Fallen Angels

by Tara Hyland

  ‘Gabriel!’

  Hearing Max’s voice, relief flooded through Franny. With Gabriel momentarily distracted by his father, she took the opportunity to step away from him, and hurried over to her fiancé’s side.

  ‘Darling.’ She put her hands on Max’s shoulders and reached up to kiss his cheek; suddenly her acting skills had kicked in. For some reason she wanted to show this presumptuous young man that she was firmly attached to her husband-to-be – his father, she reminded herself. Taking Max’s hand, she said, ‘Gabriel and I were just getting to know each other.’

  It was then that Franny noticed the girl standing a little way behind Max. Olivia, she presumed. She was as beautiful as her brother, tall and slender like him, with the same fine bone structure and perfect porcelain skin. But while Gabriel had dark hair and dark eyes, like his father, Olivia had long fair hair that fell straight to her waist, and pale blue eyes, Franny assumed like her mother, Eleanor.

  Franny gave the girl what she hoped was a winning smile. ‘Hello, Olivia. It’s lovely to meet you at last.’

  But the girl stared blankly back at her. Inwardly, Franny groaned. It was going to be a long evening.

  Over dinner, she tried hard to include both Gabriel and Olivia in the wedding plans.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to be a bridesmaid?’ she said to Olivia. ‘I have eight already, so one more won’t matter.’

  Instead of Olivia answering, Gabriel did. ‘Olivia hates being the centre of attention,’ he told Franny, swinging back in his chair. ‘You’d be better off finding someone else.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Franny tried not to feel hurt. ‘And what about you?’ She turned to Gabriel. ‘Will you perhaps be doing a reading?’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you want me to.’ With the main course finished, Gabriel turned to Max. ‘Would you be so kind as to excuse us from dessert, Father?’ His formal words sounded faintly mocking. ‘We both have homework to do.’

  It was only after they had gone that Franny realised Olivia hadn’t spoken once throughout the meal.

  ‘Well, that didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped,’ she said, once they were out of earshot.

  Max sighed. ‘I know.’ He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘But they’ll come round eventually, darling. I’m sure of it.’

  Franny wasn’t so certain.

  Upstairs, Olivia was surprised when Gabriel came into her bedroom. They didn’t have the kind of sibling relationship where they sat around chatting. She assumed that he wanted to gossip to her about Franny, but instead he headed straight for the window, opened it and started to climb out.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ she asked tentatively. Even though he was her brother, she found Gabriel slightly intimidating – but then again, she found most people intimidating.

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing? Getting out of here.’

  Of course; that’s why he’d come in. Her bedroom was on the first floor and outside the window, she had a flat roof next to an old oak tree: perfect for climbing down.

  He held up a set of keys. ‘I’m planning to liberate the Mustang and go meet some people. Want to come?’

  It was typical of Gabriel. He was always out and about. He made friends easily, and wherever they were, he could always find someone to hang out with. To Olivia’s frustration, she was very different. She was shy around people, and found it hard to open up. As children they’d played together a lot, seeking comfort in each other in the face of their father’s disinterest. But since they’d become teenagers, Gabriel had been off doing his own thing a lot. This invitation was an unexpected treat. But although Olivia would have loved to have gone with him, she didn’t dare.

  ‘I’d better not,’ she said regretfully.

  He shrugged. ‘Your loss.’ He was halfway outside, when he turned back. ‘Oh, just make sure to leave the window open a bit before you go to sleep.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that I can climb back in later, stupid.’

  With that, he was gone, leaving Olivia alone. It was something she was used to. At school she was known as a loner. She pretended to be happy with her own company, but secretly she wished that she was more like her outgoing brother – or her father’s fiancée, the movie actress Frances Fitzgerald. She was so beautiful, confident and glamorous – everything that Olivia was not.

