Romancing the Soul

by Sarah Tranter

  Hannah’s was a grave within the grounds of the village church. Cassie had been there this morning, while not yet ready to visit Freddie and Kathryn.

  Hannah Marsh

  Daughter of Sir Gerald and Lady Jane Marsh

  Died 1826. Aged 17 years

  Cassie left her a matching bowl of roses. They were her favourite.

  She now knew Freddie had regularly raided Worton Hall’s rose garden. He picked Hannah her blooms in the dead of night. During their secret meetings, he presented them to her. He loved to see the look on her face during those precious moments. To be in receipt of such a look, he believed, made him the most blessed creature on earth.

  Freddie considered Hannah his. And his alone. Forever.

  Cassie had so far read only one of the letters between Freddie and Hannah. She had been loaned a bundle of them by the present day Montagues who had kept them in a cupboard in the impressive library at Worton Hall. The only change Cassie could discern to Kathryn’s time living there was the computer on the desk, the electric lighting and the family photographs. Even the furniture was familiar.

  The present day Montagues viewed Freddie and Hannah’s relationship as a tragic love story. The extent of Kathryn’s role – and Matthew Argylle’s – had been found out upon her death, when her own correspondence was discovered. Cassie declined their offer of borrowing those letters, too. She possessed far too much insight into the evil mechanics of Kathryn’s mind as it was.

  Zapping her car remote with her bruised right hand, Cassie climbed into the driver’s seat. Glancing at her mobile on its housing, she noted thirteen missed calls. She knew who it would be. She’d missed a series of deadlines over recent days for promised stories and her editor was on the warpath. She’d get right back to work tonight. Rachael was right. This had helped.

  As Cassie put the car into reverse and twisted in her seat to look behind, she spotted the bundle of letters sat next to her handbag on the back seat. They’d been penned by both Hannah and Freddie. She had never expected to find anything Freddie wrote and sent to Hannah, but Hannah’s family had discovered Freddie’s letters upon her death and emotively returned them, blaming the already devastated Freddie for her demise. As if he’d needed any more twists of the knife in those final days before he, too, died. After all, Kathryn had been self-appointed chief knife-turner.

  Cassie put the car into first gear and her foot heavily on the accelerator pedal. She was going to leave Kathryn Montague where she lay. But learn from her. She would read all of Hannah and Freddie’s letters. She had to know. And no. There was no forgetting the journalist in her.

  She just couldn’t brave reading them today.

  Chapter Thirteen

  George hated appearances on television talk shows such as this. And this one was a biggie. Michael was all hyped up, reminding George of all the things he needed to mention: the films about to come out; the one he was currently filming; future projects. Then there was the live broadcast warning. Etc. Etc. Etc. George didn’t need to listen to Michael’s words. He knew what he was meant to say. He’d played this part a hundred times over.

  But tonight was going to be different.

  Susie wasn’t returning his calls, was never in or refused to answer when he went to her building and he was desperate.

  There was a flurry of last-minute activity around him. The presenter was doing the usual blurgh. The orchestra burst into music. That was his cue.

  Don’t balls this up George.

  He walked out onto set, remembered to smile at the applauding and whistling audience, moved to shake hands with the now standing presenter, then sat down.

  The audience was still whooping away. Blushing, George raised his lowered head to provide a small smile of appreciation. It was all he could manage in the circumstances, and finally things quietened down. The presenter looked at him with intent.

  George took a deep mustering breath. Here we go.

  ‘Oh. Dear. George!’

  The audience laughed. Predictable really and George shook his head with what was hopefully a wry smile on his face, rather than a grimace.

  ‘You’ve been in the press a lot this week!’

  More laughter.

  ‘But your people have given me strict orders not to talk to you about that. So I suppose we’re going to have to talk about the new film. The reason why you’re back on your home turf and … getting entertained at the local nightspots!’

  More laughter and George forced another smile, while clasping his hands tightly together on his lap. He took a very large intake of air and raised his head to face the presenter.

