Silverbridge

by Joan Wolf

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"Joan Wolf writes with an absolute emotional mastery that goes straight to the heart." -Mary Jo Putney Starring in the role of a lifetime, Tracy Collins goes on location to film a movie set amid the elegance of Regency England. Here, on the lush, sprawling estate of Silverbridge, the American actress is caught between the clashing egos of cast and crew...and undeniably intrigued by Harry Oliver, the devastatingly attractive lord of the manor. Then Tracy begins to have startling visions from the past, more menacing than the dramatic scenes she enacts for the camera. Suddenly, terrifying acts of sabotage and attempted murder-all too real and very much in the present-threaten her and Harry. At stake is a legacy too precious to lose...and a love as fragile as a dream foretold long ago. Word Count: 96,000 words.

Release date: October 22, 2008

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 416

Sample

1

“So how did the first reading go, babe?” asked Mel Barker, actress Tracy Collins's agent. The telephone connection from Los Angeles to London was clear as a bell.

“Fine, I guess,” Tracy replied. “The frost melted a little when I produced an authentic English accent. And Dave Michaels, the director, was very pleasant.”

“He damn well better be,” Mel replied emphatically. “You saved his movie when you signed on.”

“I have to confess that I'm a little nervous.” Tracy leaned back into the cushions of a sofa—one of three in the living room of the luxurious suite the movie company had engaged for her. “I mean, I'm working with Jon Melbourne. He has a voice like God and he does Shakespeare, Mel. All I've ever done is romantic comedy.”

“It's a little late to get cold feet,” Mel pointed out. “Remember, you were the one who wanted to do this movie; I was against it. The part is too small. Melbourne is the star, you have exactly one-quarter the number of lines that he has.”

“Please don't say I told you so,” Tracy replied with an edge to her voice. “I'm not saying that I'm sorry I took it. I'm saying I'm a little nervous about the challenge. It's not an easy book to make into a film.”

The novel Tracy was talking about, Jealousy, had won the Booker Prize in Britain for Best Novel of the year and had gone on to become a best-seller in America as well. It was essentially a literary novel about an aristocratic household in the days of Regency England. The film rights had been bought by an American producer, who had persuaded an American film company to invest in making the movie.

But there had been problems over the casting. The studio executives had been reluctantly brought to agree that England's greatest Shakespearean actor would be a good thing for the movie, but they had dug in their heels about the female lead. They wanted a blockbuster name to ensure that American moviegoers would buy tickets, but the part was simply too small to interest most actresses of that stature. The studio had been ecstatic when Tracy had agreed to do it.

The rest of Hollywood had been astounded. The films that had made her a megastar were lighthearted romantic comedies, not serious psychological dramas. The general opinion of her peers was that Tracy had bitten off more than she could chew and was in grave danger of damaging her star status.

“I'm not saying I told you so,” Mel said soothingly. “You'll be great, babe. You always are.”

“And don't condescend to me.” Tracy put her sneak-ered feet up on the pale wood coffee table in front of the sofa.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Mel assured her, then hastily changed the subject. “How did the rest of the actors seem? Any crazies?”

“I must say, they all seemed remarkably normal,” Tracy said. “But I'm sure that will change as I get to know them better. I just hope no one is a serious druggie. My last film was horrendous.”

Mel sighed. “I know.”

Tracy glared at a nearby vase filled with huge pink roses. “I will never work with Matthew Howard again. I don't care how talented and charming he may be.”

“I know, I know. I don't blame you. One of these days he's going to go too far and wind up in jail.”

“He needs to be in a treatment program, not jail,” Tracy said.

Once again Mel found it prudent to change the subject. “How is Melbourne, anyway? Is he taller than you, or are you going to have to stand in a ditch when you work with him?”

“He's about five-ten, two inches taller than I am. If I wear flat shoes, we should be okay.”

“Well, don't let him intimidate you. He may be the ‘new Olivier’ and all that, but your movies take in huge sums of money.”

Tracy sat up straighter. “I am not easily intimidated, Mel.”

“I know. I know. But you definitely have a thing about Melbourne's acting. Just remember, a movie isn't worth a nickel if no one goes to see it. They'll go to see this movie because of you, not because of Melbourne.”

