His hands were sending electric currents through her. She loved his hands, the shape of them. Hands were important to her.
Francesca bowed her head in acknowledgment, knowing her feeling for him had not only coloured her world, but turned it on its head. There was a Before Grant and After Grant. What else was Fate for? Nevertheless she turned away saying poignantly. “I won’t bother you again.”
“Francesca!” he moaned aloud his frustration, torn between stifling her mouth with kisses and letting his ardour cool. Love. This kind of love was like jumping off a cliff.
“It’s depressing coming down to earth with a crash.” She made a gallant attempt at humour, almost reading his mind. “You’re quite right, Grant. We don’t have enough in common.”
Nothing would work without a solid base of trust and hope.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE week the film people moved into Opal, Grant had to fly to Brisbane for a meeting with Drew Forsythe, set up some time back. A meeting that went so well, it spun out to intensive discussion over a period of three days as Forsythe found time out of his hectic schedule. Both men clicked, sons of dynasties, full of vision, energy and ambition with the brain power to make it all work. So it was working out deals by day, getting the go-ahead from his own financial advisers and at night Drew and his beautiful wife, Eve, made it their business to see Grant enjoyed himself.
They organised a dinner party one evening, and tickets to “Pavarotti and Friends” in concert, the next. They even rustled up a very attractive young woman called Annabel to make up the numbers, dark brown hair, big brown eyes, a head-turner in her own right, but Grant couldn’t get Francesca out of his mind. Such was the depth of his feeling for her, she was a constant “presence.” Before he’d left she had already been accepted for the role of Lucinda despite Fee’s stated qualms. Ngaire Bell and Glenn Richards had swept Fee before them after hearing Francesca read.
“No shortage of talent in this family” was Ngaire’s comment, breaking into a big smile. “With Francesca’s looks and voice she would never be out of work. With no experience at all she understands the part thoroughly.”
“Audiences will weep for her,” Glenn Richards added, looking spellbound. Francesca got such “agony” out of his lines. It was very gratifying.
It struck Grant as ironic Francesca was playing a part that had some relevance to their own situation, however slight. The character in the book, Lucinda, a gently bred English girl migrates to Australia with her handsome, vital, adventurer husband, loving him so deeply she is prepared to give up everything, homeland, family, friends to share his life. Eventually the rigours of trying to survive, let alone cope in a harsh new land with no one outside her husband who thrives in his new environment, to turn to for comfort or advice, wears her down. Never strong, painfully aware of her husband’s disappointment in her, his expectations so much more than she can give, her inability to conceive, Lucinda sinks into a depression that ends in tragedy.
“Don’t come without a box of tissues,” Ngaire warned, using one herself. She was enormously encouraged by Francesca’s ability to win sympathy for her character without portraying her as in any way wimpish. Francesca delivered her lines movingly, and with great sincerity bettering the very talented Paige Macauly.
Even Fee had been impressed, in fact her little girl took her breath away. Perversely Fee was hurt. Francesca hadn’t asked her to run through her lines with her, or even offer a few words of expert advice.
“Brought it all on your own head, Fifi,” David told her. “Francesca wants to contribute. Let her.”
Whilst he was in Brisbane, Grant decided to take the opportunity to speak to an architect about his proposed homestead. Drew recommended an excellent man and an appointment was set up by Drew’s secretary. The homesteads of Opal Downs and Kimbara appeared in a number of editions of Historic Homesteads of Australia and when Grant arrived at the architect’s office he found the best coffee table edition lying open on the desk. They talked for quite a while about family influence and inheritance, the marriage between architecture and environment, while Grant revealed the sort of thing he wanted.
He expected the architect, Hugh Madison, a handsome clever-looking man in his late forties to pick up a pencil and tracing paper, instead he went to the computer and immediately began drawing up concepts. It was fascinating watching a wonderful kaleidoscope of graphics, but Grant still preferred drawings like the framed architectural drawings that hung on the walls of Opal. Drawings he had loved all his life. It was agreed Madison should visit the proposed site and a tentative date was set towards the end of the month. Madison would travel to the nearest outback domestic terminal and Grant would pick him up from there and ferry him back to Opal.
