Very Early Stages
A spinoff — or possibly spin-offs, plural, or prequels or sequels — of the immensely popular HBO drama is in the works.
The network said in a statement Thursday that it has closed deals with four writers to “explore different time periods of George R. R. Martin’s vast and rich universe.”
“There is no set timetable for these projects,” the network said. “We’ll take as much or as little time as the writers need and, as with all our development, we will evaluate what we have when the scripts are in.”
The network also said that Martin, the creator and author of the books that the series is based on, would also be involved in writing scripts.
HBO added that the creators and showrunners of the main series, D. B. Weiss and David Benioff, are continuing to work on finishing the upcoming seventh season of “Game of Thrones” and are “in the midst of writing and preparing for the eighth and final season” but would be attached, along with Martin, as executive producers.
“We will support them as they take a much deserved break from writing about Westeros once the final season is complete,” the network said.
Plans are still far from final, and it’s possible that there could be multiple new shows — or none at all. But adding something to the “Game of Thrones” franchise is a logical next step for HBO; it’s one of the most talked-about shows on TV, and arguably the crown jewel of the cable network’s lineup.
Some sort of continuation of the franchise has been talked about for a long time. Casey Bloys, HBO’s programming chief, was asked about it at July’s Television Critics Association press tour in Los Angeles.
“It’s not something I’m opposed to, but of course it has to make sense creatively,” Bloys said at the time.
The main show’s seventh season premieres July 16. Its eighth season, which will have only six episodes, is slated to be its last.
(HBO, like CNN, is owned by Time Warner.)
Headed our way is a three part adaptation of H.G. Wells‘ novel WAR OF THE WORLDS from Poldark and Victoria‘s Mammoth Screen! At the dawn of the 20th century, Horsell Common in Surrey is struck by a huge meteor, and the inhabitants of Earth slowly fall victim to a vicious invasion. The three-part drama follows one man’s attempt to escape the ruthless Martians – but they are determined to destroy all human life as they attempt to conquer the earth…
Writer, Peter Harness says: “I’m feeling phenomenally lucky to be writing The War of the Worlds, and blowing up gigantic swathes of the Home Counties at the dawn of the twentieth century. Wells’s book is ground zero for all modern science fiction, and like all the best sci-fi, manages to sneak in some pretty astonishing comments on what it is to be a human being too. I’m hoping to follow in the great man’s footsteps by making a terrifying, Martian-packed series which manages to be emotional, characterful, and – deep breath, dare I say it – even political at the same time.”
Damien Timmer, Mammoth Screen Managing Director, adds: “It’s a great honour to bring H.G. Wells’s masterpiece to BBC One. This huge title – the original alien invasion story – has been loosely adapted and riffed on countless times, but no one has ever attempted to follow Wells and locate the story in Dorking at the turn of the last century. We hope Peter’s adaptation will be the definitive adaptation of one of the great classic novels – and a visceral, thought provoking thrill ride!”
The War of the Worlds has been commissioned by Piers Wenger and Charlotte Moore, written by Peter Harness (Doctor Who, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, Wallander) and will be produced by Mammoth Screen (Poldark, The City And The City, The Witness For The Prosecution, NW) for BBC One. Filming will begin early 2018.
Anita Singh, Arts and Entertainment Editor (The Telegraph)
6 May 2017 • 10:00pm
The BBC will move Poldark to a summer slot in order to avoid a repeat of last year’s bruising clash with ITV’s Victoria.
The two period dramas went head-to-head in the 2016 schedules, and Victoria emerged as the ratings winner.
Both occupied the coveted 9pm Sunday night slot across September and October, months traditionally reserved for major costume drama as autumn weather brings viewers indoors. But the BBC is expected to announce that Poldark will be brought forward to June, ensuring viewers do not have to choose between the rival shows.
The BBC’s new head of drama, Piers Wenger, declined to comment on scheduling decisions. But asked if Poldark would be moved, he said: “I think we’re going to put it out at a time when most people can enjoy it.”
It would represent a reversal for Charlotte Moore, BBC’s head of content, who said last year: “My duty is to the licence fee payers and to our audience, and to try and find the best place in the schedule for a piece we know is much loved by the audience is incredibly important.
“I want to put one of the most loved dramas on television in that spot and I think it would be very wrong to move out of that.”