At that point the door of the suite opened and Gail Ramirez, Tracy's personal secretary, entered, carrying a vase of magnificent lilies. Tracy said into the phone, “Gail has just come in, Mel, and she needs to talk to me.”

“All right. I'm glad things have gone good so far, babe. Call me if you have any problems.”

“I will,” Tracy said, and rang off.

Gail lifted the lilies a little higher. “These are from the studio. Where do you want me to put them?”

The room was already filled with floral arrangements. Tracy waved her hand, and said, “Wherever.”

“These roses are looking a little droopy.” Gail put down the vase of lilies and picked up the arrangement of red roses that reposed on a table in front of a huge gilt-framed mirror. “Maybe I'll toss these and replace them with the lilies.”

“Fine,” Tracy said absently.

As she was switching the vases, Gail remembered something. “Oh, your mother called earlier. She wants you to call her back.”

Tracy sat up and put her feet on the floor. “Kate must have had the baby!” She picked up the phone again and within minutes was listening to her mother rave about the eight-pound girl her sister had delivered several hours earlier.

“Kate and Alan must be thrilled,” Tracy said. Once again she stretched her long legs out on the coffee table. “Finally a girl!”

“They're delighted,” her mother said. “And so is your father. In fact, I think he's even more pleased that it's a girl than Alan and Kate are.”

“And what about you?” Tracy asked. “Are you pleased to have a granddaughter?”

There was a little silence. Then, “I don't know. Daughters can be a terrible worry—much more so than sons.”

Tracy rolled her eyes at Gail. “If that was meant for me, Mom, there's no reason for you to worry. I'm doing perfectly fine.”

“I wish you weren't so far away. You won't even be here for the christening.”

“Alan's brother won't make it to the christening either,” Tracy pointed out. “These things happen, Mom.”

“Robert is a naval officer, and he's out at sea. He's working.”

“Well so am I,” Tracy replied as mildly as she could.

“It's not the same.”

Tracy counted to ten, then put her feet on the floor once again and sat up straight. “Do you have Kate's number in the hospital? I'd like to call her.”

“She'll be sleeping. It would be best not to disturb her. You can call her at home tomorrow,” Mrs. Walters said. “I think it's just terrible, the way they throw young mothers out of the hospital these days. When I had you girls, I was in for five days.”

“Are you going to stay at Kate's, Mom?”

“Yes. For a few days, until Kate feels strong enough to cope on her own.”

“That's great,” Tracy said sincerely.

She and her mother talked for a few more minutes, then Tracy hung up. “I gather your sister had a daughter,” her secretary said.

“Yes,” Tracy replied with a pleased smile. “I'm so happy for her. She wanted a girl so badly.” She got up from the sofa and stretched her arms over her head.

“My mother always said that every woman should have a daughter,” Gail said.

“My mother would agree, as long as the daughter was like Kate,” Tracy replied dryly, letting her arms drop to her sides.

Gail regarded her in silence for a moment. “Your mother adores you, you know that. She just worries about you.”

Tracy's mother was a very proper Connecticut matron who had never reconciled herself to the fact that her youngest daughter was a famous movie star. She was certain that it was an unhealthy lifestyle, one in which Tracy was exposed to all sorts of disreputable people: people who used foul language; people who committed adultery; people who used drugs. She would have added even more debauchery to the list, but that was about as far as Mrs. Walters's imagination went.

“She thinks my biological clock is ticking away, and she wants me to get married, settle down, and have kids,” Tracy said bitterly. “That's the sort of woman's life she understands.”

“It doesn't sound like a bad life to me,” Gail said.

After a moment, Tracy grinned. “It doesn't sound bad to me, either. But the guy has to be right.”

“Now, there is the problem,” Gail replied. “I have never met a woman as fussy as you. The last guy you dumped was because you didn't like his laugh! Good grief, Tracy.”

“He had a laugh like a goat. No one could put up with that.”

Gail's only reply was to roll her eyes. Then, as Tracy started toward the bedroom, she said, “You do remember that you have a news conference in an hour?”