  ‘I don’t mind talking about that night, Jonathan.’

  Loud applause and whoops.

  ‘Susie! Susie! Get your butt in here!’

  ‘For crying out loud, Rach! I was about to get in the shower! What on earth is—?’ Susie froze mid-hop in her bedroom doorway, instinctively grabbing the door for balance. She stood motionless, dressed in a T-shirt, off-white panties, and with her jeans hanging off one foot.

  Rachael frantically pointed at the TV, while pulling cushions off the sofa and sending them scattering across the room, her usual method of hunting for the remote control.

  But Susie needed no direction. She could see exactly who was on the screen. And her whole being cried out.

  ‘He’s just volunteered to speak to Jonathan James about Monday night!’ Rachael squealed. ‘I can’t find the remote. I need to record this. Will you get in here now?’

  2D, 3D … she couldn’t do it. How could she have thought she could feel no worse? It was Sunday night and she’d been a wreck all week. No amount of self-counselling lessening the impact of the separation. The pain threatened to submerge her now. She closed her eyes.

  What was he going to say? Was he going for name and shame? Had the newspaper piece not been enough? It was her own fault. She should never, ever have been in his actual presence.

  She felt physically sick. She should go to the bathroom, but was rooted to the spot. If she could get herself there, she could even surrender to that part of her that yearned to sit on the cold tiled floor, hugging her knees, slowly rocking herself backwards and forwards.

  The Addams Family theme tune entered the pitiful pulp that was once a functioning brain. No sooner had it sluggishly processed, then it silenced as Rachael answered her mobile.

  ‘Cassie! Yes, it’s on now.’ Rachael still scooted around wreaking havoc with her free hand. ‘Are you recording it? I can’t find the remote and …’

  Covering the phone, she yelled, ‘Susie! Help me out here!’

  He felt physically sick. So much rested on him getting this right.

  ‘George. Just for the benefit of us all here. Did you just say you will talk about that night?’

  ‘Absolutely. You have the exclusive straight from Saint George’s mouth … although the horn isn’t coming out. And for the record, it didn’t then either.’

  Laughter and clapping from the audience.

  ‘Very good.’ Jonathan James chuckled.

  George pretended not to see Michael in the wings, although he had a clear view of him from his seat. Michael was repeatedly doing the cutting sign across his throat. It was pretty easy to read his lips, too. George returned his eyes to the presenter before him.

  ‘Wow. I won’t be needing the autocue then. Can someone get me a pen and paper? I’m going to need to scribble some questions. But here’s one for now. Tell me … was it worth it?’

  More laughter.

  Deep breath and a prayer. ‘At the time it was. At the time it blew my mind.’

  ‘I bet!’

  More laughter.

  George felt the blush sweep across his face. ‘It did.’ He shook his head and looked intently at the presenter, ‘But it wasn’t what it l
ooked like. This really isn’t easy for me to talk about. I’ve never spoken about my private life before, but in this instance, where another person is involved like this, and there’s even a price out on their head, I feel I need to.’

  In his peripheral vision, George could see things getting heated. Michael was being restrained. He’d known he wouldn’t be happy. Image and all that, but he hadn’t expected him to get this upset. But he was doing this, whatever.

  ‘Such an intensely private moment should never have happened in public. That was my fault and I will never forgive myself for the position it has put the woman concerned in. It was a private party, but that was public enough.’ He looked at his grasped hands upon his knees. ‘It was a very, very intimate … incredible moment. It wasn’t cheap and tacky like the papers have portrayed it. I was with the most beautiful, compelling woman I have ever met. I forgot myself.’ He looked at the presenter with a wry smile, ‘I kind of do that around her. I don’t act remotely normally. It’s scary. The extreme …’

  He was rambling.

  He shook his head and looked at his hands. ‘I knew I was going to muck this up. I don’t have a script. I tried to come up with what I needed to say, but it’s not coming out right!’

  Laughter. He liked to think it was sympathetic.

