by Lucy Parker
Exactly what he was hoping to find out.
“There was the small inconvenience of my grandmother,” he murmured.
“Yeah, but he was married when they started the affair, there were children in the equation on both sides, that was all an established fact. Morality, loyalty, it doesn’t seem to have bothered them overmuch while the relationship was in full swing. Do you really think they just had a sudden burst of conscience at the two-year mark and called the whole thing off?”
“More likely the sexual attraction wore off and it no longer seemed worth the trouble.” He heard the cynicism as he spoke, and sensed Freddy glance at him sharply.
“It does happen,” she agreed after a beat, and he found her response equally unpalatable.
Freddy played with the edges of her script. “As soon as the relationship ends in the biography, that’s it, Sir George is wiped from the page. Did they really never see each other again after that?”
“For my grandmother’s sake, we’d hope not.” His grandmother had died long before his birth, and all his father seemed to recall of her was a scathing disposition and widespread dislike of humankind. She’d evidently preferred to live in London with her dogs, rather than at Highbrook with her husband, probably with justification. “However, from a cinematic point of view, it would make for a better story if forbidden love had continued to flourish.”
Once more, Griff couldn’t keep back the derision that laced the words. He had a lot of respect for Henrietta’s talent but reservations about her character. And with the exception of commissioning The Henry, George had been financially savvy, but any desire to follow his grandfather’s path in life ended there. You didn’t fuck around on your wife.
He glanced at Freddy. “Have you spoken to your father yet?”
“No, but he’ll be here next week.”
“To resume his campaign to get you on the playbill for The Velvet Room?”
“Unless he’s had a complete personality transplant in New York, yes.”
“And he’s not going to be too impressed to find you at Highbrook.”
“It’s the double whammy now. I’m doing the play he called a ‘frivolous butchery of classic literature,’ and apparently this is enemy territory.”
“How do you feel about having your father as your manager?” He phrased the question carefully. It seemed like a terrible idea, both for professional and personal reasons, but he tried to keep his opinion out of his voice. Freddy had a tendency to deflate when the topic of Rupert arose, and he didn’t enjoy being the cause of her extinguished spark.
Freddy fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “It seemed natural when I was much younger. I thought we were so close back then. The stage was like a bond between us. Even before I got my first part, Dad would take me to a matinée every weekend. We’d go out for ice cream afterwards and pick our favourite and least favourite characters.” Their eyes met as a flash of amusement came into hers. “Getting my theatre critic on. If you decide to drop your column in the Post for good once the film takes off, I could fill your boots.” The fleeting humour retreated, and she shook her head. “It’s not working anymore. He’s driving my agent up the wall. He’s already driven more than one off completely. But...” Her voice trailed off.
But her father had projected his own ambition on to her, she felt guilt and presumably love, and the weight of both, and Rupert was fucking well milking it.
Griff turned off onto the narrow road that should lead them to Mallowren Manor. “What day’s the first audition for The Velvet Room?”
Freddy started playing with her hair. Once or twice he’d noticed her do it on stage, always in a production where she obviously wasn’t enjoying herself. That alone was a telling sign. “Tuesday.”
“Are you going to go?” he asked bluntly, and she made a little sound between a gulp and an unamused laugh.
“I change my mind on that every half hour.” She glanced at him. “Can you imagine me as Marguerite?”
“You could do it.” A sign appeared, warning of the approaching turnoff to the estate. “And if you audition there’s a very good chance you’ll get it.”
“Because of the family connection?”
“Partly the family connection. Also your own audience pull, and the talent to make a reasonable job of it.”
“Stop with all this effusive flattery, it’s making me blush.”
Griff swung the car into the long winding gravel driveway. “Freddy, you know what you want. And in every other aspect of life, I expect you don’t hold back in going after it.”
She continued looking out the window for a few beats, then turned and looked at him with an expression that was very slightly enigmatic. “True enough.”
“In plain words, you want to take charge of your own career, which is totally natural and considerably overdue, and to choose the projects that you’re passionate about.”
“Correct.” Freddy smoothed out the packet of Maltesers, pushing the empty end into her thigh. “But—family is really important to me, too. I want a dad.” The words burst out. “Not just a manager. I want a dad. The kind of dad who falls asleep in front of the TV, and gives crap presents at Christmas, and hugs me when I come over for tea. A dad who’s proud of me, no matter what I do. I don’t care if that’s just an ideal. I don’t care if I’ve been watching too many sitcoms. That’s what I want.”
They’d reached the sweeping arc at the head of the drive, and he pulled the car to a crunching stop on the gravel. When he twisted in his seat, there was a wet sheen in her eyes, and he swore.
Unbuckling their seatbelts, he hooked his arm behind her head and brought her into him. Prior to this week, he’d rarely been inclined to offer physical comfort; nor had anyone wanted it from him. She burrowed into his neck, her curls tickling his chin.
He stroked her bare arm, listening to her breathing grow steadier, and that hitch of tears fade.
“You’re surprisingly good at hugs,” she murmured against his skin. “For someone who probably doesn’t practice much.”
Or ever.