However, the finale of Victoria last year attracted an audience of 5.5 million. The penultimate episode of Poldark, screened at the same time, drew 4.9 million.
Kevin Lygo, ITV’s director of programmes, indicated before Victoria was broadcast that he would not be backing down.
“Sunday night is a particular place for 9 o’clock dramas. Victoria has obviously been a year in the making. If we had run away from Poldark, I don’t know what we would have put there,” he said.
“You can record – there are many different ways to watch these shows. Neither of us should give up the land.”
The next series of Poldark will be the third. It will see Ross Poldark, played by Aidan Turner, set out to rescue a friend captured by the French.
“It’s boys with guns. It’s very exciting. There’s a little war movie in the middle of it,” Turner said during a recent appearance at the Radio Times Festival. A fourth season has been commissioned.
The second series of Victoria, which is expected to remain in the autumn slot, will find the young queen struggling to adapt to life with a baby.
“Victoria and Albert are facing the challenge of being new parents and Victoria is not very keen on motherhood,” said the series creator, Daisy Goodwin.
She’s Not the Margret, We Once Knew
As the large crowd milled outside, talking, John made his way through to the chapel steps and entered the church. He seated himself near the front, across from where Margaret was likely to be. The organist began to play and the assembly filed inside, quickly filling the pews, until there was standing room only. Searching through the mass of people, John finally noticed Margaret, walking down the aisle. She was accompanied by a man and woman, who could only have been her husband’s brother and sister. John thought. Margaret was naturally dressed in black with a netted veil covering her face. Even so, he thought; only Margaret could still look stunning in mourning attire. He gazed intently through the veil at her profile, surprised to find few tears being wiped away. She was composed, as she held her head high, determined to show strength, and still accepting of yet another death in her world of friends and family. The organ music quietly ended, and the minister began his words with a prayer to the congregation. It was a nice service and a close faculty friend, an older gentleman, Dr. Trevor Pritchard, who gave the eulogy. However, John’s attention was steadfastly engaged on Margaret; he was somewhat baffled that she showed little emotion.
She looks withdrawn, as if she has been discarded from life. Odd, that she shows little sadness.
After the ceremony was completed, the minister announced that the short private burial would commence immediately behind the chapel. Booker Reed was being buried in the campus church graveyard. Apparently, John heard murmured around him; this was an honor rarely bestowed. Everyone was invited to remain for refreshments in the dining hall, two buildings over.
Having Margaret near, yet so far away, he decided to attend the private burial, hoping to find a moment to speak with her. The pallbearers bore the coffin out first, followed by Margaret, her family, and the Reed family. The general assembly then flowed next with John being one of the last ones to exit.
Taking full strides with his long legs, he soon reached the party as they neared the burial site, directly behind the church. The college cemetery was very elegant with its filigree ironworks, tall oak trees and intricately carved head stones. About a dozen people attended the private burial, but John, being self-conscious of his height since no one could miss seeing him there, slipped behind the few that were standing.
He was encouraged by the fact that Margaret was handling her situation well and had seemingly shed very few tears, yet he was concerned that there could be more behind her apathetic manner. He could sense it; he wondered if anyone else could feel it. Once the final words were read by the Reverend, the mourners filed past the lowered coffin to pay their last respects with a handful of earth or flowers. John watched as Margaret stood over the grave site for several seconds, tossed her bouquet down to the coffin, then walked away, escorted by her family and followed by the other mourners.
John was the last to leave, and as they all walked toward the front of the church, he was still deciding how he should approach her.
Margaret . . . look back at me . . .
As if she’d heard his very thoughts, Margaret slowly turned her head and looking back, noticed John’s tall stately presence, casting his long shadow.
His breath caught, and he stopped walking, drinking in her vision as she stared at him.
Through our silence, she is looking back at me, as if she has heard me.
John could feel her eyes gazing at him even through her dark netted veil. Knowing she was now aware of his presence, his heart began to hammer against his ribs, reaffirming that he loved her more than life.
Margaret stopped and motioned for the others to pass her then looked back in his direction. The family wondered what had caught her attention. Her cousin wanted to wait on her, but Margaret waved Edith on.
