Angel Read online

  Angel

  Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Copyright

  Angel

  Copyright © 1993, 2014 by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Cover art, special contents, and Electronic Edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover jacket design by Alexia Garaventa

  ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795338526

  For my beloved husband Bob,

  with whom I have always shared the

  many-splendoured thing.

  Contents

  PART ONE: Shining Stars

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  PART TWO: Sacred Friendships

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  PART THREE: Dangerous Relationships

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  PART FOUR: Truest Loves

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  An Excerpt from A Woman of Substance

  Other Barbara Taylor Bradford titles from RosettaBooks

  The angels keep their ancient places;—

  Turn but a stone, and start a wing!

  ’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces,

  That miss the many-splendoured thing.

  Francis Thompson

  PART ONE

  Shining Stars

  ONE

  She stood near one of the huge stone pillars, a little to one side in the shadows, watching the fight.

  The woman, whose name was Rosalind Madigan, was taut with nerves. Her hands were clenched at her sides and she held her breath; then her lips parted slightly in anticipation and anxiety surfaced in her eyes.

  Metal struck metal as swords clashed.

  The warriors battled on. They were fencing to the death; she knew there could be only one winner.

  Brilliant light, penetrating the windows set high in the castle walls, glanced off their swift and lethal swords. Gavin, the smaller of the two, was slender, supple and fleet of foot. He went on the offensive, moving with great speed, his rapier thrusting forward dangerously. He drove his opponent back… farther back across the stone floor of the vast Great Hall. Suddenly he had the advantage.

  James, the other knight, taller, broader, more cumbersome of body, was now pinioned in a corner, his back pressed close to the wall, a mixture of fury and fear blanching his face.

  To the woman, it seemed that the fight would be over sooner than she had anticipated. It was perfectly obvious to her that Gavin was about to triumph. Then, much to her amazement, James managed, somehow, to shift his stance, ever so slightly but just enough to manoeuvre his bulk into a new position. Unexpectedly, he lunged forward purposefully, and she sucked in her breath. He now had the advantage.

  Gavin, somewhat taken by surprise, was thrown into a defensive position. Surely this was not the way it was meant to be, she thought, and leaned forward, her eyes riveted on the two men.

  Gavin moved backward swiftly, and with his usual dexterity, as nimble as a dancer, he parried James’s thrusts with immense skill and strength.

  James went on lunging after him, breathing heavily, brandishing his sword with equal expertise, but he was not quite as light on his feet as Gavin.

  The two men were moving into the centre of the baronial hall, fencing feverishly. Attack. Parry. Attack. Parry. James had begun to pant excessively, his movements slowing. Gavin was gaining ground once more. He was on the offensive, in superb control, moving in for the kill.

  James stumbled and went down, his sword clattering across the stone floor, out of reach.

  In a flash Gavin was by his side, standing over James, the point of his sword resting close to the other knight’s throat.

  Their eyes locked in an intense and powerful gaze. Neither one could look away.

  ‘Kill me then, and be done with it!’ James cried out at last.

  ‘I do not choose to soil my sword with your blood,’ Gavin intoned coldly but in the softest of voices. ‘Suffice it that I have won this last, and final, fight. Now it is truly finished between us. Be gone from these parts, return on fear of death.’

  Taking several steps backward, he sheathed his sword in the scabbard that hung from the belt around his waist, walked across the floor and up the wide staircase without a backward glance. Only when he reached the top of the stairs did he briefly look down at James before disappearing into the shadows.

  There was a moment of total silence.

  Then the director’s voice rang out. ‘Cut! And print!’ he shouted, adding jubilantly, ‘And that’s a wrap, guys!’

  The actor called James scrambled to his feet; the director hurried across to confer with the cinematographer; everybody began talking at once, milling around the set, laughing, joking, slapping each other on the back.

  Ignoring this sudden hullabaloo, Rosalind picked up her bag, hurried across the floor and up the staircase, seeking Gavin. He still stood in the shadows on the platform where the stairs ended. When she reached him she saw that he held his body rigidly; there was strain in his eyes and, underneath his make-up, gooseflesh speckled his face.

  ‘You’re hurting,’ she said.

  ‘A bit. I feel as if a steel hand is gripping the back of my skull. I need the collar, Rosie.’

  Instantly, she pulled it out of her bag and helped him to put it around his neck. A week ago, on location in Yorkshire, Gavin had been thrown by his horse. He had sustained muscle and nerve damage to his neck and left shoulder, and had been in pain ever since.

  As she fastened the collar he looked down at her gratefully and smiled, visibly relaxing now that the surgical collar was giving him support. He had discovered it helped him more than the pain-killers.

  ‘I couldn’t help worrying about you during the last scene,’ Rosie said, and shook her head wonderingly. ‘I don’t know how you got through it.’

