by Daisy Banks
Two days, she’d promised, no more than three if things didn’t go well today, and all this would be finished. Even with so much disruption to the house, he had no regrets. He should be glad he’d agreed to them filming, for if he hadn’t, Sian wouldn’t be part of his life. How dreary his existence had been, for so long, before she walked in to light his world with her incandescent presence.
He placed the breakfast dishes on a tray and took them down to the kitchen where he set them in the dishwasher. Both the house staff would be off until the filming had finished. Until then, he and Sian must look after themselves.
Tonight he would surprise her. He’d make dinner. Perhaps an Italian style meal would please her. Yes, a good selection of antipasti accompanied by a nice bright wine. That would be perfect to help her relax after today. Somewhere in the cellar, he’d find the very thing. It might take him a while to locate the wine, but he’d the whole day to look. After turning the dishwasher on, he made his way down the short corridor off the kitchen.
The unmistakable smell of the subterranean storeroom gave him pause. Tiny goose bumps prickled his arms. The light overhead flickered, casting shadows. The electricity supply down here had always been fitful. A flashlight stood on a shelf by the door. The staff, well experienced with the problems, always left a heavy-duty torch by the entrance. He picked it up and headed along a walkway.
Floor to ceiling wine racks and larger wine bins, some of them stacked high, others with half a dozen bottles, stretched the length of the room into the shadows. So many memories swept over him at the sight of the well-stored bottles.
In his youth, he’d favored white wine and stocked a great deal of sack, along with a sufficiency of port for guests. He recalled little of the first months after his return from Europe in the summer of 1763 and the bitter discovery of Julia’s death. The wine merchant visited monthly, at his order. The heavy drinking went on into the following year…or perhaps the year after. His memory remained hazy.
He shook his head. It had taken him a few more years to discover the overwhelming powers of opium.
Such had been his drunken excesses, even his physique had suffered, and he’d grown careless. One full moon he had killed a worker on the estate, which would have horrified his father had he known, but his parents weren’t present. They’d left long before he met Julia. The upshot of his grief-laden folly led to the villager’s attempts to kill him and his flight to London.
Sian had experienced some of his worst memories, running barefoot beside him over the stubbled field. In his eighteenth century reality, he’d fled. In their dream, he had carried Sian with him into the drainage ditch. They’d escaped the man wielding an axe. Thank God, he’d managed to wake her at that point. He’d been glad she’d seen no more.
Sian would be appalled at the way London had offered him sanctuary during the rest of the eighteenth century. A place where he’d hidden from the world in plain sight, killed with a savagery to shame him now, and roistered with the worst of humanity.
He sighed and made his way down to the next rack of bottles. “Ah, claret.”
By the mid-eighteen hundreds, when he’d returned from his sojourn in London, claret had been his first drink of choice, and he’d restocked the cellar again. As he traveled the globe during the later part of the nineteenth century, he’d developed a taste for gin. Several crates of the green bottles still stood in an alcove. In the early twentieth century, brandy had been his preferred tipple, and later during the twenties and thirties, cocktails entertained him. Each taste preference was marked here as he’d made all the necessary additions to his stock.
The wine cellar should be a pleasure to contemplate, but his enforced imprisonment down here in the past wiped the gloss off such thoughts. Sian’s presence meant he no longer must dwell here in the darkness during each month’s full moon. He paused, picked up a bottle, and wiped off a layer of dust.
A low electrical hum came from overhead, the usual sign the electric was about to go. He set the bottle down and looked up. The strip light seemed steady enough.
Noise!
Crackling whines, whistles, and electrical feedback echoed around him. He’d not heard anything so loud since…the last war.
The blare of sound ceased. He picked up a bottle of white wine and headed back to the door. Thank heavens he’d sold off the horses in the sixties. They’d have been terrified by the noise today. He placed the wine on a shelf in the kitchen out of the sunlight. Later, he’d return to put it to chill for the evening. The wagon remained parked outside, a looming reminder of all the strangers milling about in the house. He’d find no peace even if he went up to the library.
Strange, from his earliest boyhood, this house rarely offered him a sense of refuge in any way. He wasn’t foolish enough to think it might give him sanctuary today.
Out.
He’d go out in one of the cars. Take a drive to the Downs, maybe get lunch at one of the pubs en route. Without Sian to accompany him, the outing wouldn’t be as great a pleasure, but she had given him a tremendous gift, one she little realized. Since meeting her, he’d lost some of the wariness of being away from the house. He’d rediscovered he could venture into the world outside.
He raced up to their bedroom. No Mrs. Tyson today, so he quickly made the bed. He tossed the counterpane over the top. Not anywhere as neat as when the housekeeper did the job, but it would do.
The long leather coat from the forties hung on a back rack in one of his wardrobes. He’d not worn it for several years. He donned the supple brown leather. The result wasn’t right, not if he compared it to what he’d seen men wear in recent films. Perhaps he should order a new one, something more up to date. A ridiculous sense of planning an adventure hit him, as if he were preparing for a safari or a trek in the Patagonian forests. Sian was right—he should get out of the house more often. That’s what he’d do today. He’d go shopping, even if he had to do it alone. He’d take a good amount of money with him and visit the tailors. He strode down to the study.
