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‘I do know that, Daddy, and so does Kim. Really and truly we do!’ she protested.
David looked at his daughter closely. ‘I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Frankie. I’m not trying to play God in your lives. It’s hardly a role I relish, and it invariably creates havoc. However, although I’m not infallible, I have had some experience of life, and I want you both to have the benefit of the bit of wisdom I’ve acquired, for what it’s worth.’ He paused. ‘I’ll tell you something else. Years ago I vowed I would never make the same mistake my father did.’
Francesca’s eyes strayed to the photograph of her father’s older sister. ‘You’re thinking of Aunt Arabella, aren’t you, Dad?’
David followed her gaze, directed at the photograph of his sister, taken when she had been presented at court. He nodded. ‘Yes, I am. As you know, your grandfather objected to Kurt von Wittingen most strongly, even though he was a prince and wealthy, because he was a German. Yet Arabella married him anyway. Father lived to regret his decision, even though he never came out and actually said so. I believe it broke his heart, never seeing her again.’ Yes, it truly did, he added to himself. If only the old man had been less obdurate, more reasonable, I know she would not have acted so rashly. That’s a family trait, rashness in the face of opposition, he thought. And Kim’s inherited Arabella’s impetuousness. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie, I missed what you just said. Wool gathering, I’m afraid,’ he apologized.
‘I said it was a very tragic story … Arabella’s and Kurt’s. But still, because of them we do have Diana and Christian, don’t we?’
‘We certainly do, my darling. And that reminds me, I had a letter from Diana just last week. From Königssee. Christian and she want to come over and spend a few weeks with us this summer. I hope you’ll make it a point to be at Langley when they’re there.’
‘Gosh, Daddy, you know I wouldn’t miss their visit for anything,’ she cried. Francesca had always been especially close to her German cousins, who made frequent trips to England and spent many holidays at Langley. She squeezed her father’s arm affectionately. ‘It will be lovely to see them.’ Her face became intent. ‘I know I haven’t really been very helpful about Katharine. But I’m absolutely certain everything’s going to be fine. I know it is.’
‘I hope so, my dear.’
Francesca looked at her watch. ‘Oh, it’s getting late. I must get to the Museum. You don’t mind if I scoot off, do you?’
‘No, my dear, you run along. Incidentally, any instructions for Mrs Moggs?’
Francesca laughed at his pained expression. ‘No, I left a note for her in the kitchen. I’m sorry you have to cope with her this morning. She’s a holy terror, but she does mean well. If I were you, I’d do a disappearing act as soon as you can, then she won’t be able to boss you around.’ Francesca leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Have a nice day, and I’ll see you tonight for dinner.’
‘I’m looking forward to it, darling.’
After Francesca had left for the British Museum, David sat debating with himself about the best course of action to take. Being a man of integrity and decency, he was reluctant to make pointed inquiries about Katharine Tempest. It was abhorrent to him. It smacked of prying, the worst type of spying and infringement of personal privacy. It also snowed lack of trust in Kim’s judgment, and anyway, he would much prefer to hear the facts about Katharine from his son, and not indirectly. And yet … David shook his head in aggravation. It was precisely Kim’s behaviour which was causing him to view the situation with a degree of alarm. Until his talk with Francesca, he had believed Kim’s vagueness to be evasiveness, a defence mechanism induced by the resentment he felt because he thought he was being treated like a child. Sadly, David now acknowledged, Kim had been vague because he knew next to nothing about the girl with whom he was so infatuated. It was most apparent to David that Kim had no information because the girl herself had not been forthcoming.
People in love invariably confided in each other, and talked about their past, didn’t they? Unless … Unless they had something to hide. Did Katharine have something to hide? He told himself this was a stupid, even insane, idea, and hardly worthy of protracted consideration. After all, he had been impressed with Katharine. He understood the reasons for his son’s enthralment, and so he had not given much thought to her background until last night, after his frustrating talk with Kim. The boy had been unable to answer the simplest and most innocent of questions, to David’s utter amazement. Since then he had been looking for flaws in her. The trouble was he had found none. Katharine Tempest seemed to be perfect in every way.
