The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  “Did you come here to talk to me about The Velvet Room audition?” Freddy shot at him, and didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered over to Griff.

  “No.” Griff’s voice was even but his face was set in tense lines. He didn’t look away from her. “Your father is here because I texted him on Wednesday morning and asked him to come.”

  “And said nothing about it to me.” Freddy swallowed. The hurt was starting to overwhelm everything else, and Griff recognised it. Of course. Eagle Eyes over there. Perceptive as always. And apparently as much of a control freak as ever. “You realised Dad already knew the truth about Henrietta and decided to have it out with him and work out what to do behind my back. Because flighty, flirty, impulsive Freddy can’t be trusted to handle it, and certainly couldn’t offer any help.”

  A nerve pulsed beside Griff’s mouth. “You’re one of the strongest, brightest people I’ve ever met. I made the mistake of underestimating you in the past. I never will again.” Some of his composure ruptured, and his words were ripped out jaggedly. “You know how I feel about you—”

  “No.” Freddy’s voice was equally unsteady. “I don’t. I hoped I did, but to know you said nothing all week, that you went behind my back—”

  She broke off. Just yesterday, she’d spouted on so confidently to Sabrina about how Griff treated her as an equal. One of the only people in her life who did, it had seemed. And now—

  Disappointment was an ache deep within her body. Somehow, Griff’s actions hurt even more than the profound disillusionment of Rupert’s culpability.

  She looked at her father again.

  If he’d known that Griff knew the truth—Griff, the nominal head of the family with a rightful claim to The Velvet Room, and all the money and prestige that came with it—she could see now why he’d been MIA all week.

  Absent, like Violet, who had simply been allowed to fade out of existence. The amazing Invisible Woman, whom nobody could ever remember when they named the members of the Wythburn Group, who had supposedly achieved nothing, had an impact on nobody.

  A woman who’d been such a biting, witty, beautiful writer that she’d penned one of the greatest dramatic works in a hundred years. A woman who’d loved and been loved so hard that a portrait painted after her death resonated off the canvas with the force of her lover’s grief.

  “You described Henrietta’s office in the book,” Freddy said quietly, and Rupert pushed a hand through his tumbled curls, an uncharacteristically uncertain gesture. “There’s a poignant passage where you talk about feeling ‘the oddest sense of despair’ in that room. And you describe her triangular smile.”

  Walking forward to where he stood at the desk, she picked up one of the few close-up photographs of Violet. She turned it around so Rupert had to meet Violet’s gaze. “Her triangular smile,” Freddy said again. “Henrietta had a heart-shaped face, so it’s a reasonable description of her smile, at a stretch. But Violet—” Griff’s great-aunt had deep dimples and a cleft in her chin, and when she smiled, her lower face compressed into the distinct, carved-out lines of a triangle. “Griff’s brother has that same smile.” Freddy carefully set the photo down. “I read it back. That whole section where you described the actual writing process. You never once use Henrietta’s name in the action sentences. It’s always ‘she.’ You saw Violet writing the play that summer, didn’t you?”

  A second of silence ticked into another, and then another. It seemed an interminable time before her father answered. “Even now,” he said, his gaze returning to the photo, “I can see her smile in my mind, but the rest of her face is always a blur. She seemed such a...nonentity.”

  The tragedy of Violet Ford’s life. Fortunately, not everyone had seen her that way, and she’d died with the security and comfort of knowing herself loved. Knowing that she was strong enough to fight for that love.

  “It’s so hard to believe she was responsible for the brilliance of The Velvet Room,” her father murmured, his eyes momentarily glazed, looking back into the past. Then they sharpened as his attention returned to Freddy. “Your grandmother read the draft while Violet was still alive. I heard them discussing it. She was so enthusiastic about it, was determined to star in it when Violet sold the performing rights.”

