Chapter 3

May 29th

Tom Miller and wife Sandra met us as the taxi drew up on the drive of their house in the suburbs of Stockbridge. Also there, were their two children. As I understand it, Tom’s my second cousin or my first cousin twice removed - it’s a confusion, not helped by my fatigue.

I’ve been given the bedroom of the eldest son and, although it’s only 7.00 in the evening, my body thinks its tomorrow. I’m tired and grubby with no energy to write. I plan a long soak in the tub before I sleep.

May 30th

Stockbridge is the typical quaint New England small town, a magnet for the tourists in summer and fall, yet peaceful and sleepy for the remainder of the year. This area, The Berkshires, tucked away in the western corner of Massachusetts, reminds me of the Lake District with its landscape of forest and verdant rippling hills. A ten minute drive from Main Street is my cousin’s house. It’s newly built, crammed with three others onto a scrap of land between two much larger and more elegant Newport-style ‘cottages,’ owned by wealthy New-Yorkers as holiday homes. The house is a four bedroom white wood dwelling with a cedar shake roof with a dinky front lawn fronted by the ubiquitous picket fence.

My first day was a parade of visiting faces and names, each person complete with mini-history and the precise relationship between them and myself. I remember little of the detail, however I’ll never forget the grand hospitality of my long-gone relations.

Vera’s grandfather, my great granddad, Edward Miller, left Manchester as a lad. He landed at the newly opened Ellis Island with his parents in 1892, seven years after the Statue of Liberty arrived from France. The Millers were fruitful and multiplied and I’m certain I met the vast majority of their offspring that day.

June 3rd

This has been my first rest day since my arrival in America. Each morning, Cousin Tom left for his office and the school bus shuttled away the children while Sandra ferried us around the area showing us the sights.

It was two-ish, we’d eaten lunch and the remainder of the family were in the back garden - I should say ‘the yard’ - while I was curled up on the den sofa watching TV. That’s when my heart started to pound at an alarming rate.

On the screen was the most delightful water colour I’ve ever seen. It was a display that New England is famed for, a mass of magnificent colour of fall trees, amongst them maple, ash, birch and beech blending to display a mix of red russet, orange, browns, lavender and golden yellows. Set in the midst of the paint array was a house - correction a mansion - a Louis XVI styled chateau, three stories high, white stone with grey roof and double columns guarding the glazed doors and high Palladian windows. Between close cropped lawns, broad stone steps dropped gently down to a placid lake on which was reflected the kaleidoscope colours of the broad-leaved forest.

In an instant I knew that was where I wanted to be for the rest of my life. It was crazy, illogical, without any apparent reason, nevertheless the desire was deep within me and irreversible.

The music played, sounding like a New England version of Dynasty and the title filled the screen in bold ornate lettering - The Berkshires. The painting was soon replaced by the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He was standing proud, legs apart like a colossus on the steps of, what I assume, was the mansion whose painting I’d just seen. Beside him was a woman - also exquisite - worshipping him with large dark eyes and pouting lips. The gold script on the screen announced the arrival of the star, Hanover West.

“I see you’ve discovered Hanover.”

I screwed round on the sofa to see Sandra crossing the room. I squirmed to be discovered in so obvious a state of desire.

“Don’t fret,” she cooed. “It’s accepted that it’s normal to drool over Hanover; I’d hate to miss my weekly fix.” She picked up the TV Guide. “I’ve watched this episode, it’s a repeat from the first series, although I’m happy to see it over. Move across.”

I sat upright to vacate space beside me. “He’s gorgeous.”

“And he knows it,” she sneered. “He’s the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve met him?”

“On occasions, yes. He’s good to look at, however conversing is hopeless. If Hanover isn’t allowed to talk about himself, he’s impossible.”

“When ... how did you meet him?”

“I hate to say it, but he’s yet another relation. Not as close a tie as the people you met last week, despite that, there are family connections. Edward Miller left New York and settled here immediately after he arrived in America so it’s not surprising that so many of his descendants are locals.”

“Could I meet him?”

Sandra chuckled. “You don’t waste a moment.”

I sensed my face flush. “It’s only because we’ll be leaving in less than a fortnight.”

“I’m teasing you. I seem to recall there’s a party at Forêt Dore this weekend. I’m sure Hanover would be pleased to meet his English relatives. Like most Americans he’s fascinated with his roots.”

“Do you really think it’s possible?”

