Copyright © 2018 Harriet Evans
The right of Harriet Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
This Ebook edition was first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2018
Extract from letter © Joan Plowright. Reproduced by permission of the author c/o Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd., 20 Powis Mews, London W11 1 JN
All characters – apart from the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2138 4
Cover illustration © Hannah George @ www.meiklejohn.co.uk
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Harriet Evans
Praise
About the Book
Also by Harriet Evans
Dedication
Epigraphs
Prologue
I
II
III
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
I
II
Acknowledgements
About Harriet Evans
Harriet Evans grew up in London. As a child she loved reading and making up stories. She then progressed on to teenage geekdom and agonised Sylvia Plath-style poetry it’s probably best not to dwell on. The career in musical theatre she’d always dreamed of never materialised for whatever reason, and so she ended up at Bristol University where she read Classical Studies. In her twenties she was lucky enough to get a job as a secretary at a publishers and instantly realised working with books was what she’d always wanted to do. She was a fiction editor for ten happy years but left in 2009 to write full-time, making up stories all day.
Harriet still lives in London with her family. She likes old films, property websites, sloe gin cocktails, feminism and Bombay mix, not in that order. The Wildflowers is her tenth novel.
She’d love to hear from you – please contact her on Twitter at @HarrietEvans, Facebook at facebook.com/harrietevansbooks or via her website, www.harriet-evans.com.
Readers love Harriet Evans
‘A master at creating characters you feel like you know inside out, and wish you could meet in real life’ Heat
‘Heart-stopping and wonderful’ Sophie Kinsella
‘Perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes and Maeve Binchy’ Best
‘A delightfully engrossing read’ Red
‘Reminiscent of Santa Montefiore with the emotional heart of Jojo Moyes. You’ll frequently find yourself uttering the words: just one more page’ CultureFly
‘This brilliantly written portrait of a fascinating family in crisis is an emotionally intelligent, thoughtful and engaging read’ Daily Mail
‘A really superior modern saga, with utterly true to life characters’ Sunday Mirror
‘Fabulously gripping’ Prima
‘She’s as good as the great Rosamunde Pilcher’ Saga
Harriet Evans. She brings you home.
About the Book
Tony and Althea Wilde. Glamorous, argumentative . . . adulterous to the core.
They were my parents, actors known by everyone. They gave our lives love and colour in a house by the sea – the house that sheltered my orphaned father when he was a boy.
But the summer Mads arrived changed everything. She too had been abandoned and my father understood why. We Wildflowers took her in.
My father was my hero, he gave us a golden childhood, but the past was always going to catch up with him . . . it comes for us all, sooner or later.
This is my story. I am Cordelia Wilde. A singer without a voice. A daughter without a father. Let me take you inside.
By Harriet Evans
Going Home
A Hopeless Romantic
The Love of Her Life
I Remember You
Love Always
Happily Ever After
Not Without You
A Place for Us
The Butterfly Summer
The Wildflowers
A Winterfold Christmas (e-short)
Rules for Dating a Romantic Hero (Quick Read)
For Caloo
‘We’re all right, Jack’
The split personality of a man who has had to overcome one powerful part of his nature in order to achieve a certain position in the world . . . I remember you saying about Brenda de B. that she ‘tries to cry’ on stage, whereas in real life one tries to stop crying.
Letter from Joan Plowright to Laurence Olivier
before his first performance as Othello, 1964
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers, come to dust.
William Shakespeare, Cymbeline
Prologue
I
Dorset, August 2014
The abandoned house covered in bindweed and brambles didn’t look like anything much, when first glimpsed from the lane.
But after the two men had struggled through the tangled mass of wild flowers and creepers surrounding the house they came upon a porch. The steps up were blackened with rot; on the porch itself rested a long-abandoned cane chair, bleached silver-grey by the wind and the sea and chained to the decaying floorboards by the tendrils of a pink-and-sage Virginia creeper. Below came the shingling slap of gentle waves and when you turned towards the sound of the sea there was Worth Bay, curving away from you, cream-yellow sands, turquoise water, chalk-white rocks in the distance.
Dave Nichols, trainee agent at Mayhew & Fine, watched in irritation as Frank Mayhew paused on the sandy path, fiddling in his pocket for the key. It was a boiling hot day, the sun beating down remorselessly. A mother and a young girl in swimming costumes, carrying towels, passed by on their way to the beach, looking at them with curiosity. Dave felt stupid, standing there in his smartest suit in front of this rotten old building.
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t understand,’ he said sulkily, ‘why we have to value it when the old girl’s not going to sell.’
