Fallen Angels

by Tara Hyland

  ‘Well, I already have thought about it,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘And you’re right. Starting a family sounds like a wonderful idea.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When Cara woke that morning, she knew immediately that something was different. There was silence in the house. Usually her grandmother rose first, and Cara would wake to the sounds of her pottering around the kitchen. It occurred to her that Theresa might be outside, collecting eggs. So Cara got up and, pulling on her dressing gown and a pair of wellies, she went downstairs to check. But the kitchen was as clean and clear as it had been when they went to bed the night before, and there was no one in the little allotment. The door to the outside lavatory swung open in the morning breeze, revealing that it, too, was empty. So, knowing there was only one place her grandmother could be, Cara went back inside and headed upstairs.

  Outside Theresa’s bedroom door, she paused. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in the quiet of the tiny landing. She was torn over what to do. On the one hand, her grandmother liked her privacy, and grew enraged if Cara entered her room; on the other, it was a Sunday and Theresa was liable to miss Mass if she didn’t get up now, and that could make her even madder. There was nothing for it, Cara decided; she would have to go in and wake her grandmother. Steeling herself, Cara reached for the handle.

  The stench hit her as soon as she opened the door.

  ‘Oh, God.’

  Immediately, she recoiled, her hand going to cover her mouth and nose. It didn’t do much good in blocking out the smell; the foul odour was too strong. Instinct told her to get as far away as possible. She was stepping back outside the door, when a frail voice called from the bed.

  ‘Franny? Is that you?’

  Cara froze.

  ‘Franny?’ The voice came again, a little more desperate this time.

  Cara made a decision. ‘Yes, it’s me . . . Franny.’ It was easier than arguing. She moved towards the bed and saw her grandmother lying there, her eyes wide, looking as weak and frightened as a child.

  ‘I think I’ve had an accident.’

  Cara closed her eyes. The thought of what she needed to do repelled her. But there was no one else. However long she waited, there would still only be her.

  Not wanting to let on to the old lady how repulsed she felt, the ten-year-old girl forced a smile. ‘Never mind what’s happened.’ She leaned over the bed, within reach of her grandmother. ‘Here, put your arms around my neck and I’ll lift you.’

  Cleaning her grandmother up was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. Trying not to think about what she was doing, Cara helped Theresa out of her filthy nightdress. Seeing the old woman standing there, naked, her wrinkly body shivering, suddenly made Cara pull herself together. However hard this was on her, it was even less pleasant for her gran.

  After that realisation, it got a little easier. At the sink, she sponged her nan down and then helped her into the bath, just as Theresa had done for her, when she’d been sick in Brighton. Leaving her in the cast-iron tub, Cara quickly stripped the bed and left the dirty linen and clothing to soak in a bucket outside. Half an hour later, with fresh sheets fitted, the room aired and her gran in a clean nightie, she helped the old lady back into bed.

  Afterwards, Cara stood back, feeling relieved it was all over. Now Theresa was settled, she could clean herself up, and then make them both a bit of breakfast.

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’

  Her gran stared blankly up at her. ‘Who are you? Why are you here in my house?’

  Cara closed her eyes, trying hard not to cry.

  The situation was getting worse, not better, and she wasn’t sure what to do. There was no one to speak to, no friend or family member to call, no kindly neighbour to approach. She didn’t want to write to her mother about the situation, certain that she wouldn’t care. She just hoped that her grandmother would get better of her own accord.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  California, April 1958

  ‘I have your results back.’ Dr Robertson reached out and touched the brown envelope in front of him, as though to prove that he wasn’t just making the news up. ‘And I’m sorry to say that you’re not pregnant.’

  Franny greeted the news with resignation. She was disappointed, but not surprised. Not at this stage. She’d already accepted a while ago that she was unlikely to ever conceive again. She just felt bad for Dr Robertson, putting him through this charade, not being able to tell him the whole truth. After all, he’d been so kind to her. A tall, slim man in his early sixties, he had an almost fatherly way about him. Along with being a close personal friend of Max’s, he was also an excellent general practitioner – and a much sought-after one. His exclusive San Francisco office, with its understated décor and mahogany furnishings, felt more like a gentleman’s study than a doctor’s surgery. Franny had got to know it far too well these past months.

  ‘So what now?’ she asked, because it seemed like she should.

  Dr Robertson consulted his notes. ‘You’ve been trying for – what – about six months?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, it’s still too early to start worrying.’ He gave a reassuring smile. ‘Let’s give it a little while longer, and if nothing’s happened then, I would suggest running some tests to determine if there’s any actual medical problem stopping you from conceiving.’

  Franny kept nodding as he spoke, pretending to be comforted by his understanding platitudes. But as she walked out of his office, she had no intention of keeping her next appointment. She couldn’t go through this sham again.

  Later that afternoon, Franny took a walk through the grounds of Stanhope Castle. It was a beautiful spring day, but she took little joy from the warm weather. It had been a horrible six months. From the beginning, she’d suspected that she would struggle to conceive. She’d been so sick with that infection she’d contracted after giving birth to Cara, and the doctor who’d treated her had warned that it might affect her fertility. But she’d gone along with trying for a baby anyway, because it seemed to be what Max wanted more than anything else. The thought of telling him again that she wasn’t pregnant filled her with dread. Let alone coming clean about why she couldn’t ever give him children. That only made it so much harder to tell him about Cara – because how, after confessing that she’d robbed him of the chance to have a family with her, could she then expect him to accept her illegitimate daughter?