“Yes, Eleanor, it’s a cinch. Don’t worry; when I explain to him you’re an ardent fan, he’ll jump at the chance. He adores an audience, in particular a female one.”

Patricia Rockwell lowered the journal to her lap and released a long yawn.

“Any ideas yet?” asked Alistair from the opposite chair.

Pat lifted her empty glass high and waved it to and fro.

“A refill?”

“Yes,” she struggled through another yawn, “ ... please.”

He tinkled fresh ice cubes into the tumbler and poured a generous measure of gin over the frozen chunks. “How far have you read?”

She skipped back a few pages to read the date. “I reached the passage June 18th, the part when she returned home from the States and now I’m reading when she was living with the Millers. She’s been with them a week and just seen Hanover West, the soap star. I assume she’s about to meet him. Is that right?”

“No.”

“Oh!”

“Does he exist or is he part of her fantasy?”

“He’s genuine. The Berkshires is a big hit, syndicated throughout the States even though it’s not yet been shown in the UK.”

There was silence broken by the gentle sloshing of alcohol as Pat stirred her finger inside the glass.

“Alick, does Eleanor own a passport?”

He grinned. “You’re clever. I knew I was right to involve you.”

She replaced her spectacles and returned to her study.

June 6th

Tonight’s the big night - when I meet the luscious Hanover. Vera and I spent yesterday in Albany, where we chose evening gowns and accessories, and most of today was at the beauticians. Jack considers we’re making a great deal of fuss over nothing. It took him less than an hour to shower and dress and now he’s downstairs ready to leave.

Hold on, there’s a knock at the door.

That was Jack. Vera has stomach ache and won’t be going. Jack’s offered to stay home with her.

Another knock. Sandra tells me Hanover has sent his chauffeur to collect us, but there’s only me. Must rush.

June 7th

Yesterday evening, around 8.00, my driver arrived. As I descended the stairs in my expensive new gown, Sandra was waiting in the hall while the driver was outside on the porch, framed in the doorway. I observed his brown eyes moving up and down my body, a quick appraisal which he’d intended, no doubt, to be discreet. Men rarely notice me and it was a surprise, however on second thoughts I realised it wasn’t such a surprise - I wore the most amazing dress I’ve ever seen.

I decided what was good for the gander was good for the goose and I returned his lengthways gaze. He was about my height, burly and dressed entirely in dark grey, a chauffeur’s suit with the cap held under his arm. His stance reminded me of a bodyguard, erect and tense with his large hands cupped at the front as though he was anxious to protect himself from attack.

“Good evening Miss Risby,” he smiled and his face lit up as though he was genuinely pleased to meet me. He had a deep and laid-back drawl with only a trace of an American accent.

“Hi,” I replied, trying to sound indifferent.

“I’m Hector, Mr West’s chauffeur. I understand you’ll be travelling alone.”

“Yes, my parents are unwell.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, my dear. I hope you have a pleasant evening,” said Sandra taking my arm. “Let me escort you to the car.”

Car! It was no car, spread the length of the drive, a palace on wheels. Would you believe a limousine and not any common limo, but a Rolls-Royce super stretch?

Hector pulled on the rear door and it opened with a sigh.

I smiled my thanks. “Is this the best you could manage?”

He grinned indulgently. “I’m sure you will find everything you could wish for, Miss. There’s satellite television, DVD complete with stereo surround sound system, CD, radio, air conditioning and a fully stocked bar, including champagne.”

I stepped inside and marvelled at the plushness of the massive interior and the face to face leather seating in pristine white.

He joined me and explained the controls. I thanked him and he began the long walk to the front.

I pushed a button and the clouded window slid silently downwards. Sandra’s head pushed into the car. “Wow,” she said, “it’s gorgeous.”

“Isn’t it.”

She feathered a kiss on my cheek, we exchanged goodbyes and I was off to meet my Prince Charming like Cinderella to the Ball.

I played with my new toys for a while, however after a short time they became tiresome. I pressed the intercom.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Hector, this is no fun on my own.”

“I’m sorry, Miss.”

“Would you object if I joined you in the front?”

“Not at all, I would be pleased. Wait until I’m able to park and I’ll collect you.”

A short while later he pulled into the car park of one of the charming inns which frequent the area and, rather than wait for him, I let myself out and joined him as he was about to exit. I settled into the passenger seat and we exchanged grins.

“Ready, Miss?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you wish me to activate the air conditioning?”

Although summer, it was not hot, but a perfect warm dry evening. “No, I’m good.”