Unexpectedly, as he was pondering her attributes, a thought hit him. That was it. She was far too perfect. Obviously the girl could not help her staggering beauty, that was nature’s doing, and her undeniable talent for acting was another of God’s generous gifts. But what about her personality, her immense charm and her exquisite manners? Had they perhaps been consciously distilled over the years? he wondered. Another disturbing thought crept into his mind: Katharine was uncommonly smooth for her age. She had none of the rough edges of youth. His own children had pleasant personalities, self-confidence and lovely manners, but occasionally they displayed a naïveté, and yes, even a certain gaucheness at times, traits quite natural in view of their youth. She is awfully smooth, he decided, and also a shade too mysterious.
Damnation! he cursed inwardly. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this, someone a little more mature than my darling Frankie, who’s obviously prejudiced about Katharine anyhow. Doris. Of course, Doris. There was no one better equipped to listen than she, and she was sincere and wise and down-to-earth, amongst other things. David picked up the telephone. He dialled the operator, gave her the number of the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, and waited.
‘Madame Asteman, s’il vous plaît,’ he said, when the hotel finally answered.
A moment later Doris’s sleepy voice was murmuring hello.
‘Good morning, Doris. It’s David. I hope I didn’t awaken you, my dear.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she laughed. ‘But that’s all right. I can’t think of a nicer way to be awakened. How are you, darling?’
‘I’m fine. I had your letter this morning, and I’m delighted about the house.’
‘Oh David, the Villa Zamir is perfectly divine! You’re going to love it, and so are Francesca and Kim.’
‘I’m sure we will.’ He smiled to himself. Doris might be a millionairess, but she was the least jaded person he knew. Her enthusiasm and gaiety and zest for life invariably lifted his spirits. ‘I can’t wait to see it. In the meantime, I also called to ask you something, so I’ll get straight to the point. Have you heard of a family in Chicago called Tempest?’
‘No, no, I don’t think I have,’ Doris said hesitantly. After a brief pause, whilst she obviously pondered on it, she said more positively, ‘I’m sure I haven’t. I would have remembered the name. It’s quite unusual. Anyway, why do you want to know, darling?’
‘Apparently Kim has been seeing a girl for a number of months. She’s from Chicago and her name is Tempest.’ He then proceeded to tell her about his concern, and the reasons for it.
Doris listened carefully. When he had finished, she asked, ‘Do you really believe Kim wants to marry her, David?’ her tone alert.
‘Yes, I do. And since he’s almost twenty-two he doesn’t need my permission. Whilst I don’t want to play the heavy Victorian father, I don’t want him to make a mistake either. A mistake he’ll regret.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but I find it damned peculiar he knows so little about the girl and – ‘
‘So do I,’ Doris broke in. ‘You knew my entire life story within a week of meeting me.’
‘Yes, and you knew mine,’ he answered, gratified that she confirmed his own opinion.
‘Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you talk to the girl herself?’ Doris suggested. ‘Ask her to fill you in about her background.’
David drew in his breath sharply. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, Doris. At least not yet. I’ve only just met her. It would be frightfully bad form, poor taste, and besides – ‘
‘Good heavens, David, you English never cease to astound me. Here you are worried to death, or at least you sound as if you are, and you talk to me about bad form. To hell with bad form! If the girl is intelligent she’ll understand your reasons.’
‘Yes, there’s some truth in what you say, but to be honest, I don’t want to precipitate anything at this moment, and I certainly don’t want to give the relationship too much importance in their eyes.’
‘But, David darling, it’s obviously important in your mind.’
‘Well, yes it is. But I don’t want Kim to know I take the relationship seriously. Oh, hell, Doris, I’m not making any sense at all, am I?’
‘Yes, you are. To me at any rate. You think that by simply ignoring the romance it might easily fizzle out. Whereas if you start asking too many questions, giving it credence, they’ll start to view it in a different light themselves. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, darling?’