“I remember,” Tracy replied grimly. She was famous in Hollywood for being an extremely cooperative actress on the set; she was equally famous for her dislike of the press.

“There's no need to look as if you're going to have a tooth pulled,” Gail said.

“I really think I would rather have a tooth pulled than meet with the press,” Tracy replied. “And the British press!” She shuddered. “They're even bigger scandalmongers over here than they are at home.”

Gail took a few steps over the thick carpet in Tracy's direction. “Tracy, please try to answer their questions with more than two or three words. You hurt your image by being so terse.”

“The hell with my image,” Tracy snapped. “I'll be polite, and I'll answer their damn questions, but don't expect me to volunteer any extra information. I learned long ago the dangers of being friendly to the press.”

“You can't still be upset about that ridiculous story in the Reporter?”

Tracy folded her arms across her chest. “That miserable rag put on its front page the ‘hot’ news that I was pregnant with Ben Affleck's child. I don't even know Ben Affleck! All I said was that I admired his acting. It took me a whole year to calm my mother down. You know that, Gail!”

Gail sighed.

“I still think I should have sued,” Tracy fumed.

“No, you shouldn't have,” Gail replied. “You were perfectly right to listen to Mel. No one believed that stupid story, and suing would have only given it credence.”

“Well then, you, of all people, should stop telling me to chat up the press. You know what it can lead to.”

Gail sighed again. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“I'm starving,” Tracy said.

Gail looked at her. “I'll get room service to send some food up. Will salad do?”

“Salad will be fine. Be sure to order one for yourself.” Tracy wrinkled her nose. “And tell them ASAP. I don't think I can bear to face Britain's press corps on an empty stomach.”

Six weeks later, Tracy stood in front of a large, three-sided mirror while a seamstress pinned the back of her dress. The rest of the large room was filled with racks of costumes, an ironing board, and a shoe rack stacked with shoes of all sizes and different-height heels. The seamstress had had a heavy hand with her perfume that morning and the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckle hung in the air.

“There,” the seamstress said, stepping away from Tracy. She turned to look at the man who was standing behind the two of them. “What do you think, Mr. Abbott?”

“I think it's perfect,” the costume designer replied in his flawless Oxbridge accent. Sidney Abbott was a tall, thin man with a mop of exquisitely brushed blond hair. “What about you, Miss Collins?”

Looking back at Tracy from the mirror was an English lady who could have stepped from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. Her ball dress of white French gauze was high-waisted and fell to her ankles over a blue silk slip. The hem of the gown was embroidered with flowers, and her shoes of soft white leather resembled modern ballet slippers. The only thing out of place in the picture was her hair, which she was wearing in her everyday, shoulder-length style.

“It's perfectly lovely,” she said sincerely.

“This is the dress Julia will be wearing on the night she first meets Martin,” Sidney said. “We'll be staging the scene at the country house Dave rented down in Wiltshire. Dave tells me it has a room that will do the job perfectly.”

“Stunning.” The word was spoken by a rich, flexible, well-known voice, and in the mirror Tracy saw Jonathan Melbourne move into view. He was a burly man with curly brown hair and light hazel eyes. She turned to face him, and he smiled. “Seeing you, I can perfectly understand how Martin manages to whip himself into such a jealous frenzy.”

Tracy had had long practice in deflecting compliments gracefully. “It is a lovely dress,” she agreed, and looked at the costume designer. “All of the clothes are wonderful, Sidney. The only question I have is, how on earth did the women of those days manage to stay warm? I mean, there wasn't any central heating, and these dresses are flimsy, to say the very least.”

“Oh, we English are tougher than you Americans,” Sidney Abbott replied in a voice that held just a pinch of superiority. “Even today we don't coddle ourselves with central heat the way you do.”

“Perhaps not, but I notice that you all wear sweaters and long pants.” Tracy looked pointedly at the men's warm clothing. “I don't see anyone prancing around with bare arms and gauzy skirts.”

Jon said gravely. “I occasionally wear a gauzy skirt, but only in the privacy of my own home.”

Tracy laughed.

Sidney turned to Jon. “Have you come for your fitting?”

“Yes, but I'll wait until you have finished with Tracy.”