  Suddenly, Rupert’s mouth quirked wryly. “Mam didn’t recognise herself in the play.” It had always been an eye-blink moment when Rupert used that term for Henrietta, the only time—then—that she was suddenly humanised from the glowing golden idol of Freddy’s childhood to a real woman, with multiple sides to her personality, just like everyone else. “It wasn’t until critics started wondering if the play was partly autobiographical that she realised how personal the satire was. She wasn’t too pleased. I think she saw it as partial justification for what she’d done. Like Violet owed her something.”

  “When did she decide to take the play and pass it off as her own?” Griff cut bluntly through the pause that followed, his dark eyes still on Freddy. He’d pushed his fists into his trouser pockets, and she could see the outline of tense knuckles through the fabric.

  Rupert’s face hardened momentarily, but...well, the Carltons were on shaky ground in this tale, and there wasn’t a lot to take umbrage about. Facts were facts. “I don’t know. When we returned to London after that summer, my mother was still involved with George. He was besotted with her.” Slowly, he added, “He could be very charismatic. I remember being fond of him for a while.” He shook his head. “And then, not long after, came Violet’s accident. Mam came here, to Highbrook, for the funeral, and I remember when she came back she was excited. Anxious. More temperamental than usual. A few months after that, an announcement for The Velvet Room appeared in the papers. A new play by Henrietta Carlton, the West End’s most successful actress.”

  “And the Wythburn Group’s most rubbish writer, it seems.” Griff effectively put paid to any budding sentiment. “I assume my grandfather wasn’t too pleased about the new Carlton script?”

  “He ended the affair.” Rupert actually sounded annoyed on Henrietta’s behalf, but even when Freddy had thought she’d be the one delivering the revelations about this, she’d never imagined her father would suddenly renounce Henrietta. She was his mother. Freddy’s grandmother. The Ford-Griffins weren’t the only ones with a strong instinct to protect family. That was the core of the whole problem.

  “Did he never speak to her again?” she asked, and her dad made a dismissive movement.

  “For all intents and purposes. Mam was never one to take rejection lightly. And she had a tendency to fixate on a particular person,” Rupert said, with no awareness of irony. “She raged and stormed, but George was set in his decision. He’d keep quiet about what she’d done, but he couldn’t continue their relationship. For all his infatuation with Mam, all the attention he lavished on me, he was able to walk away very easily. I saw his face when he left the flat that last day. He was like stone. It didn’t upset him in the least.”

  “It broke him,” Griff said, and Rupert’s eyes cut towards him. “He was very cool-tempered and cynical.” A family gene there, then. “He was also sad. And my father once told me he could remember a time from his early childhood when George laughed a lot, seemed full of life.”

  “And he took all the evidence that proved it was Violet who had written the play, and bricked it up in The Henry.” Freddy’s hands were shaking. She knotted her fingers together. “And left the theatre to slowly go to rack and ruin.”

  “He didn’t know about the letters, obviously.” Griff’s attention was focused on her, and he looked as if, with the slightest encouragement, he’d sweep Rupert forcibly out of the library and concentrate on the breach that had opened between them. For all his interest in history and the art and literature of the past, Freddy realised, Griff would always prioritise the present and the future. “I expect he would never have seen in them what you did, anyway. He doesn’t seem to have looke
d far beneath the surface where his sister was concerned.”

  “Letters?” Rupert asked, at sea on that point, but Freddy didn’t fill in the blanks.

  The letters between Violet and Billy were so personal. It was bad enough that three nosy people at Mallowren Manor had read them, without spreading their private words any further.

  “So, Henrietta knew how good the play was, and after Violet’s death, she took her work.”

  “Whatever success she had,” Rupert said, and again totally failed to see any irony, “it was never enough. She always wanted more. She always had to be more. She saw writing a script as the next logical step in her career. I remember her saying that people, performances, would eventually pass into memory and fade, but words would endure. But her own plays were—”

  “Mediocre,” said the professional critic in the room. “To put it generously.”