‘Yes, Doris. As usual, you’re right on target. Parental interference and pressure often cause two people to draw closer together than they otherwise might. Fighting the world, so to speak.’ He rubbed his chin and exclaimed impatiently, ‘Oh, Christ, Doris, maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion!’
‘Yes, you could be, darling,’ she said. ‘And you know what young people are like. They’re madly in love one day, and can’t stand the sight of each other the next. They blow hot and cold with comparative ease. I realize you believe Kim has serious intentions, but he hasn’t actually announced them to you, has he?’
‘No,’ David admitted. But he’s going to, he thought.
‘Then in my opinion I think you should play it cool. Ignore the whole thing for the time being. Let it run its course. Kim might change his mind. Or the girl might,’ Doris soothed. Then she asked curiously, ‘By the way, what’s she like, the mysterious young lady from Chicago.’
‘Rather lovely, to be truthful. It’s easy to see why the boy’s smitten. Francesca also seems very sold on her, and I was quite impressed with Katharine myself. She’s certainly an unusual girl, I’ll say that.’
There was a silence at the other end of the telephone and then Doris said slowly, ‘Wait a minute, David, you’re not talking about Katharine Tempest, the young actress, are you? The girl in the Greek play in the West End?’
‘Yes, I am. I say, do you know her after all, Doris?’ His hopes soared.
‘No, afraid not, darling. But she was pointed out to me in the Mirabelle last summer. Stunning girl, I must agree with you there. I didn’t know she was an American, and from Chicago no less … ‘ Doris hesitated, and then said, with a laugh, ‘I can tell you one thing, darling, she’s as Irish as Paddy’s pig.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘The dark hair, the white skin, the bluer-than-blue eyes. She’s very Irish looking, David. I remember thinking that last summer in the restaurant.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I’ve met enough of the Irish in Chicago to recognize that look of theirs. The women in particular are often extraordinary beauties.’ She chuckled. ‘The men aren’t that bad either.’
‘Then she’s probably a Roman Catholic’
‘Does that matter, David?’ There was a startled echo in her voice.
‘No, I don’t suppose it does, although we’ve always been a Protestant family – ‘ His voice trailed off lamely. He regretted the comment. He found religious and racial prejudice intolerable in others. He hoped Doris did not misunderstand him.
Before he got a chance to clarify himself, Doris exclaimed, ‘Look here, cheer up, darling. I’ll be back in a couple of days and we can discuss this further. In the meantime – ‘ She stopped and, after a moment, went on carefully, ‘I almost hesitate to suggest this, because I know prying is not your style, but if you want me to, I’ll make a couple of calls to Chicago. I might be able to find out something about the Tempest family. Discreetly of course, without mentioning your name, or involving you.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary, Doris. Thanks anyway. If Kim ever discovered we’d done such a thing, he’d be hurt and furious, and understandably so. And you’re right, it’s not to my taste at all. However I will take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Kim and I will be at Langley together for several weeks, and I’m sure I’ll get an opportunity to go over this with him.’ He paused to light a cigarette, then dashed on, ‘Actually, if anyone asks any questions about the Tempest family, it should be Kim. And of Katharine, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do, darling, and please don’t worry so much.’
‘No, I won’t. I feel better now that I’ve talked to you. Thanks for listening, Doris.’ His voice dropped, became more intimate and tender. ‘Incidentally, for what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, my darling.’
‘That’s worth a lot to me, you silly man!’
They talked for a few minutes longer, said fond goodbyes, and hung up. The smile she had brought to his eyes lingered there for a moment. Doris had the marvellous ability to allay his anxieties, whatever they might be. Perhaps she was right, too, about Kim and Katharine. Maybe it was merely a youthful infatuation which would soon cool off. Not only that, he was taking Katharine and the children to dinner tomorrow evening. With a bit of luck he might glean more information, especially if he formulated his questions skilfully.
‘Good morning, your grace.’
