Picking up her script from the side table, Rebecca began to read through it. She was playing Lady Elizabeth Sayers, the beautiful young daughter of the house. The year was 1922 and the Jazz Age was in full swing. Her father was determined to marry her off to a neighbouring landowner, but Elizabeth had very different ideas. The film focused on the British aristocracy in a changing world, as women took tentative steps towards emancipation and the working classes no longer accepted their subordination to the aristocracy. Elizabeth fell in love with an unsuitable poet, Lawrence, whom she had met through a fast bohemian set in London. The choice she faced between disgracing her parents and following her heart was an old story. Yet, with Hugo Manners’s witty but moving script, it was a gem of a part.
As always, the filming schedule did not start at the beginning of the story and Rebecca was to shoot her first scene the day after tomorrow with James Waugh, who was playing her improper poet. It was to be filmed out in the garden and included a passionate kiss. Rebecca sighed. No matter how professional she was as an actress, or how many times she had been seduced on camera, she always dreaded filming love scenes with co-stars she hardly knew.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of movement in the garden below her. Moving over to the window, she saw the gardener sitting down on a bench. Even from here, she felt there was something lonely about him, something sad. Rebecca watched as he sat, still like a statue, staring ahead into the descending dusk.
After having a bath, Rebecca climbed beneath the scratchy starched white sheets. As she lay there, going over her lines and practising the clipped British accent of the 1920s, she realised how tonight it felt as if she were actually living in the world of the film script. So little seemed to have changed in this house since those times, it was almost unsettling.
Seeing it was past ten o’clock now, but convinced she wouldn’t fall asleep due to the jet lag, Rebecca reached to switch off the light. To her surprise, she slept soundly through the night, only waking when Mrs Trevathan appeared at eight the next morning with a breakfast tray.
At ten o’clock, she went downstairs and found her way to Wardrobe for her costume fitting. Jean, the Scottish costume designer, eyed her and said, ‘My dear, you were made for this period. You even have an old-fashioned face. And . . . I have a surprise for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I was speaking to the housekeeper here yesterday, and she told me that there’s a large collection of vintage 1920s gowns upstairs in one of the bedrooms. Apparently they were worn by a long-dead relative of the current Lord Astbury and have remained untouched over the years. I asked if I could take a look, obviously out of pure personal interest, and, of course –’ she winked at Rebecca – ‘to see if there was anything suitable that would fit you. It would be wonderful to use them in the film.’
‘It would,’ Rebecca agreed.
‘And –’ with a flourish, Jean pulled a silk drape from a clothes rail, ‘just take a look at these.’
Rebecca gasped as a row of exquisite gowns was revealed. ‘Wow,’ she breathed. ‘They’re amazing.’
‘And perfectly preserved. You’d never know they were ninety years old. A lot of them are by the top French designers of the day, like Lanvin, Vionnet and Patou. What a treasure trove,’ Jean remarked as they both went through the rails, picking out and admiring the fabulous dresses. ‘At auction they’d go for a fortune. I just can’t wait to try them on you and see if they fit. From your measurements, they definitely should. It seems the original owner of all these was almost identical in shape and size to you.’
‘But will I be allowed to wear them, even if they do fit?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Who knows? The housekeeper sounded very doubtful and said she’d have to ask Lord Astbury. But the first thing to do is to try them on you and take it from there. Now –’ Jean pulled a dress off the rail – ‘how about this one for your first scene with James Waugh tomorrow?’
Ten minutes later, Rebecca was staring at herself in the mirror. Not since her Juilliard days had she worn period costume; her parts in Hollywood had always been those of young modern women, more often in jeans and T-shirts than not. The Lanvin dress she was standing in was made from silk, overlaid with chiffon and embroidered with delicate hand-sewn beading. The handkerchief hemline floated gently around her ankles as she moved.
‘Right, even if I have to go down on my knees and beg, I’m going to persuade Lord Astbury to let me hire some of these from him,’ said Jean firmly. ‘Let’s try the next one on.’