  Sighing deeply, the girl went over to her dressing-table and opened the top drawer. There, hidden within the pages of her diary, was a picture of her mother. She had to keep it secret, as her father had taken down any reminders of his wife after she died. Looking at the picture, she could see why he hated seeing her so much: the resemblance between her and her mother was uncanny. Unfortunately there was nothing she could do about that. Like most things in her life, Olivia had no say in the matter.

  Aside from dealing with Max’s decidedly stand-offish children, Franny had her own daughter to worry about. She kept meaning to tell her fiancé about Cara. But somehow she was never quite sure how to broach the subject. She’d rehearse what she was going to say in her head, but nothing ever sounded quite right. What would he think of her, she wondered, for hiding her child for so long? It made her seem, well, somewhat callous. What if he was never able to look at her in the same way again? What if he called off the wedding?

  And then The Black Rose finally came out, to bad reviews and even worse box-office numbers. Franny had hoped this would be her breakthrough role, but instead her performance was labelled as ‘unconvincing’.

  A couple of weeks later, Lloyd summoned Franny into his office to say filming on Elizabeth had been postponed. Although he assured her that it had nothing to do with The Black Rose – ‘we still have every faith in you’ – Franny couldn’t help feeling that professionally this was a bit of a setback.

  In light of that, her marriage to Max couldn’t have come at a better time. The papers loved the story, so it was keeping her in the news, and it provided a face-saving excuse for why she wouldn’t be filming that summer: ‘Maybe it sounds old-fashioned, but I take my responsibilities as a bride and a wife very seriously,’ she told a delighted Dolores Kent. ‘For the time being, I want to concentrate on looking after my husband. My career comes second to him.’

  And given everything that had happened, Franny decided it would be best to wait until after they were married to reveal the truth about Cara and her past to Max. After all, she didn’t want to risk ruining their wedding.

  The wedding took place on 3 June 1957, less than four months after that night in the Cocoanut Grove. The day itself was everything that Franny had dreamed it would be – a fairytale wedding, notable for its adherence to tradition. The service was held at the Good Shepherd Church in Beverly Hills, a full Catholic Mass as the bride was a devout attendee. Franny herself was a storybook bride: she wore a Cinderella-style gown of raw silk, hand-embroidered with thousands of seed pearls, and a full-length veil. Perhaps the effect was a little more virginal than Franny would have liked, but it was what her fans – over a thousand of whom gathered outside the church to wish the newly-weds well – expected.

  Eight bridesmaids were in attendance – all blonde and so perfectly proportioned that they could have come straight out of Central Casting – and they wore ballet-length dresses of dusky pink. Franny’s bouquet of tea roses matched the colour perfectly, as did the six-tier strawberry-frosted wedding cake. A reception for six hundred guests was held at the Bel Air Hotel, as that of Elizabeth Taylor and Nicky Hilton had been, seven years earlier.

  The reception ended by six in the evening, and the newly-weds waved goodbye to their guests, Franny having changed into her going-away outfit – a beautiful baby-blue silk suit – before setting off for their honeymoon. Because of Max’s work, he’d only been able to take a few days off, so instead of going on an extended trip to Europe, he had suggested that they spend a few days alone together at his other home, Stanhope Castle.

  Stanhope Castle was located in the heart of the Big Sur, a beautiful but
sparsely populated region of the central Californian coast. Max had been keen for Franny to see it for months, but their schedules hadn’t allowed time for the trip. A five-hour drive from Los Angeles along Highway 1, it might as well have been another world: the terrain was rough and untamed, a hundred miles of rugged cliffs, rocky coves and crashing surf. There were no large towns in the area. Hearing that, Franny wasn’t sure it was going to be her kind of place. She supposed it would be fine for a second home – somewhere they could come out to on the odd weekend.

  On the long drive, Max told Franny all about the history of Stanhope Castle. He had purchased 30,000 acres of land back in 1938, and had spent a year working with a Paris-trained architect, Julia Morgan, who had designed William Hearst’s Hearst Castle in San Simeon, located a little further along the coast. Like the latter, Stanhope Castle had been built in a Medieval-Gothic style, Max explained. To Franny, it looked like a huge cathedral – in fact, its weathered dark grey stone turrets, decorated with carved gargoyles, reminded her of pictures she had seen of the Notre-Dame in Paris.

