of damp. There’s an electric fire you can use if you’re cold.’
‘Thank you. Where is the restroom?’ she asked.
‘You mean the bathroom, dear?’ said Mrs Trevathan with a smile. ‘It’s two doors down to the left, on the other side of the corridor. I’m afraid we haven’t quite run to en-suite facilities just yet. Now, I’ll leave you to rest.’
‘Would it be possible for me to have a glass of water?’ asked Rebecca timidly.
Mrs Trevathan paused on her way to the door, then turned round, her face full of sympathy. ‘Of course, you must be all in. Have you eaten anything?’
‘No, I couldn’t face breakfast on the plane.’
‘Then how about I get you a nice pot of tea and some toast? You really are looking quite peaky.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Rebecca thanked her, feeling suddenly dizzy and sitting down abruptly in an armchair placed by the empty fire grate.
‘Right then, I’ll be off to get it.’ Mrs Trevathan gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re only a slip of a thing underneath all that glamour, aren’t you, dear? Now, you sort yourself out and I’ll see you in a bit.’ She smiled kindly and left the room.
Shortly afterwards, Rebecca made her way along the corridor and after a number of false starts into a linen cupboard and another bedroom, found a large bathroom with an old-fashioned cast-iron tub sitting in the centre of it. A rusting metal chain dangled from the cistern above the toilet and, having drunk some water from the tap, she returned to her room. Walking over to the long windows, she gazed out over the view below. The garden beyond the wide terrace that flanked the rear of the house was obviously well tended. Flowering plants and shrubs grew along the borders in immaculate abundance, their multi-coloured blooms softening the green of the central lawns. Beyond the tall yew hedge which encircled the formal garden lay the moors, their ruggedness in direct contrast to the flat, manicured lawns below her. Kicking off her shoes, she climbed onto the bed, the mattress comfortably softened by years of wear.
When Mrs Trevathan knocked quietly on the door ten minutes later and entered the room, she saw Rebecca was fast asleep. Putting the tray down on the table by the fireplace, she covered her gently with the bedspread and quietly left.
2
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I welcome you all to Astbury Hall, which I’m sure you’ll all agree is the perfect setting in which to shoot The Still of the Night. I certainly feel honoured to be allowed to film in one of England’s most beautiful stately homes, and I hope our time here together will be happy and productive.’
Robert Hope, the director, smiled benignly at his assembled cast. ‘I should think these old walls are positively quaking with the vast array of talent and experience they currently contain. Many of you will know each other already, but I’d like to extend a special welcome to Rebecca Bradley, who joins us from America to put a touch of Hollywood sparkle on us fusty old Brits.’
All eyes in the room turned to Rebecca, who was hiding in a corner, overwhelmed by the sight of so many iconic British actors. ‘Hi,’ she said, blushing and offering the room a smile.
‘I’ll be handing you over now to Hugo Manners, whose wonderful screenplay is going to bring out the best in all of you,’ continued Robert. ‘We’ll be issuing you all later with the final script, hot off the press. Steve, the production manager, will also be handing out your schedules. So all that remains for me to say is: here’s to a successful shoot of The Still of the Night. Now, here’s Hugo.’
There was a round of applause as Hugo Manners, Oscar-winning screenplay writer, took to the floor. Rebecca half-listened to what he had to say, feeling suddenly overwhelmed at what she’d taken on. What worried her most was her English acce
nt; she’d been taking lessons in New York in diction and pronunciation and had done her best in the past two months to speak like an Englishwoman in her daily life. But she knew only too well that by accepting this part, she’d put her head above the parapet and might very well be shot down. There was nothing the British media liked better than to annihilate the performance of an American actress playing an English role. Especially an actress who had seen as much commercial success as she had.
It didn’t seem to matter that she had attended the Juilliard drama school in New York on a scholarship and had won her year’s award of Best Actress for the role of Beatrice in a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. Every actress in Hollywood considered herself ‘serious’, even if she had come down the model route, which Rebecca most definitely hadn’t. She knew that this was her chance to prove herself as a classically trained actress, to make the leap to critical acclaim.
