The Quarrel’s more fanciful crew members had put it about that Commander Redenhall could see into men’s souls. Sylvia Rolf seemed to share their belief. She sobbed, ‘We weren’t “bothering” Flo. She was trying to communicate with us.’
Alistair let a short silence pass. Now to the crux of this conference. ‘Vanessa, was it Johnny who arranged your meeting on Drury Lane?’
Vanessa nodded. ‘He had something important to tell me. Naturally, I couldn’t drop everything and go. I had to request a Form 295.’ She explained; ‘Official leave. I needed forty-eight hours and the journey took an age. Then I couldn’t find the White Hart. I realised too late that I’d met Dad as he was leaving the pub. We stood so close, I smelled his hair oil and a whiff of cigars. He called me sweet nymph. No, “gentle nymph”.’
Edwin chose that moment to reach across for the cloak, but Alistair stalled him. ‘Don’t. It’s why Macduff hates you. You come on to his territory swathed in borrowed scent, a walking betrayal.’
From his desk drawer, Alistair took a framed photograph, saying to Miss Bovary, ‘One of the cleaners brought this to me, thinking it was in with the rubbish by mistake. You should have burned it.’ He turned the picture so they could see. It was of Bo and Johnny under a bleaching stage light, their khol-lined eyes expressing emotion to some long-ago audience.
‘“The Pearl Fishers”’ Terence Rolf supplied, after studying it. ‘A rotten potato. I lost money on it.’
His wife frowned. ‘Isn’t that the picture Hugo Brennan was gawping at the day we all took tea in Barbara’s room?’
Miss Bovary looked daggers at her sister.
Alistair said, ‘I could talk about Bo’s dimple and lop-sided smile, his flamboyant soul and zest for every new part he played, but –’ Billy Chalker was revving up to interrupt. Putting the picture aside, Alistair seized the cloak. ‘This was made for Wilton Bovary by his tailor. Vanessa, you met your father outside the White Hart. The tragedy is, neither you nor Bo realised it.’
She stared as if he’d punched her. Her voice a desiccated thread, she asked, ‘You’re saying I’m –’
‘Bo’s child.’
‘His and Eva’s?’
The others erupted, until cut short by the peel of the telephone. Edwin Bovary got to it ahead of Alistair. After a terse exchange, he rammed the receiver down and said to Vanessa, ‘I’m to say that a person by the name of Quinnell has suffered a fall – ’
‘Ruth’s hurt?’ Vanessa cried in alarm.
‘She’s in a poor way at Stanshurst Hall.’ Edwin laughed, an ugly sound. ‘Bo’s daughter? No. You don’t look a bit like him!’
‘Oh, but she does,’ Sylvia Rolf said unhappily. ‘The chin and nose. I didn’t see it until Terence pointed it out. He said from the first –’
Her husband advised her to shut up. Edwin sneered at his mother. ‘Next, you’ll be waving her in the direction of his money.’
‘I wouldn’t touch it,’ Vanessa hurled in reply.
Billy Chalker tapped her shoulder. ‘You really should. My sister told me who you were at Johnny’s funeral. Eva knew all Bo’s secrets. And Johnny’s.’
She asked, ‘Including how he came to poison himself with whisky?’
‘Ask him that.’ With a sweep of the hand, Billy Chalker framed Edwin Bovary. ‘He raided the green room bar that sorry night, not Johnny. He was seen traipsing down Long Acre with a bottle of black market Scotch under his coat.’
Edwin accused Chalker of being insane. Vanessa looked into Chalker’s big, blue-veined face. ‘Edwin called on Johnny after the show?’
Chalker inclined his head. ‘Hoping, I imagine, to find out why his uncle had spent an hour that evening at the White Hart. True, Edwin? Was Johnny writing a letter when you knocked at his door? Shivering, alone, pitifully grateful for any friendly overtures?’
Edwin swore. Chalker shook his head witheringly. ‘You went, you poured, you watched him drink. You might have put a coin in the electric meter before you went. Even I would have spared a shilling to prevent a fellow creature from freezing.’
Vanessa scraped back her chair and stumbled to the door. Chalker called after her, ‘Eva wanted you to know the truth. You’re a good sort, Mrs Kingcourt, but you are not her child.’
Alistair had the last word, ordering everyone by the name of Rolf and Bovary to get out. Out of his theatre, now, and never come back.