  “She couldn’t accept being second-best. It had to be the top. The best. In every arena of life.”

  And that was the philosophy, the pressure, she’d passed on to her son. But at some point, her dad had made his own choices.

  Freddy folded her arms tightly. “I can understand why George covered for her, why he’d feel split between two loyalties—” She understood that very well. “But... Dad. How could you write the biography knowing full well that the most significant part of it, the bit that readers would be most interested in, was a lie?”

  Rupert’s jaw was tightly clenched. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked at the photograph on the table, then down at the floor.

  At last, when she thought he wasn’t going to answer, he said quietly, “I spent my childhood in the back rooms of every theatre in London. My father was never a parent in any sense of the word bar biological fact. My mother raised me. She was always on and off the stage, always passionately throwing herself into a project—but at least she was there. She always came back, even if it was just for a pat on the head between scenes. If a performance went well and she came off the stage on a high, she’d shower me with attention and affection. I remember her taking me to the Savoy for ice cream after a matinée once.”

  As he had done for Freddy. The backs of her eyes burned.

  Rupert shook his head with self-deprecation. “I realise it sounds pathetic now, but you would have had to have known your grandmother to understand how charismatic she was. There are people who just need to walk into a room, and even if they’re surrounded by wealthier, more intelligent, more beautiful people, they’ll still dominate. It’s that rare quality of magnetism. True X-factor. She wielded an extraordinary amount of power. Everyone wanted to be around her; they all wanted to be like her.”

  Freddy’s mouth twisted, and she saw Griff make another cut-off movement towards her. His hands were fisted at his sides.

  “From an early age,” Rupert said, “she told me stories about her father, our ancestors, our legacy in the theatre. For some people, it’s contagious. The theatre bug.” His eyes met hers. “Isn’t it?”

  She nodded without speaking.

  “I grew up seeing it all from a child’s perspective. The attention. The money. The power of having that sort of influence. And I wanted it,” her father said frankly. His expression didn’t change, but Freddy inwardly flinched when he added, “After my own chance on the stage ended, I didn’t want to let go of that world.”

  “So you used your daughter to keep a foothold,” Griff said very coolly, and Rupert looked at Freddy.

  “Your talent was obvious from the moment you stepped foot on the stage. I knew with proper management you could become another of the great dramatic actors.”

  Her mouth felt dry. “And the book?”

  “I was approached by a publisher. An account of Henrietta by her son, someone who had a unique, firsthand perspective on her and on that time in West End history.” Rupert turned slightly then, looking away, and Freddy felt more knots forming in her stomach. To see her father, her larger-than-life, confident father, having to behave as if he were in the dock...

  Griff glanced at her. His face was carefully blank, but she could see the concern in his eyes. “You gave in to temptation,” he said matter-of-factly. “Understood. And then the awards and accolades started coming in, more doors opened for you, and it was easier to rewrite history in your mind and pretend that the facts you’ve presented in the book are accurate. Tell yourself something enough times and I imagine it starts to feel like the truth. I’m sure you weren’t too thrilled to discover your daughter was going to be spending the summer here.”

  “God, is that why you were so negative about me doing The Austen Playbook? Because you didn’t want me at Highbrook, getting too close to the Ford-Griffins, in case I stumbled on your secret?” She couldn’t keep the note of bitterness from her voice.

  “Partly, when it comes to this particular project,” Rupert admitted, being totally honest with her for the first time in her life, obviously. “Ford-Griffin has a reputation for being ruthless in his research. But I stand by everything I said. Do you know how damned excited I was when I realised that I had a child with the potential to match Henrietta’s ability on the stage? And thanks to your grandmother, thanks to the book, I had enough clout to help you reach the top.”

  Freddy heard the ticking of the clock as if it were marking off the whirring thoughts in her mind.