  Sometimes Franny wondered how she’d got herself into such a mess. Putting off telling Max the truth at the beginning had made everything so much worse, so much more complicated. She was a coward, she knew that. With all her lies and secrets, she was hurting the two people she loved most – her daughter and her husband. But somehow, however much she tried, she couldn’t see any way out of her situation.

  But it wasn’t this alone that was making Franny miserable. It didn’t help that she still felt so lonely and isolated at Stanhope Castle. She’d talked to Lloyd a few times, but there were no movie roles on the horizon for her. Without her career, she really didn’t know what to do with herself. Now that she wasn’t acting, her friends from before had all disappeared. Lily was the only one who bothered with her.

  Franny had confided in her friend about wanting to get back to work.

  ‘Can’t Max sort something out?’ Lily asked. ‘Surely he can have a word in Lloyd’s ear?’

  She told Lily that her husband always insisted that he had no input on the creative side, and she could sense how sceptical her friend was. Franny felt unconvinced sometimes, too. But what possible reason could he have for wanting to stop her from working?

  Of course she still had some contact with the Hollywood set. As Mrs Maximilian Stanhope, there were inevitably dinners and award ceremonies to attend. But Franny was very aware of being there as Max’s wife and nothing more. She was no longer a player in her own right, and that bothered her. She also had far too much time on her hands. To go from a fulltime car
eer, where she was surrounded by people and used to being the centre of attention, to empty weeks, with seemingly endless hours waiting to be occupied, was hard to cope with.

  Whole days passed when she spoke to no one apart from the staff. Franny tried to strike up friendships, but there was always that divide of mistress and servant. Sometimes she would overhear the maids laughing together, and almost envy them their freedom. Back when she was cleaning in London, she’d never realised how precious that was.

  Part of her felt that she should be standing up for herself, taking control of her life – wasn’t that what she would normally have done? But lately she’d lost all her fight. It didn’t help that she was having trouble sleeping. Franny didn’t know why – perhaps because Max was away so much, and she found it hard to sleep alone. But the upshot was that she felt tired all the time, completely exhausted, as though she had no energy. And sometimes she got a little confused and forgetful – and over-emotional, too. She didn’t feel like herself any more. Sometimes she wondered what was happening to her.

  Glancing over at the driveway, Franny saw that Gabriel’s car had gone. Max’s children were home for the Easter holidays, although she hadn’t seen much of them. Over the past few months they seemed to have accepted her a little more, but they were both young and off doing their own thing. Gabriel had friends in LA whom he liked to visit, and this morning he had gone down to stay at the house in Holmby Hills for the weekend, as usual taking Olivia with him. She was young to be out of the house overnight, but a few months ago Franny had persuaded Max to let her go, saying that while Gabriel might be a bit reckless, he was also street smart and well able to look out for his sister. Franny knew it was the right thing to let them go, but it also left her here alone again.

  Sighing deeply, she continued on her walk. She was so lost in thought that she wasn’t paying too much attention to her surroundings, but as she passed one particular flowerbed, an unusually striking bloom caught her eye. It was in hues of deep orange and red. Spotting one of the gardeners nearby, she called him over to ask what it was.

  ‘It’s a Daylily ma’am,’ he said. He was a young, handsome black man, part of a team of five who tended to the gardens.

  She reached out to touch its velvety petals. ‘It’s so perfect.’

  ‘Each flower blooms for only one day,’ he told her. ‘It comes out at sunrise, and then by sunset it withers and dies.’

  For some reason, the fate of the beautiful Daylily struck Franny as particularly poignant. She smiled at the young gardener.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Leonard, Mrs Stanhope.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so formal.’ She smiled at him. ‘Call me Frances.’

  ‘I’m heading out now. You coming?’

  At the Holmby Hills mansion, Gabriel stood in the doorway of his sister’s bedroom, car keys in hand.

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,’ she told him. ‘I’d rather stay in and get an early night. I’m kind of tired after the drive.’

  Gabriel regarded his sister through narrowed eyes. He had a feeling she was lying to him – he’d done it enough times to his father to know the signs. Since Christmas, Olivia had taken every opportunity she could to come down with him to LA. His father and Franny thought that when they were down here, Olivia hung around with him and his friends, but in fact she’d always make some excuse to go off on her own. Gabriel had no idea where she got to. Whenever he asked her what she was doing, or who she was going to see, she’d claim to be meeting a friend from school. Gabriel didn’t believe that for a second. He suspected it was more likely that she was off with some guy. Not Brett, that was for sure; Olivia seemed to have lost all interest in him since her sixteenth birthday. But someone else, someone he didn’t know. And Gabriel wasn’t entirely sure what he thought about that.