“Tracy's done,” Sidney assured him. “We'll be ready for you as soon as she has changed.”

“Fine.”

Tracy went into the next room, which was filled with more costumes hanging from portable racks, and the young girl waiting for her helped her change out of the elegant dress and into jeans, sneakers, a cream-colored cotton turtleneck, and a Fair Isle sweater. She fixed her floating mass of auburn hair in her usual way, by shaking it, and returned to the other room.

As she joined them, the two men were talking about the location change the company was making that weekend to Silverbridge, the country house where they would shoot the rest of the film.

“Liza is ecstatic,” Sidney was saying sarcastically as Tracy came in. “She wants to add a lord to her list of bedfellows.”

Liza Moran was the actress playing the older woman who hates Julia and does her best to poison Martin's mind against her. It had become apparent to Tracy over the past weeks that Liza was, to use the technical psychiatric term, a nymphomaniac.

“I doubt that Lord Silverbridge will be in residence while such working-class types as we are hanging about dirtying up his estate,” Jon returned dryly.

Sidney was insulted by being designated a “working-class type” and replied in a chilly voice. “I beg to differ with you, but Lord Silverbridge will indeed be in residence. I understand that he trains at his own stable, which is on the property. In fact, Dave told me that His Lordship made a special request that movie personnel should keep away from the stable area so his horses aren't disturbed.”

Tracy made an attempt to defuse the obvious tension that had arisen between the two men by saying humorously, “I hope to goodness it's not going to be like the killing schedule he has held us to these last six weeks.”

“I'm afraid it will be,” Sidney replied. “It cost a fortune to rent Silverbridge, and it's essential to finish shooting there on schedule. Dave told me that he shudders at the very thought of the amount of money Lord Silverbridge will hold him up for if we have to extend our time.”

“Silverbridge is probably praying for a delay,” Jon said cynically.

“Why would he want a delay?” Tracy asked. “I should think he would want to get us out of his way as quickly as possible.”

“These old houses cost a ton of money to maintain,”

Sidney explained. “Every country house owner in England wants to have a movie shot at his home. It helps to pay for the upkeep.”

“Oh,” Tracy replied.

“Lord Silverbridge is one of Britain's own celebrities,” Sidney went on, still addressing himself solely to Tracy. “One sees him photographed all the time at horse shows, dances, nightclubs, with the royal party at Ascot—that sort of thing.” From the tone of his voice it was clear that Sidney would adore to be a part of Lord Silverbridge's world.

“I've never heard of him,” Tracy said.

“He's a celebrity because he's an earl,” Jon explained, also speaking solely to Tracy. “Even at the beginning of the twenty-first century, the British still worship the aristocracy.” The tone of his voice made it clear that he did not consider himself part of this monumental delusion.

Sidney did not look at Jon as he informed Tracy, “Not surprisingly, the fact that the Earl of Silverbridge is an unmarried, good-looking young gentleman, who happens to own some of the loveliest property in the country, contributes to his celebrity. But”—he shot a triumphant glance at Jon—“he also won the bronze medal for Britain in the dressage competition at the last Olympics.”

“Did he really?” Tracy said with genuine interest. “I know that the American dressage team did not do as well as we had hoped, but I just assumed that the Germans had won all the medals.”

Sidney's straight back became a little straighter, and he stood a little taller. “No. Britain won the bronze.”

Jon said, “Not all of Silverbridge's press has been as positive as Sidney makes it out to be. Last year a model he was seeing committed suicide when he dumped her.”

Sidney made a noise that sounded like harrumph. “It was a terrible tragedy, my dear Tracy, and I'm certain Lord Silverbridge deeply regretted the young woman's hasty action.”

Jon said conversationally, “Actually he was cool as a cucumber about it.”

“If you will excuse me, I must speak to someone for a moment,” Sidney said courteously to Tracy. Then, in a very different voice, he said to Jon, “Your costume is in that room.”

As he watched Sidney walk off, Jon said, “I shouldn't let him bother me, but he does.”

“He seems harmless,” she replied.

Jon shook his head, as if to clear it, then said, “Do you realize that we are going to have a day off? We leave for Wiltshire on Sunday, but Dave has left us Saturday free.”

