LITMIR.BIZ

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manner was a reflection of his own attitude, and his growing impatience with the journalist, whom Nick mentally categorized as a pushy New York broad of the worst kind.

      That evening he and Francesca had spent several hours discussing the historical figures who most intrigued them. She had talked about Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, known as the Kingmaker, that glittering figure who, in the fifteenth century, had placed Edward Plantagenet on the shaky throne of England after the Wars of the Roses. Nick had listened to her in astonishment, discovering she had an amazing ability to make both the man and the events surrounding him come vividly alive in the manner of a born storyteller. He had been encouraging her efforts to write ever since, had volunteered to help her in any way he could, and had already spoken to his English publisher about her book.

      Now, as he reflected, Nick could not remember enjoying an evening so much in a long time. Yes, there was something unique about Francesca Cunningham. His only regret was that she was so very young. Otherwise she would have been perfect for Victor. Exactly the kind of woman he needed in his life. Too damned bad, Nick muttered under his breath, and then he frowned. Who had decided she was too young? Victor, of course. But I did tease him about her age, Nick thought, regretting this now, wondering if he had sounded disapproving. I’d better correct that impression, he resolved.

      Again, Nick found himself focusing on Katharine Tempest, contemplating the test he was about to see. Was it really any good? Victor had been close-mouthed, even cagey, about it and for once Nick had been unable to read his best friend. When Nick had pestered him, Vic had merely said, ‘I think you’d better see it for yourself. I don’t want to influence you in advance. And listen, old buddy, I want an honest opinion from you.’

      Nick strictured himself to be unbiased, to keep an open mind. He must not let his dislike of Katharine as a woman becloud his judgment of her as an actress. Nick merely tolerated her company out of deference to Victor, who was oddly attached to her. Sometimes he wondered about that attachment.

      Hillard Steed finally arrived. He and Victor were chatting in the doorway, and Nick sauntered over, greeting Hilly with amiability. Victor interrupted sharply, with, ‘Okay boys, let’s get this show on the road. You can talk later.’ Nick winked at Hilly, gave Victor a smart military salute and edged along the row. A second later, Victor lowered himself into the next seat, swung his head, and indicated to the projectionist peering out of the booth window that he wanted to start.

      Francesca gave Katharine’s hand a quick squeeze without looking at her. Her eyes were glued to the screen and she sat perfectly still. Katharine herself was suddenly petrified and she wanted to flee, but that would be cowardly and she prided herself on her courage. Her nervousness increased and she felt as if her heart was in her mouth. Outwardly she remained contained and unruffled, but she was glad Francesca was there to lend her support. Katharine closed her eyes, and she, who was not particularly religious, found herself saying a small silent prayer: Please God, let me be good. So much depends on this. My future and Ryan’s too. Her eyes opened and she settled back against the seat, willing herself to relax.

      The overhead lights were doused, and there was a flickering on the screen, but it went black and a collective groan rose and echoed around the screening room. Almost immediately the reel started and the titles on a clap-board read: SCREEN TEST: MISS KATHARINE TEMPEST: WUTHERING HEIGHTS.

      And so the scene began.

      Ann Patterson, the actress playing Nelly Dean, sat in the kitchen of Wuthering Heights, the Earnshaw farm, singing a lullaby to the baby Hareton, actually a doll wrapped in a shawl. In the Brontë novel, Heathcliff had been present, talking to Nelly a moment before she had lifted the child from its crib. Then he had walked across the room and flung himself down on a bench against the wall, hidden from view by a large settle. He had remained in the kitchen.

      Francesca had included this in her version, since she believed it was Heathcliff’s hidden presence that helped to give the chapter a great deal of its dramatic impetus, in that Heathcliff overhears the unflattering things Cathy has to say about him, as opposed to Edgar Linton, and the recitation of her feelings for them both.

      However, Victor had limited Bruce Nottley to only one other actor to play opposite Katharine, to keep the costs of the test down to a minimum. And so the first few pages of Francesca’s relatively short, twenty-eight-minute script had been dropped by the director, eliminating the need for an actor to play the role of Heathcliff. Katharine had been concerned that this tampering with the script, minor though it was, would diminish the values in the scene. But Bruce had managed to reassure her, explaining that Ann could easily indicate to the viewer that there was an eavesdropper present, simply through worried glances directed to the far end of the kitchen, her vain attempts to silence Cathy increasing Nelly’s nervousness. Katharine had no choice but to acquiesce, since Bruce, as the director of the test, had the last word.

      The elderly actress continued to croon softly to the child, and the screening room was now completely hushed, the silence broken only by the gentle whirring of the projector. The tension and expectancy were high, seemed to vibrate like waves in the air. Everyone was keyed up and waiting, wondering if they were about to witness a disastrous failure or the birth of a new star. Only Victor knew the answer and he had given none of them the vaguest clue.

      The kitchen door flew open and Katharine Tempest was on the screen. Her first lines, spoken in a whisper, were, ‘Are you alone, Nelly?’ All eyes were focused on her as she floated forward to join Nelly Dean by the hearth, in the foreground of the shot. She looked like a dream in a white muslin frock sprigged with tiny cornflowers. Her thick chestnut hair was parted in the centre and held back at each side with small blue-velvet bows, and it fell softly to her shoulders in loose waves. The camera dollied in for a close-up and there were several quite audible gasps as it lingered there to reveal the perfect features, the purity and innocence in those matchless eyes.

      Katharine seemed to leap out from the screen, blazingly alive, larger than life. Her acting was superb, but the force she projected had little to do with this, or her grace of movement, her facial expressions, the mellifluous ring to her voice, although, indeed, all were in great evidence. It was something far beyond these attributes which came across so powerfully and magnetically, which stunned with its impact. It was sheer force of personality. Katharine had incredible presence, and glamour, and charisma personified, and all spelled STAR in no uncertain terms. And the camera truly loved her.

      As the scene unfolded, Katharine ran the gamut of emotions. Her initial quiet anxiety on entering was quickly replaced by lighthearted gaiety tinged with skittishness, which in turn moved on to indignation and a hint of imperiousness. She was also defiant, cajoling, sweetly endearing and, finally, was held in the grip of a passion so intensely, so eloquently expressed it was heart-stopping in its pathos and realism. Francesca was mesmerized and on the edge of her seat, clasping her hands tightly together. Gooseflesh ran up her arms when Katharine began Cathy Earnshaw’s famous declaration of her all-consuming love for Heathcliff. She was unusually familiar with the words, had heard them said many times before; but it seemed to her that Katharine was giving them new life and meaning and with a depth of feeling that was remarkable. She was touched and moved in a way she had never been before in her young life, and she knew she was watching genius. Katharine Tempest was spellbinding.

      On the screen Katharine was at Nelly’s feet, one hand on her knee, and, as she looked up at her, those huge turquoise eyes beseeched, were flooded with mingled suffering and ecstasy and final acceptance of her overpowering love. Slowly she said:

      ‘“My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”’ Katharine paused for a beat and in that dramatic, split-second pause the tears seeped out of her eyes and trickled unchecked down her cheeks. And then she declared: ‘“Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable –”’

      Katharine buried her head in the folds of Nelly’s skirt, racked with sobs, and there was a slow fade-out as the camera pulled

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