The Midnight Rose (41 page)

“You can’t help being sick, Miss Bradley. You’re certainly in no fit state to be filming anything at present. Why don’t I have a word with the chap who showed me in? I’ll explain the situation.” Dr. Trefusis closed up his bag and walked toward the door, pausing suddenly in afterthought. “You don’t think you could possibly be pregnant, do you?”

“I’m on the pill,” said Rebecca.

“Nonetheless, we’ll do a pregnancy test from your urine sample this afternoon, just to rule it out for sure. Good-bye, Miss Bradley.”

Rebecca lay back on the sofa, feeling ill
and
guilty for being ill in equal measure. She wished she could go upstairs to her bedroom, shut the curtains and go to sleep. But the thought of having to face Jack while she felt so fragile was not palatable.

Ten minutes later, Steve came into the room. “Right, all sorted, darling. I’ve had a word with Robert and we’re currently rescheduling so you can take a couple of days off and recover.”

“I’m sorry, Steve, I feel so bad for causing all this trouble.”

“Rebecca, stop being paranoid. Everyone on set loves you and they’ve already seen how dedicated and hardworking you’ve been. We’re just sorry that you’re not well. Anyway, let’s hope that with a couple of days’ rest, you’ll be on the mend.”

“Yes,” she said gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Now, why don’t you go up to your room and try to sleep?” Steve suggested.

“Jack’s still resting. He was exhausted after London. I’ll just stay down here until he’s woken up.”

“Okay”—Steve shot her a strange look—“but our priority is you
and you need to be tucked up in bed. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Trevathan and see if she has another room you can use in the meantime.”

As he left, Rebecca squirmed in embarrassment. Here she was, too sick to work and with a liability of a boyfriend sleeping in her bedroom upstairs.

“Hello, my love.” Mrs. Trevathan arrived in the drawing room a few minutes later with a sympathetic look in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” said Rebecca, her reserve crumbling at the sight of the motherly figure. Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away.

“There, there, dear.” Mrs. Trevathan put a kindly hand on Rebecca’s. “Steve explained the situation, so I’ve organized another bedroom for you in the meantime.”

Half an hour later, Rebecca was lying in an enormous, canopied bed while Mrs. Trevathan bustled in and out with water, tea and toast and some magazines she thought Rebecca might like to read.

“I think you’re in a couple of them,” she teased as she handed them to her.

“This is such a beautiful bedroom. I guess I’ve been upgraded,” Rebecca said with a forlorn smile.

“It is, isn’t it? This was Lady Violet Astbury’s suite of rooms and certainly, in the forty years I’ve been working here, I’ve never known it used. It was his lordship himself that suggested you should move in here when I asked him where I should put you this morning. It has the best view over the gardens and moor and is the only bedroom with an en suite bathroom. There’s also a private sitting room and a dressing room through that door,” she said, indicating it.

“Well, please thank Anthony for me. I promise it’s only temporary until Jack wakes up.”

“If I were you, I’d stay here until you’re feeling better. You get some shut-eye, dear.”

“Thank you so much for all your kindness.”

“Don’t be silly, that’s what I’m here for.” Mrs. Trevathan smiled at her and left the room.

Rebecca woke later feeling a little better and sat up in bed sipping the tea Mrs. Trevathan had brought her. For the first time, she took in the details of the room she was occupying. It was hard to believe it had remained empty of human presence for so many years. Everything in it was immaculate—even the paintwork on the skirting boards looked fresh and new. Her glance fell on the highly polished Art Deco dressing
table and she saw perfume bottles, a hairbrush and a string of beads hooked over one side of the three-faced mirror. Climbing out of bed, she walked over to it, picked up a perfume bottle and sniffed it. With a start, she realized it was familiar . . . it was the light, flowery scent she was sure had hung in the air some nights in her room.

Padding barefoot next door, she entered a bathroom. Again, the pristine fittings took her by surprise. The bathtub was old, but without a sign of the wear that was so prevalent in other parts of the house. A long line of mirrored wardrobes took up the entirety of one of the walls. Rebecca opened one and gasped as she saw the array of beautiful clothes, immaculately preserved in clear plastic hanging bags.

“Violet’s clothes,” she murmured. Closing the door hastily, she wandered back into her bedroom and across to the other door. Beyond it was a small but beautifully furnished sitting room. Photographs in silver frames stood on a bureau and she saw Violet’s face—her
own
face—staring back at her. Next to her stood a handsome young man in evening dress; it had to be Donald, Anthony’s grandfather.

Another door led to a starkly furnished smaller room—a male room, containing none of the accoutrements of femininity. Realizing this must have been Donald’s dressing room, she saw there was a narrow wooden bed, a mahogany wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a packed bookshelf. Rebecca studied the titles on the shelf, everything ranging from children’s books to Thomas Hardy. One in particular caught her eye: “Rudyard Kipling ‘If—’ ” was embossed in gold on the spine of a thick brown leather volume. Remembering the poem that Ari had mentioned to her only yesterday, which was written by the famous writer, she drew it out carefully. There was an intricate gold insignia stenciled on the front of it. She sat down on the bed and opened it carefully. On the inside cover was an inscription in faded ink:

Christmas 1910

My dear Donald, this very special gift was given to me by His Highness the Maharaja of Cooch Behar when I left to return to England after spending five years as resident there. He had it commissioned especially for me, as he knew Rudyard Kipling was my favorite author and poet.

It contains a beautifully handwritten version of his most famous poem at the front of the book, but it is, in fact, a diary.

Use it as you wish.

Your devoted father,

George

Rebecca remembered from the stone plaque in the mausoleum that George Astbury had died only a few weeks later, in January 1911.