  ‘That’s the magic… the magic of the theatre, of acting. Once I started the scene, the adrenaline began to pump like crazy and the pain disappeared. At least, I was no longer aware of the pain. I was swept up in the role of Warwick. I was submerged in him. I’d become him. The role always takes over, I guess, and I’m oblivious to everything when I’m acting.’

  ‘I know you are. Still, I did worry about you.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘After all these years, you’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? And anyway, I’ve always said your concentration is one of the secrets of your success.’ She took hold of his arm. ‘But come on, let’s go, Charlie’s waiting with James, Aida and the crew.’

  As Rosie and Gavin walked down the staircase a chee
r went up and the crew began to applaud enthusiastically. They were well aware that the star of their movie had been in agony for days, and they admired Gavin Ambrose, not only for his talent as an actor, but for his stoicism after his injury and for his total dedication to the film. He was a true professional who had been determined to finish the picture on time, and the crew wanted to show their admiration and appreciation.

  ‘You were great, Gavin, just great,’ Charlie Blake, the director, said, grasping his hand when Gavin and Rosie reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘And I have to tell you, I didn’t think you’d get it in three takes.’

  ‘Pity it wasn’t in one,’ Gavin replied dryly. ‘But thanks, Charlie, and thanks for letting us keep the fight going the way you did. It worked this last time around, didn’t it?’

  ‘You bet it did! I’m not going to cut a single second of footage.’

  ‘You’re a real trouper, Gavin,’ Aida Young, the producer, said, stepping forward, giving him a motherly hug, albeit very carefully because of his neck. ‘They don’t make them any better. You’ve got plenty of what it takes.’

  ‘Thanks, Aida, that’s a rare compliment indeed, coming from you.’ Gavin glanced over at James Lane, who had just acted in the fight scene with him, and grinned. ‘Congratulations, Jimbo.’

  James grinned back. ‘And congratulations to you, mate.’

  ‘Thanks for making it easy,’ Gavin went on. ‘Fights are pretty tough to choreograph, and your timing couldn’t have been better. In fact, it was perfect.’

  ‘Let’s face it, we’re a couple of regular Errol Flynns,’ James answered, winking at Gavin. ‘It’s a pity Kevin Costner just did that remake of Robin Hood, or we might have had a stab at it ourselves.’

  Gavin laughed and nodded, and then noticing Aida’s expression he exclaimed, ‘Hey, don’t look so worried, honey. My neck’s okay, honest it is. I’m even going to make the wrap party later.’

  ‘I’m glad, and that’s lovely,’ the producer said, then cautioned, ‘but only if you’re up to it.’

  Gavin’s eyes swept over the crew. ‘Thanks,’ he said with genuine sincerity. ‘Thanks for everything, you’ve all been terrific, and we’re gonna have a real celebration later today.’

  ‘You bet we are, Gavin,’ the gaffer answered, and the crew surged around him, to tell him what a great guy he was, the best in the business, and to shake his hand.

  A short while later, Rosie and Gavin left the huge sound stage where the Great Hall of Middleham Castle had been re-created, and went out into the corridor behind the set.

  Here it was a jumble of cables, and scaffolding rising to the ceiling, the latter built to hold the Klieg lights used to provide simulated sunshine outside the castle walls. Carefully, they picked their way through the maze of wires and equipment; for different reasons, they were both relieved the last scene had been shot, that the film was in the can. Silently, lost in their own thoughts, they headed for Gavin’s quarters on the back lot.

  ***

  ‘Are you really going to New York at the end of the week?’ Gavin asked, hovering in the doorway of the bathroom which adjoined his dressing room, tightening the belt of his white terrycloth robe while staring at her intently.

  Rosie looked up from her notebook, returning his long stare.

  ‘Yes,’ she said after a moment, and put the notebook back into her bag. ‘I have a meeting with some Broadway producers. About a new musical. And I have to see Jan Sutton as well. She’s thinking of putting on a revival of My Fair Lady.’

  Gavin began to laugh. ‘That wouldn’t be very rewarding for you, would it?’ he asked, moving swiftly across the floor as he spoke. ‘After all, Cecil Beaton made an unforgettable statement with the costumes he designed for the original production. Everybody remembers them.’

  ‘That’s true, yes,’ Rosie agreed. ‘But, you know what, it could be very challenging. I wouldn’t mind tackling it… we’ll see what happens.’ She shrugged, and went on quickly, ‘I’m going to LA from New York. To see Garry Marshall. He wants me to do the clothes for his new movie—’

  ‘Instead of the Broadway shows, or as well as?’ Gavin interrupted.

  ‘As well as.’

  ‘Rosie, you’re crazy! It’s too much! You’re killing yourself with work these days. Why, this year alone you’ve done two West End plays and my film, and let’s face it, this one hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been very demanding, to say the least. Is it going to be the same again next year? Three or four projects? Enough’s enough, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I need the money.’

  ‘I’ll give you as much as you want. Haven’t I always told you, anything I have is yours.’