David looked up quickly, startled to see Mrs Moggs, their daily, hovering in the doorway. He had not heard her come into the house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Moggs,’ he said wondering where on earth she had found her extraordinary hat. It was an exotic creation trimmed with poppies and cornflowers. He then remembered it had been a Christmas present from Francesca, one of her more exuberant flights of fancy into millinery design. He had made unflattering remarks about it at the time, but apparently Mrs Moggs adored it.
‘Now, your grace, ‘ow about a nice steaming ‘ot pot of tea?’ Mrs Moggs suggested, still loitering in the doorway.
‘No, thank you. I’ve had my morning tea, Mrs Moggs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er … er … Mrs Moggs, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this again, but one only addresses a duke as your grace.’
‘Dukes, earls, viscounts, marquesses, lords, barons, they’re all the same to me, your grace, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she beamed. ‘Fair makes your blinking head swim, it does, having to call ‘em all by different things, as I was saying to my Albert the other day. An’ my Albert says – ‘
‘Quite so, Mrs Moggs,’ David murmured hurriedly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.’
She beamed at him again, hitched her shopping bag onto her arm, and then did a little pirouette and disappeared. He shook his head in exasperation, but nevertheless a smile of amusement flew across his face. Mrs Moggs was impossible, and an infernal nuisance, always ‘popping in’ as she called it, when he was deep in work. But Francesca thought she was marvellous and continually refused to get rid of her. How fortunate he was in having Francesca. She had turned out very well, that girl, and he had no doubts about her.
He pulled his address book towards him, found Giles Martin’s number in Yorkshire and dialled it, ready to start haggling about the price of the two prize heifers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_fbec39b0-8f33-56e8-8c31-d2ecbd901d11)
Wherever she went Katharine Tempest invariably created a flurry of excitement, for there was a magical quality about her, one that evoked the most romantic of images. It was compounded of a variety of ingredients: the spectacular looks that startled with their impact; the innate sense of personal style; the instinctive flair for selecting and wearing with great panache the most eye-catching of clothes, and finally, but by no means the least, the dignity in her bearing. All of these added up to the kind of magnetism that was spellbinding, and so, not unnaturally, attention was centred on her when she entered the Arlington Club. And, as always, she eclipsed everyone present, especially the women, who all paled in comparison.
Katharine did not slavishly follow current fashion trends, except for skirt lengths, and all her clothes reflected a very personal and individualistic taste; they were made by a dressmaker, mostly from Katharine’s own designs. Her choices might have looked outré, even ridiculous, if worn by others, but on her they simply added to the ravishing looks and underscored her appeal. Today she cut quite a swathe in her newest outfit, and more than a few women in the club envied her ability to carry it off with such aplomb. She was wearing a full flared cape, cut like a highwayman’s cloak, and made of the softest wood in the brightest of scarlets. Underneath the cape was a matching skirt, full and gathered at the waist and cinched by a wide black suede belt. Her sweater, made of the finest, silkiest cashmere, was also black, and against this gleamed a heavy gold chain holding a large gold Maltese cross. Black suede boots and a matching bag, plus her white kid gloves, completed the outfit, which was elegant yet youthful and dashing and a dramatic counterpoint to her altogether dramatic looks.
Her thick, dark-chestnut hair, pulled back severely from her face and held firmly in place by a red-velvet hair band, fell almost to her shoulders in a soft page-boy style. After her brisk walk to the club, her usually pale complexion had a tinge of natural colour across the high cheekbones, and the luminous eyes were set off by a touch of turquoise eye shadow so that they looked even larger and more compelling than ever.