“I feel quite excited by the prospect,” the architect told Grant as they parted. “It will be a joy! It’s not often one gets the chance to design a major contemporary homestead. The powerful mystique of the outback will be inspirational. It will fully test what gift I have.” As it would have to, Madison privately thought. This young man radiated purpose and energy. He was also very definite about what he wanted. He would be an exacting client but a very appreciative one if Madison could deliver his dream. Madison was confident on both scores.
Back at the Opal homestead, Francesca was finding filming wasn’t as easy as she supposed. As a novice she had so much to learn, even how to turn her head but Ngaire, the guiding hand, was very patient with her, taking her steadily over her scenes. They didn’t amount to many—Lucinda disappeared early—but they were essential to the story. They were shot to surprisingly few takes, sometimes four or five, never as many as Francesca feared might be necessary given her inexperience. But she made sure she came well-prepared—as well-prepared as Fee, who continued to show her amazement at this new side to her daughter.
Ngaire seemed delighted by both their work. She even listened to Francesca’s input regarding her own character, a delicate young woman but still possessed of courage, struggling to survive in a world radically different from everything she had known. For all Ngaire’s demonstrated brilliance, Francesca found she was remarkably kind and easy to get on with, never once giving way to temper when sometimes, as could be expected, things went quite wrong.
The lights were hot, cords trailed all over the floors. The make-up was just awful. It took such an age to put it on let alone get it off. Wearing the costumes in the sweltering heat. But Francesca found herself having a very good time. The trick was to forget Francesca de Lyle completely. She was Lucinda who loved her husband desperately, knowing each day she was losing him to forces outside her control. A young woman’s dreams shattered. A young man’s vision rewarded. Francesca was stunned to finish a particularly poignant scene only to see her mother and Ngaire bunched together with tears pouring down their cheeks.
“Oh my God, darling, you could make your mark!” Fee cried emotionally, neatly evading a whole lot of equipment to take Francesca in her arms. “You do have a lot of your mother in you after all.”
Each night when they watched the day’s scenes reeled off, Francesca couldn’t believe it was herself she was seeing on the screen. It gave her an actual frisson seeing her own face as she had never seen it before. She couldn’t help but know her looks were out of the ordinary but the young woman on the screen was lovely in a way she hadn’t fully appreciated and she had a way of speaking with her eyes and her hands. It cheered Francesca enormously to know she was acquitting herself rather well. It affirmed her value, reinforced her confidence in herself.
“And with absolutely no experience!” Fee exclaimed, still struggling to come to terms with this unexpected side to her daughter. “Just goes to show the power of the gene. Ally will marvel at this when she sees it.”
Except Ally always knew I was a closet actress, Francesca thought. It was different with her mother who viewed her as much more a de Lyle than a Kinross.
Glenn was always there at her shoulder, ready to offer help if she needed i
t, ready to explain, to instruct, to admire. Glenn was very much part of everything, not only the screenwriter, but Ngaire’s much valued colleague. Ngaire and Glenn took their lunch break together, heads close as they got into intense discussion about how things were progressing. In the evening Glen had taken to asking Francesca to go for an after-dinner stroll with him. Francesca didn’t know quite how it happened. Certainly she hadn’t initiated anything but she found Glenn attractive, his personality easy yet stimulating. There was a depth to him she liked and they had the film in common as a constant subject of conversation.
“So when is Grant coming home?” Glenn slid the question in neatly the third night out.
“I don’t really know.” Francesca shook her head desperate for Grant to return home.
“Really? I thought you two were very close.” Glenn stared down at her, attracted to her strongly but unsure how to proceed. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to discern something intangible but very powerful between Cameron and Francesca.
