Original subtitles

Miss Angelica!

Come along! Quickly now.

Now remember, Miss Angelica,

finish your studies.

Come on, in you go.

Come on!

Nice clear voices, please.

Come in.

Well, well, Miss Deverell returns.

I hope this time

you have a better excuse for your absence.

I've been sick, Miss Dawson.

And being sick has prevented you from writing your essay.

No. I've done it.

Then perhaps you'd care to share it with the class.

Of course I will.

Shh, shh, shh...!

In the depths of the forest,

sheltered from the four winds

by ancient oaks

whose leaves in summertime offer a blessed shade,

stands, stark against the vast vacuity of the empyrean,

a great house

cherished by the gods, on whose steps

iridescent-feathered peacocks sometimes strut,

sheltered from the furious lightening-veined storm-

You obviously read a great deal, Miss Deverell.

No, I never read.

You're quite sure you haven't been stealing from Mr Dickens

or Miss Corelli?

Books don't interest me.

So what do you do in your spare time?

I play the harp, mostly.

You'll get no marks for this essay, Miss Deverell.

Your homework was to describe where you live,

and unless I'm mistaken,

you do not live in a great house cherished by the gods,

but over your mother's grocery shop.

And now the next one.

Miss Brown, I think.

Angel!

Uh, I'm so sorry, I won't be a minute.

Robert, would you take over here for me, please? Thank you.

I want a word with you, young lady.

- What is it now? - You wicked girl.

How dare you say those things about your father!

Not my real father? Daughter of an aristocrat?

How d'you think this makes me look in front of my customers?

Who cares about your customers?

We'd have nothing today if your father hadn't set up

this business. D'you understand?

What I understand is that one day, because of me,

the name of Deverell will shine throughout the world with glory.

That's enough! Your lies will be the death of me!

I can just see the headlines:

Grocer found dead -

suicide suspected as mother of literary prodigy is discov-

How dare you hit me!?

I'm sorry, but I'm sick of it.

In 1885,

into one of the oldest and most illustrious families

in all England...

was born a lively and adorable-looking child,

who, in later years,

at the pinnacle of her glory and renown,

would be known to the world

as Lady Irania.

Angel, your dinner's ready.

You're still angry with me?

Leave me alone.

Madam says she's looking for a servant for her daughter,

Miss Angelica.

I'm wondering if I should mention Angel.

She's always dreamed of going to Paradise House, hasn't she?

Why, Lottie...

that would be a wonderful opportunity!

And that way, if she gives up school,

people won't think she's been expelled -

which could be bad for business, Emmy.

Angel,

sweetheart, your aunt's got some wonderful news.

I shall never go to Paradise House.

Really?

Because school told me you've been writing

all about your little visits.

- Never like that! - Never like what?

Never like you, Aunt Lottie:

serving other people.

Serving other people's nothing to be ashamed of.

We're all servants of God.

Well, you won't make me a servant of any kind.

Of course, I was forgetting.

Humility and selfishness

count for nothing in this world!

Calm down, Lottie. And, Angel, apologize to your aunt.

She's only trying to find you a job.

There's no reason to insult her.

I don't want her apologies, Emmy.

She can be out on the streets starving for all I care.

I am starving,

as it happens. Mother, would you bring me up

some tea and toast,

assuming dear Aunt Lottie

has left us any.

How dare you talk like that!

Please, Lottie, let's not get angry.

Exactly! Both of you keep your voices down,

so I can concentrate on my writing.

Coward...

I love thee...

I love thee

and now you wouldn't...

she loved...

his soul...

as she looked...

into the eyes

of her lover...

and call...

too fast...

and wept...

with desperation.

The... End.

Nothing wrong with your heart.

Nothing wrong with you at all, in fact.

Are you sure?

Why don't you want to go back to school?

Problems with your lessons?

No.

- Your friends? - No.

I've written a novel.

A novel?

Well, that's no reason to miss school.

I'm waiting to hear from a publisher.

You do realize that publishers

are very busy people.

Yes - but I've already had three replies.

And?

Well, they're still thinking about it.

But they're all really interested.

Well, I'm sure that's all very splendid,

but in the meantime,

don't you go worrying your mother.

You must go back to school - and tell her the truth.

Angel?

There's a letter for you.

Who's it from?

How do I know?

It's from London. London?

Dear Miss Deverell,

it gives me great pleasure to be able to inform you...

the company... Lady Irania...

suitable for publication.

Whatever's the matter?

A publisher wants to meet me.

Whatever for?

To publish my book, Mummy!

I've done it! I'm going to be a writer!

I'm going to be a famous writer!

market for this kind of material...

depending, of course,

on the success of the publication,

we would be happy to consider any further...

Mr. Gilbright will see you now.

I know I'm late - I got lost on the way from the station.

Miss Deverell. Theo Gilbright. Don't worry. Please sit down.

It must be your first time in London.

Yes.

I have to say,

I was really expecting someone a good deal older.

You mean now you've seen me,

you won't publish my book? No, not at all.

Your age is a delightful surprise.

Although I do have to say

that the style and imaginative skill

of your novel had all of us here guessing.

Some of us thought

old lady in rural retreat,

others were more inclined towards bald-headed man

in his fifties.

Do I look like a man?

- No, it's just that, uh - ahem -

we get a lot of submissions under pseudonyms.

Well, mine wasn't. I've got nothing to hide.

I'm very proud of my book. Absolutely.

And do you think you'll write another one?

Yes! I can let you have it in a couple of weeks.

And what will the new book be about?

It's about an actress.

Are you interested in the theatre, Miss Deverell?

Not really.

I've never been.

Well, I imagine you must be a great reader.

No. I don't have the time.

I prefer writing.

The minute I start, my head's full of ideas.

But you must at least have some favourite authors.

I quite like Shakespeare.

Except when he's trying to be funny.

Miss Deverell,

I personally find your very special...

style totally compelling.

And I'm sure many readers will too.

Which is why -

as I wrote to you -

we'd be delighted to publish your novel.

Given one or two minor adjustments.

What adjustments?

Well, for example, chapter nineteen:

your - ahem - description of childbirth

is a little on the shocking side.

I'm not sure the pints of blood passage

is strictly necessary.

Then you clearly don't know anything about having babies.