Post-it Notes and print outs from the computer lay scattered like large confetti all over his roll top desk Sian had used for the last couple of weeks. He crossed the room to open a small block section of books on the bookcase. They fronted one of the safes that he had installed in the sixties. Several others, much older, were hidden in places around the house. One, in an earlier age, had been his father’s strong room. He’d not entered there since he sailed to the continent in the autumn of 1760.
In truth, he’d been nothing more than a heartsick boy when he left for France at the start of his journey through Europe after Julia refused to marry him. Sian showed him a different kind of relationship, one built on his trust in her, and her selfless faith in him. She had lifted him from the kind of imprisonment no felon knew in this age. He’d never find the way to thank her.
But he could try. He’d find a little token for her. On High Street, where his tailor’s shop sat between a bakery and a shoe shop, an independent jeweler stood opposite. He’d take a peek at their current offerings. Two birds with one stone: a new waxed coat, green, like those he’d seen some other men wearing at the firework display, and then something for his… The word wife hovered, but he daren’t use it, not even to himself. If he called her that, the next step became inevitable. He selected the keys he wanted from the small rack in the safe, tossed them up in his hand, caught them, and hurried out of the study.
At the bottom of the main staircase, he ignored the glances from a pair of men carrying large silver cases and the assessing gaze of two young women who’d have passed as interesting strumpets in his youth. The urge to escape couldn’t be denied. He had to get out. He strode fast toward the door. The last person he saw, a lean man with a limp, garbed in a long gray raincoat with a dark fedora shadowing his features, could pass a message to Sian. All these people here must know her. “Tell Miss Armstrong that Magnus will meet her after
the filming, would you?”
“Yes, Mr. Johansson.”
He strode quickly to the garage with the wide, green, double doors. Inside, he walked down the row looking for a car Monty had recently serviced, one with an orange card tied to the wiper blade. The black Mark II Jaguar deserved an outing as much as he did. He removed the card, opened the door, and inhaled. The sweet smell of clean engine oil and leather polish lingered.
The Jaguar purred into life as he turned the ignition key. He headed out, driving slow past another lorry, no doubt containing more of what Sian described as “kit.” He turned left at the gates with a rare sense of pleasure. Enjoying the moment, he accelerated down the country road.
* * * *
“Sian, you’re looking well.” Richard offered Sian an embrace as they met outside the portico.
“Thanks. I’m fine, honest.” She gave him a quick hug, took a step back, and nodded toward the three men waiting for the lorry’s tailgate to descend. “Everything okay so far?”
“Yes, we should have all the equipment in situ well before lunch time. The sound desk is already up, of course.”
“Good. If the weather improves, as the forecast said, we can get all the outdoor shots done today, a smidge past mid morning, I think.” She glanced up at the heavy clouds. “It’s supposed to clear by then.”
“Gary,” Richard called out. “The generators need to go to the three sites you’ve got on your plan. You’ll need tarps ready, too.”
“I’ll leave you to it, Richard. I’ll go inside. I don’t want any damage at all, and I know they’ve begun walk-throughs with the dancers.” She hurried back into the house and headed up the corridor to the ballroom to double check all the furniture had been moved. As she entered, one look at the expressions of the dancers soothed her fears. They might smoke or sup vodka as they practiced plies, but they understood beauty.
“Sian, this place is so cool. It’s awesome.”
She nodded to the girl in the luminous pink leg warmers, and smiling, moved through the room to step out onto the terrace. Her initial panic had settled. Things seemed to be going according to schedule. The mobile kitchen offering food for the crew and cast had started to serve coffee. She counted the band members as they stood next to the truck with steaming mugs in their hands. They’d better use the ashtrays provided. If she found one butt where it shouldn’t be, she’d kick someone’s ass for sure.
A light breeze promised no rain despite the wretched weather forecast.
“Sian, come look at this, will you?” Jerry beckoned.
She followed him out into the long corridor, entered the music room, and was pleased to see Jerry had covered the worst part of the damaged walls with his big mirrors. This room, where so much beauty was spoiled by damage from the fire in the house, always brought a sigh. As to the wrecked conservatory beyond, she could only guess how much Magnus wanted that renovated next year. “Right, what’s the problem?”
“Our lead ballerina has put on pounds since the fitting. One twirl and she’ll pop the seams. I think she’ll look like a split saveloy roll in this frock if she tries to perform in it. I want to put her in a green gown I have on the rail.”
“Show me the gown, Jerry.” Sian crossed the room to him. “Why has Tanya put on so much weight?” she whispered.
He smirked and cocked his head toward the dancer. “Nature’s bounty. She’s three months gone.”
“Oh, God.”
The elfin-blond ballerina in a short robe sat waiting with a worried expression.
“Should I say congratulations, Tanya?” Sian asked.
The girl smiled. “Oh, yes. This is my last job this year. When this one is finished, I go home to Shropshire and Carl. We are going to grow spuds, keep chickens, and have a beautiful baby.”