Katharine was early for her luncheon date and so she swept up to the small bar adjoining the restaurant and slid onto a stool. Joe, the bartender, raised a hand in greeting and waved from the other end of the bar, where he was serving a customer. Katherine proffered him one of her most dazzling smiles, as always the glittering and vivacious actress in public. Years before she had made her stage debut in the West End in 1955, she had begun to mentally perfect the image she would project when she was a star. This image sprang from her own inner vision of herself, along with her idealized conception of how a star should look and behave. In essence, this was based on the Hollywood screen goddesses of the late ‘thirties and early ‘forties, those legendary ladies who were the embodiment of glamour and allure, with their gorgeous clothes, exquisite grooming and ineffable charm. Although not particularly vain personally, Katharine, nonetheless, consciously set out to create that identical aura of glamour for herself. She did so very simply because she thought it was an essential element in the persona of a star, and therefore professionally desirable, if not, indeed, an imperative.
‘Hello, Joe,’ she said gaily, as the bartender positioned himself in front of her.
‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Tempest.’ After giving her an appreciative glance, he asked, ‘And what’s your pleasure today?’
Katharine wrinkled her nose. ‘I think I’d like one of your special concoctions, Joe, please.’
‘What about a mimosa, Miss Tempest? It seems to me it’s just the thing on this lovely day.’
‘That sounds delicious. Thank you, Joe.’
Joe moved off to mix the drink and Katharine looked around, pulling off her gloves in the process. She nodded to a couple of Fleet Street journalists she knew, who were propping up the bar, and then tucked her gloves in her bag to keep them clean, as she always did. She was glad she had chosen the Arlington Club, commonly known as ‘Joe’s’ after the bartender, who was something of a character and had a large following. It was an intimate and congenial spot, patronized by well-known newspapermen, writers and film people. Also, being located in Arlington Street, directly opposite the Caprice, it was a popular watering hole for stars, directors and producers, who dropped in for a drink either before or after lunch at the Caprice. For all these reasons, Katharine thought it was an excellent place to be seen, and also to observe.
‘Here you are, Miss Tempest,’ said Joe, placing the mimosa before her. ‘And thanks again for the tickets. I loved you in the play. You were right smashing.’
‘Why thank you, Joe. I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Katharine said.
Joe went to take orders from two new arrivals, whom Katharine knew to be the editor of the Sunday Express and the paper’s show business columnist, John Logan. The latter had interviewed her and written a glowing story, and he was something of a fan, both professionally and personally. She returned their friendly waves and smiles, and then shifted her position slightly on the stool and took a sip of her drink. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette and immediately changed her mind, thinking of her throat.
Katharine worried a great deal about her health, since she had a somewhat delicate constitution, and was particularly prone to chest colds and bronchial attacks. Her throat was no longer sore, but she did not want the condition to recur, especially with the screen test imminent; smoking was hardly conducive to the crystal-clear tones she had perfected so assiduously.
At the age of twenty-one Katharine was already a highly complex young woman, and there was a curious duality in her personality, as Nicholas Latimer suspected. Talented to a point of true brilliance, she nonetheless strove endlessly to perfect her craft in ways not always necessary, and despite her immense belief in herself there were times when she was in need of reassurance about her acting ability. Sweet of nature, she had an understanding heart and great generosity of spirit, and would go to extraordinary lengths to help a friend or colleague. She was loyal, devoted and considerate almost to a fault, and nothing was ever too much trouble for her. Yet cold calculation, self-interest, and a ruthless determination to get her own way at all costs, stamped the reverse side of this otherwise glittering medallion, and she had no qualms about using anyone to suit her own ends.
And now, as she sat at the bar, toying with her drink, her mind turned once again to the material she would use for the test, the words she would say. She knew she had to compel and convince in a way she never had before. Everything depended on that. Damn, she thought, if only Nicholas Latimer hadn’t been so difficult and indifferent, I wouldn’t be facing this problem today. She was wondering what stratagem to use, to get the material adapted, when a voice behind her said, ‘You’re Katharine Tempest, aren’t you?’