Yet Francesca was startled by the question, not thinking herself and Grant so transparent. It wasn’t as though there was any kissing or touching or telling conversation in front of other people. “Surely you’ve had very little time to see us together?” she parried.
He gave a faint laugh. “I’m someone who notices things, Francesca. I’m a writer. It’s my training and my nature.”
“So what have you noticed?” She tried to speak lightly.
“I would say you two had a special understanding.”
Francesca stopped to shake a tiny pebble from her sandal. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Glenn?”
His voice was wry. “I suppose what I really want to know is are you spoken for?”
She knew she blushed, grateful he couldn’t see it. “A writer must be noted for getting to the point.”
“It’s not every day I meet someone like you, Francesca,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a secret, either, that I find you very attractive. I would like to get to know you better. But maybe that’s not possible?”
How to frame a response? As though it were any of his business anyway. “Grant and I are very good friends.” Francesca lifted her head to stare up at the glittering desert stars. Friends? When he filled her with the most wonderful sensation of “coming home.”
Glenn evidently wasn’t impressed. “Don’t you just hate that,” he mocked. “Very good friends.”
“Well that’s all I’m prepared to say.”
“Actually I am rushing it,” Glenn apologised, shaking his head ruefully. “But a man’s a fool if he lets someone wonderful like you pass him by. You’re beautiful, Francesca. You’re also very talented.”
“I’m sure Mamma’s surprised,” Francesca answered lightly, trying to turn the conversation. She did find Glenn attractive. In some ways he charmed her but there was only one man she wanted and perversely he was trying to push her away.
“Would you think of repeating your experience?” Glenn asked, warmed by the silken brush of her arm.
“You mean consider acting as a serious career?” She sensed he was very interested in her answer.
“There would be much to learn, Francesca, but there’s no doubt you’re a natural and the cameras love you. It doesn’t love everyone no matter how good-looking. I’ve seen beautiful people film as quite ordinary.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Francesca mused. “I suppose it’s all about photography. I’ve always taken a good picture. But to answer your question, I don’t want to be a film star, Glenn. That’s not my dream at all.”
It was absurd to feel such disappointment. “And what is your dream?” he asked, looking down at her silken head.
“In some ways the hardest thing of all,” Francesca responded. “To have a happy, lasting marriage. To raise a family. Bring all my children up with the right values. Help them to become people of confidence and accomplishment. I want to love them. Have them love me. I never want discord or alienation. I fear conflict.”
This girl had been hurt. Deeply hurt, Glenn thought.
“No easy ambition,” he murmured
“I know.” She looked back at the purple sky. “But I want to focus all my energies on family. If one is in the fortunate financial position to do so being a wife and mother is a full-time job.”
“Fee’s career would have taken her a lot away from you?” he said with sudden realisation.
“Yes.” Francesca nodded not wanting to discuss the breakdown of her parent’s marriage, her father’s custody of her which Glenn didn’t know.
“But I understand from Rebecca that you had a first-class P.R. job in London?”
“That’s true. I was competent but I’ve said my goodbyes. It didn’t make me feel I was doing anything terribly important. There was no charge. I wanted to have a musical career at one time but my father vetoed that. It wasn’t quite the thing.”
“I expect your father wants what you want. For you to marry well and happily.”
Though Francesca laughed, it sounded a little hollow. “He has my future husband lined up.”
“Good grief you’re surely not going to let your father pick your future husband?” That would ruin everything, Glenn thought.
“Of course not,” Francesca answered calmly. “But there’s been a bit of pressure there. From my side of the family and his.”
“Your suitor’s?” Glenn was totally distracted.
“It’s a class thing, Glenn, being an Australian you mightn’t understand. I’m a ‘today’ person. My father definitely isn’t. Being an earl has a lot of implications.”
“I would imagine,” Glenn agreed dryly, his quirky eyebrows going up. “And being an earl’s daughter has its responsibilities, I take it?”