  “And do you realise,” she said, and her voice fractured again, “that everything you said about your childhood with Henrietta, and everything you left shining between the lines—the pressure she piled on you, the...the propaganda about the family legacy, the loneliness of being a kid surrounded by busy adults... You have kept her memory alive, and you have cemented history, because you’ve repeated it with me. And Sabrina, who rarely even got that pat on the head between scenes once you got caught up in my career.”

  Rupert went slightly white.

  Tick, tick, tick-tick-tick. The clock seemed to blur into one long drone of white noise.

  “If I’d told the truth,” he said, “everything your grandmother achieved would be wiped out. All the work we’ve all put in. The time, the sweat, the sacrifice. All people would remember was the scandal.”

  The knot in Freddy’s throat was painful. “My whole life, I’ve wanted you to be happy. I’ve wanted to make you proud. But—it’s wrong. What Henrietta did was wrong. Every word in that play...it’s Violet. It’s her story, her despair, her hope. It was her talent, and it would have been her success. And she’s just been...erased.” Her whole body was taut, and she could see the tension echoed in her father’s stance. “Henrietta had a lot of influence on you. And you had a lot of influence on me.” At that, Rupert’s head came up. “You told me,” Freddy said croakily, “over and over again, how important it was to have integrity in this business, to be able to stand tall and hold my head high. That at times it would test me and—” Her eyes burned. “And I’d regret it if I gave in.”

  She now saw that a lot of those comments had probably stirred from conscience. From guilt.

  “And if I ever did feel like I’d failed you on that front...” A tear escaped, sliding down the side of her nose, and it was too much for Griff.

  He obviously got the vibe that, for once, she wouldn’t welcome a hug, but he stood at her side and pressed his palm against her back. And even though annoyance with him and that sense of betrayal were still tearing at her, she felt the warmth and comfort of his touch, and couldn’t help leaning into it, just a little.

  “I admired Henrietta so much,” she said. “And I’ve always looked up to you. And for a long time now, I’ve felt...inadequate. Like I’d never manage to live up to your standards.” She hesitated. “Like if I took the path that made me happy, I’d be taking something else away from you, and you’d never forgive me.”

  Minutely, fractionally, Rupert winced.

  Freddy pressed her thumb hard under her lashes. �
��I love you, Dad. And I’ve never wanted to be the cause of you losing anything that’s important to you. But all this—it’s wrong.”

  She heard the shakiness as her father took a deep breath.

  In the fraught silence, the knock on the door was as loud and startling as cannon fire.

  With a swift curse, Griff strode over and pulled it open, and Charlie came in, looking apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his eyes moving warily between Freddy and Rupert. “But there’s an assistant prowling the grounds looking for Freddy and the rest of the cast who’ve gone AWOL, and apparently there’s a very impatient director back at—”

  “Shit.” Freddy swung around to look at the library clock. “I have to get back.”

  Her father was staring out the window, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and any further words she might have found dried in her throat. She didn’t know what he was going to do next. She didn’t know if he’d bother staying for the performance tonight.

  Just for a moment, she stood very still. Then slowly, she breathed in—deep—exhaled, and adjusted the sleeves of her dress.

  She had a job to do.

  Griff caught her arm as she walked past him to the door. “Freddy.”

  She turned her head, and whatever he saw in her expression made his grip tighten. “I fucked up.” The words were rough.

  “Yeah.” Her voice as shaky as his, she pulled away. “You did.”

  * * *

  Freddy left the library, her posture straight and stiff, and her entire demeanour radiated an intolerable hurt that made Griff feel like someone was driving thorns into his skin. Every instinct in his body urged him to go after her, but she was already late and so angry with him that he didn’t want to throw off her concentration any more than he already had.

  In seven hours’ time, the Sunset Britain and The Davenport Report teams would do their live broadcast from the theatre. Then, at eight thirty, the curtain would rise on The Austen Playbook, with Fiona Gallagher in the audience to observe Freddy’s performance.