No, but I am a father,

and I can assure you childbirth is an extremely beautiful thing.

That's because you're not the one bleeding.

Now, chapter twenty-five.

Lady Irania's dinner party.

Just a detail, but you don't actually

need a corkscrew to open champagne.

I think you're wrong.

I don't think I am wrong, actually.

Well, look, it's nothing hugely important.

But what do you say: I give you back the manuscript,

you make these changes and then we publish.

No.

I'm sorry?

I won't change a single word or comma of my book.

Final boarding! Final boarding!

Miss Deverell.

Mr. Gilbright.

What're you doing here?

I came to apologize for what happened just now.

It was... clumsy of me. That's really no need.

They're plenty of other publishers who are interested.

The fact is, I've been speaking to my colleague

and we're prepared to take a risk

and publish Lady Irania just as it is.

I don't see that is a risk.

I just wanted to protect you from the critics, that's all.

I'm not frightened of critics.

Splendid.

Well, what time is your train? In an hour.

What about travelling back tomorrow?

We could have dinner.

My wife would be delighted to meet you.

Or perhaps another time,

when you've spoken to your mother.

I don't need my mother's permission.

I've never tasted wine before.

Does it come up to your expectations?

I never really had any.

That's Theo's favourite claret.

We have it shipped over specially

from France.

My mother would be so shocked.

She wears this funny little badge

to show she'd never touch a drop of alcohol

even if offered it by Christ in Heaven.

I don't like to think

we've given you something your mother would disapprove of.

I want to live my own life.

For someone who's never tasted wine,

you describe the effects

of drunkenness remarkably well.

I know I do.

Theo's read me parts of Lady Irania.

You must've done a great deal of research.

No. I made the whole thing up in my own head.

I see. Which is presumably why some of it

seems the fruit of a somewhat youthful imagination.

Miss Deverell and I

have already discussed all of that, Hermione.

Some of Miss Deverell's descriptions are...

well, to say the least, daring.

I didn't realize you were my publisher, Mrs. Gilbright.

I thought you were my publisher's wife.

Right... Splendid.

Shall we go through for coffee?

I'm sure Miss Deverell would appreciate some music.

Are those real pearls

your wife's wearing, Mr. Gilbright?

Well, yes, I... I think so.

And has your wife ever met the Queen?

Isn't he adorable?! I love animals.

You'll make her sick if she drinks that.

She's already been fed.

In the kitchen. It's good for him.

Don't stop playing, Hermione.

Isn't that sweet?

Look, the poor little thing, he's lapped it all up.

- She! - Let's have another piece.

What about Scarlatti?

No. If Miss Deverell will excuse me,

I need to feed the canaries.

Canaries? I love birds. Can I go and see?

I'm afraid not.

Well, I wish you'd tell me something about your family,

Miss Deverell.

What does your father do?

- My father? - Yes.

He's dead.

- I'm so sorry. - Don't be. I didn't know him.

And you were born in Norley?

I don't think I know Norley.

What's it like?

I don't want to talk about it.

Really?

I hate Norley.

It's hideous.

Miles and miles of ugly streets

and ugly brick houses.

The people are all mean and stupid.

My mother owns a grocery shop and we live upstairs.

But please, please, I don't want anyone to know.

I don't want anyone to find out where I'm from.

I- I... I understand.

You see...

nothing I'm telling you...

seems real.

And one day...

I might even stop believing it myself.

Where does she come from?

no idea.

And how you can be so blind about her talent -

or lack of it.

Sweetheart, she's just a child;

don't be cross.

Darling, you know I never interfere, but...

she's so horribly precocious.

And, well, her book...

I find it ridiculous

and I'm worried people will laugh at you.

Well, they very well may, but, um...

Look, I know she's still very young and ignorant.

But I think there's a kind of...

power and imagination there

that might just possibly touch people.

The thing is, Lottie...

what if Angel really is very gifted

and we just don't understand?

A mother might be excused for thinking that,

but the fact is, Emmy, she's embarrassing us both

and it's got to be put a stop to.

Stop? She just writes and writes.

It makes me shudder to think what's coming out of that pen.

And where in heaven's name did she find out about...

you know...

the facts of life?

Well, certainly not from me!

- Thank you very much. - It's a pleasure.

Nice to meet you.

Who shall I make it out to? Alice.

Just one more, please!

the pleasure of awarding this prize

to Miss Angel Deverell.

Where am I?

You're here with me, Lady Irania,

safe in the Castle of Silver Tears.

My darling Sebastian!

My eyes!

I can no longer see!

No longer see the silver tears!

Rest now.

Let sweet sleep possess your heart.

My faithful Sebastian,

you who have never once betrayed me,

say, has my whole life been lived in vain?

Was it a dream? A mere illusion?

No, my Lady Irania, it was no dream.

Your life has been one of beauty and magnificence.

And you live in the Castle of Silver Tears!

Sebastian!

Only you...

have truly loved me. have truly loved me.

Ladies and gentlemen,

it is my great pleasure to announce

that we have here with us tonight

the author of our play, Miss Angel Deverell.

Stand up, Angel. They want to see you.

Thank you for coming.

- Truly marvellous. - Thank you.

It's nice to meet you. Thank you very much.

Why don't you say hello to her? She'd be so glad.

I daren't.

Why not? She's your niece.

Yes, but what if she still hates me?

Congratulations, Miss Deverell.

Thank you, Lord Norley.

A most magnificent evening.

I'm glad you enjoyed it.

This is my publisher. Norley.

Theo Gilbright.

- I was just saying to Theo- - I'm so sorry. Allow me

to introduce my niece, Nora. A most fervent admirer.

Come on now, Nora. Up off the floor.

Homage from one writer to another and so on.

Uncle, you're not to mention my feeble scribblings

in front of Miss Deverell. You're a writer too?

- I write a little verse, yes. - Under what name?

My own.

Nora Howe-Nevinson.

It's nothing compared to your own...

astonishingly beautiful work, Miss Deverell.

Thank you, you're very kind.

May I also present my nephew,

Mr Esme Howe-Nevinson.

So you must be...

Nora's brother. Exactly.

It was Miss Deverell, Esme, who gave us the Watts.

- Most generous. - Presented a very fine painting

by Watts

to the City Art Gallery.

One of the town's great treasures.

