The Midnight Rose (9 page)

T
here was a light tap on Rebecca’s door at seven-forty-five that evening.

“Come in,” Rebecca called, wishing she hadn’t accepted Anthony’s invitation to dinner. She was exhausted after her first day’s filming.

“Are you ready, Rebecca?” Mrs. Trevathan said, her bright face peering around the door.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Rebecca climbed out of her bathrobe, donned jeans and a shirt and hand-dried the new and still-strange short bob. Standing in front of the mirror, she surveyed her face. Without makeup, she thought her new hair color made her look sallow. She hardly felt like herself at all.

As she left her bedroom and walked down the main staircase, she pondered over Mrs. Trevathan’s obvious devotion to Lord Anthony. Like everything else here, their master-and-servant relationship was from another era. It was as if time had forgotten Astbury Hall and its residents. She paused outside the dining room door, then knocked.

“Come.”

Rebecca pushed the door open and found Anthony already seated at the top of a long, graceful mahogany table. The fact that he sat alone in the grand, formal room, at a table meant to accommodate many, only emphasized his solitude.

“Hello.” He smiled at her and indicated the place setting next to him on his left. As she approached the chair, he stood up and pulled it out for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he returned to sit in his own chair.

“Wine?” he asked her, lifting the decanter of ruby-red liquid from a silver salver on the table. “We’re having beef, and this claret is the perfect accompaniment.”

“Just a small glass,” Rebecca said, not wishing to be rude, but she so rarely drank. And if she did, her choice would not be red wine. Nor, in fact, would she have chosen beef to eat.

“Of course, my dear mother had a butler to decant and serve this,”
Anthony commented as he poured the wine into her glass. “Sadly, when he retired, there was no money to replace him.”

“I can’t imagine how much it must cost to keep this place going,” commented Rebecca.

“No, and you don’t want to either,” Anthony sighed as Mrs. Trevathan entered with a tray and placed soup in front of both of them. “But we struggle on somehow, don’t we, Mrs. Trevathan?” He looked up at his housekeeper with a warm smile.

“We do, my lord, we do,” the housekeeper nodded as she left the room.

“Mrs. Trevathan keeps the place going virtually single-handedly. If she ever decided to leave, I don’t know what I’d do. Please”—he indicated her soup—“let’s begin.”

“Has she worked here all her life?”

“Yes, as did her ancestors before her. In fact, Mabel, her mother, cared for me when I was a child.”

“It must be wonderful to have years of family history, to know where you come from,” said Rebecca, sipping her soup.

“In some ways, I suppose.” Anthony sighed. “Although as I mentioned to you earlier, a pall fell on this house when Violet died. You do know, my dear, that the dress you were wearing when I saw you on the stairs belonged to her?”

Rebecca looked at him and felt a sudden shiver run up her spine. “Really?”

“Yes. And her daughter, Daisy—that is, my mother—kept all her clothes in perfect condition after she died.”

“So I suppose Daisy never knew her mother if Violet died giving birth to her?”

“No, but she worshipped Violet, or at least the thought of who her mother had been. As I worshipped
her
,” Anthony said sadly.

“How long ago did your mother die?” Rebecca asked softly.

“Twenty-five years ago now. I still miss her, to be truthful. We were very close.”

“Yes, to lose a mother is the worst,” agreed Rebecca.

“It was only us, you see. She was everything to me.”

“What about your father?”

Anthony’s craggy face darkened. “He wasn’t a good man. My poor mother suffered terribly at his hands. He never liked Astbury to begin with and spent most of his time in London. My mother wasn’t exactly
sorry when he died in some grubby whorehouse in the East End. He’d apparently got so drunk that he fell and broke his neck.”

Rebecca saw Anthony shudder at the memory. She understood completely what he felt. Instinctively, she wanted to tell him that she too, knew that pain, but she wasn’t ready to share her secret with a virtual stranger. “I’m sorry, that must have been tough on you,” she managed.