Not taking his eyes from her, John removed his hat and started walking towards her. This was a special moment for him, but out of sympathy, he withheld his smile. He was living one of his recurring dreams. He recognized it for what it was – Margaret walking towards him as he walked towards her. He lived this moment in his mind many times. As she took steps in his direction, the distance between them grew shorter until John touched her extended hand.
Face to face, she lifted her veil.
Someday . . . she will lift her wedding veil to me.
Releasing a hushed sigh, John looked into her glassy hazel eyes and lost himself in the delicate features of her face. Even at her lowest, Margaret was the most beautiful creature in his world. He searched for words, which now seemed stranded deep within him. The silence became awkward. John knew if he forced himself to speak, he would fall over his own words. However, he cherished the fact that she was looking at him intently, unable to speak, herself.
Margaret could hardly believe he was standing before her, so tall and handsome, holding the sun behind him like a monolith. John was the pillar of inner strength she desperately needed in her life, right now. And, no doubt, had probably needed for several years, she realized.
Thank you, God, for sending him here.
The stalled moment seemed welcomed by them both as their eyes roamed each other’s faces, like long lost lovers being reunited. The vision was rapturous for John. Margaret felt every bit the same; however, she smothered that emotional passion.
Margaret felt like she had been thrown a rope as the high waves were breaking over her, battering her down into the sea. John was from a different world, a world she had missed for many years. She knew he would protect her from the harsh storm which seemed to be swirling about her. Looking into his face, she saw his serenity, his strength, and his love, all beckoning her to step into his space.
My arms are your sanctuary . . . reach out to me . . . Margaret
Feeling extremely vulnerable and suddenly weak, she collapsed against him, laying her arms against his chest. What a strange sensation, finding peace and safety even when she was not in any danger. She needed to draw something from John, but what it was she didn’t know. There was something about him that made Margaret want to lean on him. For just a few moments, she longed for reassurance that in her own world, Margaret’s world, she was not alone. “John. Hold me . . . hold me close.”
He was swiftly overwhelmed, driven by his deep love for her, surrendering his reserve, allowing his eyes to mist. The emotional wall that John had been hiding behind for many years began to crack. He fought his dominant male instinct to sweep her off her feet and carry her away to safety. He ached for her, but gently wrapped his arms about her discreetly, and sheltered her to him. John felt her unleash shivering sobs against his body. She felt so warm and soft in his arms; he almost closed his eyes from the pure tenderness of the moment. Despite the scrutiny of onlookers and how it might be perceived; he threw propriety to the wind and did not interrupt the moment. John held Margaret close to him, weathering her through her storm. He laid his cheek on top of her head to secure her closer, reveling in her scent and the feel of her within his arms. Suddenly, he felt Margaret’s weight sliding through his grasp, as she fainted. He grabbed her tightly, swinging his arm beneath her knees and lifting her easily to his chest. He carried her over to a white wooden bench, nearby.
Margaret’s Aunt Shaw and cousin Edith hurried back to see what had happened, and immediately began to fan and fawn over her. “What did you say to her,” Aunt Shaw asked, rather haughtily.
“We have yet to speak a word to each other,” John replied, somewhat annoyed. “She must be exhausted from the strain and stress of the day.” He had no sentiment for these people.
As Margaret’s eyes fluttered open, bringing her back into her surroundings, her aunt sighed in relief. “You’re going to be alright, Margaret,” she said, assuring her, as though she were a child. “We’ll take you home, and you won’t have to talk with all these people.”
John was buried in Margaret’s eyes, watching for her awareness of the family’s efforts to direct her life. If possible, he vowed, never again would he allow them to make decisions for her.
John spoke calmly but firmly, “Would you please allow Mrs. Reed and I a few moments before she leaves, so that I can express my condolences and those of others from Milton.”
Silent glances and frowns were exchanged between Margaret’s relatives.
“I must insist on this,” John said sternly, sensing their reluctance. “I will bring her to the front of the church directly; please just give us a moment. I have come a long way to say these few words to her, and I intend to say them. You have meddled in Margaret’s affairs, possibly changing the course of her life, but you will not meddle in mine, ever again. Please, leave us.”
Knowing how they had successfully contrived to keep Margaret and him apart, ruining at least one of their lives, John would brook no argument, especially from this family. There was iron in his voice, and he remained resolute.
Aunt Shaw and Edith walked away, quite aware of what his underlying reasons had meant.