Another, of course,

being Miss Deverell herself. I'm sorry to say,

I wasn't acquainted with your work, Miss Deverell.

Well, the play is just an adaptation.

It hardly does justice

to the complexities of the novel.

And why Watts?

I'm sorry?

Out of all the painters in this world,

why would you choose Watts?

I'd always wondered how these awful pictures found their way

into provincial galleries. Now I understand.

- Esme! - What?

It must've cost a great deal of money;

in a few years, it'll be worth nothing.

I'm simply letting Miss Deverell

know the facts.

Well, in future, I must ask your advice.

Please do.

To offer it would give me great pleasure.

You must forgive my nephew.

Esme is a painter himself, you know.

Such miserable pictures.

Back streets in the pouring rain...

No sparing the sordid details.

That was quite a compliment Miss Howe-Nevinson paid you.

I'm always pleased to see writers being appreciated.

The brother, though...

Rather rude.

Good-looking, though.

- Stop! - What?

Stop the car!

What is it?

Turn off to the right.

Splendid old place. D'you know it?

Yes.

Is it empty?

My aunt used to work there,

but the family lost everything and had to move to London.

- Did you go there as a child? - Never.

When I was little,

I used to think I would live at Paradise House.

It was all I ever dreamed of.

Everyone told me my dreams were lies -

because I said out loud

the things I should've kept secret.

But all I wanted was to make it true.

To wish and to wish and to wish -

and to make it true.

A gift from Paradise.

Thank you.

It's getting rather cold.

Perhaps we should go.

Come on!

Don't you think it's too big for us, Angel?

Of course not. It just needs furniture.

Just to think of your aunt Lottie being a servant here...

Well, I'm not a servant. I'm the mistress.

You should be proud of me.

Of course I'm proud of you, Angel.

It's just so big...

- Round to the left. - Yes, madam.

Be careful, they're very expensive.

Good! Come on!

Lovely!

Excellent!

Yes, be very careful...

Did you see your bedroom?

Yes, yes, it's beautiful. It's...

She knew...

from the first...

moment...

in her short-

Angel, Miss Howe-Nevinson is here.

She wants to see you. Who?

I think she's the sister

of that young painter you talked about.

- And he is here? - No, just the sister.

I brought you the poems, like you asked me to.

Yes... of course.

Please don't be too critical.

They're really just first attempts.

No doubt.

But the real reason I... I wanted to see you again,

Miss Deverell, is that I have the...

the hugest... hugest favour to ask.

I... Mother! I thought I told you not to do that.

It is the servants' job.

But you know how I like to help.

It would be much more helpful if you went upstairs

and rested. You know what the doctor said.

Alright, sweetheart.

You were saying, Nora?

I wanted to offer you my services.

Services?

I mean as personal secretary. I could help

with all the trivial things

a great novelist like yourself should be protected from.

But I already have all the servants I need.

But not someone who understands your genius.

Not someone who really respects you.

Do they even read your books?

No, I suppose not.

Then please take me on.

To work for you would be the most beautiful...

beautiful way to serve literature.

There are so many things, Miss Deverell,

I could do for you.

You still haven't told me anything about your brother.

- Don't talk to me about Esme. - Why ever not?

When my uncle paid for the two of us to go to Italy,

my brother behaved so badly I'm ashamed to mention it.

- In Italy? What do you mean? - Seducing women, of course.

There was one who was only too happy to let herself

be ruined on his account -

until her husband found out. He threatened to kill Esme,

and we had to pack up and rush back to London.

What was this woman like?

Beautiful - a countessa -

but with Esme, she had absolutely no shame.

Was he in love with her?

Love? My brother's never loved anyone -

other than himself, that is.

And it was all such a horrid mess,

I was forced to sell my own jewelry to pay the fare home.

You mustn't be too hard on him, Nora.

One day he'll find his feet and live from his painting,

just as I live from my writing.

But you've never even seen his paintings.

No, but I've imagined them.

Perhaps I should be on my way.

We shall expect you to move in here with us

at Paradise tomorrow.

Thank you so much, Miss Deverell!

- Good morning, madam. - Good morning.

Sir.

- Where are the canaries? - Hermione, please.

And there was me listening for the car.

I'd so hoped to come rushing out to meet you.

Angel, how are you?

Surviving, as you can see.

Working on the new novel.

It's set in Italy. I've been thinking

of nothing else night and day!

Allow me to introduce my mother.

Mother, you remember Mr. Gilbright, my publisher.

And this is Mr. Gilbright's wife, Penelope.

Hermione.

Hermione, of course.

Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.

Will you tell the servants to take the Gilbrights' things?

- I can do that. - Don't be ridiculous!

That is what we pay the servants for.

Would you ask Nora to come down to meet our guests?

Yes, Angel.

Nora?

Miss Howe-Nevinson.

She's moved in with us here at Paradise;

she's keeping an eye on my business affairs.

Royalties, that sort of thing.

I see. Excellent.

A lovely house.

I imagine the decoration was Angel's idea.

My daughter's very particular.

Clearly.

You must be happy here. Yes.

But I do miss my grocery.

But aren't you still working there?

Angel won't let me -

or see my sister anymore.

That's horrid.

No. Angel's a good girl, really.

She thinks all these servants will make my life easier.

And she'd so like to turn me into a proper lady.

Do you know what Angel's doing?

No. What's that?

Paying a gentleman to teach me the piano.

How kind.

Nora was in the biggest bookshop in Norley

and couldn't find a single copy of An Eastern Tragedy!

Could you, Nora? No.

And it was exactly the same yesterday!

Disappointed readers are being turned away!

Then the bookshop should re-order.

Well, yes, the bookshop should re-order,

but the publisher should encourage them.

That shop should have everything

from Lady Irania onwards on permanent display.

Lady Irania's out of print.

Well, get it back into print.

And another thing: I don't see why Miss Corelli's books

are getting so much publicity

and mine hardly any at all. That's because your books

don't need publicity. They sell themselves.

So the money you're making out of me

goes to subsidize the pitiful efforts

of your other writers, is that what you mean?

- Of course not. - And please, please,

will you use your influence

to stop that pathetic Rowland Pearce

from writing those horrible things about me?

You mustn't rise to the bait, Angel.

The days of intelligent criticism are over.