Sian leaned forward and gave Tanya a hug. “Jerry’s got another dress he thinks will be right for you. Shall we take a look and try it?”
“Thanks. I didn’t want to let you down, but I never thought I’d get this big so soon.”
“Big?” The girl looked ethereal slender. “It’s not a problem as long as this dress fits. Will you be okay with the arabesques? What about the lifts?”
“Sure. Robbie could lift a brick privy. He’s got a lot of inner body strength. He won’t drop me.”
Jerry held up a sheaf of ivy green chiffon, the bodice decorated with jet and silver spangles. “This is the dress. What do you think?”
“Perfect. Try it on, Tanya,” Sian said. “We’ve got the shoes to match, yes?” she asked Jerry.
The blond-haired girl beamed. “I carry a lot of spare shoes in the car. I’ve got flats and blocks—silver, black, emerald, and bottle green.”
“Silver with it. Jerry, get the makeup girl to put a silver spray on her hair, green ribbons, maybe feathers, anything floaty.” She turned to the dancer. “That okay with you?”
“Great, I was so scared you’d send me home.”
“No, I think you’ve done us a favor, too. This green is going to look so much better, more dramatic than all the pale stuff the other dancers are wearing.” Sian gave Jerry a hug. “And as for you, well, what can I say?”
He beamed back.
“Sian, I’ve set up the bedroom with the props you wanted. You want to come up stairs and check?” One of the property girls called from the doorway.
She turned from the wardrobe master. “Sure, Jo. I’m itching to see how the design we made has worked out.” She followed the young woman up the stairs.
“I hope you like it. I think it’s great.” Jo opened the double doors to the guest suite.
“Wow! It’s fabulous. I knew the colors would work. Those blinds you suggested make all the difference. It was a good idea to get them. Do you think the camera crew will be happy with the light level?”
Jo nodded. “I dragged one of them up here earlier. He seemed happy enough.”
“Really?” Sian smiled.
“Nothing like that, at all times professional.”
“Good. I’d best go down. The guys from the band must have drunk enough caffeine to rouse them by now. Maybe we can get together at lunch time.”
“Sure, see you about half-twelve.”
Sian made her way down the corridor to the stairs. A sense of connection with reality hit her. This was the life she’d lived and loved. The last two months with Magnus seemed more like a sexual fantasy, where she’d tasted the fulfillment of so much desire. Somehow, she must convince him to make her his mate. Only then, would things stay the same between them. She didn’t want to think what might happen if he continued to refuse her wish. She’d never thought of herself as being vain, but the prospect of growing old while he remained as he was frightened her. No way would she want him to see her in old age. Couples aging together was something different.
He had to make her like him.
She descended the stairs, pleased to hear the screeching chords of an electric guitar. The guys must be getting ready. That they’d agreed to play live thrilled her. The effect would be much better for the whole shoot.
“Oh, wow. You look so authentic.” She stared at the two lead dancers in their eighteenth century costumes. The white wigs, the lace and satin, the heavy makeup—all of it just as she’d seen in the paintings Magnus showed her. “Amazing.”
“Thanks, chuck. I can’t wait to murder this one, she’s been moaning all morning about the skirts.”
The girl snapped a glance to her partner. “You try going for a pee in this thing.”
“No real murder, hey? Remember, you two are supposed to be passionately in love.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the girl said as she grabbed his silk clad arm. “Come on, Romeo. We’ll go through the lift sequence again.”
They strode off toward the ballroom. Sian’s sense of presence shifted back to the exquisite experience she’d shared wi
th Magnus last night. No one could wish for anything more beautiful. She couldn’t be without him. She would be a shell and nothing more.
Chapter 10
Franklyn limped to the courtyard where the food wagon stood, got a coffee, and with his hat dipped low on his brow, parked in a shadowy corner to drink it. Astonishing how a gray raincoat and a fedora, combined with a black walking stick, turned him into an invisible man. Best solution all considered. No matter what, there was no way he’d have missed this shoot. From the little he’d seen so far, things looked well organized, typical Sian. He’d taught her well. She’d sure been eager to learn. They’d shared breakfast meetings in the park that dragged through to dinner in the evening. Days, weekends, he’d given her both so he could talk her through each task when setting up a job, introduce her to the musicians, artists, and technicians who were important to his world. All the time and effort he’d spent meant she had learned fast until she had developed much of the skill of an expert in her field with the panache of a young woman about town.
What a bloody fool he’d been. So many people had told him how good they looked together. No one once asked if he truly was her uncle. He shouldn’t have waited.
He inhaled and winced. The scent of hot coffee and fried onions couldn’t mask the underlying smell here.
Prickles of gooseflesh pebbled his skin. A reaction to the odor of this place he couldn’t control. Something familiar in the mix of scents goaded his senses, raised his need to leave a mark of himself here so Johansson would know he’d been present today.
The lusty scream of a tormented electric guitar blasted into the morning. The wails echoed around the courtyard. Sound, raw and hot, thrummed through his veins.
He had to hand it to Sian. She’d worked her little ass hard, quite literally, to make sure the Timeless film happened here. Once he got her back to London where she belonged, he’d find a way to express his pleasure at the results of her work.