There was another round of applause as Hugo finished speaking and Steve, the production manager, began to hand round the new script and a personal schedule for each of them.
‘You’ll be glad to know you’re not needed on set tomorrow, Rebecca. You have a morning in Wardrobe with the costume designer and her team for dress fittings, and after that, Hair and Make-up want to see you. Robert has suggested you also have an hour with the voice coach to go over your lines for your first day’s shoot.’
‘Fine. Have you any idea when I’ll be moved to my hotel? I’d like to unpack and get settled.’
‘Apparently the photographers are still hovering outside. So, for tonight, Lord Astbury has agreed with Robert that you can have a room here whilst we try and find somewhere discreet for you to stay. Lucky old you,’ Steve added, smiling, ‘a little more luxurious than the box room above the local pub I’ve been billeted to. And it means you’ll really have a chance to soak up the atmosphere here.’
A strikingly handsome man with chiselled features wandered over and held out his hand to her. ‘Miss Bradley, I presume? I’m James Waugh. I’m playing Lawrence, and I think we have a number of, how shall I put it, intimate scenes together.’ He winked at her, and Rebecca took in his immediate charm and expressive blue eyes, which had undoubtedly helped to propel him to the forefront of young British screen actors.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, James,’ she said, standing to take his hand.
‘Poor thing,’ he said sympathetically, ‘you must be feeling rather shell-shocked, newly arrived from the States and having to face the furore over your engagement to Jack Heyward.’
‘I . . .’ Rebecca was unsure how to reply. ‘I suppose I am,’ she finished lamely.
‘Congratulations, by the way.’ James was still holding her hand. ‘He’s a very lucky man.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied stiffly.
‘And if at any point you’d appreciate a run-through of our scenes together before we film, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Personally, I’m terrified,’ he confided. ‘Working with all these luminaries of film and theatre is rather daunting.’
‘I know,’ agreed Rebecca, warming to him somewhat.
‘Well, I’m sure you’re going to be wonderful, and, if you fancy some company whilst we’re stuck down here in the middle of nowhere, just give me a shout.’
‘I will, and thank you.’
James gave her one last meaningful glance, then let go of her hand and walked away.
Too shy to go and mingle with the other actors, Rebecca sat back down and studied her schedule, contemplating how, in one breath, James had congratulated her on her engagement and then in the next made it quite clear that he would like to see more of her.
‘Rebecca, the cast and crew are going back to the hotel for dinner in a few minutes,’ Steve said, appearing suddenly at her side. ‘The location caterers are arriving first thing tomorrow morning, but I’m going to ask your new best friend, Mrs Trevathan, to put something together for you from the kitchen for tonight. She was very taken with you, said you needed feeding up.’
‘That’s sweet of her. I want to read through the new script anyway,’ she replied.
‘Are you all right, Rebecca?’ Steve’s eyes were concerned.
‘Yes, maybe just a little jet-lagged and, to be honest, overwhelmed by meeting so many incredible actors. I’m nervous I won’t make the grade,’ she confessed.
‘I understand, and if it’s any help, I’ve worked with Robert for many years and he never makes mistakes when he’s casting his films. I know he thinks very highly of your skills as an actress. If he didn’t, no matter how famous you are, you simply wouldn’t be here. Okay?’
‘Yes, thanks for that, Steve,’ she replied gratefully.
‘Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow. And enjoy the night in your palace. No one can get to you here, that’s for sure.’
Steve moved away and began to shepherd the actors out of the drawing room. When everyone had left, Rebecca stood up and had her first chance to truly take in her surroundings. The July sun was sending a glow through the enormous windows, softening the austere mahogany furniture which filled the room. Sofas and easy chairs were dotted around it and a huge marble fireplace formed the centrepiece. Rebecca shivered, feeling the sudden chill of evening and rather wishing it was lit.
‘There you are, dear.’ Mrs Trevathan appeared through the door and walked across the room towards her. ‘Steve tells me you need some supper. I have a slice of homemade steak-and-kidney pie and some spuds left over from His Lordship’s lunch.’
‘“Spuds”?’ questioned Rebecca.