“You should give Charlie one sometime.” She angled her head to look up at him, and produced a damp grin when she saw his expression. “I’m telling you, he’d love it.”
“He’d have me sectioned.”
He released her and got out to open her door for her. They stood in the driveway, looking up at Mallowren Manor in all its decrepit glory. There was a bite to the air now, and grey clouds were gathering in the sky above their heads. It seemed appropriately ominous. Griff winced. Freddy’s wild imagination was rubbing off on him.
“Oh my.” At his side, where she leaned against his shoulder, she cleared her throat. “Is it just me, or does it even look—”
“Like we should have driven here in the Mystery Machine.”
Chapter Eight
The resemblance of Mallowren Manor to a haunted mansion in a children’s cartoon was not exactly dispelled when Griff rang the bell. The front door creaked open to reveal a very old, wizened man in a morning suit. His nose was even beakier than Griff’s, and there was more hair tufting out of his ears than growing out of his head.
“We have an appointment to see Ms. Wanamaker,” Griff said, with admirable composure.
“I shall see if madam can receive you.” The butler had a way of overpronouncing every syllable that made his hollow, ponderous voice sound like someone rhythmically beating on a bongo.
At least it was shaking Freddy out of her embarrassing fit of the glooms. Sniffing and snuffling her problems all over Griff—God. He was probably writing her off a typical melodramatic West Ender, and wondering what the hell he’d got himself into.
It had just...temporarily got on top of her.
He really was surprisingly good at the comforting thing, though.
“Please follow me to the drawing room.” The but
ler pulled the door wider. It creaked again, exactly like a sound effect tape for a C-grade horror film.
As they followed him down a dark hallway, resplendent in Gothic architecture and nineteenth-century décor, Freddy pinched hard on the end of her nose and kept her head lowered. She was not going to disgrace herself or Griff, or offend that poor old man’s dignity.
Griff felt the jerk of her shoulder, and with the butler’s back turned, he briefly covered her mouth with his cool palm as a single strangled giggle bubbled out. “I’ll make you wait in the car,” he threatened under his breath.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of his cologne from his shirt sleeve, and composed herself.
“Or hand you over to the ghoul in the dungeon,” he added in that same low, even tone, and she had to turn and smother her face into his chest before she lost all control.
By the time the oblivious butler ushered them into a drawing room that reminded her of a set for The Addams Family, she’d managed to remember that she was an actor. She smiled politely at him. And Griff, whose habitual stone face obviously had practical uses, accepted the offer of tea and refreshments with perfect self-possession.
While they waited to see if Wanda Wanamaker would receive them, they sat on a firm brocade couch that smelled of mothballs. Freddy now had enormous expectations for the arrival of Mallowren’s owner.
“What do you think?” she murmured, keeping an eye on the door. “Miss Havisham, Lady Bracknell, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh? I need to know how to play my part. Do I go snooty and plummy to keep the end up, or am I your plucky Girl Friday? I do a decent Cockney.”
“We’ve been here for five minutes and I’m exhausted.” Griff stood up as they heard the tip tap of approaching heels. “One word of Cockney and you’re ghoul fodder.”
Ms. Wanamaker didn’t disappoint, but Freddy had been wildly off the mark. The elderly lady swept into the room on teetering stilettos, a silk caftan billowing about her like a parachute. Grande dames in films wished they could make an entrance like that.
She had violently red hair, probably thinner in texture than it looked. It had been permed and hairsprayed and backcombed into a halo about her small head. Her eyes were as black as Griff’s, set deep in her angular bone structure and darting about avidly, bright with anticipation.
“The young Master Ford,” she said grandly, as if she were announcing Griff’s entrance at a deb ball. Freddy had to hastily press her lips together again. “Welcome, dear boy. You don’t look anything like your grandfather. Why did I think you were the spitting image?”
“You’re probably thinking of my younger brother,” Griff said drily, as he shook her hand. There were more diamonds on her knuckles than in the jewel vaults at Buckingham Palace. Freddy wondered why she didn’t sell one to fix the windows. Maybe they were costume. With a hand at Freddy’s elbow, he drew her forward. “This is Freddy Carlton.”
Thinly plucked crimson eyebrows shot up, and Ms. Wanamaker turned all her attention on Freddy, peering at her narrowly. “Carlton,” she said sharply. “It’s been a long time since I heard those surnames in the same room. You’re not a relation of Henrietta? Yes,” she answered herself before Freddy could. “You are. You have her eyes. Very remarkable eyes, Henrietta had. Big and brown, like a sacrificial lamb. Entirely inapt in her case.” Her grip was deceptively tight for her frail appearance, her rings digging into Freddy’s hand as she continued to study her. Freddy had the feeling of being slowly dissected with a scalpel. “And I suspect in yours as well. I always could recognise trouble.”
“Thanks for the disclaimer on that, Master Ford,” Freddy said on a low breath as they took their seats again.
“Well, she’s not wrong, is she?”