“They do have an effect on me.” Francesca remembered all the times she had suffered inner qualms and discomforts, aware of her father’s plan for her. “I can’t overlook them but my parents had their life. Surely I must have mine.”
“I should jolly well say so.” Glenn was thinking too much parental involvement was a terrible intrusion on a person’s life. “Surely this chap knows you don’t love him?”
Francesca’s voice was gentle, almost resigned. “I do love him. I’ve known him all my life. He’s counting on that. But it’s not that kind of love. That one person.”
That one person! It sounded very much like she’d found him. “Does Cameron have any idea about all this?” Glenn asked. Cameron was in love with her. He was quite sure of his own radar.
Francesca answered with some irony. “Grant seems to be on side with my father’s master plan.”
Glenn turned his keen, intelligent brown eyes on her. “I find that very hard to believe. I see Grant Cameron as a tough, very determined young man in a man’s world. He wouldn’t knuckle down to anyone.”
“Except maybe himself,” said Francesca.
His father had always told him, especially when he was a headstrong kid. “Don’t do things, Grant, without thinking them through. Hell, hadn’t he learnt? Yet he couldn’t wait to get back to her, every day bringing him closer to asking her to marry him and to hell with the rest. Why not let it out? Let his feelings go free? Tell her exactly what he felt for her. Why didn’t he simply cry out, “Now I’ve found you I’ll never let you go!” Why! Did his love for her run to self-sacrifice? Was that what love was? Putting the loved one’s welfare before one’s own?
In his business he had grown into the habit of setting down all his concerns, identifying them by putting them in print. Then working out solutions from there. Even as he was hiring an architect to draw up plans for the new homestead his mind was ranging over other options. Other places from where he could operate.
Places where Francesca wouldn’t feel quite so isolated and the climate would be kinder. Maybe most of the Camerons from the beginning had been blondes or redheads? They’d had time to acclimatise over the generations. He was as genuinely fearful for Francesca’s beautiful skin as a collector wou
ld be fearful of hanging a fine painting where it received too much strong daylight. Francesca was taking up so much of his head space he felt he was never without her.
He was flying in over Opal, on a hot clear day, looking down at the great maze of interlocking billabongs and creeks, marked by narrow bands of verdant green on both sides of the water channels. The mulga, the vast region where acacias predominated, spread away to the horizon, bridging the gap between the hardiest eucalypt country and the true desert with its golden plains of pungent, pointed, spinifex and saltbush, its glittering gibber-stones and rolling dark red sand-dunes.
How he loved it! His home. It called to him as it always did when he went beyond its boundaries. The Dead Heart. Only it wasn’t dead at all. It was beating, magnificent, unique; the flora without parallel for its adaptation to such a harsh environment. Even the ghost gums grew out of sheer rock where occasional storm waters had flowed and the barren interior became an ocean of wildflowers that gloried in its short, breathtaking tide.
Flowers! The fragrant flowers of the inland. Blazing on and on. Mile after mile. In such a harsh land none had thorns. Neither did the trees and bushes of the desert. Nothing to protect themselves. The exquisite roses had thorns to protect them. In other parts of the world thorns were the rule rather than the exception. Grant went with his stream of consciousness, which always carried images of Francesca. She might have been the only girl left in the world so obsessed was he with the thought of her.
The fair Francesca! A pink rose with satin petals. A rose in the wilderness. Once this wilderness, this great savage land, the parched deserts and plains formed the bed of the Great Inland Sea of prehistory. Twenty thousand years ago the vast Interior had been clothed in luxuriant vegetation to rival the paradise of the wild, the tropical rainforests of the Far North. Crocodiles had once thrived as they still did north of Capricorn. There were many drawings of crocodiles recorded by the aborigines in the rock paintings in and around the Wild Heart. A remarkable witness to the length of time the aborigines had roamed Australia. One of the rarest trees in the world, the Livistona, a tall, graceful tropical “cabbage” palm he had seen growing in pockets in the heat of the desert. A microclimate created by a river gorge.
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