‘Potatoes to you, dear.’ Mrs Trevathan smiled.
‘I’m not very hungry, so maybe just a salad?’
‘I see.’ Mrs Trevathan surveyed her with a beady eye. ‘From the look of you, I’d say you’re on a permanent diet. If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Rebecca, a puff of wind would blow you sideways.’
‘I have to be careful, yes,’ Rebecca answered, embarrassed by the woman’s well-meaning scrutiny.
‘As you wish, but you’d be doing a lot better with a proper square meal inside of you. Shall I bring supper up to your room?’
‘That would be very kind, thank you.’
As the housekeeper left, Rebecca grimaced at Mrs Trevathan’s instinctive knowledge of her eating habits. There was no denying that she watched everything she ate, but what could she do? Her career depended on her slim figure.
She left the drawing room and walked into the grand hall to mount the wide staircase up to her room. Pausing, she looked up at the magnificent dome above her, the small panes of glass set into the edges of it sending shards of light onto the marble floor beneath her feet.
‘Good evening.’
Rebecca jumped at the sound of a deep male voice and turned round. She stared at the man standing by the front door, dressed in an ancient tweed jacket and threadbare cords tucked into a pair of wellingtons. His wiry, unkempt hair was greying and needed a decent cut. She guessed he was in his mid-fifties.
‘Hello,’ she replied uncertainly.
‘I’m Anthony, and you are . . . ?’
‘Rebecca, Rebecca Bradley.’
‘Oh.’ His eyes registered a flicker of recognition. ‘The American film star. They tell me you’re very famous, but I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you. Films really aren’t my thing. Sorry.’ He shrugged.
‘Please don’t apologise, there’s no reason why you should have heard of me.’
‘No. Anyway, I must be off now.’ The man shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable. ‘I’ve got work to do outside before the light fades.’ He nodded at her briefly before disappearing out of the front door.
Rebecca crossed the hall and made her way up the stairs, admiring the oil paintings of the generations of Astburys which covered the wall. Mrs Trevathan appeared on the top landing with a tray and followed Rebecca into her room.
‘There we are, dear; I’ve found you some soup and some fresh bread and butter. Oh, and I gave you a slice of my
Bakewell tart too, with custard,’ she added, removing the bowl shielding the pudding with a flourish.
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, anything else you need?’
‘No. Thank you. This really is the most beautiful house, isn’t it?’
‘It is, dear, it is. And you don’t know the sacrifices that have been made to keep it, either.’ Mrs Trevathan sighed softly.
‘I can only imagine. By the way, I met the gardener downstairs,’ Rebecca added.
‘Gardener?’ Mrs Trevathan raised an eyebrow. ‘Downstairs, inside the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we have a chap who comes in once a week to mow the lawns. Maybe he was looking for His Lordship. Right, I’ll let you eat your supper in peace. What time would you like your breakfast tomorrow morning?’
‘I don’t really eat breakfast, but fruit juice and yoghurt would be great.’
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’ Mrs Trevathan sniffed with obvious disapproval as she walked towards the door, but turned to smile comfortingly at the younger woman as she made her exit. ‘Goodnight, my love. Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight.’
Rebecca ate the flavoursome leek and potato soup and all of the crusty bread smothered thickly with butter. Despite herself, she was still hungry, so she tried a small spoonful of the strange pudding Mrs Trevathan had left for her. Finding it delicious, she finished that as well, then threw herself guiltily on the bed, knowing she mustn’t make a habit of devouring stodgy English food, however tasty.
When her stomach had settled, she rolled off the bed and reached for her handbag. Tentatively pulling out her cellphone, she switched it on. She pressed the button to retrieve her messages and put the phone to her ear. It could not connect, and when she checked the screen, she saw there was no signal. Taking out her iPad, she saw that there were no available networks on that either.
A glimmer of a smile appeared on her lips. This morning she had wished to be someplace where no one could find her or make contact with her, and it seemed that for tonight, at least, this was the case. She lay back and looked out of the window at the approaching dusk, the sun slowly disappearing below the horizon on the moors beyond the garden. And realised then that all she could hear was silence.
The Midnight Rose Page 4