“Now.” Wanda, as she’d insisted they call her, folded her wrinkled hands in her lap once the butler had poured their tea. Freddy’s attempt to do it for him had resulted in a sharp comment from their hostess about young people who thought their elders and betters lost all control of their faculties the moment they passed fifty. “You’re making a film about Henrietta and that maudlin piece of work she foisted onto the British public.”
Griff’s mouth twitched. “Some people consider it upbeat compared to Henrietta’s earlier work.”
“Henrietta’s earlier drivel,” Wanda corrected. “Imagine, perfectly good trees perishing for the sake of that tripe.”
“You’re not distantly related to the Fords, are you, Ms. Wanamaker?” Freddy asked, and the other woman gazed at her blankly.
“No, dear. Why?”
“I just thought I heard a family resemblance for a second,” Freddy said innocently, and caught Griff’s expressive sidelong look. “This is where Henrietta and George met?”
“Yes,” Wanda said. “I did inadvertently set that in motion. I hosted a party here one weekend, and a friend of mine brought along Henrietta and several members of that crowd she ran about with. The deviants and has-beens of Marylebone.”
“I think they preferred the term Wythburn Group.” Griff’s insertion was mild.
Wanda’s opinion of that was a snort. “Wythburn Group. They weren’t investment bankers. They were so-called ‘creatives’ of varying ability, mostly using the group as a cover for their drunken escapades and bedroom shenanigans. I’m sure your film will be an enormous success. From what I see on television these days, that’s all people are interested in. Sex and selfishness and blethering on about nothing.”
Griff was starting to look a tiny bit peeved. Freddy was suddenly having a great time.
Grinning, she said, “I hope Henrietta and her friends didn’t turn your party into a rave?”
Honestly, she’d been born in the wrong era. The contemporary club scene had nothing on what her grandma had got up to after performances.
“Certainly not,” Wanda said, offended. “Although Henrietta did her best to stay in the spotlight all weekend. That girl ruled the roost. Everyone jumped to her bidding.” She nodded at Griff. “I’d invited your grandfather’s poor sister to the party. Sad, moping creature. My mother used to feel sorry for her. Suggested we include her on the guest list. Her family seemed grateful. Unfortunately, they didn’t foresee that she’d meet Henrietta and become infatuated with the idea of the stage.”
Henrietta, the idol of all aspiring actors.
“And that pompous twit George drove his sister here, took one look at that attention-seeking vamp, and the rest was—” Wanda lifted her hands meaningfully.
“History,” Freddy finished.
“Appalling,” Wanda corrected, pinching her lips together.
“Do you remember Violet Ford well?” Freddy asked. She knew Griff was more concerned with Henrietta and George’s affair, but the memory of his great-aunt’s face was very clear in her mind. Her eyes were haunting. If Freddy and Henrietta had deceptively innocent eyes, Violet’s were a mirror of the most immense pain. Even in the fading photos, it was evident.
“Oh, yes.” Wanda didn’t sound especially interested. Nobody seemed to have been especially interested in Violet. “She was often here for weekends after that, while the army training camp was posted nearby. Her young man used to come here to see her. From what I remember of your great-grandparents,” she said to Griff, “I doubt if they would have had him in the house, had they known about him.”
Griff had been doing a silent watching job, letting the talk flow around him, so he could piece out any information that might be useful. It was a skill Freddy had never mastered. At that, however, he frowned. “Her young man?”
“The chap she met abroad. Antibes? Portugal?” Wanda dismissed the matter with a shrug. “He later joined the army and they met again down here that weekend, by chance. I can’t imagine Henrietta and George knew much about it, then or later. They’d have tattled straight to her parents. Expected everyone to turn a blind eye to their own indiscretions, even though they flau
nted it across the county by building that conceit of a theatre, but had no problem gossiping about their fellows. They looked good together, I thought, Violet and her young man.” Her tone was surprisingly tolerant, after her sharp criticism of everyone in the tale. “Pity about his family. The letters they wrote were rather lovely.”
She seemed to take in their blank expressions. “I read them,” she said matter-of-factly. “Violet asked if she could hide them here for safekeeping, and I found them in the old nursery after she passed. That was tragic. But she was always a reckless driver. Her family took her car off her twice because of earlier prangs, and they should have held on to it.”
Freddy looked at Griff. “Did you know she had an unsuitable boyfriend?”
“No. My father remembered there being concern about the people she’d be mixing with in the theatre, but no specific name ever came up in relation to her. It was George who produced the undesirable lover.” There was a glint in Griff’s eyes, and Freddy lifted her brows at him.
“These shameless Carlton actresses, exercising their wiles on the poor, unsuspecting Ford nobs.”
“Why do I suspect from your tone that there was a silent ‘k’ on that last word?”
Wanda gave them a tour of the property, becoming chattier with each dusty room they passed through and each overgrown garden they politely admired. By the time they ended back up in the room that had once been a nursery, Freddy felt she could take a decent stab at following in her father’s footsteps and writing the other woman’s biography, in minute detail, down to her current favourite supper. Sturgeon and peas.
She finally left them alone with a pile of old boxes and mementos related to the Wythburn Group, after Griff managed to manoeuvre her out of the room.