“He must have made a mistake. I thought he was ethically opposed to days off.”

Jon laughed. “I was wondering if there was anything in London that I could show you, anything you haven't already seen.”

Tracy hid her surprise. Jon had been friendly over the past six weeks, but he had never attempted to ask her out.

Not that there's been time to do anything but film, she thought.

She hesitated, then said slowly, “I would love to see the Tower of London. I've been here at least a dozen times, but I've never managed to tour the Tower.”

He smiled. “One of my favorite places. Let's go to the Tower then.”

Tracy had not lost any of her initial awe of this English actor; in fact, her respect had increased the more she worked with him. She did not want him to have an unpleasant experience in her company. So she said half-humorously, “I must warn you that if you are seen in my company, the American gutter press will assume that I'm carrying your baby. It will then plaster this news all over the scandal sheets so that every person in America who buys groceries will be sure to see it.”

“Surely we can manage to elude the press for one day,” he protested.

“There is one reporter who seems to have made me his mission in life. If I were an ordinary person, I could have him arrested for stalking, but my lawyer tells me that I am a public figure, and the press has a right to do its job.”

“Good heavens,” he said.

“This miserable excuse for a human being is parked outside my hotel just waiting to pounce. I don't want you to be the other pouncee.”

“There must be a back way out of your hotel,” he said.

Her lips curved in acknowledgment of a hit. “There are several exits, in fact. I prefer the kitchen one myself. As far as I know, that miserable bloodhound, Counes, hasn't found it yet.”

“Great. Then shall we say that I'll meet you at ten o'clock Saturday morning outside the kitchen of your hotel?”

Tracy felt a spurt of excitement. “Okay.”

“Uh-oh, Sidney returns,” Jon said. “I had better get into my costume before he throws a tantrum.”

She laughed, and waved, and turned away.

2

Tracy had a very enjoyable time on Saturday with Jon. They managed to avoid the loathsome Counes and were relatively undisturbed by the tourists at the Tower. They capped the day with an excellent dinner at one of London's best restaurants and ended it with a visit to a nightclub.

Tracy did not find a single flaw in Jon that was egregious enough to complain to Gail about.

On Sunday afternoon, the movie company left for Wiltshire. Tracy was feeling sleepy from a late night and dozed for most of the trip. It was almost six by the time the car pulled up to the front of a half-timbered building that was styled like a large cottage. The front yard was brilliant with massed pink tulips, and, as Tracy ascended the stone steps, a carved panel next to the front door proclaimed THE WILTSHIRE ARMS.

The manager himself escorted her to her suite, which was decorated with what looked like genuine antiques. “It's lovely,” Tracy said politely. “What a charming hotel.”

The manager, who had a round, babyish face and horn-rimmed glasses, beamed like a delighted two-year-old. “It's not large, so we can offer personal service to all our guests. Please call me, Miss Collins, if you need anything at all.”

Tracy said that she would, and he left as two young men in uniform came in with her luggage. As they took the bags into the bedroom, she went to look at the cards on the magnificent floral arrangements that dotted the sitting room. The flowers were from her producer, Jim Ventura; her director, Dave Michaels; the hotel management; and Jon. She was reading the card attached to the last floral arrangement when the phone rang.

Gail answered, then put her hand over the receiver, and said, “It's Jon Melbourne. Do you want to speak to him?”

“Yes, of course.” Tracy went to take the phone from her secretary. “Hi, Jon. How are you?”

“Comfortable. This is a nice hotel.”

“It seems to be.”

“I understand that its dining room serves the best food in the area. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? Once we get started filming, we'll be eating off the catering truck I'm afraid.”

Tracy smiled. “From the looks of the shooting schedule, I'm sure we will. I'd like to have dinner with you. In an hour?”

“An hour it is. See you in the restaurant.”

“Great.” Tracy hung up and turned to her secretary. “Jon just invited me to have dinner with him.”

Gail's large brown eyes shone. “Now this is promising. He must have passed the first test.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Tracy replied edgily. “I don't have ‘tests.’”