  Max was obviously immensely proud of Stanhope Castle. He took great delight in telling Franny details about the estate. As they drove along the winding road that led out to the house, he told her that sometimes at high tide, the track was completely covered in water.

  Franny was fascinated and a little horrified. ‘It must feel very isolated.’

  He gave her a brief smile. ‘That’s what I like about it.’

  ‘But doesn’t that worry you?’ she pressed. ‘Being stranded out here?’

  ‘If the tide comes in, it will always go out again. It’s just a question of waiting.’

  Franny thought that sounded somewhat tiresome, but she decided to keep her feelings to herself.

  It was midnight by the time they reached the castle. The staff had been informed of their arrival, so lights shone through the narrow slits of windows. Flaming torches lit the long driveway up to the main house. As it was so late, there was no time to explore – ‘We’ll do that tomorrow,’ Max said. But even just seeing the main building, Franny could get a feel for the vastness of the estate.

  They were greeted in the hallway by Max’s housekeeper, a reed-thin, stone-faced spinster named Hilda, who looked a little like one of the gargoyles carved into the parapets. She was about forty, but looked older – her high-necked grey wool dress wasn’t doing her any favours. She greeted Franny with a practised formality.

  ‘Welcome to your new home, Mrs Stanhope.’ She bowed her head a little. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy here.’

  Franny murmured her thanks. She felt somewhat overwhelmed by her new surroundings. Luckily, Max took control. Taking her hand, he said, ‘I think a drink is in order, don’t you, darling?’ She nodded.

  As Max led her through the castle, Franny could see that the rooms were huge and had high ceilings, and the walls and floors were made out of stone, giving a permanent chill to the place, even though it was summer now. The décor was sumptuous, all tapestry wall hangings and thick animal-skin rugs; the furnishings much the same, with lots of intricately carved dark wood and gold candelabras.

  Hilda followed the newly-weds through to one of the reception rooms, and poured a glass of brandy for them both. Franny took it gratefully. The rest of the staff were waiting downstairs for instructions, the housekeeper informed them. She was happy to assist in any way they needed.

  ‘I presumed you’d want to dine after the long journey,’ she said. ‘Cook’s preparing duck.’

  Franny’s heart sank. It seemed they would have to put up with the stern-faced woman for another hour or so at least. But Max must have sensed her feelings.

  ‘Thank you, but dinner won’t be necessary,’ he said, his eyes fixed on his bride. ‘I would like to be alone with my wife now. After all, I believe it’s traditional on the wedding night.’

  Hilda flushed at the implication, and dropped her eyes. ‘Yes, of course. I understand. Goodnight to you both,’ she murmured, withdrawing from the room. ‘And again, let me offer my congratulations.’

  ‘Well, that was rather rude of you,’ Franny teased, after the housekeeper’s footsteps had faded.

  ‘Would you have rather she stayed?’ Max challenged.

  Instead of waiting for Franny’s answer, he walked over and took the glass from her hand, setting it down on the nearby occasional table. Reaching up, he unfastened the grip that held her chignon in place. Franny shook her long red hair out around her shoulders. Max nodded approvingly. ‘That’s better.’

  Then he bent his head and kissed her. As the kiss deepened, she felt all her earlier misgivings about the somewhat isolated, creepy castle slip away. His lips grazed her neck, his fingers opening her jacket and pushing it back to expose her collarbone. His mouth moved to the tender flesh, and she squirmed and gasped against him.

  Sensing her reaction, he drew back from her a little. Before she had time to protest, he bent and scooped her up in his arms.

  ‘Max!’ she protested. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  He looked down at her with amusement. ‘Didn’t you mention once that this was a fantasy of yours?’