The modern critic just wants to score points, that's all.

Isn't Mr. Pearce an...

important novelist in his own right?

He's a fat-headed hack who knows nothing about manners,

and even less about literature!

Just you wait - just you wait -

I'll put him into my next novel:

portrait of the artist as a twisted and incompetent failure

whose one sick pleasure

in his sad little loveless life

is demolishing the work of women

who are more talented, more productive

and more successful than he is!

What about the new book, Angel?

How's it going?

I'm not sure about Italy.

All I know is I want this book to be completely different

from anything I've ever done before.

I was thinking of setting it into another era;

like maybe ancient Greece.

That sort of book needs very specific knowledge.

But, Theo, you know Miss Deverell is blessed

with an overactive imagination.

Angel, listen,

whatever the critics say, the public loves you.

You've had another very successful year.

Why not take a break and-

I don't need a holiday.

I am planning on coming to London, though.

And I was very much wondering

whether you could book me a hotel, Mrs. Gilbright.

It would be such a help. Certainly.

So why are you so keen

on coming to London?

I've decided to have my portrait painted.

I've commissioned a portrait

by a rather fashionable young London painter,

Nora's brother.

Here. Thank you.

Yes?

Well, well...

Miss Deverell.

This is... unexpected.

I was in the neighbourhood,

and seeing as your sister had given me your address,

I just thought- Absolutely. Please. Come in.

Forgive the mess,

but I've only just got out of bed.

If I'd known a lady was coming, I'd have...

cleared some of this up.

You mustn't worry.

I- I'm something of a Bohemian myself.

And... how's my sister?

Nora is very well and very happy.

I can imagine.

She's always had a gift

for living in another person's shadow.

Please.

Well, she certainly doesn't live in mine.

I've always encouraged her

to share in the brilliance of my success.

So... to what do I owe the pleasure

of this visit?

I've come to see your paintings.

Really?

Well, since you were so cruel to me that time about the Watts,

I thought I could make amends by having them hang

one of your paintings next to it.

Well, they'd never let you.

Anyway, I don't think you'd like my kind of work.

That's what I'm here to find out.

Italy.

I can't paint Italy. It's too much colour.

Yes. Of course.

Italy is so banal.

You're much more inspired in England.

I'm so pleased you say that.

I didn't think you'd like my smudge-paintings,

as Nora calls them.

My favourite's the, uh...

level-crossing.

Mine as well. That's why I showed it first.

I'd like to buy it, if it's for sale.

I don't know.

Would you be prepared to accept... 300 pounds?

Well, I... paid 300 for the Watts,

and I'm sure your paintings are worth

at least as much, if not more.

Considering all your kindness towards my Nora,

you can have it for...

shall we say 400?

Four-hundred pounds?

I'm glad you didn't like the Italian one.

There's something about Italy

which brings out the vulgar in all of us.

Don't you think?

And...

what are your fees for a portrait?

For a portrait?

I don't paint portraits.

Not even mine?

I wouldn't want to be accused

of making a smudge-painting out of you.

Maybe being smudged

is nicer than it sounds.

Let's see.

Very beautiful eyes...

Very clear skin...

And hair...

that glistens in the light...

Don't tell me you're not used to compliments, Miss Deverell.

- I really should be going. - Of course.

And shall we say tomorrow,

at the same time?

You don't mean

to paint the portrait here?

Why not? I like the light.

I... I'd just imagined somewhere more-

Trust me, this is perfect.

And what about clothes?

I was thinking something low-cut, with lace.

Or maybe something

completely simple like... like a Greek toga.

No, come just as you are today.

But this dress is so drab.

It's not the dress I'm interested in, it's you.

I read one of your books, by the way.

Really?

Aspasia.

My landlady lent it to me.

I read it straight through. From cover to cover.

And I realized what your secret is.

My secret?

I think the secret of your power over people

is that you communicate with yourself,

not your readers.

Am I right?

Yes. Possibly.

Are... are you tired? No.

The thing is, Angel,

I find you utterly surprising and delightful.

But how can I paint you

if I don't know what's really going on inside?

Because you give me little hints about yourself -

about your childhood, growing up -

but none of it connects.

Something's missing.

How can I paint you if I don't know what it is?

Maybe I don't know what it is myself.

What happened to you in Italy?

I've never been to Italy.

Alright, maybe not in Italy,

but to do with Italy.

What was it?

Was it love?

I'm sure it was something to do with love.

It was jealousy.

- Who is it? - It's Nora.

Nora! What a wonderful surprise!

Come in, come in!

What on earth are you doing in London?

I'm really sorry to disturb you, Angel,

but you have to come home.

Why? Is it the house?

It's your mother. She's not well.

It's always a crisis with her,

but underneath she's as strong as an ox.

The doctor's very worried, Angel.

I really think you ought to consider coming home.

It's very sweet of you to be so concerned about my mother,

but I've lots of professional commitments here,

particularly now.

As soon I'm finished I'll come home, alright?

You're seeing him, aren't you?

- Seeing who? Theo? - No - my brother.

What makes you say that?

Be careful. He could hurt you.

Hurt me?

I'm not a child, Nora.

And I hardly see Esme

as life-threatening.

I was pleasantly surprised by his pictures.

They may not match

my own ideas of beauty, but they have a definite-

- I'm not talking about his paintings,

I'm talking about him.

You're not jealous, are you?

Jealous?

Of my interest in your brother's paintings.

But it's not just his paintings...

It's true.

I do like Esme.

But in the same way that I like you.

Come.

I hated being an only child.

I would have loved to have had a sister, Nora.

A sister like you.

But what did the doctor say? He says her condition

is more dangerous than he'd thought.

He's not sure she'll recover, especially if she can't eat.

Well, what's he doing about it?

There must be some kind of medicine she can take.

I'm just telling you what he said.

You're here...!

Angel...

My darling.

Your hands are freezing.

Have you told Aunt Lottie?

Of course. Nora sent a telegram.

Why isn't she here?

I don't know. It is a long way.

I'm frightened I'll never see her again.

Don't say that.

I used to love it...

when she could come and visit us so often...

at the grocery.

Remember?

Of course.

But you'll get better and you'll see her again.

You're so sweet to me.

Angel... Yes?

I want you to forgive me

for bringing you up the way I did.