After Rebecca had paraded in a fabulous array of gowns, each one fitting her perfectly, Jean grinned at her. ‘Right, I think you’re done. I’ll speak to the housekeeper as soon as I can. My dear, you’re going to look like a dream,’ she commented as she helped Rebecca remove the last gown. ‘And once Hair and Make-up have sorted you out, you’ll be a real 1920s beauty!’ She gave Rebecca a conspiratorial wink. ‘They’re just down the corridor on the right.’
‘I think I need a GPS in this house,’ Rebecca said, smiling, as she headed to the door. ‘I keep getting lost.’
She left Wardrobe and walked down the corridor until she found Hair and Make-up. As she sat down in a chair in front of the mirror, one of the hair stylists took a shiny tendril of Rebecca’s thick, dark locks in her hands.
‘How are you feeling about having it cut and dyed tomorrow?’ she asked.
This had been a bone of contention with her agent, Victor, when the contract had come through; the stipulation was that Rebecca’s long hair needed to be cut into a 1920s bob and dyed blonde to match the colour of the actress playing her mother.
‘Okay, I suppose.’ Rebecca shrugged. ‘It’ll grow back, won’t it?’
‘Of course it will. And when the shoot is over, we can easily dye it back to your original colour. It’s good to see you’re not being precious about it,’ the hair stylist said approvingly. ‘So many actresses are. Besides, you might find you like the style; you have the perfect elfin features to go with a bob.’
‘And maybe nobody will recognise me any more as a blonde, either,’ mused Rebecca.
‘Sadly, I don’t think that’s going to help you,’ interjected the make-up artist, coming over to take a seat opposite Rebecca. ‘That face of yours will always give you away. So, what is Jack Heyward like in person? He’s such a god on the screen. Does he look like that first thing in the morning?’ she teased.
Rebecca thought about it. ‘He does look kind of cute in the morning.’
‘I bet he does.’ The make-up girl grinned. ‘I’m sure you can’t believe you’re actually going to marry him.’
‘You know what? You’re right, I can’t believe it. I’ll see you guys bright and early tomorrow for the chop!’ Smiling to cover the irony of her words, Rebecca stood up and gave them both a wave before she left the room. She checked her watch and saw that it was only three o’clock, which meant that she had two hours before her appointment with the voice coach.
One of the dressers had told her earlier that it was apparently possible to get a cellphone signal if you walked in the direction of the moors, so she ran upstairs to get her phone. Shooting had already started in the drawing room, and as she slipped out through the French windows in the dining room that led to the terrace, her stomach turned over at the thought that it would be her in front of the cameras tomorrow.
Walking down the crumbling stone steps and into the garden, Rebecca marched at a brisk pace across it. Sitting down on the bench where she’d spied the gardener yesterday, she tried her cellphone, which was oscillating between one bar and none.
‘Damn!’ she said as yet again her voicemail refused to connect.
‘Everything all right?’
Rebecca started at the voice and looked towards the rose beds where she saw the gardener she’d met last night holding a pair of secateurs.
‘Yes, I’m okay, thanks. I just can’t get a signal on my cellphone.’
‘Sorry. Dreadful coverage we hav
e here.’
‘Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to be cut off. Actually, I’m rather enjoying it,’ she confided. ‘Do you like working here?’ she asked him politely.
He gave her an odd look, then nodded. ‘I’ve never thought about it like that, but I suppose I do. I can’t imagine being anywhere else, anyway.’
‘It must be a gardener’s dream here. Those roses are magnificent. Such beautiful colours – especially the one you’re pruning. It’s such a deep, velvety purple, it’s almost black.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it’s named the Midnight Rose and it’s rather a mysterious plant. It’s been here as long as I have and should have died many years ago. Yet every year, without fail, it blooms as though it’s just been planted.’
‘All I have in my apartment are some indoor pot plants,’ Rebecca commented.
‘You like gardening, do you?’
‘When I was growing up, I used to have my own small patch in my parents’ garden. I used to feel it was a comforting place.’