Chapter 34
You have your mother’s eyes.
Your mother was a whore.
You’re not Eva’s girl.
Vanessa’s first impulse had been to run to Charing Cross station and take a train. It was Alistair who had pointed out that it was Sunday. No trains. She then remembered the costumes needing her attention and panic surged up. ‘I’ve got to wash off grease paint, sew on buttons. Miss Abbott’s torn her morning gown again. Oh, God, Alistair, what can I do?’
‘Sleep,’ Alistair ruled. ‘We’ll go to Stanshurst first thing tomorrow. Ruth will survive the night, she’s not at death’s door.’ From his office, he put a call through to Penny Yorke at home, arranging for some of her women to take over from Vanessa the following day.
‘How will they get in?’ Vanessa fretted. Her world had been spun so violently, trivialities had landed on top.
‘Doyle has a key to your room, hasn’t he? Let’s find him. I’m going to dump Macduff on him again.’ Alistair gave Doyle Stanshurst Hall’s telephone number so he could call first thing in the morning and arrange for somebody to pick them up from the station. Finally, he told Vanessa, ‘Relax, we have good people around us.’
They took the early-bird train the next day, racing through a countryside buffeted by biting winds. Memories of trying to reach her father . . . no longer her father. Of trying to reach Johnny Quinnell through the snow.
At Hayes station, one of Lord Stanshurst’s estate workers was waiting with a pony trap, and that next few miles were the coldest of Vanessa’s life. Instead of her WAAF greatcoat, she’d worn Wilton Bovary’s cloak, an act of bravado she regretted, even when Alistair wrapped his arms around her. To the clip of the pony’s hooves, she asked herself, ‘Who is my mother?’
By ten-thirty, she was being shown up to the Hall’s east wing by Borthwick while Alistair waited in the morning room for Lord Stanshurst to come in from his morning walk.
In a suite of rooms, whose chill was partially dispelled by a room-heater, Vanessa saw a woman reading in an armchair. At their approach, the woman dropped her book and got up.
It was Fern who laughed, ‘Only highwaymen wear cloaks in the countryside. Did Black Bess cast a shoe?’
Vanessa explained, ‘We couldn’t get down last night. Not enough fuel to drive.’ Anxiety, tiredness, made her careless.
‘“We” being you and Alistair?’
‘Yes, um, he’s been very kind.’
‘Well, good of you to come at all,’ Fern said brightly. ‘Let’s see if our patient is strong enough to talk.’
Vanessa followed Fern into a small bedroom that was warm and bright. Brocade curtains with a broadleaf design were drawn back to give a vista of Hunter’s Copse where, months ago, she’d walked with Fern. A nicer, softer Fern.
She asked, ‘How did Ruth – my mother – hurt herself?’
‘Missed her footing at the top of her stairs. She was bringing a bundle of sheets down to wash.’
Vanessa could easily believe it. She’d fallen down the narrow, dog-leg stairs of Peach Cottage a few times in her life. ‘Who found her?’
‘I did.’ Fern had been at Stanshurst since last week. Yesterday she’d walked to church for morning service. ‘People were concerned when Ruth didn’t show. She never misses, apparently. We let ourselves in to Peach Cottage. Poor thing’s in shock and very sore.’
An understatement, Vanessa discovered. Ruth’s head was bandaged like a medieval cadaver’s, her features swollen. Vanessa reached for one of the bony hands. The other was in a sling. ‘You should be in hospital.’
> ‘But we’re a stubborn lady, aren’t we?’ Fern was clearly enjoying her nurse persona, or amusing herself with it. ‘We don’t like institutions. Five minutes, doctor’s orders, lest she get agitated. Shall I go?’
‘If you don’t mind.’ When Fern left, closing the door behind her, Vanessa apologised for visiting empty-handed. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’
‘Water.’ Ruth found it hard to move her lips.
Vanessa filled a glass from the bedside jug and held it to the injured lips. Ruth sipped. Vanessa asked, ‘Why did you call for me? I thought you’d cast me off.’
Ruth mumbled something that sounded like ‘lettuce’.
‘Oh – “letters”?’
‘Home,’ Ruth answered.
‘In your bureau?’
Ruth breathed, ‘Father. Need to say – too late.’
Years too late, Vanessa reflected, trying to stay calm. ‘I was told yesterday that my father was Wilton Bovary. Any comment?’