I know it was hard for you,

and even harder when your father died.

You were such a pretty little thing.

So cheeky...

and clever.

He worshipped you.

You know what I regret most? No?

It's not having the time

to see you marrying

and have a child.

But I don't have time for a child, Mother.

I have my work.

Your work...

your books...

No!

No, don't leave me!

Please don't leave me...

No...

please don't leave me.

- Well? - It's over.

My God...

On behalf of the Norley Gazette,

I would like to offer my sincerest condolences

on the death of your mother,

a woman well known by us all for her excellent grocery shop.

My mother was above all else a very great artist.

Was she?

She played the piano.

She was considered to be

one of England's finest concert pianists.

I see. That's something I wasn't aware of.

Her natural humility

prevented her from advertising her...

exceptional musical gift.

And like yourself, she was born here in Norley?

My childhood is wrapped in mystery.

It's true I was brought to Norley at a very tender age,

but from where, nobody knows.

I always thought I had noble blood,

perhaps from my father's side.

But my mother passed away

before she could divulge the true secret.

Well... I wonder when we can expect her

to make an appearance.

She should be already here.

She's probably anxious.

I think she's more irritated

about the people who haven't come.

I did explain nobody stays in London for summer.

It's not personal. Anyway, they're just snobs.

They resent the fact that she's popular.

Have you seen my brother?

Yes.

Excuse me. Certainly.

Mr. Howe-Nevinson, Theo Gilbright.

Of course. Will you excuse me?

Well, I think it's wonderful

that your sister's working for Angel.

She seems absolutely devoted. In love with her, you mean.

In love with her?

Yes. Passionately.

Are you by any chance Miss Howe-Nevinson's famous brother,

whose talents Miss Deverell never ceases to impress on us?

I am, actually.

Then allow me to introduce myself -

Hermione Gilbright,

the publisher's wife.

Delighted to meet you.

My wife's a great devotee of painting.

She's extremely keen to see your work.

Particularly your portrait of Miss Deverell.

I can't wait to see it.

Angel made off with it the moment it was finished.

I believe she wants to use it for one of her books.

Haven't you been told?

- Told what? - I think you'll find

she intends to unveil it here in front of her guests.

Didn't you know, Mr. Howe-Nevinson?

Well, your darling Angel seems to have gotten over

her mother's death remarkably well.

Thank you for coming.

Thank you so much.

Thank you so much for coming.

It's my pleasure. Thank you.

Thank you.

Tell her I wasn't feeling very well.

So kind. Thank you so...

Angel, you're beautiful.

Where's Esme?

Drinking, I should imagine.

Actually, I think he left. Wasn't looking at all well...

How incredibly rude.

Angel arranged all this for him specially.

- When did he leave? - Just a moment ago.

Angel!

Whatever's got into her?

Could it be love?

Esme!

Esme!

Why did you leave?

I wanted to surprise you. The painting...

Why do you want to humiliate me?

I hate those people.

I thought it would make you happy.

Make me happy?

Make yourself happy, more like it.

No, that's not true. I love the way you paint.

I want everyone else to love you too.

You're wasting your time, Angel.

My paintings are worthless! Nobody cares.

Don't say that! You're an artist, Esme.

You just need someone to believe in what you do!

When I look into those eyes of yours,

I could almost believe it.

You have to believe it, Esme, you have to believe it.

I could make you happy.

I could pay off all your debts.

You'd be free from all the horrible sordid things

that keep you here.

Come with me to Paradise House.

Marry me, Esme.

Marry you?

Isn't that what the man's supposed to ask?

Who cares? I love you.

You love me?

I've loved you since the moment we met,

and I'll go on loving you until the day I die.

Continue please, Nora.

I'm so pleased you're back.

I was so worried, with all this talk about war...

It's not because of that nonsense.

I just missed Paradise! And I really missed you.

It's so good to be home!

But where's Sultan?

I imagined him bounding down the steps to meet me.

Edwina, fetch Sultan from the library.

Yes, miss.

You put the portrait here.

I'd rather imagined it in the dining room.

It's easily moved.

And the curtains. I thought we said the drawing room?

I don't believe so. Of course that can easily be changed.

Sultan! Hello, boy! Hello.

Sultan, have you forgotten your poor mistress?

That's not Sultan. I'm sorry, Angel,

I didn't want to spoil things when you were away.

But Sultan... unfortunately died.

No!

But I tried to find another one the same.

- Well. Thank you, Nora. - Is it ready?

Yes, the workmen finished this morning.

Come, my darling.

How exciting.

My word.

Well, you've never really had a proper studio.

Extraordinary.

- You're happy? - Leave us alone.

But I haven't shown you what I've done to my bedroom.

Later.

So? What do you think?

It's... wonderful.

But all this sunlight... What?

It's not really normal for a studio.

A studio normally faces north.

So? You can finally have some sunshine and colour

in your paintings! You're right. Fantastic idea.

- Aren't you happy? - Yes, of course I am.

This is where you're going to paint your masterpiece.

Nobody has ever given me anything like this before.

Thank you, Angel.

Theo sent me your last royalty statements,

but unfortunately they still don't cover the advance

he gave you to buy Paradise.

You've made sure he's still promoting my work?

Sorry to be showing you this the minute you get back,

but the thing is, we can't go on spending money like this.

Well, I shall stop writing cheques, then. Simple.

Please, at least do the bill

for the peacocks. The man wrote a horrid letter.

Well, I shall write a horrid letter back.

I never saw such a pair of ugly, lifeless-looking birds.

Peacocks! Vultures, more like.

And how was it with Esme? He must've made life difficult.

Of course he didn't.

We had a marvellous time.

And I think he's changed.

I have a feeling that our trip has wiped away the past.

That loving me has made him a new man.

Well, it certainly hasn't made him into a new painter.

His drawings are as dull and uninspired as ever.

But Esme's right. That is what Greece looks like:

heaps of old rocks

with dusty olive trees poking out of them.

And all that revolting food

has made me put on weight.

You're not pregnant, are you?

Pregnant?

- Can I come in? - Not yet!

- Ready? - Almost!

You can come in now.

What is it?

Water from the sacred spring at Delphi.

Legend says it has magical powers

and it used to inspire the greatest of the Greek poets.

I brought it back especially for you.

