Her new tweed skirt and white blouse with the leg-o-mutton sleeves, suited her, she thought, as she cinched in her waist with a leather belt. She donned the matching jacket which had a Persian lamb collar. Not Russian sable, but it did quite as well. Gazing in the mirror, she titled the sensible straw hat over her brow. Not nearly as frivolous and wonderful as the blue velvet she’d reluctantly left behind at Hanover Square. But at least she had come by this honestly.
She pinned a watch to her blouse and took a clean handkerchief from her drawer. She would not think of Blair, she told herself sternly. Her nights were filled with him, his mouth on hers, his hard body pressed up against hers, and that was quite enough. Her days would be her own. If the paintings sold at this exhibition for the prices mentioned, she would be very comfortable indeed. She could afford to buy a little house of her own, tucked away in the English countryside. Her desire to return to Italy had faded with the knowledge of her mother’s sad time there after her father had died.
Gina left the train and stared up at the Crystal Palace, a huge, wood, glass and iron building, gleaming atop Sydenham Hill. The massive glass structure sparkled like crystal in the spring sunshine. Grand fountains and cascades surrounded it, and as she approached, a gust of wind sprayed mist over her, dampening her face. She welcomed it for she thought she was dreaming.
Inside, people from all walks of life wandered through exhibits both strange and beautiful, beneath the soaring glass arch. Gina located the art exhibition just as the Prince of Wales strolled through, accompanied by his crowd of supporters. He was a large man with a thick girth, the bottom button of his coat left undone. He stopped for some time in front of Milo’s paintings, his hands behind his back in quiet contemplation.
“Is Miss Russo here?” The Prince asked.
An attendant rushed to take her arm. Gina came forward and curtsied with trembling knees before the prince.
He kissed her hand, and his beard, streaked with grey not unlike Lord Leighton’s, brushed her skin. His warm eyes cast an appraising glance over her. He was known to appreciate women as much as art. “You are the perfect subject for an artist, Miss Russo.”
Gina curtsied again. “Thank you your highness.”
“Mighty pretty woman,” the prince said to no one in particular as he lit a cigarette and moved on with his entourage pausing to study the works of the impressionists.
Quietly thrilled for Milo, Gina stayed long after he’d gone, enjoying the exhibition. She had paused, captured by a particular work, when a short man with glasses came up to her. “Miss Russo?” He removed his hat and his bald pate shone pink in the light. “Mr. Preston, at your service. Your face is now quite well-known. I wonder if you’d be interested in becoming a model for our company Pear’s Soap and be captured by the camera rather than in oils.”
She stared at him in surprise, unsure what he had in mind. ““I’ve long been an admirer of your charming posters, Mr. Preston. Particularly, children at bath time.”
“They’re quite famous. We are branching out to produce a more sophisticated product in line with the coming new Century.”
He reached into his coat pocket. “My card, Miss Russo. If you are interested, please come to that address on Monday at one o’clock.”
She nodded. “I should certainly like to discuss it with you, Mr. Preston.”
“One o’clock then.” He gave a nod and put on his hat.
After the man had left, Gina smiled a little wistfully. This new venture added to the money from Milo’s paintings, plus what Frederik Leighton paid her, her cottage in the country came closer to reality. Why then, did she yearn for that other life and the one man she had ever wanted? The one her mother would have so heartily disapproved of?
* * *
The following Monday afternoon, Blair cooled his heels outside Lord Leighton’s house for hours, but Gina failed to appear.
The following days he alternated between anger at Lord Leighton for withholding Gina’s address, and Gina for being unpredictable, until he accepted where the anger should be leveled. He forced himself to take a good look at his own conduct. Lord Leighton’s criticism had made him feel more uncomfortable than his mother had ever managed.
Frustrated, he was forced to delay his search to attend parliament. Charles Stewart Parnell, the uncrowned King of Ireland, a fighter for freedom and an unsung hero, had lost his leadership of the Irish Nationalist Party, and the cause of Irish home rule had been set back.