  At first she didn’t understand what he meant. Then, as he carried her out into the hallway and up the sweeping staircase, it clicked: he was recreating the scene when a drunk and frustrated Rhett Butler takes Scarlett O’Hara to bed in Gone With the Wind.

  She laughed delightedly. ‘You remembered!’

  ‘Of course.’ He was serious. ‘I told you before – I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.’

  By then, they had reached what she assumed to be his suite. Instead of putting her down, he pushed the door open with his shoulder. Inside, the décor was rich and magnificent, the space dominated by a huge canopied bed. Hundreds of candles had been placed around the room, so that the lighting was soft and romantic, quivering flames casting shadows across the walls. Over on the bed, red rose petals had been laid across the cream top-sheet, spaced evenly apart, in exact symmetry, to form a perfect heart. It must have taken ages for the staff to prepare – under Max’s orders, of course.

  ‘Oh, it’s so beautiful!’ Franny gasped, her arms tightening around his neck.

  ‘I’m glad it meets with your approval,’ her new husband replied.

  And, with that, he kicked the bedroom door closed.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When Cara read about her mother’s marriage, she felt almost relieved. She had been waiting for something like this – Franny’s next excuse for not being able to come back for her, knowing that it was inevitable. Now that the worst had happened, she could finally accept it and stop hoping, in the knowledge that she had been abandoned here for ever.

  Not that her mother admitted as much, not even in this letter. The usual excuses were still there: the wedding was so spontaneous that I had no time to sit Max down and tell him about you, along with the accompanying assurances: as soon as things are more settled, I shall talk to him. Rest in no doubt that we will send for you then, without delay! But, at ten, Cara was too old for fairy stories now. It crossed the girl’s mind to wonder if her mother believed the web of lies that she regularly spun. Probably, she decided. Franny never intended to do anything harmful – just her actions were so thoughtless that they often caused pain to others without her even realising.

  So, with that very grown-up understanding, Cara tucked the letter under her bed, along with the others, and penned a suitably bland ‘congratulations’ letter back. She then resolved not to think about it any longer.

  There was another good reason why she didn’t dwell on the news for too long – because there was a far more pressing problem at hand: clearly something was very wrong with her grandmother.

  Cara would be the first to admit that Theresa had always been a little odd. But lately she was acting even stranger than usual. It had started a few weeks after they’d returned from England. Cara had spent the afternoon tending the little vegetable patch. A
s she entered the kitchen, the yeasty odour of baking bread came wafting towards her. Theresa, bent over the stove, looked up.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Franny. I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  It wasn’t the first time Theresa had mixed up the names of her daughter and granddaughter. As always, Cara answered patiently, ‘It’s not Franny. I’m Cara. Remember?’

  Usually it would take just this one simple correction to jog her grandmother’s memory. But this time, instead of righting herself, her grandmother frowned. ‘What’s this, child? Some new, wicked game of yours?’

  ‘No, of course not—’

  But Theresa cut her off. ‘Well, you can stop it right now, I tell you. Go and get your father and Maggie in for their tea.’

  Cara stared at her, uncertain of what was happening.

  ‘Well?’ Theresa said. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping at me, girl. Get a move on with you.’

  ‘But I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Cara said helplessly. ‘There’s no one here but us.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Theresa crossed the room in two strides, raising her hand as she did so. The girl let out a yelp as the blow struck.

  ‘Enough of your cheek!’ Theresa’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘There’ll be no supper for you tonight, Frances Healey. Instead you can go to your room and think on what you’ve done.’

  Deciding there was no point trying to reason with her nan, Cara went upstairs, rubbing her bottom as she went. Whatever had happened to make Granny forget her name, one thing was for sure: she still remembered how to hit.

  ‘Do you need some help in there, Mam?’ Maggie called from the parlour. ‘Mam? Did you hear me?’

  Maggie waited a moment, but there was still no response. Sighing, she went through to the kitchen, where Theresa was meant to be making tea. Instead, she was standing by the sink, staring absently out of the window. Maggie walked over, and put a hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Mam? Are you all right?’