Rising to a seated position, Margaret apologized to John for the scene she had created and thanked him for his help.
John sat her down beside him and turned towards her, rubbing her hands. “I’m so glad to be here with you. I am sorry for your loss. Higgins, Mary, Dixon, and I all want you to know you have our support.”
“How are they?” she asked, regaining her senses. “I miss them immensely.”
“As they do you, Margaret” John said. “Please let our friendship help you through the coming difficulties you will face. We will all worry and want to write to you, if you allow us. I will keep in touch with you no matter how you feel about it. If I receive no response, I will come to London and speak my mind to your family. No one can stand in my way ever again, except you.” He gazed at her beautifully sad face with its tear streaks and flushed cheeks, as he handed her his handkerchief.
“Thank you, John,” Margaret said, trying to stifle her tears.
“I’m hoping you might think to consider returning to Milton for your mourning period.” John said, studying her face closely. “There you will have true friends who wish to support your wishes and not steer you in any direction. The thought of you having to return to your family is almost more than I can bear. Please keep that in mind as you begin your recovery. I could even take you away this very moment, should you wish to escape all this.” Seeing her tears increase, he added in a sorrowful voice, “Margaret, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I thought I was conveying words that would be welcomed.”
“I’m not crying from sadness, John.” Margaret assured him, “I’m overcome with relief. I have felt so . . . detached . . . from this world for a long time. You have brought an oasis to my desert. How I’ve longed for friends, my friends, and . . . and . . . thank you, John, for being here today. I know you never met Booker and this inconvenience to you is for me, alone.”
Having sensed something more in her words and actions, and unable to keep his sentiment under control any longer, John said softly, “Margaret, there is no inconvenience here. Never with you,”
“Seeing you standing there, John, I thought my guardian angel had come to rescue me. Suddenly, I was safe from the world. I knew everything was going to be alright. You saved me from the whirlpool of faces and condolences. You have lifted me up today. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
I want you always to come to me.
“You could never embarrass me, Margaret,” he remarked tenderly. “I am, and always will be your guarding angel.” Please think of the people who want to help you. They all love you, you know.”
“As I do them.” Margaret hastened to assure him. “Please thank Nicholas, Mary, and Dixon for their sympathy and support. I may yet come to rely on all of you.” Margaret looked devoutly into John’s face. “Thank you . . . most of all. I’d like to tell you how much it means for you to be here with me, but propriety forbids such admissions.” She paused, wondering if she should say more. “I think I should return, now, before we speak beyond our places.”
John became aware of a lump in his throat. Her words seemed heaven sent.
Margaret . . . how I love you.
“Margaret, before we go . . . and this is a most inappropriate time but not knowing where your future will lead you, I would like to ask a personal question. I’ve thought about that night for several years, and if you don’t wish to tell me, I will understand.”
“Yes, John, ask anything and I will tell you what I can.
“I never met your husband and although, I think the answer is no . . . was he the gentleman who I saw you with at the train station that night?”
An awkward silence captured the moment, for them both.
Why doesn’t she speak . . . I’ve crossed a line.
“No, John, that man was not Booker.”
John knew it was a terrible time to ask a question that he had no right to ask. As Margaret hesitated, he realized he would be at a loss if she didn’t continue.
“Margaret,” he said, gently, “I never should have inquired into your personal affairs, and I am quite ashamed of how selfish I’ve been.”
“John,” she reassured him, “I’m the one who should be ashamed . . . ashamed of not trusting your feelings for me at the time. It has troubled me, as well, for I should have confided in you. Your attitude towards me changed considerably after that night. I knew why, but I couldn’t rectify it then; now I feel I can. I needed to keep that secret from you and from everyone, really.”
“I don’t understand, Margaret. A secret?” He prompted.
“It’s a long story for another time, but I will tell you that the man you saw me with that night at the train station, is someone I have loved all my life. That man was my brother.”
“Your brother!” John repeated quietly, in bewilderment. The realization that the stranger was her brother slowly relieved him of the mystery that had torn his heart out over three years ago.
He was her brother . . . !