Bitterly disappointed Blair returned to Park Lane on Wednesday evening aware he’d have to return to Ireland soon, to add his voice to others who demanded change. It was not only his duty, he had long since felt it was his calling.
He had hoped first to persuade Gina to marry him. A proper courtship, if it wasn’t too late. He tried to reassure himself that the way she’d been on their last evening together showed she cared for him. Might he hope she still did? He’d been such a fool, but no more. He desperately wanted to live up to her expectations of him.
To make her proud of him.
Chapter Nineteen
Present Day
Dublin
Dylan spent the weekend at his parents’ noisy, Georgian terrace house in Dublin. He enjoyed catching up and fitted it in whenever he could. The family sat around the big table in the kitchen for dinner and all spoke at once. He grinned and tried to get a word in.
Being here among the boisterous members of his family grounded him, and reminded him of what was really important in life. Despite the humor, the digs and the witticisms, which he responded to in kind, he couldn’t get Astrid out of his mind.
Bernadette, his favorite sister, accompanied him to their usual pub for a drink. Friends and total strangers crowded around wanting to learn more about his movie and confirm the latest news written about him. In the smoky atmosphere, with Danny Boy sung by a slightly tipsy group in the corner, the world he knew settled over him like a familiar skin.
When the two fans seeking an autograph left them alone, Dylan relaxed and savored the taste of hops and roasted barley. He grinned as Berny wiped the Guinness froth from her upper lip. They had discussed her latest boyfriend Aiden in detail, with Dylan deciding he sounded okay. “I want to meet him though.”
“You shall. Now it’s your turn,” she said raising dark brows.
“My turn?”
“You have something on your mind. Not related to the movie, I suspect. You’re not still fretting over what’s her name?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.
He laughed. “You’re so transparent, Berny. You never liked Jessica did you?”
She shook her head, then lent forward. “So cough up. Who is it?”
He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not sure it’s going anywhere.”
Her eyes widened. “Why not? No one could resist your charms surely. Or so the tabloids tell us.”
“If you keep that up I won’t buy you another drink. And I know you’re broke.”
She frowned. “I’ve resigned myself to being poor until I leave university and get a decent job.”
“Do you need anything? I can...”
“No thank you. Stop being evasive,” Bernie said. “Who is she, and why hasn’t she fallen into your arms? Or has she?”
“She’s a French actress. The star of Painted Lady, Astrid LeClair.”
“So, the tabloids were right for once.”
“They weren’t right actually. Astrid’s in a relationship, although not happy, I suspect. The boyfriend is a wealthy French businessman.”
“Why don’t you move on then? Find someone else. It can’t be hard for you.” She looked surprised.
Had she never thought him capable of commitment? And was he? He had to admit he’d found it hard to commit to one woman, part of the reason his previous relationship failed.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Or was that a dig?”
“Sour grapes probably.” She wrinkled her nose and grinned. “I wish I’d inherited your looks.
”
He laughed. “You’re a very cute girl, Berny.” He swiped at the ring of beer on the tabletop with a finger. “Seriously, I have to admit I’m already in deep with this girl. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
She pursed her lips and gave a whistle, her brown eyes concerned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. What is it apart from the obvious that you like about her?”
“I hardly know her, but I could already bore you for hours. The compassion in her eyes, a connection soul deep....” He ran both hands through his hair. “I’ve never felt like this.”
She reached across and patted his hand. “I hope it works out.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid it won’t. And then I shall have to bury myself in work for the rest of my sorry life.”
Berny giggled. “You always were a dramatist.”
* * *
Astrid rubbed her mouth over and over again with a tissue. She’d felt violated during the scene with Alistair McNaught. He’d disregarded direction and pawed at her and at one point, whispered a suggestion she found insulting. She reacted angrily and complained to Laurence Gilbray, the director.