As we left, the clientele drinking in the garden of the inn ignored us. I assume stretch limos are de riguer to Stockbridge locals.

While he drove I stole a glance at him. He had short wiry black hair and a craggy face with a strong jutting jaw and a bullet nose. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed my interest, turned and half smiled while his chestnut eyes produced an inquisitive look.

I looked away and barely controlled a blush while I tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

“Would you like to take you the scenic detour?”

“That sounds a fine idea. Yes please.”

“It’s forty miles to Williamstown along Highway 7 and takes half an hour. The long route will probably double the journey time. Is that OK?”

“I wouldn’t want to be late,” I murmured.

“I planned for the longer route, so we’ll be at Forêt Dore with time to spare.”

We travelled in an uncomfortable silence except when he provided random explanations of where we were. We cruised through picturesque rustic towns and villages with their snow-white churches nestled amongst pristine lawns and colonial churchyards. Leaving the urban areas we were onto the wooded back roads and rolling fields, country inns, dairy farms and the occasional sumptuous estate built with New England gentility.

“Are you enjoying the ride, Miss?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s wonderful.”

“We’re driving through the middle of the Berkshires, moving parallel to the border which divides Massachusetts from New York State.”

“Why is it named ‘The Berkshires?”

We rounded a sharp bend and he squinted in the sunlight before retrieving his sunglasses from his breast pocket. “After the mountains,” he explained and without any warning changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself.”

I was flustered. No-one had ever shown interest in me and what made it worse - he was a man and that thought deepened the tint of my rose complexion. Perhaps, because he took me by surprise I opened up and told him far more than I would if I’d been allowed to consider my response.

“My life is boring,” I argued, “You won’t want to hear.”

“Yes, I do. Please. Try me.”

“Very well. I had the misfortune to be born during the Beatlemania period and my parents who, I’ve been advised, had previously shown no sense of humour, thought it would be amusing to name me after the song, Eleanor Rigby. Their taste in music was restricted to classical and it was the score of the double string quartet which attracted them, not the words. If they’d listened to the lyrics, one assumes they would not have tempted fate by naming me after the unfortunate female. Maybe they did hear the words and disregarded them.”

I should have stopped at this point, despite that, an overpowering force from deep inside was compelling me to divulge what I’d never admitted to another person. It was as though he ought to know about my life, that there was a prime reason why he must share my secret thoughts. “Either way, they had no idea my life style would imitate fiction; their only daughter - their lone child - was christened after the song. They never knew what they did to me ... they died in a car crash before I was four years old.” I paused before the terrible truth escaped my lips. “The lone child became a lonely child.”

The silence that followed was painful, however having opened the wound, I was unable to close it. “My parents were wealthy and there was no shortage of relatives keen to adopt me. In the end I was settled upon Uncle Tristram and Aunt Julia. They had no children of their own and although I would have preferred not to be the ‘only child,’ I was too young to be consulted.

“I learnt to play on my own, how to let my imagination run wild. My adoptive ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’ were attentive to my physical, if not my emotional needs. Life was safe and, although there was seldom excitement, I wasn’t unhappy. It was not to last.”

“It never does,” Hector concurred with a sour expression.

“When I was twelve, my uncle abandoned us and we never saw him again. Aunt Julia never recovered. I was young and didn’t realise what she was doing as she commenced her crusade to turn me against men. Her complaints were consistent as year by year she found fresh new evidence to demonstrate how useless they were. She considered it was her duty to educate me in the evils of mankind, and by the time I was a teenager, I’d learnt to distrust men. ‘They’re untrustworthy, but the handsome ones are even less reliable,’ she drummed into me.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No, I can’t accept all men are the same. However it’s too late now.”

“Where is your aunt?”

“She died. At the age of twenty five I was truly alone.”

“I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“I was told to collect you and your parents, but you told me they died.”

I turned scarlet once more; it was becoming a habit. “Jack and Vera aren’t my real parents. Let’s say I adopted them.”

I could see he wasn’t convinced, nonetheless he let the explanation pass without comment.

Silence arrived once more. Every so often I glanced at him, using the excuse of studying an item of interest on his side of the road. He was deep in thought each time I looked and I was about to ask him what he was thinking when we arrived on the outskirts of Williamstown.

We drove in and out of the stately college town at a slow pace while he pointed out the various attractions and at the northern exit he said, “It’s only a short way now. The house is on the outskirts of the Mohawk Trail.”