Page 87 of A Change of Location
Hannah didn’t respond.
“Martin must wish you were staying at Stanwell House.”
He definitely did. “I’ve told him that’s impossible. And unprofessional.”
“How’s his mother?” Liz asked, as the rain pounded the car roof.
“I haven’t seen her yet, but we’ve spoken on the phone. She’s not quite strong enough to resume painting sessions or gardening. I’ll visit her sometime this week.”
Alistair opened Liz’s door. “Loove-ly weather we’re having today, ladies. What’s your pleasure? Craft service breakfast, or shall I escort you to the set?”
“We’ve eaten. Coming, Hannah?”
“Step under the brolly,” he said. “Plenty of room.”
“My raincoat has a hood. I’ll follow in a minute.”
Hannah checked messages. Nothing from Martin.
The scene being filmed inside the tithe barn was the most complex to date. Participants included many members of the cast, multiple musicians, and dozens of extras who would be dining and dancing. The cavernous space contained mismatched trestle tables. Set decorators arranged pitchers and tankards and pewter dishes. A food historian was inspecting items on the serving platters for accuracy. Electrical technicians—the sparks—positioned the light stands.
Sir Owen Parry conferred with the director of photography, waving like an orchestra conductor to illustrate a point. Production assistants chattered into their headset mics.
Caroline Bryden looked remarkably alert and cheerful, despite her early morning call for corseting, dressing, and make up. She wore a brown wig, and a hairdresser was using a pick to arrange curling tendrils over her temples and forehead.
Lucas Daltrey, her handsome co-star, didn’t need a hairpiece. He’d grown out his dark hair, now tied behind his head by a black silk ribbon. In frock coat, vest, and breeches, he resembled the quintessential Georgian gentleman as he posed for the still photographer. One of those images, Hannah suspected, was destined for the cover of the tie-in edition of Forsaken Fortune, to please all those female women readers who had sent the novel soaring up the bestseller lists.
Nigel Rossiter beckoned Liz to her canvas chair. Her full name was stitched on the front and back panel.
Alistair came over to Hannah and said, “If we wrap on time, we’ll have a proper night off. Meet at the pub later?”
Her evenings had been exceptionally quiet—and dull. This week Tom Picton was in London, accessing archival materials. Either she invited Liz to her hotel restaurant for dinner, or they worked their way through the limited number of Newbridge restaurants. At night she landed in her bed, exhausted.
In addition to the variable demands of her working day, she did her best to boost Liz’s spirits. Although the postpartum depression had subsided, stress affected her moods.
Hannah would have preferred to spend her free night with Poppy Deane, catching up. But she was determined to maintain a positive working relationship with Alistair. “Can we go to The Huntsman’s Horn?” she asked him, knowing the likelihood of finding the estate manager there.
“Suits me.”
The process of blocking the harvest supper took up most of the morning. The number of participants and the lively action required careful direction and a lot of coordination before everyone was clear on what to do when. And where. After the lunch break, Liz told Hannah she was leaving.
“Tom caught an earlier train than he thought he would. If I take the car, can you get a lift to the hotel?”
“Easily.”
“What’s tomorrow’s schedule?”
“Owen and the first unit will be at Stanwell House for a Granville and Rosalind scene, pages seventy-three through seventy-nine. No script changes—that I know of. The assistant director and the second unit and the extras will come back here for pick-up shots.”
“I might play hooky. You can too, if you want. Have fun tonight. But not too much. I’m on Team Martin.”
Hannah laughed. “So am I.”
She rode to Milverston in a minibus with the members of the supporting cast lodging at the Latimer Arms. The Huntsman’s Horn, derided by Martin as too tarted up for his taste, was popular with the film crew and packed with locals. Disappointed by Poppy’s absence, Hannah went to the only vacant booth. She placed her rain-drenched coat on the protruding hook attached to the bench seat. Seeing Alistair, she waved him over.
“At last, I get you all to myself,” he said. Surveying the room, he added, “Sort of. What’ll you have?”
“A pint of Milverston Gold.” Martin would’ve known.