Frank tutted in disapproval. ‘Old girl! That’s Lady Wilde to you, Dave, and she’s not long for this world – have some respect. Listen. In a few months when she’s gone, the family’ll most likely want to sell. They don’t care about the place, that’s obvious. That’s where we come in, see?’ He turned to take in the glorious view of the bay, then glanced at his slouched, sullen trainee, the son of an old golfing buddy, and sighed very gently. ‘If we play our cards right, we’ll be the agents to handle the sale. Houses on Worth Bay don’t come up often. There’s only ten or so of ’em. The Bosky – it’s prime beach-front property, this place.’
Dave shrugged. ‘It’s a wreck,’ he said, staring at the bindweed, the algae-coated windows. ‘Look at these floorboards! Rotten through, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Most buyers don’t care. They’ll just level it and start over again.’ Frank pulled the bindweed and dead roses away, then inserted the key, pushing against the peeling door with difficulty. ‘Makes me sad, seeing it like this, if I’m honest. How it must be for Lady Wilde, stuck in that old people’s home up the road, looking out over it all day, I’ve no idea. Bugger me, this is jammed fast. Come on, you—’ He threw his rotund form against the frame. Nothing happened. Frank stepped back and to the side, looking through one of the shuttered windows. ‘Hmm . . .’ he said, bouncing on his heels, and then suddenly he gave a loud, outraged yelp.
Dave, who’d been staring at the view, turned in alarm: Frank had sunk a foot or so into the ground, the wooden boards simply melting away, as though they were made of butter.
Trying not to laugh, he lent Frank his arm as the older man pulled himself out of the hole, with some difficulty.
‘I’ll explain that to Lady Wilde myself.’ Frank smoothed down his ruffled hair. ‘Now, you give me a hand. It’ll come open with a bit of extra oomph. That’s it—’ Together they fell against the door: it gave way with an aching crack, and the two men tumbled inside.
As the warm, musty smell of the dark house tickled their noses Frank turned on his torch, shining it around the hall. He pulled the yellowing tendril of some dead plant from the ceiling.
‘Well,’ he said quietly. ‘Here we are.’
Dave sniffed the musty air. ‘Perfume. I can smell perfume.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Frank said, but he shivered. This was air that no one else had breathed for years; it felt heavy with something.
There was a cloakroom to his immediate left, and stairs in front of him, down to the bedrooms below. Off to the right was the kitchen, and to the left was the sitting room which had French windows leading back on to the porch.
‘Let’s open these,’ said Frank, going into the kitchen, flicking back the faded sand-coloured curtains, the original colour now long forgotten. In the corner of the room, a window seat padded with faded yellow-and-grey patterned fabric and dotted with a decade’s worth of dead flies and wasps faced the porch. The galley kitchen was at the back, the windows looking out over the lane.
There was nothing on the surfaces or shelves, no sign of occupation.
Frank flicked a switch a couple of times. ‘No, not a thing.’ He sniffed. ‘I can smell something too. Scent, or flowers, or something.’ He shook himself. ‘Right. Let’s open some windows. Get some fresh air and light in and we can go downstairs and measure up the bedrooms.’
But the window frames were too swollen with damp to open and after struggling for a minute they both gave up and went back into the hall.
Dave said, ‘The bedrooms are downstairs?’
‘It’s an upside-down house. All your living rooms are up here overlooking the sea. Bedrooms are for sleeping in, doesn’t matter what you’re looking at.’ Frank ran his hand along the bannister. ‘It’s a good idea. I used to dream of having a place like this when I was a lad.’
Dave stared at him, quizzically. ‘You knew them?’
‘Everyone knew them,’ Frank said. ‘They was quite something, the Wildes.’ He moved his torch up on to the wood-panelled wall and both men jumped, as a face leaped out at them. Frank recovered himself first. ‘It’s just a photo,’ he said, slightly shakily.
The picture on the wall gleamed in the darkness. A middle-aged woman with a floppy hat and large nose, smiling broadly, holding a dangling crab between her forefinger and thumb.
‘She looks like a witch,’ Dave said.
The torch juddered suddenly in Frank’s hand, lighting up a pair of faces.
‘Who are they? What – what on earth is all that?’ said Dave, eventually.
Frank moved the torch along, and slowly the walls were illuminated with more faces, staring out from frames. Faces laughing, gurning, smiling politely, groups clinking glasses together, children dancing – more faces, some in colour, most in black-and-white. There were theatre posters too, and newspaper cuttings.
‘That’s them,’ said Frank, gesturing. ‘Weren’t they quite something?’