“I hope someday to hear the whole story. I know I was harsh and distant, and I am truly sorry. I think you remember my feelings towards you at that time. I admit it unsettled me to think you had another gentleman in your life. I dare to say it would be no different today. Nevertheless, as you say, that’s for another time. I think we have a lot of – IF’s – in our past,” John continued, somewhat regretfully, “If you hadn’t run out to the rioters, if I’d known he was your brother, if our letters weren’t conveyed away from us, if I’d known you were about to marry, but those are all behind us now. Margaret, dare to free yourself from your past.
“Thank you, John. When we have time to discuss the whole story, you will understand.”
He nodded to her, hoping that day would come. John stood; ready to assist her, “Do you think you can stand, now, Margaret?”
“Yes, if you let me take your arm. I’m sure I am steady on my feet, now. The swarming emotions have cleared. When are you returning to Milton?”
“Just as soon as I leave here,” John said, as he helped Margaret and curled her arm around his. “Do you know what your immediate plans might be?” He asked as he began to slowly escort her toward the church, not wanting the moment to end.
“I shall be at my cousin’s house for a week,” she said, “after which I must return to our campus quarters and begin packing the few things that were ours. There are thousands of books to donate to the school’s library, and personal items that his family should have. It will probably take a few weeks to resolve all the paperwork. I’ve not totally decided to move into Edith and Maxwell’s home, as is being suggested to me. However, I may stay with them a month or so until I have firm plans. This shall be the last time that I ever depend on them. I need time to take care of all the consequences of Booker’s death, including our living quarters. Most importantly, I’ll need time to consider my future. However, I do know for certain that I will not stay in London for my entire mourning period. Like you, I feel that going back to that environment is directly in opposition to the life I want to lead. I’m anxious to start a brand-new life, on my own.
John, hearing those words, put his free hand over her hand, which was wrapped around his arm, and pressed it tightly. “Will you want Dixon to return to London?” He asked, as they continued walking.
“I want her to stay with you for now,” Margaret answered, “until I’m quite assured of my direction. I’m financially independent, and I will leave London. I will handle my affairs without family intervention. I’ll always love them, but I can never forgive them for what happened between us, our . . . letters, that is. Thank you for holding your temper back there. Your words were quite valiant and far more effective than mine had been. Right now, I feel I am handling Booker’s death well; far different from when my parents passed. His family has been very supportive throughout this trying time and wants me to continue receiving the stipend that was his rightful inheritance as a second son. They are wealthy and quite generous.”
They walked a few steps in silence.
You’ve been without your Mother for almost a year and a half. How are you faring, John?”
“Margaret, I’m managing well. I’ll not lie and tell you that I did not grieve a long time after she died, because I did. I owed her much. My life is quite empty with her gone, even with Dixon trying to ‘mother’ me. I suppose we will soon have to have words.” He smiled, as did Margaret, at the thought of anyone having words with Dixon.
“And you haven’t married; I know this because Dixon writes occasionally about you and your work in Milton. Do you have a steady lady in your life?” Margaret asked.
“No, there is no steady lady in my life and never has been since . . .” John caught his own words before he could embarrass himself.
“May I ask why you have not married yet?” Margaret probed gently.
“No, you may not ask, but I think you know.” Flustered, he continued, “I am sorry. That was quite inappropriate to say.”
God . . . can I not hold my tongue?
“Please, don’t apologize. It brings me great comfort.” Margaret said, feeling a flush of heat come over her.
I have hurt this man at every turn in our acquaintance, and yet he still loves me after all this time, waiting through my marriage. I do not deserve the attentions of a man such as him. He is a far greater person than I am, and to think that I once thought . . .
John did not miss her blush or her words. As they neared the cemetery gates, John could see family and friends waiting for her. Stopping suddenly, he stepped between Margaret and her family, so his back was to them, shielding her. He was so close to her that he could feel her body heat.
I want to take you into my arms, right now, to kiss you.
“Margaret, I wish your society allowed me to visit while you mourn, but I dare not seek to cross the boundaries of propriety, in London, for your sake.” John lifted her hand and lightly kissed the back of it in the London gentleman tradition as he drank in one last look from her exquisite face, burning her vision into his heart.
Leaning down towards her, he murmured softly into her ear, “I miss you, Margaret. Please, come back to us. Don’t lock your heart away. Return to me.” He hesitantly turned and left, feeling her absence pressing in on him from that first step away. There was a knot in his stomach, but he had done all he could do for now. But was it enough?