“Thankfully, I was barely three at the time, so I hardly remember him. I certainly didn’t miss his presence as I grew up. Anyway, let’s not talk anymore of the past.” Anthony placed his soup spoon by his empty dish. “Tell me about yourself,” he said as Mrs. Trevathan cleared the soup bowls and set a large slice of beef in front of each of them.

“Oh, I guess I’m just an average American girl from Chicago,” she answered.

“Hardly ‘average.’ Everyone tells me I’m sitting at dinner with one of the most well-known and beautiful women in the world. Just as my grandmother Violet was described in her heyday.”

Rebecca blushed, embarrassed by the compliment on her looks. “I’ve been very lucky and got the breaks. So many young actresses don’t.”

“I’m sure talent has got something to do with it,” said Anthony, “although, as I said, I haven’t ever seen any of your films. However, I would add that many women are beautiful, but very few have that personal magnetism that marks them out. You have it, and from what everyone told me, Violet had it too. She was the toast of London and New York society and entertained the great and the good here at Astbury Hall. Those were the days.” he added wistfully. “I sometimes feel I had the misfortune of being born in the wrong era. But enough of that.”

Silence ensued as Anthony cleared his plate of the tender beef, while Rebecca merely played with hers. Eventually, Anthony asked, “Have you had all you’d like to eat, my dear?”

“Yes.” Rebecca looked guiltily at her still half-full plate. “I apologize, I really don’t have a big appetite.”

“So I see. So I couldn’t tempt you to a taste of Mrs. Trevathan’s apple and blackberry crumble?”

“I’m afraid not.” Rebecca stifled a yawn, and Anthony placed a surprisingly soft hand on hers.

“You’re tired.”

“Yes, a little. I was up real early this morning for Hair and Makeup.”

“Of course. And I’m sure the last thing you want is to be bored to death by a crusty old man like me. Why don’t you go upstairs, and I’ll have Mrs. Trevathan bring you some hot milk? It might be old-fashioned, but I believe in its somnolent qualities.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Although I might well request the pleasure of your company again. Despite my usual preference for solitude, I’ve rather enjoyed this evening. Ah, Mrs. Trevathan”—Anthony glanced up—“Rebecca is retiring and I said you’d take her some hot milk.”

“Of course, your lordship.”

“Well then, my dear.” Anthony stood up with Rebecca, took her hand in his and kissed it. “It’s been a pleasure. Sleep well.”

“I will. And thank you so much for dinner.”

Tucked up in bed with a glass of warm milk by her side and gazing at a heavy dusk which still seemed reluctant to give itself up completely to the night, Rebecca thought back over her conversation with Anthony. With his perfect manners and quaint way of speaking, he was as much a relic of the past as the house. But living here, amidst the glorious yet empty acres, in a house untouched by the present, it was easy to imagine how life had been a hundred years ago.

With the cast and crew gone and the house returned to its usual rhythms, she herself almost felt modern reality was slowly melting away too.

Rebecca shook herself; tomorrow she must force herself back into the present, the one that existed outside the enchanted world of Astbury, and make a real effort to contact Jack. Switching the light off, she settled down to sleep.

Once more, sometime during the long hours before dawn, Rebecca smelled the strong aroma of flowers, which filled her nostrils and made her dream of exotic places she had longed to visit but never had. Then she was sure she heard singing, a high-pitched sound which drew her from sleep. She climbed out of bed, and disoriented, the noise still in her ears, she walked toward the door and opened it. The corridor outside was in darkness, and the noise stopped abruptly.

It was a dream, Rebecca convinced herself as she made her way back to bed and lay down. There was silence again now, but the sound of the high, sweet voice stayed with her and lulled her back into sleep.

Mumbai, India

Ari was glad to be home. It had been a long day at the office, at the end of a difficult week. He opened the door to his duplex and went straight to the kitchen to pour himself a hefty gin and tonic, hoping it would calm his frayed nerves. And equally hoping that Lali wouldn’t start complaining that he drank too much. Compared to some of his Western business associates, what he consumed was nothing. He wandered through to the sitting room and, finding it deserted, assumed that Lali must be taking a shower downstairs. Throwing himself lengthwise onto the sofa, he took a gulp of his drink.