  ‘Ummm.’ He leant forward, his forearms on his knees, hands grasped, head down and staring blindly. ‘It’s scary as hell but she makes me feel … She does something to me. I kind of feel …Well, I can’t say how I feel because it will sound crazy, but … we haven’t spent enough time together. She’s kind of addictive. I’m not sure there would ever be enough time to … ’

  ‘Because of work commitments?’

  ‘No. Because there’s not enough time in the world to …’ He took a deep breath and sat back in his seat. ‘We haven’t spent enough time together because I screwed up. I would like to be able to talk to her but she’s …’

  ‘She’s dumped you?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. I messed up big time. I haven’t secured her trust and I want that more than anything and … I’m probably scaring her with the way I’m sounding …’ He met the presenter’s eyes. ‘Do I sound mad to you?’

  He laughed. ‘No, you sound like you’ve got it baaad mate!’

  Laughter and a few claps and a few aaaahhhs.

  ‘I’d settle for anything. Anything she felt able to give. We could take it slow, quick, whatever she wants. I’m game. I want us to talk though. To talk until the cows come home. I want to find out every tiny little thing about her. I want to hear her laugh again and … I’m so setting myself up for a fall here! I feel like I’m baring my soul. And I’ve just realised my family are going to be watching this – and my mum!’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘But what have I got to lose? My pride I suppose. But I’ve got more than enough of that on set at the moment.’

  ‘Pride and Prejudice, ladies and gentlemen. George Silbury is the next Mr Darcy. And of course, Porsche Sutter-Blythe is your Elizabeth. We were under the impression you two were an item?’

  George looked pointedly at the presenter. ‘You, of all people, know not to believe everything you read. You’ve had your fair share of coverage in the gossip columns recently.’

  ‘Bollocks the lot of it!’

  Laughter.

  ‘Exactly. You have to understand as well that leads are always linked.’

  ‘Porsche’s on record as saying—’

  ‘I can’t talk about what Porsche may or may not have said. I don’t believe what I read. She’s on your show in a couple of weeks, so no doubt you can talk to her then. She’s a great actress and is doing a fantastic job as Elizabeth, but our relationship has only ever been professional.’

  ‘So where did you and this mystery woman meet? I’m assuming you’re still keeping her a mystery? You don’t feel like enlightening us?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Laughter.

  ‘It was worth a try. Well, where did you meet?’

  ‘In unusual circumstances, but I won’t say any more than that.’

  ‘I’m afraid we have to wind up here. George … you’ve put the record straight there. Whoever she is must be very special because that took some balls. Once you guys have got your act together … remember me when writing wedding invites!’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes and … if only.’

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, George Silbury!’

  ‘Suse? Susie? Flaming Nora! Will you stop staring blankly like that and get up from down there! We have things to talk about and there’s no way you are avoiding them.’

  Susie’s eyes began to focus again and she realised she was sat on the floor in her bedroom doorway. Rachael was standing before her and, as she raised her head, she took in the hands on hips that accompanied her words.

  ‘I’m putting the kettle on. Then you and me are going to talk.’

  None of it made any sense. She couldn’t grasp what he appeared to have been saying. ‘Rach?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘What did I miss?’ He couldn’t have been talking about her. He must have been involved in another sensational story of some kind. But … he wasn’t with Porsche Sutter-Blythe?

  ‘I’m sorry? And will you get up off the floor?’

  ‘What he was talking about … What did I miss?’

  ‘You aren’t making any sense here. He was talking about you! You, you silly mare! Do you have any idea how lucky you are? I get Matey and you—’ Rachael cut herself off. ‘Kettle.’

  Nothing was making sense. And now she was losing all sense of reality. ‘Rach. I need help; professional help. I’ve crossed that line.’

  Rachael was suddenly there, plonking herself down on the floor in front of her. ‘You don’t need professional help, Suse,’ she said gently. ‘You just need to remove the blinkers and see what’s happening here. You met a man. In unconventional circumstances, but you nevertheless met. True or false?’