Katharine swung her head swiftly, and found herself staring at a heavy-set girl with a florid complexion and the brightest of carrot-red hair. She was a vision, if a somewhat eccentric one, in a suit of violent purple and a small emerald felt hat with a long purple feather. What a strange outfit, Katharine thought, but said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ A crease puckered her brow. For a moment she was at a loss, and unable to identify the girl. Then she exclaimed. ‘And of course, you’re Estelle Morgan! How are you?’ Katharine extended her hand, smiling warmly. Adept at self-promotion, she was never one to slight a journalist. Even those she considered to be insignificant were treated to a very large and compelling dose of the inimitable Tempest charm, since they might be important one day and therefore useful.
The carrot-haired girl took hold of Katharine’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grinning with delight. ‘I’m feeling pretty dandy. And how lovely of you to remember me, a famous actress like you.’
How could anyone possibly forget you, Katharine thought to herself. But she wisely bit this back, and murmured sweetly, ‘You’re very striking, you know.’
Estelle positively glowed. ‘Didn’t we meet at Lady Winner’s bash, or was it at the Duke’s? Bedford, that is.’
Katharine laughed, inwardly tickled at the unabashed name-dropping, and shook her head, still laughing, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I think we were introduced at the party John Standisti gave for Terry Ogden a few months ago.’
‘That’s right! And you looked absolutely ravishing in a little black number and lots of pearls. In fact, I said so to Hilary Pierce, and she agreed you were the chicest, most beautiful woman there. I like Hilary, she’s a lovely girl, although I thought she was behaving in a dippy way that night, didn’t you?’
Katharine’s eyes widened, and she stared back at Estelle, a blank expression on her face. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’
Estelle volunteered, with considerable glee, ‘Oh, but I saw it all! Why, Hilary spent the entire evening drooling over Terry. Mind you, I can’t say I blame her. He’s something to drool over. But I thought, at the time, it was a good thing Mark was off shooting a film somewhere in darkest Africa or India. I think he would have been pretty jealous if he’d witnessed their performance.’
Katharine’s ears had pricked up at the mention of Hilary Pierce in connection with Terry Ogden. An unlikely combination, she said to herself. She was riddled with curiosity about the incident, but she thought it wiser to curb her inquisitiveness and not probe Estelle for further details. Instead she tucked the information away at the back of her mind, for future reference, and said, ‘I’m afraid I missed that particular scene. Still, I do remember one thing. If I’m correct, you’re a columnist for an American magazine, aren’t you?’
‘What a fabulous memory you do have! Yes I write for several American magazines. I’m the roving European correspondent for them, on a freelance basis. I’m mainly covering café society, the beau monde, you know, and show business as well.’
It had become apparent to Katharine that Estelle Morgan was intent on hovering and not about to budge, and so she said pleasantly, ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘Oooh! How super-duper of you. Yes, thanks.’ She heaved herself on to the next stool and, pointing an emerald-gloved hand at Katharine’s drink, cried, ‘What’s that?’
Katharine winced inside at her gaucherie, and said, ‘It’s a mimosa. Mainly champagne and orange juice. Why don’t you try it. It’s delicious.’
‘That’s a fab idea. I think I will.’
Katharine motioned to Joe for two more of the same, and then she focused all her attention on Estelle, radiating charm. She gave her the benefit of that most glittering of smiles, and said, ‘Your job must be lots of fun. Do you find plenty to write about in London?’
‘Sure. But although this is my base for the moment, I do a lot, of flitting around.’ She giggled. ‘Gay Paree. Monte. Biarritz. Rome. Venice. I hit all the high spots, in the appropriate season of course. Chasing the beau monde, Katharine.’ She emitted another high-pitched giggle, and asked, ‘I can call you Katharine, can’t I?’
‘Naturally, Estelle,’ Katharine replied quickly, deciding it would be smart to cater to the journalist’s most patent desire to be chummy.
‘I thought you were divine in Trojan Interlude. Absolutely divine!’ Estelle exclaimed. Her manner was fawning, and she kept giving Katharine admiring glances. ‘I expect you’re going to have a long run in the play, but I must tell you, when I saw you on stage it occurred to me you ought to be in pictures.’ She peered myopically at Katharine, and asked, ‘Any films coming up in the near future?’