  ‘Yes, and thank you, Gavin, you know how much I appreciate that. But it’s not the same—what I mean is, money from you is not the same as the money I earn myself. Besides, it’s not really for me. I need the extra money for my family.’

  ‘They’re not your family!’ he shot back with uncharacteristic vehemence, and a look of irritation crossed his face.

  Rosie gaped at him, taken by surprise, and bit back the words that had instantly sprung to her lips. She remained silent, baffled by the flash of anger, so transparent, the strong reaction, so unexpected.

  Swinging around abruptly, Gavin seated himself in the chair facing the dressing table, reached for a jar of cold cream and a box of tissues, obviously intent on taking off his theatrical make-up.

  ‘They are my family,’ she said finally.

  ‘No. We’re your family. Me and Nell and Kevin!’ he exclaimed, pushing the tissues and cream away with a sudden harsh movement of his hand.

  Ignoring his impatience, she thought: And Mikey. He is family too, wherever he is. And Sunny. A faint shadow fell across her heart, and she sighed under her breath, thinking of them, concern surfacing.

  A split-second later, pushing herself up from the sofa, Rosie walked over to Gavin and stood behind him, resting her hands on the back of his chair. Her burnished chestnut head hovered above his darker one, and her green gaze was questioning as it met and held his grey-blue eyes reflected in the mirror.

  As if in answer to her unspoken question, he murmured in a gentler voice, ‘We said we were a family, remember?’ and then he lowered his eyes and focused on the photograph on the dressing table.

  Rosie followed the direction of his glance, her own settling on the images in the silver frame. There they all were. She and Nell, Gavin, Kevin, Mikey and Sunny, arms looped, shining faces smiling, eyes bright with expectation and hope. It had been taken such a long time ago. They had been so young… and orphans, each one of them.

  ‘We promised we’d always be there for one another, no matter what, Rosie. We said we were a family,’ Gavin persisted. ‘And we were. We are.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘a family, Gavin.’ She pushed back a sudden rush of sadness that threatened to overwhelm her… the tragedy was that they had all broken their promises to each other…

  Gavin lifted his head, caught her eye in the mirror again, and his familiar crooked, and now famous, smile flashed endearingly, lighting up his face. ‘If you’re so hell-bent on killing yourself, then it had better be on one of my movies, where I can at least pick up the pieces, if needs be. How about it, will you do my next picture?’

  Her serious expression dissolved, the solemnity in her eyes vanished, and she started to laugh. Then she exclaimed, ‘It’s a deal, Mr Ambrose. You’ve got yourself a deal!’

  There was a sudden knocking on the door, and Will Brent came in. Will was from Wardrobe, and he said quickly, ‘I came to help you get out of your costume, Gavin, but I see you’ve already done so. Sorry to be late.’

  ‘No problem, Will, I’ve only taken off my doublet. Perhaps you’ll help me with the rest of my stuff, especially these boots.’ Gavin grinned at Will and stuck out a leg.

  ‘Right away,’ Will said, loping across the room.

  ‘I’ll see you at the wrap party,’ Rosie murmured, kissed Gavin lightly
on top of his head, and went over to the sofa to retrieve her bag.

  ‘Remember what I said, Angel Face. You’re on for my next picture,’ Gavin called out before turning his attention to the surgical collar. Gingerly, he adjusted it on his neck, grimacing as he did.

  TWO

  A blast of cold air hit Rosie in the face as she stepped outside. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer around her and looked up.

  Above her the sky was bleak and unremitting, filled with clouds the colour of lead. Even though it was still afternoon it was already gloomy and growing darker, the kind of English winter’s day to which she had grown accustomed of late.

  There was a hint of drizzle in the wind, and she could not help wondering what the children of England would do if it rained after all.

  Today was November the fifth. Bonfire Night, they called it. Aida had told her this over lunch last week, and the producer had recited the ancient verse, passed down over the centuries, which she had learned as a child: ‘Please to remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot.’ Bonfires would blaze throughout the British Isles tonight, effigies of Guy Fawkes would be tossed into the flames, fireworks exploded, and potatoes and chestnuts roasted in the fire, as was the tradition—providing it didn’t rain, of course.

  ‘All being well, we’ll be wrapping the picture on the fifth,’ Aida had said to her, over their snack in the studio restaurant last Tuesday. ‘But I’m afraid we won’t be allowed to have a bonfire. For security reasons, obviously. However, maybe we can come up with something appropriate—to celebrate Bonfire Night as well as the end of the film.’

  She had not been able to determine exactly what Aida had meant by appropriate, but she and everyone else would soon know. The wrap party was scheduled to take place in a few hours.

  Rosie glanced around as she hurried across the deserted back lot of Shepperton Studios, walking in the direction of her office in the production building.

  She had been based here for the past nine months, and the territory had grown so familiar to her it now felt like home. Also, she had enjoyed working with Aida and the crew, who were all British, and with whom she had felt comfortable and at ease from the start.