Thank you, Angel.

Good night, sweet, sweet Nora.

Good night, Angel.

Good night, Esme.

I'm not sure there's room for me and Nora

under the same roof.

Of course there is. Paradise is big enough.

And I need you both, don't you think?

Where did you go?

Walking in the garden.

And did you find a vista to inspire you?

It's too dark to see,

but it's certainly ideal for shooting.

No!

Please don't hunt the little animals.

Poor defenceless creatures.

Take care,

I'm about to attack a defenceless little creature

right now.

No, Esme! Don't! Don't! Stop it!

No, let him stay. We've all got to be friends.

Not in front of the dog.

Dogs are used to it.

Her pale eyelids

fluttering down

over her huge blue eyes...

and the great love of her life...

slumbering sweetly at her side...

she whispered these immortal words:

'This is the most beautiful day of my life.

Together forever...

living in Paradise'.

And how are my lovely flowers?

Why do you have to make everything so dark?

What's wrong with using colour?

But these are colours.

Look: grey, burnt umber...

This part here's violet.

But it's ridiculous.

They don't look anything like that - all faded.

All I'm doing is painting what I see.

In which case, what you see has nothing to do with reality.

Since when was my darling Angel so interested in reality?

Everything you write's a complete fantasy.

But I'm not interested in what's real,

but what's beautiful.

As far as I'm concerned, my flowers are beautiful.

Do you know where Esme is?

- I think he is with Marvell. - In the grounds?

Maybe, or at the races.

What is it?

- Excuse me, madam. - Did I tell you to come in?

No, madam. Sorry, madam.

But something terrible's happened.

Well? What is it?

War!

They've declared war!

My God, is she ever going to stop crying?

Angel, show some compassion.

Her fiance's joining the army.

- John, the gardener? - Yes.

Well, I hope he doesn't come crawling back here

wanting his job back in a couple of months.

A couple of months?

A war can last for years. My darling!

Please forgive us, we've started without you.

Don't worry.

I've just come to collect my things.

To do what?

I'm going to London.

I'm enlisting.

Esme! When are you leaving?

This afternoon.

You can't!

You can't do this to me.

We've just moved into the new house!

Angel, please don't.

This is not personal.

Not personal?

The country's at war.

I can't stay here cut off from the rest of the world.

It wouldn't be right.

So killing animals isn't enough for you!

You need a war to satisfy your thirst for blood!

Don't be so ridiculous.

You don't know what you're talking about.

It's got nothing to do with it.

You're all the same: violent, destructive,

needing to kill just to prove you're a man!

Well, if men are so disgusting,

you'll be much better off with my sister.

You have no right

to do this! You can't!

Yes, I can.

I warn you!

If you walk out that door,

you'll find it slammed in your face!

Please, Angel...

that's enough.

Take care of her.

She's not as strong as we think.

Of course I will.

I'm proud of you, Esme.

I'm doing my duty, that's all.

God knows how she'd go on if he was killed.

You're not to talk like that.

Esme will be back.

I thought you'd be asleep.

You're looking much better.

Don't touch me!

What is it you're writing?

I'm transforming my novel.

What do you mean?

Into an allegory against war, violence,

and the bloodthirstiness of men!

A novel in the name of peace.

Good afternoon. Is my niece at home?

I'm sorry, sir, but Miss Nora's just left.

Don't tell Miss Deverell, but she's helping out

with the war-wounded in the infirmary.

Well, good.

I do so wish I'd seen Esme before he left for the front.

Really?

See, I thought he was an idle degenerate

that you disinherited.

I had no idea his uniform made him a hero.

What a wonderful thing the war is.

I'm simply saying, Miss Deverell,

that I'm glad to see Esme

finally becoming a man.

You must miss him a great deal. Yes.

If there's anything I can do-

There's nothing anyone can do!

I have my work.

There's a great loss to literature

every time we drag you from your desk, Miss Deverell.

But I do believe that by helping us in the war effort,

you might feel that in your own small way

you were fighting at Esme's side.

What do you mean, the war effort?

Well, for example,

you could allow us

to set up a second hospital here in Paradise.

Paradise? A hospital?

Yes.

You have a great deal of space here.

It would be extremely useful to us.

This war...

has separated me from my husband.

It has been the cause of our first disagreement.

I do not allow Nora or anyone else

to mention it in my presence.

And I will never let Paradise

fall into the hands of warmongers and criminals.

More tea, Lord Norley?

I think perhaps it would be as well if I were to go.

Better for the war effort, certainly.

- Madam? - Yes?

I'm leaving.

- How advanced was it? - Less than three months.

If only my brother had been here.

I suppose it could've made a difference.

And what should I do now?

Once she's over the shock, she'll start to recover.

She just needs rest.

- You're feeling better? - Not bad.

Do you want me to write and tell Esme?

Tell him to come home...

even if it's just on leave.

Tell him that I miss him

and that I forgive him.

But nothing about the baby.

He has a right to know, Angel.

He has no right to know.

He deserted me.

He didn't desert you.

He just, for the first time in his life,

made a grown-up decision.

He's ruined everything.

Everything.

He hasn't ruined everything.

I'm still here. And we've just got

to wait for him to come home.

Esme's desperate to become a father.

If he finds out I lost his baby, he'll never come home.

Please...

promise me you won't tell him.

I promise.

Darling!

- Mr. Gilbright. - Miss Howe-Nevinson.

Did you have a good trip?

A long one, but at least I'm here.

- Very good of you to come. - I feel bad. I lied to Angel.

I said I was visiting an elderly aunt in Kensington.

I had to lie to my wife as well.

Thank you.

I don't know what we're going to do.

Her last book, I'm afraid, was a terrible disappointment.

I thought that was because of the war.

No, I'm afraid it was because of the book.

Her readers are disturbed

by this new-found pacifism. They don't see what place it has

in a romantic novel. And frankly, I agree with them.

I've said this to Angel, naturally, but she won't listen.

But she's still a great writer.

Nothing can alter that.

What she needs to do is to get back

to the way she used to write and give people something

to distract them from this wretched war.

If she doesn't, I ask myself what's going to happen.

And I'm not just saying this as her publisher,

but as her friend.

Miss Howe, are you alright? Look behind you.

Carefully.

Who on earth is she?