  Their father was under the impression that he was keeping tabs on Olivia – that was the only reason his sister had been allowed to accompany him in the first place. If Max knew what was really going on, he would never have let Olivia come along. Gabriel felt a little guilty about deceiving his father and stepmother like that. But, he kept thinking, what harm can it do? Olivia’s sensible; she’s not going to get into any trouble.

  With that last reassuring thought, he went out for the evening, leaving his sister to her own devices.

  As spring moved into summer, Franny found herself spending more time outside, and that meant more time with the gardener, Leonard. He was intelligent and softly spoken, and, most importantly, he had time for her. She asked him about himself, and discovered that he was an aspiring musician. He’d moved from Harlem to LA, looking to get into showbusiness, but it hadn’t panned out, so he’d been forced to take this job at Stanhope Castle instead. Feeling bad for him, Franny found herself promising to put him in touch with some contacts she knew.

  He was clearly delighted with the offer. ‘That’d be wonderful, Miz Frances, if you could do something like that for me.’

  His gratitude made Franny feel good. Few people seemed to appreciate her these days: it was nice that at least someone did.

  One morning, she was in the greenhouse, standing on a stepladder, trying to reach one of the hanging plants, a Swedish Ivy. She wanted to get a cutting and plant it in a separate plot, to see if it would grow. The plant was very high, and even on the stepladder she couldn’t quite reach it. As she stretched up, the ladder wobbled a little. She probably should have stopped then, and asked one of the staff to get it for her, but she was so close, that she decided to try just one last time. Going up onto her toes, she reached out with the shears and succeeded in snipping the shoot that she wanted, but the action unbalanced the ladder. It trembled and quivered, rocking back and forth. She tried to right herself, but it was too late, and she fell forwards.

  Luckily, at that moment, Leonard was just coming into the greenhouse. Seeing what was happening, he dropped the bag of compost that he was carrying, and rushed towards Franny, managing to catch her as she fell.

  She stood in Leonard’s arms, trying to get her breath. His hands were on either side of her waist, holding her up; she felt as though she was going to faint.

  ‘Are you all right, Miz Frances?’

  ‘I–I think so,’ she answered slowly.

  Looking up, she saw concern in his deep brown eyes and felt another rush of gratitude. It was the first time in a long while that she’d felt someone cared.

  Reaching up, she touched his cheek. ‘Thank you for saving me.’

  A cough from behind disturbed the moment. They sprang apart. Franny turned, feeling flushed and guilty. It was the housekeeper, Hilda, looking at them with undisguised disapproval.

  ‘I just came to say that there’s a phone call for you, Mrs Stanhope.’

  Franny smoothed down her hair, trying to act natural. ‘Of course, I’ll be right there.’

  Avoiding Leonard’s gaze, she hurried from the greenhouse.

  A week later, Lily came out to the house. It was such a lovely day that Franny suggested sitting outside in the garden. The maids tittered as they walked past.

  Franny frowned. ‘I have no idea what’s wrong with them today.’

  Lily gave her a sideways look. ‘Well, I might.’

  ‘What?’

  Her friend took out a copy of Confidential magazine from her handbag and handed it to Franny. Seeing her name, Franny felt a wave of weariness wash over her. Deciding it was best to know what was being said about her, she forced herself to read through the article, which suggested that she had an unusually ‘close’ relationship with the Stanhopes’ black gardener.

  Franny closed her eyes. Inevitably she would have to talk to Max about this. She hated to think what his reaction would be.

  ‘You know this isn’t true, don’t you?’ Franny said later that night, in earnest to Max.

  He turned away from her. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Franny knew what the problem was. It was like the old saying: there�
��s no smoke without fire. There had been so many rumours about her with other men, that her husband was beginning to doubt her denials.

  ‘Darling, I swear to you—’ she began.

  ‘Frances, leave it.’

  Her husband’s tone was firm, but she couldn’t let it go. ‘It’s just scurrilous rumours, you know,’ she said, feeling her frustration rise. ‘No doubt planted by your precious Hilda.’ Something told her not to say that last part, but she couldn’t help it. She just knew it was that old bag, trying to cause trouble.

  Max gave her a sharp look. ‘Don’t accuse someone when you have no idea if it’s true or not.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Frances. I’ve told you already. I do not wish to discuss this any further.’

  Franny gave up. There was no point arguing with Max when he was like this.

  Max might have claimed not to believe the story, but it didn’t help save Leonard’s job. The following Monday, when Franny went out to the gardens, Leonard was nowhere to be found. Instead, an elderly man was trimming the plants.

  Over dinner that night, it took all of her courage to ask Max what had happened to their old gardener.

  ‘He resigned,’ her husband answered briefly, clearly not keen to have the discussion.

  ‘But why?’ she pressed.

  Max shrugged. ‘I imagine he found a better position elsewhere.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Franny could feel her eyes filling with tears of frustration. ‘He loved it here – there’s no way he would leave.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Max said impatiently. ‘How should I know what made him go? And more importantly, why do you care so much?’

  He went back to eating his soup, signalling that was all she was going to get out of him. But Franny wasn’t prepared to let it lie. She needed to know what had transpired between her husband and Leonard. It must have been significant enough to ensure that the gardener didn’t come to say goodbye.