Ruth sighed, ‘Actor.’
‘So it’s true?’
The word ‘yes,’ slipped between Ruth’s lips.
‘And there are letters for me . . . from him? From my father?’
‘Yes’ again.
‘I’ll stop by Peach Cottage and collect them. Ruth, I need to know who – ’
‘Half a minute left, dear,’ from the other room. Fern was still acting the bossy nurse, still amusing herself. She must be very bored at Stanshurst to be spending her time in a sickroom. Where was Darrell Highstoke? Though Vanessa didn’t really care. ‘Who is my mother?’
Ruth sketched a denial. ‘Can’t say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Twenty seconds, then I’m coming in,’ Fern called.
She hurried out a different question. ‘Why does my birth certificate call me “Vanessa Elizabeth”?’
‘Johnny brought it with him.’
‘When he left Eva and came back to you? Please don’t tell me it was his dead baby’s?’
Fern came in, tutting. ‘Look at you, leaning across the patient. I said she wasn’t to be upset, didn’t I? Someone will fetch you a nice cup of tea, Mrs Q.’ Fern opened the door wide for Vanessa. ‘I saw Pops walking across the lawn a moment ago. I’m sure you’d like a word.’
‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘Ruth will be all right, but she needs sleep and good feeding. Tormenting her about the past isn’t fair.’
Fern must have had her ear to the door. Vanessa promised Ruth she’d return as soon as she could. ‘Thanks for taking care of her,’ she said as Fern escorted her back to the stairs. The corridors on this side of the house were a maze of identical doors.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Fern replied. ‘I sit up here in case Ruth calls out, but Mrs Blaxill comes up from the village twice a day. She was a nurse years ago and is good at the bedpan-and-gruel routine.’
‘Even so – ’ Vanessa offered more thanks, causing Fern to say harshly, ‘Ruth was loyal to my mother for years. Marge would have insisted we take care of her.’
‘Fine. I won’t thank you again.’
They walked on, until Fern stopped, snapping her fingers to release her feelings. ‘I dare say you’ll dig out those letters Ruth was talking about. If so, can I ask one thing? Whatever they reveal, keep it to yourself. Promise?’
‘I’ll take a view.’ Fern had lied to her, humiliated her.
The time for promises was over. Vanessa asked instead, ‘How’s Darrell?’
‘At his uncle, Lord Chiddingford’s. He’s meeting his mother there, to tell them formally of his intention to marry me.’ Fern’s tone altered and she was suddenly the polished, finishing school version of herself, chic in a dress of olive wool with a collar of yellow plaid that brought out the fiery tones in her hair. The metamorphosis made Vanessa feel drab. Why had Alistair let her wear this damn cloak? It trailed on the floor. It was dangerous on the stairs.
‘Will Darrell’s family accept you?’ she asked, letting Fern go down ahead of her. ‘A divorcée?’
‘They will in the end, because the moment my court case is settled, I intend to get pregnant. Lord Chiddingford is desperate for his line to continue and even Darrell’s mother would stop short of allowing the birth of her grandchild to be illegitimate.’
‘All’s fair in love and war? Giving Ruth those photographs, darling,’ Vanessa aped Fern’s hyperbolic style, ‘was scraping the barrel.’
‘When you want something, you fight for it.’
They crossed the downstairs hall where Vanessa stopped. ‘Alistair was never unfaithful to you, Fern, was he?’
‘You tell me. He had every opportunity.’
‘He’s fidelity made flesh and I love him.’
Fern made a sound of disgust. ‘I try so hard to hate you.’
‘You showed those photos to Lord Stanshurst, I suppose?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Fern shot a horrified look at the morning room. ‘He has no idea what you . . . oh, do take off that cloak! That ridiculous man wore it when he put on his plays here.’
‘My father, you mean?’
‘Wilton Bovary. It flared behind him as he strutted around, overpowering us all with the whiff of bay rum. Everyone thought he was wonderful. His darling actress-chums cuddled up, Marge doted. Pops and I couldn’t bear him.’ Fern strode into the morning room where Lord Stanshurst and Alistair stood either side of the fireplace.
Alistair said, ‘Good morning, Fern.’
She replied, ‘This is the last time you’ll call me Fern. Next time, it will be “Lady Chiddingford”.’
