the door, Miles stepped out onto the covered porch, walked over to the balustrade, and stood looking out toward the distant hills. Kent was such a beautiful part of the world, his kind of country with its rolling wooded hills and crystal lakes. It reminded him of Yorkshire and of his childhood, a good part of which was spent there.
These days it was mostly Nigel who used Aysgarth End as a weekend home when he could get away from London, and for all the national holidays when they didn’t go to France to see Tamara’s parents. Certainly it was a marvelous spot to raise a family. When he went back to England he would go up there for a few days. He had long been planning to do an oil painting of Nigel’s two children, and he wanted to paint them against a moorland background.
Now the view of the distant Litchfield hills reinforced this idea, was quite inspirational in a way. His fingers suddenly itched to hold a brush; he would start tomorrow, do a few sketches of Natalie and Arnaud from memory. It would be the beginning of the portrait. The prospect pleased him.
Miles shifted his stance slightly and glanced down into the garden below. It looked dank and foggy, and the mere sight of the sunken rose garden stripped of all its summer radiance and color made him conscious of the cold weather. He turned away and went inside.
Drifting back to the great hall, he sat for a few moments in front of the fire, staring into the flames, thinking unexpectedly about Allison Grainger.
He had been startled, not to mention miffed, when Chloe had brought her name up in front of the others. He was loath to give his family anything to speculate about, even his mother, whom he adored. Nonetheless, like all mothers, she wanted to see him settled for life.
He liked Allison, liked her a lot in fact. She was a really great human being and a lovely young woman, and they had had a lot of fun together these past few months. But he did not want to spend the rest of his life with her—for a very simple reason. He was not in love with her.
In any event, he had learned his lesson today, and learned it well. Young Chloe wasn’t to be trusted. It was patently obvious that she was a little blabbermouth, and this disturbed him. She was always poking her nose into his business, and he was going to have to put a stop to that. He loved her, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but she didn’t know how to edit herself. Wasn’t it his fault though? He had let her into his life since he had been in New York. Oh, what the hell, he thought, no harm done, and I’d better keep my own mouth shut from now on. At least around baby sister.
Later, upstairs in his bedroom, Miles glanced around with satisfaction, noting the blazing fire, the bowl of fresh fruit, the bottled water, and the collection of magazines and newest books on a long library table behind the sofa.
His mother had always paid great attention to detail, and provided great comfort in her homes, thinking of everything. The perfect reading lamp stood close to the overstuffed armchair next to the fireside; a cashmere blanket was thrown over the back of the sofa; a plump duvet skimmed across the top of the big double bed; and naturally, orchids bloomed on tables in various corners.
She cossets, he suddenly thought, that’s exactly the right word. She did the same when we were children. She’s always done it, pampered us, and everyone else. “Smothers us, more like,” he heard Nigel’s voice say. He frowned, thinking of his brother once again. Nigel had developed a very acerbic tongue of late and could be quite vituperative. “It’s as if he’s bitter,” Miles muttered under his breath, walking over to the fireplace, standing with his back to the blazing logs. He had no clue what was wrong with Nigel; Gideon deemed him the man with everything, and this was true. He had a beautiful, intelligent wife, two marvelous kids, a successful career with a guaranteed future. And one day he would be the big cheese at Jardine and Company, the Crown Jewellers of London. But seemingly this wasn’t enough. What a fool his brother was.
Miles sighed, dragged his thoughts away from Nigel, and walked into the bathroom. After washing his hands, he ran a comb through his hair and then peered at himself. He saw a reflection of his parents gazing back at him. He had his mother’s dark, wavy hair, the same finely etched face, but he had inherited his father’s long, straight nose and vivid blue eyes. And, of course, he was a replica of his identical twin.
Gideon. He had been very much on his mind of late. He couldn’t understand what was ailing him. His brother was morose, moody, and depressed. Last week, when he was in London, he had attempted to talk to Gideon; but all he had got for his trouble was a flea in his ear. And several warning glances from his brother had finally made him back off completely. But there was something wrong with Gideon. As Derek, who was always quoting Shakespeare, would say: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
“THE ACTOR PLAYING THE HEAVY BECAME SUDDENLY ill, and there we were, in the middle of the picture and in a mess, looking for a replacement, and, of course, everyone was mentally casting,” Derek explained to them, his marvelous voice echoing around the great hall.
“And,” he went on, “I happened to remark to the assistant producer that who we needed was Sydney Greenstreet. I told her that he’d be great as Redner, the villain. And she asked me who his agent was so that she could be in touch and try to hire him at once.”
Derek began to laugh. It was infectious. The others laughed with him, as always enjoying his anecdotes about the movies he had worked on. “Anyway, she was appallingly dense, the poor girl, and I’m afraid none of us could resist taking the mickey out of her. Most of the time too. Very young, of course. Too young for the job, as a matter of fact. Didn’t know that old Sydney had gone to meet his maker long ago. Doubt if she’d ever heard of him. Or seen The Maltese Falcon.”
“Or Casablanca,” Chloe volunteered. “I loved him in that.”
“So did I, darling girl,” Derek agreed, beaming at her.
Chloe beamed back. “Casablanca is my all-time-favorite movie. It’s awesome.”
“My favorite, too,” Miles said, and then, glancing at Derek, he remarked, “I had a similar sort of conversation the other day with one of the young women working in Wardrobe. I said that Deborah Kerr had been the greatest Anna ever, that she’d been brilliant in the part, and the girl just gaped at me, looking totally blank.”
Derek nodded, moved forward in the chair slightly, sounding serious. “Look here, I’m all for youth and a great booster of this generation, but some of these kids in their late teens and early twenties who are working in the theater and movies today seem awfully uninformed to me. Not a bit knowledgeable about the past, even the recent past.”
“Only too true,” Miles agreed. “It’s like they’ve landed from another planet.”
“Deborah was divine in The King and I,” Blair murmured.
“And so was Yul Brynner. They don’t make stars like that anymore,” Derek said quietly.
“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that!” Blair exclaimed a trifle heatedly. “What about you, my love?”
Derek merely inclined his head and smiled at his wife.
Stevie said, “Mother’s right, of course, but I do know what you mean. So many of the great stars I love have retired or died.”
“Very gloomy thought indeed, my dear,” Derek answered. “And I must admit, I miss quite a number of them. Larry Olivier, Jack Hawkins, Duke Wayne, Bill Holden, but most especially Rich. God, we had some splendid times together. He was such an extraordinary man, an extraordinary talent. I remember when he was in Hamlet in the fifties. I think it was 1953, when he was with the Old Vic. Claire was in it with him, played Ophelia to his Hamlet. They were fabulous together. I went up to Edinburgh to see it, to see them. Rich was bloody marvelous. Miraculous.” There was a moment’s pause, and then Derek added softly, “I always envied him his voice, you know.”
“You did!” Miles sounded surprised, and