She's an old acquaintance.

My God, what if Angel finds out he was on leave?

How could Esme do this to her?

I'm going to talk to him.

No, no, no! Nora, Nora, Nora.

Leave him be. Really.

Well? What's it like?

Not wonderful.

Such a shame.

Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for Angel.

Now everybody's criticizing and rejecting her,

I do feel a kind of pity for her.

Perhaps I understand you more.

- Understand me? - Yes.

Because you had the courage to publish her

when no one else would. And you were right.

I'm pleased to hear you finally taking her side.

I can't take her side as a writer.

There's not one of her books I could ever enjoy.

But I've come to admire the woman.

Despite all her bad taste and absurdities,

she fought for her dreams

and got everything she wanted: success, fame...

Even the man she loved.

The man she loved.

Are you still in love with her?

What makes you say that?

Your eyes.

Angel!

A telegram!

Well, open it.

My God, he's been killed.

He's wounded.

They're sending him home.

They're sending him home!

He could be here next week!

And what will you do now you're home, Esme?

Paint! I'd love you to paint my peacocks.

You should see them when they fan out their tails.

I'm not sure Esme is going to want to paint your pet birds.

Not after what he's just been through.

But we have to forget all that.

None of it matters now.

Things'll be just as they were.

Just as they were?

Yes. You've lost your leg, but it's not like you're dead.

And I'll buy you a wheelchair,

and then you can go wherever you like.

Do you want me to help you?

No.

Good night.

What're you doing? What is it?

I've missed you, Angel.

Are you sure this is a good idea?

With your leg...?

What's the matter?

Are you alright?

When I close my eyes...

I see faces.

Dead men's faces.

Don't speak about it, don't even think about it.

If this hadn't happened,

I'd have put the bullet in myself.

It doesn't matter now.

You're here,

with me,

in Paradise.

I am sorry, Esme, but...

what you're asking me is just not possible.

But I'm her husband.

Of course.

But even if I could make you an advance

without telling her,

Angel's literary standing currently is so catastrophic,

there's simply no money available.

The war's turned everything upside down,

I'm afraid - you, me, the country,

the whole of society -

but not Angel.

She still has no idea about reality.

So you've stopped believing in her?

I just don't know anymore.

What about your paintings?

Surely they're bringing some money.

The only painting I ever sold... was to Angel.

Actually, I don't think Angel could bear it

if you left a second time.

So what do you expect me to do here in this mausoleum?

Try to bury me alive?

No, I expect you to use the studio to paint.

Paint what?

Sultan?

Angel's cats?

Paint what you saw in the war.

Nobody's interested in that.

They'd rather forget.

I was looking at your Greek sketchbooks

and there were some loose drawings-

- So what? Throw them away. What's the point?

I liked them.

Come on, Nora. Spare me your pity.

You've never liked a single thing I've ever done.

You saw me in London, didn't you?

Yes.

Did you tell her?

No.

at certain moments of my life,

your books have rescued me from despair

and lifted my soul onto a higher plane...

How kind of him to write,

and what an educated hand.

You read the next one.

Dear madam,

having had personal experience of the horrors of war,

I would ask you to spare your readers

those sadistic descriptions and stylistic mannerisms.

As a lover of literature I feel the-

Stop!

That's enough. Burn it.

Thank you, my darling.

Angel...

There's something I have to ask you.

It's about money.

What do you mean?

I've got none left and I'm drowning in debt.

I'm very, very sorry.

I realize how much you must regret

having married a gambler.

A chronic one, at that.

I've never regretted it.

Have you?

You're the one who has every reason to.

Nora always said I married you for your money.

I don't have any money.

That's it, then,

I'm finished.

Of course not.

I can get money.

It's just a case of giving the public what they want.

I feel despicable asking you like this.

How soon? How soon do they want it?

Well, with gambling debts, I can always stall

for a little while, but eventually...

Don't worry, I'm going to start writing,

and I'm not going to leave this room

until I've written The End.

Angel, it's magnificent.

Theo's going to be so pleased.

Going to make even more money out of me, you mean.

of what he had...

Marvell! Marv!

Just in time!

You write too much.

Get off. You stink of alcohol.

What are you doing?!

Giving you a little present

for writing all your lovely, romantic stories.

No! No!

A little baby...!

A little baby boy!

With one little leg.

A little baby... My God!

Esme, stop it! Stop it!

Esme!

You...!

Get off! You pig!

How could you be such a fool?

Can't you see what he's doing to us?

It's alright.

He's gone.

Gone? What do you mean?

With Marvell. First thing this morning.

To the races? Hunting?

I don't think so. He took his suitcase.

What did he say?

Nothing. He wouldn't talk.

- You alright, sir? - We're leaving.

My darling! You came back!

You came back! I knew you would.

Nora said you'd be gone forever, but I knew she was lying.

You won't ever leave me again, you won't desert me?

No.

And look what came for you today.

then, as Dusk swept across the horizon

in her shadowy dress of deepest blue,

the beautiful Volodia, who had abandoned her crown,

abandoned her jewels and Czarina's throne,

abandoned her revolutionary lover,

climbed into the troika and departed all alone

along the snowbound road edged with pine trees,

which appeared to hail her as she went,

as in the blessed time of her glorious reign.

And struck by a lightning-flash of lucidity,

she suddenly understood that this was the end.

The end of her very self and soul.

No applause?

Do you know what this means?

Weren't you listening?

This means money.

All the money you could ever need.

My darling.

Don't forget to send it to Theo in the morning.

Yes, Angel.

Are you asleep?

Or just pretending?

Sweet dreams, then.

I hope that whatever they are,

they're full of pretty colours.

Sultan!

What's the matter?

Hey...?

and when our bodies...

still burning with the indescribable desire

of star-crossed lovers

were at last sundered,

Esme lifted my heavy hair from the pillow

and whispered,

like voluptuous caresses,

these fatal words...

'May this infinite love

'join us body and soul

'even beyond death...

'... and may our hearts be forever united.

Thank you, Miss Deverell.

Grant Esme eternal peace.

Let us reflect upon psalm 39, verses four and five.

- Thank you. - Right this way.

So this will be a whole article devoted just to Esme?

Yes, absolutely.

I think his work deserves to be more widely recognized.