“He’s a method actor and the scene worked, Astrid,” Gilbray said after taking her to a quiet corner. “You must agree he makes a very good Ogilvie. You only have a few more scenes with him.”
What was she, an actress or a cheap bar girl? She came away fuming.
She ran into Dylan in the hallway, coming out of his door. “That man makes me so mad,”
she said.
“Who?”
“Alistair. He doesn’t know how to behave. I’m surprised he gets work.”
“Let me know if he goes too far, and I’ll have words with him.”
Dylan looked so fierce she blanched, and regretted telling him. “Please don’t. It will be fine. Gilbray will keep him in check.”
“He’d better.”
She watched him stride away down the hall. He had an old-fashioned courtesy like Blair in some ways. She liked that about him.
She opened a bottle of mineral water and tried to relax. She remembered the expression in McNaught’s strange green eyes and shuddered. She’d probably antagonized him and poisoned her working environment. The thought of even one more scene with him made her stomach churn. Alone in a strange country, she felt vulnerable, but was determined not to ask Philippe to come to England. It would give him what he wanted, complete control of her life. Her eyes widened in the mirror when she admitted for the first time she did not miss Philippe. Dylan would leap to her defense if she wished it. But she was determined never to ask him.
The wardrobe mistress waited to take away her wet and muddy costume. She stripped it off quickly and hopped into the shower to wash her hair. The masseuse would be here soon, and would massage away the tension that had settled over her shoulders.
Dylan and McNaught would be working tomorrow on that opening scene. Dylan had been angry for her, but she trusted him not to cause more trouble by speaking out of turn.
Most of the cast had a couple of days off. Jenny Lane and a few others were going down to Antony’s cottage in Cornwall. Dylan thought her too serious, well she would go with them and have some fun.
Chapter Twenty
After five hours on the road, Dylan reached Cornwall, turning off the A394 at Helston.
He pulled over and cut the engine of his motorbike, to unzip his leather jacket. In the early afternoon the sun still had some heat in it. Taking off again, he headed down the valley through the narrow, leafy lanes of the Lizard Peninsula. They now had the opening scene with McNaught in the can. And he felt pleased with how the scene had gone with Maureen playing Maeve to perfection. He grinned. She’d taught him a lot and working with her again had been great. Not only was she professional, she was generous and you couldn’t say that about everyone in the business.
Sometime later, he finally found the old, thatched-roofed Cornish farmstead converted into three, whitewashed cottages by Antony and his partner, Mike.
When he cut the bike’s engine, the silence struck him, just birdcalls and faint laughter from somewhere in the garden. He parked next to a shiny, red Mercedes convertible at the end of the drive. He wondered if it belonged to Astrid. She’d told him she hated driving in England on the left side of the road.
Antony greeted him at the door of the main cottage. “Ciao! Welcome to The Lizard, my friend, an ancient and mysterious place. Did you have a good trip down?”
Dylan grinned at Antony’s flair for the dramatic. “It’s great to be here, Antony. The traffic wasn’t too bad once I left London behind.” The cottage had warm, maize yellow walls and polished timber floors. Sculptures and paintings that Antony and Mike had collected on their travels decorated every surface.
“You get to share this cottage with Mike and me,” Antony said. “Your room is the one to the right at the top of the stairs. Store your bag and come down and join the group. We’re out in the courtyard taking tea.”
Dylan laughed to hear the very Italian Antony drinking tea. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Mike and I’ve taken to tea in a big way believe it or not. We’ve a great variety in the kitchen, Indian, China, black or green, Lapsang Souchong, Russian Caravan, you have only to name it, and a fascinating collection of teapots.”
“This is a fabulous old place, Antony.”
“Halowynne is over two hundred years old. The cottages were once a piggery and an old barn. We usually rent them out for a bed and breakfast. An actor must have a second string to his bow, don’t you think? Unless they’re heart-throbs that is,” he added, grinning.