‘I will call you Fern, or nothing at all.’
A pair of spaniels broke the tension, racing up to greet the newcomers. ‘Down Sprout, down Hermes!’ Fern ordered. The creatures swerved on Vanessa, depositing mud on her stockings.
Lord Stanshurst sent them to their baskets, then came forward and shook Vanessa’s hand.
‘Hello, stranger. What a mess your mother is. Her poor face.’
For a stupid moment, Vanessa thought he was about to reveal her mother’s identity. It was only when he said, ‘Fern says that the only sustenance in her cupboard was pudding rice and mustard,’ that she realised her error. She nodded. ‘It’s how she chooses to live.’
Lord Stanshurst agreed. ‘Fern, darling tug the bell. Tea, all? Take a seat, Nessie.’
Vanessa sat on a sagging sofa while Fern pulled the bell sash connected to the kitchen. ‘It’s awfully good of you to have Ruth, Lord Stanshurst,’ she said, ‘but it feels like an imposition. I could look for a convalescence home for her.’
‘Stanshurst looks after its own, Vanessa, so don’t feel in any rush.’ Lord Stanshurst explained to Alistair, ‘We put her back in her old room. She prefers the abandoned side of the house.’
‘It’s where you put me when I stayed last,’ Alistair replied.
After an awkward silence, Vanessa said, ‘You must at least let me pay for her nursing, Lord Stanshurst.’
‘Don’t you already send Ruth half your wages? You’d better keep something for yourself. Dratted expensive place, London.’
Vanessa felt Alistair’s quizzical glance. She hadn’t mentioned that she was still helping support the woman who had disowned her. After a few minutes, Borthwick brought in the tea tray. In his dark coat and wing-collar, he reminded her of Billy Chalker, walking on stage as Parker. Vanessa jumped to her feet, offering to take up Ruth’s tea as an excuse to leave the room.
Ruth had fallen asleep, so she drank the tea herself. There wasn’t much in the room to distract her, other than pictures of dogs and horses. Fern shared her father’s disinclination for country pursuits but Lady Stanshurst had bred gun dogs and had been a fine horsewoman, though at some point in her life, ill-health had forced her to give up. Vanessa remembered Ruth saying that ‘Her Ladyship’ was lonely at Stanshurst, and regretted giving up her pre-marriage profession.
Vanessa noticed a picture laid face down on the bedside table. Pic
king it up, she almost dropped it again. It was a framed sepia photograph of herself.
Herself in the passenger seat of Lord Stanshurst’s Rolls Royce. She couldn’t recall ever sitting in that car, and certainly not in an old-fashioned duster coat. Nor had she ever worn her hair rolled up in a voluptuous bun. She gently roused Ruth and held the picture in front of her. ‘Who is this?’ Ruth shut her eyes again tightly.
‘Please tell me who my parents were.’
‘Your parents were an actor and a whore.’
Vanessa heard her name being called from downstairs. She put the picture face down and fled.
Chapter 35
Catching the eight minutes past one train depended on how fast the pony could pull the trap. Alistair and Vanessa walked round to the rear of the house, to the stable yard. They’d said their goodbyes to Lord Stanshurst. Vanessa was so silent that Alistair asked if she was feeling ill.
‘A headache.’
The stable yard was mournful with its empty loose-boxes, the coach-house losing its tiles. As they passed its gaping door, Vanessa saw a glint of red. Inside was a majestic, outdated car, its bodywork speckled in frass from the coach-house roof. It had no wheels. Mice had been at the seats’ leather. The Royal Automobile Club badge on the radiator grille was mittened in spider-web, as was its double ‘R’ insignia.
Alistair looked over her shoulder. ‘A Silver Ghost. Lord Stanshurst can’t bear to sell it though he can’t afford to run it either. Billy Chalker described this car coming to London to fetch Johnny away from Eva.’ He gazed at it thoughtfully before pulling his attention back. ‘If you want to take a detour through the village, we need to get moving.’
‘A moment.’ She reached under the steering wheel, where a pair of goggles hung. Drivers’ goggles for the road. ‘Did Lord Stanshurst have a chauffeur?’
‘While his wife was alive, but he told me he always drove this beauty himself. It was his pride and joy.’
She dropped the goggles. ‘If this car fetched Johnny away, Lord Stanshurst was at the wheel. Let’s go.’
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 35