She turned the first yellowing page and saw the poem, as Donald’s father had indicated, handwritten, with exquisite gold decoration on the page. She read through the verses and knew that there could never be a more poignant last gift from a father to a son.

The words, one hundred years on, made
her
feel empowered too. She stood up, about to return the book to the bookshelf, when an ink stain on the bottom of one of the later pages made her turn the following leaf over.

She sat back down as she read the first immaculately written entry.

January 1911

Father died four days ago. I was told at school and am now at home for the funeral. Mother is at chapel most of the time and insists we go with her. Frankly, just now, I don’t have much faith in HIM, but I will do my best to support her in her grief. Selina too, is distraught. I understand that I’m the man of the house now and must be brave and strong. Father, in truth, I miss you awfully and do not know how to comfort the women.

The rest of the page was blank with no further entries, but turning it over, Rebecca saw the diary restarted in 1912, with occasional entries during the following three years, and then again in earnest in February 1919, which Rebecca realized was just after the First World War had ended.

Rebecca heard her name being called. She reluctantly returned the diary to the bookshelf and walked swiftly back to the bedroom.

“How are you feeling, dear?” said Mrs. Trevathan, who had just come in the door.

“I’m a little better.”

“At least you have a bit of color in your cheeks now. Rebecca,
Jack is awake and wishes to see you. I’ve said you’re asleep for now. I wanted to ask whether you’re up to a visitor.” The look Mrs. Trevathan gave her let Rebecca know she understood.

“Not really, no,” she said truthfully.

“Well, would you like me to make sure he’s occupied until tomorrow? I could suggest he goes out to the hotel in Ash-burton with his actor friend later. Mr. James inquired after you earlier by the way, and sends his love.”

“That would be very kind of you. But if Jack does go out with James, he may be in late. And—”

“Yes, dear, I understand,” said Mrs. Trevathan. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him.”

“Please, if he causes a problem, send him to me.”

“I can assure you that I’ve dealt with far worse than your young man in my time. Now, I’ve left you some supper, plenty of water and a glass of warm milk that his lordship insisted I bring you. He too, sends you his regards, by the way, and wishes you a speedy recovery. Oh, and that Indian gentleman we now have staying was also very concerned and wanted to see you,” she added. “Well, now, I’ll go and make sure that you’re not disturbed tonight by any of your male admirers.” Mrs. Trevathan gave her a wink. “If there’s anything you need, ring the bell by the side of your bed.”

Rebecca looked at it. “It still works?”

“Oh yes, dear, it still works,” Mrs. Trevathan replied. “Why don’t you take a nice long soak in that tub and then have an early night? I can bring you some of your things.”

“Thank you, I will. And you’re right, I do need some peace.”

“I know, my love, I can see it. As I said, leave it to me.”

On instinct, Rebecca went to Mrs. Trevathan and gave her a hug. “Thank you.”

Clearly surprised and embarrassed by such a display, Mrs. Trevathan quickly extricated herself from Rebecca’s arms and walked briskly to the door. “Good night, sleep well.”

“I will.”

Feeling calmer now that she knew that Jack was not going to appear at any moment, Rebecca took a bath, then retrieved the leather-bound diary from Donald’s dressing room. Climbing into the bed, she turned to the pages after the First World War. The first entry talked about “A” boarding a ship for India.

Surely
, Rebecca thought suddenly,
Donald must be talking about Anahita?

If he was, then this innocent-looking book, which had sat unnoticed on the shelves among the rest for decades, could contain the proof Ari needed to confirm Anahita’s story.

Rebecca only had to read another two entries before she knew for certain that “A”
was
Anahita. She glanced upward and gave an ironic smile to the heavens.

“You led us both here, Anni, and I found it,” she whispered as she made herself comfortable and let Donald’s words pull her back into the past  . . .

D
ONALD

1 February

A left today on the ship that will take her to India. I’m so completely miserable I can’t explain. She’s so wonderful in every way—so warm, and wise, unlike any other girl I’ve ever met. How I’ll cope without her in the next few weeks I don’t know. And tomorrow I must return to Astbury and try and tell Mother that we have to sell the estate. Dreading her reaction, quite frankly.

19 February

At Astbury. Mother still refusing to leave her room, saying she’s dying of some terrible sickness, but the doctor can’t diagnose anything physically wrong. The entire household knows that she’s still sulking about Selina’s marriage to Henri. Received a beautiful telegram from A, who turned nineteen on board ship three days ago. Her words of love keep me going. She arrives in Calcutta in two weeks’ time. I can only hope she’s back home soon. Have sent telegram back telling her how much I love her . . . Anyway, whether she likes it or not, I’m going to speak to Mother today. We can’t go on like this any longer.

Bracing himself, Donald knocked on the door of his mother’s bedroom. He heard the clatter of china, and finally, a weak “Enter.”

“Hello, Mother, could I open one of the curtains? It’s so dark in here I can’t even see you.”

“If you must, but the light hurts my eyes,” Maud answered in a quavering voice.

Donald pulled back one of the curtains and walked over to his mother. “May I sit down?”

“Pull up a chair beside me.” She pointed with a labored movement of her fingers on top of the sheets.

Donald did so. “How are you?”

“No better.”

“At least you have some color.”

“That’s probably the rouge I asked Bessie to put on my cheeks this morning,” replied Maud abruptly. “I feel worse every day.”

Donald took a deep breath. “Mother, I understand you’re not well, but there really are some things we must discuss.”

“Like your sister marrying that ghastly little Frenchman? Your father would turn in his grave.”

Donald thought back to his warm, loving father and knew how happy he would have been that Selina had found someone to share her life with after suffering such tragedy.