He wondered why currently he felt so stressed, given that his company was going from strength to strength. Especially recently, as the global financial crisis had forced America and the European countries to look to India, with its less costly possibilities. They now had more work than they could possibly cope with, and that, Ari thought with a sigh, was part of the problem. Trying to find trustworthy and trained managers to help him cope with the influx of business was proving a nightmare. Subsequently, he was doing the jobs of ten employees.

Lali was always at him about taking a holiday, proffering brochures of tranquil beach resorts. She didn’t seem to understand that the thought was simply impossible to contemplate at the moment.

“When I find some staff I can trust, we can go, I promise.”

“Ari, sweetheart, you’ve been saying that now for the past three years,” she would sigh sadly, as she collected the brochures from him and threw them into the wastepaper bin.

Feeling guilty after these outbursts, Ari would arrive home with a piece of jewelry his secretary had picked out, or perhaps a dress from one of her favorite designer stores. He would apologize profusely for neglecting her and make an effort to arrive home on time and take her out to dinner. In the following few days, they would go through the motions of discussing how they could spend more time together, but
by the following week, Ari would be back to his usual eighteen-hour days.

As he drained the gin and tonic and went to pour himself another, he admitted to himself that, out of frustration, he sometimes shouted at her.

“How else are we meant to get the money to pay the mortgage on this duplex? Or buy you all the lovely things in your wardrobe?”

Her answer was always the same. “I don’t care where I live, or what I wear on my body. Those are the things
you
care about, Ari, not me.”

It wasn’t true, of course, he told himself as he stepped out onto the terrace of the duplex and looked out across the beach to the Arabian Sea. She’d like to think she wouldn’t miss all this, but of course she would.

His working hours aside, Ari knew a far bigger problem lay between them. Lali was almost thirty now, and eager to get married. He didn’t blame her for that; she herself had compromised and gone against the wishes of her family to move in with him four years ago, trusting that he would soon propose. Yet, try as he might, Ari could never bring himself to say the words she needed to hear. He wasn’t sure why this was, because there was no doubt that he loved Lali. She was very beautiful and her gentle, sweet nature and calm temperament were a perfect foil to his more volatile personality. As his friends had said many times, she was perfect for him.

So, what was he waiting for? He was thirty-six now, and had played the field with a string of gorgeous women before Lali. But, somehow, there was an instinct inside him that prevented him from taking the final leap.

He had noticed in the past few weeks that she had withdrawn from him, was often not at home to feed and comfort him after his long day. She said she was spending more time at the gym or hanging out with her girlfriends. And who could blame her? Often, if he was working at home, he hardly noticed whether she was there or not.

Ari wandered inside, searching the huge apartment for her. Tonight, he missed her presence, and it seemed she hadn’t even left him a note or sent him a text as to her whereabouts. He showered, then walked to the fridge to find something to eat. He heated up last night’s leftovers in the microwave, poured himself a glass of wine and went through to the sitting room. He switched on the enormous TV and channel-hopped until he found some English football. He
had work to do as always but felt too exhausted to contemplate it tonight.

The one piece of good news on the horizon was that he had noticed a young salesman he had taken on two years ago was outperforming his colleagues. Ari had reinterviewed him a couple of weeks ago and had offered him a promotion to a position taking care of the Indian side of the operation, which was also growing as the national economy continued to pick up steam. If Dhiren proved himself in the next six months, Ari reckoned he had director potential.

In three weeks’ time, Ari was heading off to meet potential clients in London. He needed someone to steer the ship when he was traveling and this would be a good test.

Perhaps, he mused, he should ask Lali to come with him. Even though he’d have little time to spend with her, she might enjoy seeing the sights. Yes, he thought, he would suggest that when she came in.

At half past eleven, Ari switched off the lights in the sitting room and wandered downstairs to the bedroom. It was extremely unusual for Lali to be out this late, and certainly without telling him where she was. A nerve began to flicker in Ari’s temple. He tried her cell, but it went directly to voice mail. Probably sulking, he told himself, remembering the several occasions she had threatened to leave him before. With the help of his considerable powers of persuasion, he always managed to talk her around. And he would again, this time.