Instantly feeling his loss and a great sense of emptiness, Margaret watched as he threaded his way through the crowd. She would never let him walk out of her life.
John Thornton, look back at me.
As he proceeded around the groups of people waiting to see her, he turned back to Margaret one last time and was ecstatic to see that she still followed him with her eyes.
She is still looking at me . . .
John noticed that she soon became ensconced by the gathered mourners.
A half-hour later, he was seated on the train, re-living every word and each moment of his time with Margaret. How he desperately wanted that hope back! He tried to be objective, but found he could not. Recalling how she had come into his arms once again, in need of a temporary rescue, John knew she had found solace and protection in his embrace. The day had begun to close in on her, but he felt there was more to it than the funeral; something more was underlying her grief. He still sensed she was calling out to him, almost like she was very tired while treading water far from shore. The time was soon coming when he would respond to all of her needs, without the heavy curtain of propriety always hanging between them.
For the four-hour ride home, John reflected on his few moments with her, feeling as if his heart would burst if he were left alone with his dreams much longer.
I looked like her guardian angel . . . You were saving me from . . . You lifted me up. . .
As the train pulled into Milton, John shook himself out of his reverie and forced himself back to earth. Once again, his thoughts returned to the kidnapping. Exiting the train, he hailed a carriage and went directly to Chief Mason’s office. As John arrived at the courthouse, he could see Mason through the window of the glass door, enmeshed in paperwork. Tapping lightly, he walked in. “Mason, what has happened so far?” He began in an excited tone. “And hello, to you, too, Detective Carlson. Forgive me, I had my mind elsewhere and didn’t see you sitting there.”
“Good evening to you, sir. Please, no apology needed,” the detective responded.
“Sir, I’m glad you’re back. There have been some developments in the case. Only hours ago, Lindsey McKeever escaped her abductors and hailed a passing coach for help. She was on Hyde road about 2 miles outside of town. She said she hid along the road until she spotted a decent coach that she could stop. No second note was received, and no money exchanged hands. It was obvious, by her condition, that she had been assaulted in some way, starved and possibly tortured or beaten, so I allowed her to be taken home and examined by the doctor. We will interview her tomorrow, if the doctor permits. The house has been guarded. She told us that she remembered being hauled away in her own trap and thought she had walked about two miles before being picked up, so I have men searching the area for her trap. I’m glad that she is alive and safe, but those men are still out there, probably long gone by now, but we won’t give up. She thinks there were at least two men, but she wasn’t sure, as she was blindfolded the whole time. I will plan on going out there tomorrow morning at 10:00 o’clock with Detective Carlson. Would you would care to join us, sir?”
“No, I’ll leave that in your capable hands. Let me know if I can be of any other help. I’ll return tomorrow and read your report. We still don’t know if the assault was the original intent or if it was a kidnapping. The note she received, doesn’t clearly specify that either way for us. I’m very sorry that this has been as brutal as you may think. I know you will continue to seek these depraved animals.” Shaking his head and frowning, John said, “There is no lower form of species on this earth than men who prey on women and children to . . .” He could not finish his sentence.
“I agree, sir. I am sorry you were called away on such unpleasant circumstances, yourself,” Mason said.
“Thank you, Mason. No, it wasn’t a pleasant time for Mrs. Reed. You’ll remember her as Miss Hale. She lost her husband through an accidental fall. It’s been a long day for me. I’m just returning now from the funeral and would like to get home.” Donning his hat, John turned towards the two men. “If I can be of service, contact me. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Good-bye, Mason. Good-bye Detective Carlson,” He shook hands with the men and left the office.
Moments later, John entered his coach, anxious to return home and tell Higgins and Dixon about his visit with Margaret.