‘There’s certainly something about exerting control over the land that helps pick away frustrations,’ the gardener said, nodding in agreement. ‘How are you finding it here after the States?’
‘It’s completely different from anywhere I’ve ever been before, but I just had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years. It’s so peaceful here. But they’re moving me to a hotel later today. I don’t think Lord Astbury wants houseguests. To be honest,’ Rebecca confessed, ‘I wish I could stay. I feel safe here.’
‘Well, you never know, Lord Astbury might change his mind. By the way,’ he indicated her cellphone, ‘if you ask Mrs Trevathan, you may be able to use the landline in his study.’
‘Okay, thanks, I will,’ said Rebecca, standing up. ‘See you around.’
‘Here –’ the gardener clipped off a single stem of a perfect Midnight Rose – ‘something pretty to look at in your room. The smell is quite beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ Rebecca said, touched by the gift. ‘I’ll put it in water right away.’
Eventually finding Mrs Trevathan in the kitchen, she explained that she needed a vase for her rose and that the gardener had said there was a phone in the study. Mrs Trevathan led her into a small, dark room lined with bookshelves, the desk piled high with unevenly stacked papers.
‘There you go, but don’t be too long if it’s to America. His Lordship has a fit as it is over the telephone bills.’
As Mrs Trevathan left the room, Rebecca thought that ‘His Lordship’ sounded like an ogre.
Sitting down and finding the number on her cellphone, she picked up the receiver of the ancient telephone, which had a circular dial with numbers written on it. Finally having worked out what to do, she inserted her finger into the holes one-by-one and turned the dial to call Jack. Guiltily, she felt relieved when she heard it go straight to voicemail.
‘Hi, it’s me, and I’m someplace where there’s no Internet or cellphone signal. I’ll be moving to a hotel later today, so I’ll contact you then. I’m fine, by the way. I –’ Rebecca paused as she thought what to say to him, but the subject was so big and complex that no words came neatly to mind to describe it. ‘I’ll call you soon, bye.’
Picking up the receiver once more, dialling and getting the voicemail of Victor, her agent, she left a similar message.
Leaving the study, she went in search of Steve, determined to pin him down and find out exactly where she was going to stay for the duration of the shoot. She found him by the location catering van, set up in the courtyard to the side of the house.
‘I know, I know, Rebecca, you want to know where you’re going,’ Steve said, obviously harassed. ‘As a matter of fact, I was just coming to find you with what I hope is good news. Lord Astbury came to see me five minutes ago and said it was fine if you wanted to stay here for the duration of the shoot. I’m somewhat surprised, given his previous antipathy to the idea,’ he remarked. ‘We had found you a discreet bed-and-breakfast in one of the nearby villages, but to be frank, the accommodation probably isn’t up to your usual standards. And there’s no guarantee the paps wouldn’t find you there eventually anyway. So, it’s up to you.’
‘Okay, can I think about it?’ Even though she loved the security and tranquillity of her current accommodation, she was uncertain of sharing it with the so far unseen Lord Astbury.
‘Yes,’ said Steve as his walkie-talkie crackled. ‘Excuse me, Rebecca, they need me on set.’
Back in her room, Rebecca ran through her lines in preparation for seeing the voice coach in half an hour. She stood up and gazed out of the windows. She really did feel safe here. More than anything, she needed peace and quiet to concentrate fully on her performance. This role would make or break her future career.
After the session with the voice coach, Rebecca found Steve on the terrace and said she’d be delighted to stay on at Astbury Hall.
‘What with your current circumstances, I think it’s probably the only sensible thing to do,’ Steve replied, relieved that the problem had been solved. ‘And Mrs Trevathan said she’d be happy to feed you in the evenings. She seems to have taken you under her wing.’ He smiled.
‘Oh, I rarely eat much in the evening, so—’
‘Hello there,’ said a voice from behind them.
Rebecca saw the gardener walking up the terrace steps towards them.
‘Good afternoon, Lord Astbury. Rebecca has said she’d like to stay on,’ Steve said. ‘It really is extremely kind of you to make an exception for her.’
‘Anthony, please,’ the man clarified.