And I think the public are really ready

for this kind of restricted palette.

Restricted palette? What's that? Not a criticism?

Uh, no...

n- not at all.

I simply mean painting using very few colours.

In this case, mainly browns and greys.

Yes.

Poor Esme never liked painting sunshine or bright colours.

He much preferred scenes...

in pubs or factories.

Um, I wonder whether I might be able

to photograph any of his canvases in your possession?

Well, of course.

If it will help my husband's reputation.

Thank you.

I'm planning to write a book about him myself.

I shall have to give you a copy.

Uh... Um, that would be very kind, thank you.

I don't... I'm not familiar with your work myself,

but I had an old aunt

who was a great admirer of your books.

For the time that Esme lived at Paradise,

he was completely happy.

That is my one consolation now that he has passed on.

And how... how did he die, exactly?

A heart attack.

It must've been a great comfort

having his sister here with you.

So unlike her brother.

But then she always has been.

What is this flower called? I've forgotten its name.

Uh... I'm afraid I can't help you.

I... I've never known very much about plants.

Esme would've known.

Here is Esme's dictionary of wild flowers.

His favourite book - after mine, of course.

Thank you.

- Here's the flower. - Go away.

Sorry?

Go! Leave!

Um, we... we were going upstairs

to photograph the canvas?

Leave this house! Go now!

nor could you and I ever be

as ecstatically happy together as we were on that last leave.

Don't try and write to me again.

I don't understand. He didn't ever have leave.

It makes no sense.

Unless he lied to me.

Unless he came back from France, but he lied to me.

Came back to England, but saw someone else.

Is that what happened?

Listen, Esme was never given leave.

I'm sure of it.

That's just some old letter from before you were married.

Look - it's not even signed.

Then why does it say leave?

Those are the words: on that last leave.

Meaning there was more than one.

Esme did not come home on leave, Angel.

It's absurd.

Your brother lied to me.

I give everything to the man I love

and he deceives me.

Angel, you've got to remember

how much Esme loved you.

And it's only by remembering his love

that you will see that you're wrong,

completely wrong. Really?

But then that's what I'd expect you to say.

You're his sister,

you're two of a kind.

And you've both done very well out of me.

Out of living off my money,

off my success,

out of living here in my house!

Angel, don't. That isn't true.

You're a disgusting pair of leeches

who've sucked my life out!

Go on,

tell me.

Tell me.

You want the truth?

Yes.

Alright, then - I knew.

But, Angel, I wanted to protect you because...

I know how much you loved Esme

and I also knew he would never change.

Perhaps that was wrong of me.

Esme did have a mistress, yes.

And he came home on leave a number of times

to visit her in London.

And the money he asked you for wasn't to pay debts.

It was to keep her...

and her child.

Until she got married.

And he never got over it.

Wait for me here, Marvell.

She's just coming.

Do you recognize Paradise?

Paradise...?

That's right - I used to live there once.

A long time before you did.

You're Angelica?

Yes.

I drew that when I was little.

Miss Deverell, I'm so happy to have finally met you.

I've always been a great admirer.

In fact, I think I've read nearly all of your books.

But please do sit down. Would you like some tea?

No, thank you.

How strange it is to meet now, when our paths might so easily

have crossed before. Yes...

I did so love your aunt.

She took such good care of me.

And dear Esme so often talked about you.

I was so happy when he married you

and found his feet again.

He... he talked about me?

Well, of course.

We'd known each other since we were tiny children

and I was a kind of confidante to him.

But you knew that, naturally.

Of course.

His death came as a terrible shock.

He was so young,

and there were so many wonderful things

he might've achieved.

I brought you your letter back.

Thank you.

I'm very touched.

I should go.

You're sure you won't...

You're alright, ma'am?

Why are we going this way?

Through Norley?

Well, it's the quickest way.

My dearest Nora, you know as well as I do

how strong she is and how many obstacles she has managed

to overcome in life, from earliest childhood.

So don't worry - unlike the heroines in her novels,

she is far too sensible to die of a broken heart,

I can assure you.

So look after her like you always have,

and she'll pull through

and live to bury us all.

Your ever devoted Theo.

Angel?!

What are you doing?

The doctor said to rest.

I was lonely.

Come on.

Get this 'round you, or you'll catch your death.

Then you're having a cup of tea and going straight back to bed.

Where's Silky Boy?

Why? Isn't he here?

I can't see him.

He's probably outside with Marvell.

He's chopping wood.

He can't be outside in all this snow.

He'll soon be mewing to come back in.

But you know how delicate he is.

Angel?

Angel!

Silky Boy? Silky Boy?

Angel!

Silky Boy, where are you?

Are you completely mad?

Go back up into your room.

I'll tell Marvell to look for him.

I knew something terrible was going to happen.

I've known it all day.

Hello.

Don't worry, Silky Boy.

Mummy's here now.

It's so cold outside.

You mustn't worry.

I won't leave you outside again.

Thank you, Marvell.

Where am I?

You're here with me. You're at home.

The grocery.

Not the grocery!

No, of course you're not in the grocery.

You're in Paradise House with me, with Nora.

Nora... I can't see! My eyes!

I can't see!

Just go to sleep. You need rest, that's all.

Nora...

Do you think...

if I had had a baby...

that Esme...

would still be alive?

Of course not.

Don't say such foolish things.

Nora?

Do you think I've lived the wrong life?

Do you think it's all been a dream?

None of it... was real?

No.

No, my sweet Angel.

Of course it was real.

Your life has been magnificent.

You live in Paradise House,

and you're a very great writer.

And you were passionately, passionately loved.

The only person...

who ever really loved me,

Nora,

was you.

I am Angel Deverell.

Please... please!

Angel? Angel!

No! No! No!

Please... No!

Nora, tell me.

What will you do now?

I don't know.

I've had offers for Paradise.

There's talk of turning it into a museum for Esme's work;

showing the paintings.

Well, that would please Angel.

She always believed in him.

Perhaps.

But all of her books -

who cares about them now?

Fashion changes,

and time can be cruel.

I'd always imagined her lying in state in Westminster Abbey.

Speeches and crowds filing past.

Why don't you write some kind of tribute to her?

You knew her so well, Nora.

Not just her work, but her life.

Her life? Which life?

The life she lived,

or the life she dreamed?