Delightful photo treat comes to you today from the latest edition of ‘Entertainment Weekly’ who have published the first cast photos from the latest big screen adaptation of Agatha Christie’s famous detective novel MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS directed by legendary Kenneth Branagh who also takes the lead role of the famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, this time with some seriously huge moustaches :) He is tasked with finding a mysterious murderer aboard the famous train stuck in the middle of a blizzard somewhere in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Her cinematic highness Judi Dench stars as Princess Dragomiroff who is acting all helpless and confused which she actually isn’t. Johnny Depp stars as Edward Ratchett, a paranoid, rich businessman with dark secrets! Michelle Pfeiffer is a loud and very annoying American on the train. Daisy Ridley is the quick thinking governess Mary Debenham. Penelope Cruz is Pilar Estravados, the missionary who actually isn’t a stranger to rough situations. Sir Derek Jacobi is Masterman, Ratchett’s butler, who has a spiky relationship with his boss! Willem Dafoe is Austrian professor Gerhard Hardman, armed in a number of ways. Tom Bateman is flirty louche director of the train company and a friend of Poirot’s! The lavish train ride through Europe which quickly unfolds into the thrilling mystery of thirteen strangers stranded on a train, where everyone’s a suspect, should start in cinemas later this November. One man must race against time to solve the puzzle before the murderer strikes again. Release Nov 10th USA
Thirteen – A Glimpse of Heaven
Consciousness lurked at the edges of his mind but proved too hard to grasp. Extreme weakness prevented him from doing what he most wanted; to open his leaden eyelids, to move his granite limbs, to let words past his cracked lips. It was as if he were immersed in a tepid sea of slowness yet it seemed of vital importance to him that he should fight this drowsy state and become awake.
His body itched something terrible, he realised suddenly. His body … he became fully aware of it, when the itch plagued him so much he wanted to scratch and tear the skin from his flesh in exasperation! That was what gave him the strength to open his drooping eyelids, although it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.
He was in familiar surroundings, thank Heaven! All of a sudden, he realised he had been having this terrible fear of being in a bad place but, to his relief, found he was not. His own room, his own bed. His? Like a Jack-in-the-box, his name popped out of his memory. Stephen Fenton, Baron Brixton. He was home, at Brixton Abbey, praise the Lord!
Gingerly, Stephen attempted turning his head to get his bearings, and the first person he saw, was his Beth, slumped in a chair beside his bed. A huge wave of relief and joy washed over him. He could not be in a bad place when his lovely wife was at his side. Poor Beth, she must have fallen into an exhausted sleep in that chair. Why would she be in a chair instead of next to him in their bed? He opened his mouth to ask but no sound escaped his starched lips, and he found his throat dry as the desert. As he raised a hand to touch her, he saw the red, raw spots on his skin, some of them dried, the skin flaking off, some of them still red and aching and finally, some of them ugly blisters that itched like the blaze. He was ill. He had succumbed to a horrid disease and maybe, he was dying. He certainly felt like he had been under a dray cart!
With something of an effort, Stephen managed to sit up and lean over toward Beth by supporting himself on one elbow. That allowed him to touch her arm with one outstretched hand. Immediately, he regretted the gesture because Beth was startled into action with a faint gasp.
“Stephen! Oh, Stephen, my love! Oh, thank God, you are awake!”
She began feeling his brow and stroking his face and then, she hugged him and kissed him, tears running down her cheeks.
“Oh, my heart, my dearest love, oh! We have been so very afraid we might lose you …”
Stephen’s heart nearly burst with joy when he returned his wife’s embraces as best as he could despite the fact it cost him a lot of energy. Soon after, he was reclining against his pillows, gasping and panting, causing Beth to admonish herself for her overzealous demonstrations. After a few moments, however, they just sat gazing at each other, clasping hands tightly.
Stephen managed to make it clear that he had no control over his voice, and Beth instantly helped him to a cup of cold tea, sweetened with honey. It was heaven to Stephen’s parched throat, and he drank with greedy gulps. Afterwards, he began feeling a bit better.
“How are you feeling? Are you still feverish? Are you in pain? Are you hungry?” Beth asked anxiously.
Shaking with silent laughter, Stephen covered his wife’s mouth with one hand, which made her laugh herself. He pointed to his stomach and mouth and Beth understood.
“I will go and fetch some food, my darling. Just lie still, do not move, please.”
She hurried out of the room and Stephen, staring after her with regret and longing, was again hit by an extreme weariness that paralyzed his limbs and made his head spin. Hunger gnawed in his belly, his stomach suddenly rumbling. Lord, but he was absolutely ravenous!
A short time after, the door burst open and a crowd of loudly chattering people entered. In astonishment, Stephen was assaulted by the relieved cries of his mother who smothered him with kisses. That was something he rarely witnessed! Clumsily, he returned her caresses.
