Her father had commented on her weight loss, which had left her looking gaunt, while her sleepless nights were evident in the dark circles beneath her eyes.
‘I know your grandmother often went without food when she worked for the French Resistance, and I commend your dedication to portraying Edith realistically, but I really wish you would eat properly,’ Joshua had said in concern.
Salvatore might retract his accusation that she hankered for fame and glamour if he saw her in the drab trench coat she wore for most of the performance, Darcey thought ruefully. The play was not a West End production and was being staged at a fringe theatre in Islington. But a Joshua Hart play was guaranteed to draw interest from the media, and Darcey knew that several respected theatre critics were in the audience.
A knock on the dressing room door caused her stomach to cramp with nerves. Taking a deep breath, she managed to smile at the assistant stage manager.
‘This was delivered for you,’ he said, handing her a long cardboard box.
Her parents and other family members had already sent her bouquets of flowers to wish her luck. Darcey fumbled with the ribbon and opened the box to reveal a single red rose.
‘Do you know who sent it?’ she asked shakily. ‘There’s no note with the box.’
The ASM shook his head. ‘All I know it that someone left it at the front desk a few minutes ago. They were cutting it fine—the play is about to start.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you ready, Miss Hart?’
She lifted the rose and smelled its exquisite perfume. Strangely, she did not feel nervous any more. She could do this, Darcey told herself. For her father, but more importantly, for herself.
‘Yes,’ she said steadily. ‘I’m ready.’
* * *
‘Did you know that the critics from most of the national papers were here tonight, and all of them have given your performance fantastic reviews?’ Joshua Hart told Darcey as he steered her across the packed room where the after-show party was taking place. ‘I’ve always known you are a gifted actress. It’s in your blood. And tonight you’ve proved that you are a true Hart.’ His tone became serious. ‘You could have a wonderful acting career. But it’s not what you want, is it?’ he said intuitively.
Darcey shook her head. ‘I’m happy with the career I’ve chosen. I’m sorry, Dad.’
Her father looked surprised. ‘You have nothing to apologise for. I’m proud of you—and the job you do.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Are you all right? Your mother thought there was some chap in Sicily...’
‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly.
It was untrue, of course. From the moment she had walked onto the stage and searched along the front row of the audience she had been far from fine. Her hopes that Salvatore had sent her the red rose and come to see the play had been dashed and she had been dangerously close to tears for the whole performance. She had been stupid to think that he might use the ticket she had posted to him, she told herself.
The brief note she had sent with it to the castle had been her only communication with him since he had stormed out of their hotel room in Rome. Furious at his uncompromising attitude, she had gone straight down to the reception desk and arranged to catch the next flight back to London.
If she had stayed would they have been able to discuss things rationally once they had cooled down? She would never know, and regret deepened Darcey’s misery so that it took all her acting skills to smile and chat with the other members of the cast.
The party ended eventually, but the prospect of driving through the dank November night to her empty house was so depressing that she hung around until she was the last person left in the theatre.
She walked across the stage and stared out at the dark auditorium. There was no one there to see her tears and she could not hold them back any longer. She had a lot to look forward to, she tried to convince herself. The bank had agreed to give her a loan, and in the new year she intended to look for premises where she could establish a private speech therapy clinic.
Footsteps rang out hollowly in the empty theatre. Alfred, the caretaker, probably wanted to lock up.
‘I thought you would be celebrating your success.’
The gravelly, achingly familiar voice tore at her heart. Her eyes flew open and she blinked to clear her blurred vision.
‘Wh...what are you doing here?’
Salvatore stepped out of the shadows and Darcey felt a sharp pang of physical awareness as she studied his chiselled features. His hair was cut short, like the last time she had seen him, and the grey wool overcoat he was wearing over a black silk shirt emphasised his powerful athletic build. He looked less like a pirate and more like a billionaire businessman. Darcey thought he looked utterly gorgeous.