“Oh yeah? Then how come all the men you know seem to flunk them?”

Tracy's shoulders slumped fractionally and, all of a sudden, she looked very weary. “I don't know, Gail.” She hooked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I just don't know.”

Gail said something under her breath in Spanish, then came to put an arm around her employer. “Don't mind me, I'm only teasing. My problem is I don't know when to stop. Have fun with Jon. I'd have dinner with him just to listen to him read me the phone book.”

Tracy smiled. “I know. That voice! Anyway, you're on your own for dinner. I suggest you order all the best stuff from room service. The movie company is paying, remember.”

Tracy was very popular with the moneymen in Hollywood because her modest requests for perks added very little to a movie's budget. Instead of asking the studio to pay for a limo, a cook, a private camper for location shots, and personal makeup, hair, and clothes persons, she only required that the studio pay the hotel, food, and travel bills for her secretary. She was perfectly content to use regular studio personnel for the rest of her needs.

“Filet mignon, I think,” Gail said.

Tracy nodded. “Perfect.” She glanced at her watch. “We had better get a dress unpacked for me to wear to dinner.”

They both knew the “we” was a courtesy, and Gail would unpack the suitcases. She said, “Why don't you take a shower while I'm getting the clothes out?”

“Terrific idea. Thanks.”

Tracy went into the bathroom while Gail hung a garment bag on a hook in the closet and began to take dresses out of it. “How about the blue Escada?” she called through the door to Tracy.

“Fine,” Tracy called back over the sound of rushing water.

Gently, Gail took a deep cobalt blue dress out of the garment bag and laid it on the bed. Then she went to another suitcase to see if she could find the matching shoes.

Jonathan Melbourne sat in the dining room of the Wiltshire Arms sipping a Glenlivet and waiting for Tracy. He had socialized and worked with many beautiful women in his life, but there was something about Tracy that was particularly striking. She looked so… so… healthy, he thought, picturing her in his mind. She was slim, not skinny, with a beautiful slender waist, and her flawless skin had a natural glow. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was threaded with a gold that looked amazingly natural, though Jon was quite sure it couldn't be.

When she came in the door, every eye in the dining room turned her way.

“I hope you haven't been waiting long,” she said, as the waiter seated her.

“I haven't been here long at all.”

She looked around the small, elegant room. “This is charming.”

“It's not as opulent as L'Aigrette,” he said, referring to the restaurant in London he had taken her to. “But it's more comfortable.”

She smiled, showing the perfectly even white teeth that Jon associated with all Americans.

A waiter came to ask what Tracy wanted to drink and, as she gave her order, Jon took another sip of his scotch and watched her. Her hair glowed under the light from the chandelier, and, in profile, the tilt of her nose looked delightfully insouciant. She turned away from the waiter to look back at him, and Jon said, “That dress is lovely. It matches your eyes.”

A faintly ironic expression came over the eyes in question. “Why else do you think I bought it?” She picked up the handwritten parchment menu and frowned. “This writing is so elegant that I can't read a word of it.”

“Their veal is supposed to be outstanding,” he said.

The cobalt eyes looked at him reproachfully. “Do you know what they do to those poor little baby calves?”

“Please don't tell me,” he replied hastily.

“If you knew, you would never eat veal.”

“I'll order something else,” he promised. He remembered that she had eaten fish the night before, and asked curiously. “Are you a vegetarian?”

She gave him a rueful look. “No. I tried to be once, but the dreadful truth is that I don't like vegetables very much. It's difficult to be a vegetarian when you don't eat vegetables, so I went back to eating meat.”

“But not veal.”

She smiled. “But not veal.”

The waiter appeared, and once again Tracy ordered fish. After the waiter had collected their menus and left, she said, “I've been wanting to tell you how wonderful your films of Hamlet and Henry IV are. I think it's marvelous that people who didn't get to see the theater productions should have an opportunity to see your performance.”

He was pleased. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she replied, and took a sip of her white burgundy.

He buttered a roll. “You appear to be fond of Shakespeare. Have you ever acted in one of his plays?”

“Oh no.” She shook her head emphatically, causing her gorgeous hair to float around her shoulders. “I was an English maj. . .