After a while his mother withdrew, patting her eyes with a scrap of lace, and Stephen noticed the Reverend Carter and Dr Forrester, who both congratulated him on his recovery. They were followed by those of Raleigh, the butler, Hawkins, his valet, and a bunch of footmen and maids, who all twittered and squeezed in delight, just to see him on the way to recovery. Overseeing it all with a sweet smile on her bright face was his wife.
“Please …” he croaked, stunned to find he had his voice back, “please, all of you, accept my thanks for your good wishes.” Even after those few words, Stephen found his breath gone from his lungs. Closing his eyes in exhaustion, he lay panting for air during the next minutes while Beth thanked everyone and gently ushered them from the room, claiming her husband still needed his rest.
She sat down next to him again and felt his brow with the back of her hand.
“Still slightly feverish, I fear,” she said.
“I feel terrible,” Stephen replied, his voice barely audible. “Tell me, Beth. How bad is it?”
Beth took his hand in his and kissed it, almost reverently.
“You have contracted chickenpox, my love. On adults, it can be fierce because their bodies are not as flexible as a child’s. It is frequently seen that adults develop high fever, so I was not too much concerned at first. I have been mistaken, my love. You were almost taken from us because your fever was so extreme it brought you to the brink of death. I was negligent, my love. I did not apply myself enough at first.”
Again, she pressed his hand to her lips. Her cheeks were wet with tears, Stephen noticed with a shock.
“Well, I am better now, my sweetling and sure to be on my feet again soon. That can only be your doing, my dearest, loveliest Beth.”
For a few, precious moments, they gazed into each other’s eyes, conscious of what they could have lost during the horrible week of Stephen’s illness. Beth felt her heart soar like a lark in a bright, sunlit sky! It was over! All her fears and horrors were laid to rest.
A tentative knock on the door preceded Dr Forrester’s entry. The thin little man looked as haggard and – no doubt – as unkempt as Beth thought she must surely look herself. A stab of pity rose in her chest, and she quickly stood to meet him and take his hands, which startled him.
“Dear Dr Forrester,” she hastily said, “I would like to express my thanks for what you have accomplished here. It is your skill that helped rescue my husband through this ghastly illness. I can never repay you for it.”
The old bachelor blushed suddenly, harrumphing and coughing through his embarrassment.
“Oh, no, my lady! I am sure you are only being gracious and polite. There was not much I could have done for His Lordship if you had not been there for him during those long days of uncertainty. You are the one who …”
“Oh, come on, Forrester!” Stephen’s voice was trembling with suppressed mirth. “Can you not graciously accept a compliment when you are offered one? I assure you my lady wife does not proffer them to just anyone, you know.”
“Erm … yes, … erm, no, I am sorry, my lord, … you are right, of course. Thank you, my lady, for your most generous offer.”
He bowed over Beth’s hand and kissed it in a reverend way.
“But now,” he continued, “we must see to you, my lady. You have outdone yourself caring for His Lordship and without any care for your own needs. I ask of you – no, I demand that you go and rest properly.”
“I beg your pardon?”, Stephen asked, a note of concern in his voice? “What are you implying, Forrester? How long have I been ill?”
Dr Forrester briskly strode to the baron’s sickbed, eagerness making his voice waver.
“My lord, your esteemed spouse has not left your bedside for a whole week. She has not had any concern for her own needs or condition, as long as you were in mortal danger. For you have been on the brink of death, my lord, and without Her Ladyship, you might have not have lived through it.”
Stephen’s heart pinched with pity and overwhelming love as he beheld his wife for the first time since he had awakened. She looked like a scarecrow, her hair wild and come loose from the pins. Her face was ashen and streaked with dirty smudges, and her beautiful eyes were dull with fatigue. Yet, she looked absolutely lovely, had – in fact not looked lovelier than just now.
Stretching out a hand to her, Stephen gazed at her, filling his eyes with all the love he felt for his Beth.
“Well, doctor, then I mean to make her sleep the way she deserves. I will ring for your or any services as soon as my lady wife is properly rested. Pray, close the door on your way out.”
Britannia is a drama set in 43AD as the Roman Imperial Army – determined and terrified in equal measure – returns to crush the Celtic heart of Britannia – a mysterious land ruled by warrior women and powerful druids who can channel the powerful forces of the underworld. TV series SKY UK
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