Dylan looked out the window at the smooth, green lawns flowing away to the woods in the distance. “Peaceful.”
“We have four acres and have to employ a gardener. You can’t see me mowing the lawns can you?” Antony waved his hands about. “Everything I try to grow dies on me, but Mike’s got a green thumb. You should see his fantastic strawberries, big as apricots.” He pointed. “There’s a lake beyond those trees. Due to the Gulf Stream the water’s warm enough for swimming most of the year.”
“Who’s come down?” Dylan asked casually.
“You know them all. Hurry up and come outside. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Coffee thanks. If you’ve got it,” Dylan said, grinning.
Antony gave a howl of protest and slapped him on the back. He disappeared into the kitchen as Dylan climbed the stairs.
His room was suitably atmospheric with the same heavy, black beams and antique furniture, although he hadn’t slept in a single bed since he was a kid. He was a shade too tall for it. He put down his bag and went to push out the tiny casement window. A few people sat around talking in the garden below. He called out to them and they waved and beckoned. He swallowed a feeling of disappointment at finding Astrid wasn’t among them.
At the bottom of the stairs, he met Antony carrying a tray. “Astrid not here?”
A knowing smile flickered in Antony’s brown eyes, but whatever his thoughts, he wisely kept them to himself. “Over at her cottage, I expect. Or she might have gone for a swim.”
Dylan felt his spirits rise. “I’ll say hello to the crowd,” he said. “Then I might take a swim myself.”
“A good idea,” Antony said, his eyes dancing.
An hour passed and the group turned from tea to wine and spirits. There was still no sign of Astrid. Dylan went back to his room, put on his board shorts and grabbed a towel. Flicking an inquisitive wasp away, he walked toward the band of trees, the late afternoon sun warm on his bare skin. He followed the rambling path through woods filled with lush greenery that looked almost tropical.
Emerging from the trees, he spied a towel on the far side of the lake, and made his way around the edge of the clear, gently rippling water. A pair of sunglasses and a book lay on the towel, but no Astrid. He laid his towel alongside hers and sat on it, picking up her book, The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant.
He liked the way the writer’s name sounded on her tongue. With the sun in his eyes, he could only see her in shadow. “When I’m feeling strong enough.”
Astrid laughed. “I’ve been for a walk. It’s lovely here.” As she moved to her towel, he held his breath. She wore a one-piece, red bathing suit, her full breasts decorously hidden behind a modest swag of material. He admitted to himself that he’d hoped she’d wear a bikini, but there was no missing the perfect symmetry of her body, the long, shapely length of thigh and slender ankles. She had plaited her blonde hair and tied it with a pink scarf. It fell like a thick rope down her bare, brown back. She really was a goddess.
She sat down on her towel, and hugged her knees. “I saw the rushes. You and Maureen work well together.”
He tore his gaze from her to watch a pair of waterfowl swimming among the reeds. Had he been staring? She must be used to it. “We do.”
“She is how you say, a trouper isn’t she?”
He nodded. “I’m jealous of her years spent in rep.”
“I’d delay doing Hamlet,” she said a tiny smile flitting across her mouth. “Your looks would distract the audience from your soliloquy.”
“Don’t tell me that’s a compliment?”
She put on her sunglasses hiding her expression. “In a way.”
“You French are known to be economical,” he said grinning.
She pushed out her full bottom lip, frowning slightly. “When you are older, perhaps. For men the roles only get better. Not so much for the women.”
“Perhaps you mean that good looking guys don’t make good actors.”
“I admire your work,” she said seriously. “I saw the war movie, Fight for Glory. You were formidable. And you are up for the role of the next Bond, no?”
“Don’t believe what you read,” he said. “They have several actors in mind.”
Dylan enjoyed the ease they had with one another. “Is Philippe returning from Paris?” he asked. “I didn’t get to talk to him at the BAFTA’s. How long have you been together?”
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