Dave peered at the photo next to him. A beautiful Titian-haired woman sat with two girls on her knee, one blonde, the other dark. A group of adults reclined on the porch, glasses and cigarettes in hand. A grinning pair of young children danced on a beach: a boy and girl. More groups of smiling people. The man and woman were in the newspaper articles too, always elegantly dressed. In one they were holding hands and laughing, and she was turning slightly towards a knot of onlookers, waving with the other hand. Dave scanned the photos, sliding the torch along, plunging one, then another photo into white light and then darkness, searching for her. He stared at her, transfixed. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
‘“Anthony Wilde and his wife Althea arrive at the Royal Court for the First Night of Macbeth”,’ Dave read with difficulty, holding his phone up to the text. ‘“Curtain call went on for ten minutes as ecstatic crowd gave Mr Wilde a standing ovation.” OK then.’ He turned back as Frank reached into his briefcase. ‘Who the hell are they?’
‘I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Anthony Wilde,’ said Frank, pointing his laser measure at the walls. ‘Two point four metres. Greatest actor of his day. And that’s Althea Wilde, his wife. You must have heard of her. She was in Hartman Hall. Lady Isabella?’
Dave shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Lordy, Lordy. How can you not know Hartman Hall? Bigger than Downton, better ’n’ all.’ Frank sighed. ‘What about On the Edge? That sitcom about the older lady, talking into her mirror? That was her, too.’
‘Might ring a bell, maybe.’ Dave looked at her again, the long neck, the slightly too-large nose, the liquid green eyes flecked with hazel. She was staring at him, only him, in the gloom of the house. He turned his torch away from her. He didn’t like it, suddenly.
‘They were known as the Wildflowers, the lot of them. Spent every summer here. Oh, the people they used to have staying. The glamour of it! You’d walk past on your way back from the beach and you’d see them above you, gramophone on, drinking cocktails, women in these beautiful dresses, and their kids running up and down the steps – a boy and a girl, bit younger than I was . . .’ Frank’s eyes grew misty. ‘What a life. I’d watch them playing, on my way back home from the beach . . . Dad’d be yelling at Mum, she’d be head down trying to pretend she weren’t with him, both of them after a bottle or two too much of ale and the sun . . . And I’d think, what I wouldn’t give to be up there.’
He scratched his chin with one finger. ‘They lived in some huge house by the river in London, too, ’cause she liked being by water, that’s what I heard. He’d do anything for her. Anything. And those kids, bloody hell. Lucky isn’t the word, every summer down here, and he was the best father, Sir Tony, he really was, always fun and games . . .’ Frank shrugged, and then said pettishly, ‘Take your hands out your pockets. Come on, you. You do the bedrooms off to the left, I’ll do the rest. Show me you know how to use that laser measure.’
Relu
ctantly, Dave followed Frank into the downstairs gloom. He measured the bedrooms and bathroom as fast as he could, all the while listening to the wind whistling around the outside of the house. Inside, it was muffled, warm, deadeningly quiet.
‘What happened to them?’ Dave asked his boss, as they were climbing back up the stairs. ‘Why don’t they come any more?’
Frank smoothed his ruffled hair across his pate, then fiddled with his wristwatch, as though readying himself for outside again. ‘Something happened. ’Bout twenty years ago.’
‘What?’
‘I wasn’t ever sure. A family bust-up. The daughter’s a famous singer. Was, I should say. Cordelia Wilde. The son’s a big director, he did them Robot Master films.’
For the first time Dave was impressed. ‘No way! I love Robot Master.’
‘Well, that’s him. Ben Wilde. He was married . . . I don’t know what happened to her.’ Frank screwed up his eyes, and jotted down some figures into a little notebook. ‘Anyway his sister, the singer, she don’t speak to them any more. Nice kid she was, mad as a hatter but I liked her. Then Sir Anthony, he died, and after a couple of summers Lady Wilde sent someone down to clear the place out. The big house up the lane, that used to be a holiday home too, strange family as lived there. They converted it into an old people’s home and she moved in. She never came again. No one does now.’
The gloom was oppressive after a while. That, and the sense that those faces on the walls in darkness were watching you, wanting the lights on so they could come alive again, to go back to living their golden summers. Dave shivered as Frank stepped carefully over the hole in the porch by the front door. He followed him, breathing in heavily.
‘Fresh air,’ Dave said, pulling out his phone. ‘Thank God. Look, reception again.’
‘It’s just a bit musty. I’ve seen worse.’ He pulled the door shut, and there was a loud clang as an object fell from the lintel above the front door, down into the hole, and hit something.
‘Oh, dear.’ Frank bent to pick it up, reaching in between the cracked boards. He pulled out a stone angel on a rusting hook. She had vast, spreading wings, bare breasts, huge eyes, an enigmatic smile. She stared up at him. In one hand she held a pine cone, in the other a small, unblinking owl.
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