the windowsills. A log fire flared in the immense stone hearth and the room was washed in a soft and mellow light. Dozens of votive candles had been used to encircle the small bowls of flowers, six in all, which marched down the centre of the long refectory table, and interspersed between the bowls were Meissen porcelain birds in the most radiant of colours. The table had been set with the finest china, crystal and silver, and was the decorative focal point. There were flowers and flowering plants banked around the perimeter of the room, and these introduced additional life and colour to an already breathtaking setting.
The flickering candlelight was flattering, and everyone looked their best, the women beautiful in their elegant gowns and glittering jewels, the men handsome in their dinner jackets. It was a young group and they were festive. The conversation was brisk, sparkling, entertaining, and Victor was enjoying himself, even though he was seated far away from Francesca. Occasionally he glanced down the table at her and caught her eye, and she would smile obliquely and continue her conversation. She was anchored between Christian and Vladimir, the Polish count, whilst he was next to Diana, as Francesca had said he would be. Astrid was also at his end of the table, and although she was charming, for the most part he concentrated his attention on Diana.
Francesca also discovered she was having a good time. Her gaiety and warmth quickly surfaced, and her naturalness was endearing to everyone. She laughed a lot, since Vladimir was proving to be a stimulating dinner companion, with his agility of wit and incisive repartee, and hilarity was high at their end of the table. However, as the dinner progressed, Francesca began to realize the others were taking it for granted that Victor was Diana’s date for the evening. That he was now encouraging this in subtle ways was most apparent, and Francesca smothered a little smile, fully understanding his motivation. She also marvelled at his stamina. For a man who had left her room as dawn broke, after a sleepless night, had skied all morning and then made passionate love to her again in the afternoon, he was in remarkable fettle and showed no outward signs of fatigue whatsoever. Twenty years younger though she might be, she was vaguely conscious of aching limbs and a tiredness induced by their nocturnal activities.
Leaning forward ever so slightly, she looked at Victor, feeling the unique thrill of possession. Whatever anyone present believed, and whomever he flirted with, he nonetheless belonged to her. She, too, now thought of later, of when they would be alone, and a shiver ran through her. How extraordinary life is, she mused. A week ago she had been dying on the vine, miserable with longing for him, and he so seemingly beyond her tender reach; tonight she was more alive than at any other time in her life. And all because of him. He had become the centre of her world. Everyone and everything dimmed in comparison …
Vladimir said, ‘I understand the Langley Collection is remarkable for its great paintings. Presumably it is open to the public, is it not?’
‘Oh yes,’ Francesca responded, dragging her mind back to the present proceedings. ‘Every day during the summer months, and at weekends in the winter. My father believes great art should be shared. If ever you come to England, you must stop off at Langley to see the collection. You’re obviously interested in art.’
‘Thank you. How kind. Yes, I would love to visit your home. And I am very keen on art, especially old masters.’ Vladimir went on, ‘It is my dream to go to Russia one day, to view the paintings in the Hermitage. Catherine the Great was an extraordinary woman on many levels, but especially so as a collector of fine paintings. It’s amazing, when one considers her resourcefulness in garnering such an incredible number of masterpieces from all over Europe. She built the Hermitage to house them you know … a marvellous legacy to leave.’ He smiled and added, ‘Catherine has always intrigued me, I must admit. An unscrupulous but fascinating woman. She was involved with one of my ancestors when she was in her twenties, and perhaps that’s why she has always piqued my interest.’
‘That must have been Count Stanislaus Poniatowski, who later became King of Poland. Am I right?’
‘You are indeed, Francesca,’ Vladmir told her, obviously surprised at this display of historical knowledge. He launched into a long story about his ancestor’s love affair with the Empress of all the Russias, and in a most amusing manner. So much so, Francesca was instantly caught up in what he had to say, and the time passed swiftly.
It was suddenly the end of the dinner. Clara carried in a large birthday cake, ablaze with candles. Manfred served champagne, and Diana was the recipient of more toasts and congratulations.
Francesca said, as the toasts came to an end, ‘Diana darling, now you must blow out all the candles and make a wish. A secret wish. Don’t tell us!’
Victor, surveying the cake, leaned towards Diana and teased, ‘Twenty-seven candles. That’s pretty brave of you, honey, letting everyone know how old you are today.’
‘A woman who can’t tell her age doesn’t know who she is,’ Diana retorted pithily. ‘I like to think I do.’
It was turned midnight when the last of the guests finally departed. Christian and Diana accompanied them to the front door to say their goodbyes, and Victor and Francesca were left alone in the sitting room.
Victor, nursing a brandy and smoking a cigar, looked across at her seated on the opposite sofa and began to chuckle.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
He said, his eyes twinkling, ‘Do you realize I was the only person present tonight without a title?’
‘Then we have to find one for you immediately,’ Francesca pronounced, smiling with him. ‘I have it! How about King … of the Silver Screen?’
Victor shook his head emphatically. ‘Not possible, kid. Gable’s the King, and he always will be, even after he’s gone. Nobody, but nobody, will ever inherit that title. I doubt they’d want to. Clark’s a very special guy, much loved, and revered, too, these days. No, there’ll only be one King of Hollywood in everyone’s minds.’
‘Will you settle for Prince of the Silver Screen then?’ she ventured, leaning back against the sofa, her eyes soft and loving as she regarded him.
He smiled, said nothing, stood up and took her glass from the coffee table. He moved across the room to the console. ‘What is this stuff you’re drinking, kid?’
‘Pear William, please.’
Lifting the bottle he poured a generous measure, then held the bottle up, staring at it. ‘How the hell did this pear get in here?’ he asked, swinging to face her.
‘I’ll give you three guesses.’
‘Well, let me see. A glass blower formed the bottle around the pear. I can see from the disgusted look on your face that the answer’s no. Mmmmm. I have it! It’s a collapsible pear, like one of those ships on a string that goes into the bottle flat, and is then pulled up straight,’ he said, obviously teasing her now.
‘Only one more guess, Vic, then you have to pay a penalty.’
‘That sounds interesting. What did you have in mind?’
Observing his face as he came back to the fireplace, she started to laugh. She exclaimed, ‘Not what you think, you wretch.’
He sat down next to her and handed her the glass. ‘Too bad. In that case, I’d better ’fess up that I’ve known all along that the pear started out very small, and just growed and growed in the bottle. Down the hatch, kid.’ He took a sip of his brandy, retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and puffed on it for a few seconds, then he reached out and touched her face with one finger.