  Not any man … And he wasn’t with Porsche? And they weren’t laughing together? He wasn’t seeking revenge?

  ‘Suse. True or false?’

  ‘True … I think. Oh God, I’m so confused.’

  ‘You have chemistry going on between you. A lot of chemistry. True or false?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is or if he—’

  ‘He’s just announced to the world he loses control around you. That he finds you compelling. That it’s extreme. Therefore he feels it. Do you feel it?’

  ‘I feel something but …’ He couldn’t feel it too. How could he feel it too? ‘It’s not normal and—’

  ‘And thanks be it’s not, otherwise you and he would be launching yourself at everyone! Instead you both react to each other. What’s wrong with you guys not being able to keep your hands off each other? And you can hardly tell me you don’t enjoy it. And he’s just told everyone how good it is for him. So, I ask again, you have chemistry going on between you. True or false?’

  ‘It’s not that—’

  ‘Yes it is! He reacts to you. You react to him. End of. So, true or false?’

  ‘I can’t think! It doesn’t make any sense. Just look at me!’

  ‘I’d rather not thank you.’

  ‘Exactly! He’s got Porsche Sutter-Blythe … no … not now.’ She knew she was frowning. ‘But he’s got all the beautiful—’

  ‘He wants you!’

  ‘That makes no—’

  ‘Did he or did he not just call you the most beautiful, compelling woman he has ever met?’

  ‘He can’t mean it. He can’t … I’m losing any sense of reality here. If he really said that then he’s as mad as me, but—’

  ‘He feels it too! You can call it mad, call it whatever you want. Just don’t ignore it! Tell me why the blazes you can’t be mad togethe
r? What harm can come of it?’

  ‘This is doing my head in. It’s nonsensical, it’s—’

  ‘I don’t know how you can say that, Suse. You hardly look like the back-end of a bus. Okay, you might not be in the Sutter-Blythe league, but who is? You have lovely red-blonde hair, gorgeous eyes, appealing impish dimples and a stunning smile. You are beautiful! You’ve got a lovely body to boot, too. So what that you wear size twelve clothes rather than size six …’

  ’Fourteen,’ Susie murmured. ‘The last jeans I bought were a fourteen.’

  ‘No! Seriously? No wonder you kept that quiet. But so what? You do it for him, Suse. You do it for George Silbury, you lucky cow! I know you’re scared, but you can’t honestly tell me you’d prefer to be with the boring shite?’

  She could never be with Peter after she’d felt this way with George. She’d ended it. How could she ever be with anyone else? She was ruined. She was going to die an old desiccated maid.

  ‘George is scared too. So why can’t you be scared together?’

  She wanted to believe he could feel this way so much. Although her pitiful mushed up head wasn’t as remotely keen as the rest of her. It was haemorrhaging those awful sensations again. It seemed to want to remind her why she couldn’t go there. Frantically remind her, as if it saw George Silbury as the biggest threat Susie Morris could ever face.

  ‘I know you’re anti-love, Suse, but there is nothing stopping you simply testing the water. Nobody is saying plunge straight in at the deep end. He said he’ll take whatever you’re prepared to offer. Don’t you owe it to yourself, to both of you, to just see what you have here? What harm can it do? If it goes wrong, then you’re just back to where you are now. And anyway, I think you’re forgetting about the sex here. Sex with George Silbury!’

  She so wasn’t. Her body wasn’t letting her. She closed her eyes. She needed her head here. But … firstly it made no sense. Secondly … it made no sense. Thirdly … Jesus!

  ‘I need to get my head around this. To try and …’ She trailed off.

  She had to do something with herself, but didn’t know what. She pushed herself up from the floor and aimlessly revolved. She paused as her eyes took in her bed. That would be something. And perhaps she’d wake up in the morning and everything would make sense. She’d likely find she had been living in some bizarre parallel universe. In the morning she would find herself back in a pre-George Silbury in the flesh existence and …