Shocked, Rebecca looked first at Steve and then at Anthony.
‘Maybe in the evenings, Miss Bradley, when everyone has left, you can come and help me with the gardening,’ he said, an ironic glint in his eye.
‘I – you’re Lord Astbury?’ she managed to splutter.
‘Yes, although as I just said to Steve, everyone calls me Anthony.’
Rebecca felt the heat rising to her cheeks. ‘I’m so embarrassed, I didn’t realise who you were.’
‘No, well, perhaps I wasn’t quite the image you had in your mind,’ Anthony answered calmly. ‘Sadly, these days, the poor, penniless gentry have to do their own dirty work. No black tie and tails for us any longer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some laburnums to attend to.’
He turned away and headed around the side of the house.
‘Oh, Rebecca.’ Steve threw back his head and laughed. ‘Classic! I’m not sure how it goes in the States, but the modern aristocracy here in England tend to be the scruffiest bunch in society. It’s become their badge of honour to wear the oldest clothes and drive clapped-out cars. No self-respecting peer of the realm would think of dressing up at home. It just isn’t done.’
‘I see,’ Rebecca replied, feeling stupid and very foreign.
‘Anyway, your ignorance doesn’t seem to have done you any harm,’ Steve continued in her silence. ‘It’s solicited an open-ended invitation to stay here with him.’
James Waugh appeared and sauntered over to them. ‘Rebecca, I was just going to ask you, are you busy tonight? I thought maybe we could have a bite to eat and get to know each other a little better. We have our first scene tomorrow morning and it’s rather – how would one put it – up close and personal.’ He gave her a cheeky grin.
‘Actually, I was going to have an early night,’ she replied.
‘I’m sure Graham can come and collect you afterwards, so that you can still do that.’
‘I’d . . . rather not. The press . . .’
‘All gone, as of this morning,’ James confirmed. ‘And you really can’t let all that celebrity business get in the way of your performance, can you?’
‘No. Okay,’ Rebecca conceded finally, not wishing to appear aloof.
‘Good.’ James smiled. ‘I’ll see you at eight at the hotel. And don’t worry, I’ll tell them to find us a discreet table.’
As James left, Steve’s eyes twinkled at Re
becca. ‘Think you’ve made a hit there too. Watch him, he’s got a reputation for being a naughty boy.’
‘I will. Thanks, Steve.’ She walked off, her head held high.
Back upstairs in her bedroom, there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Mrs Trevathan. ‘Sorry to bother you, Rebecca, but I hear that you’ve met His Lordship.’
‘Yes, I have,’ Rebecca murmured as she continued hanging her few items of clothing in the old mahogany wardrobe.
‘Here, let me do that,’ said Mrs Trevathan.
‘No, it’s fine, I—’
‘Sit yourself down and we can talk as I sort you out.’
Rebecca acquiesced and perched on the end of the bed as Mrs Trevathan put away the remaining contents of her case.
‘You really haven’t brought much with you, have you, dear?’ she commented. ‘Anyway, I came to say that His Lordship has invited you to join him for dinner tonight. He always eats at eight p.m. sharp.’
‘Oh no – I’m afraid I can’t. I have a prior engagement.’
‘I see. Well now, His Lordship will be disappointed. And after him being so kind as to have you here.’
Rebecca could hear the disapproval in the housekeeper’s voice. ‘Please apologise to him for me, and tell him I’d be delighted to join him any other night,’ she said placatingly.
‘I will. He really doesn’t enjoy people swarming all over his house. His Lordship needs peace, and lots of it. But needs must when the devil drives, I suppose.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I mean, dear, he needs the money from the film to keep the house going,’ Mrs Trevathan said, clarifying her previous statement.
‘I see. Does Lord Anthony have a family?’ she enquired tentatively.
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘So he lives alone here?’
‘Yes. Right, then, I’ll be seeing you in the morning. Bright and early, I hear. Don’t you be getting home too late tonight now, will you, dear? You need to be fresh for tomorrow.’
The Midnight Rose Page 5