The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(40)

“She’s lonely.” Freddy had realised it before they’d reached the first flower patch. “All her stories and anecdotes were about people who’ve been dead for decades. She didn’t mention any friends now. No relatives who visit. And I can’t imagine the butler is a great conversationalist. It takes him about a month and a half to finish enunciating one sentence. I feel very sorry for her. Her way with words probably puts people off.” She bit back a small spike of amusement. “I think she’s recognised a kindred spirit in you. Bet she sees the son she never had.”

The tarnished trophy Griff was holding made a bang when he set it down too heavily on the table. “Thanks for that. As I wasn’t going to have enough trouble sleeping after the nightmare of the porcelain cat collection.”

“For a man who grew up in a house with blowjob carvings on the library mantel, you’re very judgmental of other people’s décor.”

Ignoring that, he said cuttingly, “And credit me with a little finesse.” She’d succeeded in cracking through the shield again. She preferred the pissy Griff to the blank-wall Griff. “There have been one or two occasions when I managed to handle people’s never-ending bullshit in a tactful way.”

“Have there? Well, make sure you give me a nudge when it happens. I wouldn’t want to miss that.” She blew the dust from a framed photo. “Look, Henrietta’s in this one.” She handed it to Griff, who gave it a cursory glance. “Wanda’s perspective on Henrietta wasn’t quite what I’m used to hearing.”

“Yeah, well, no two people will ever see or remember someone in the same way. We’re all the product of other people’s biases.” Griff reached around to grab a stack of cardboard folders, and Freddy caught her breath at just that brief, warm press of his body. “Wanda obviously didn’t like Henrietta, so she remembers all her less attractive qualities. Your father was brought up to see his mother as a role model for success, so he painted an overly rosy picture of her, and passed that view along to you. Neither is the sum total of the woman, just—pieces of her, depending on where you’re standing and what angle you’re seeing.”

“Dad is her son. He ought to know more about her than a woman who met her a few times at house parties.”

“He ought to, I agree.”

“Henrietta was very talented.”

“Undeniably.”

“And family loyalty isn’t a bad thing. We all like to believe the best of the people we love.”

“Except in your father’s case, I suspect there’s another angle involved. Money and influence. Thanks to Henrietta, Rupert has gained a lot of both, and I imagine he foresees continuing opportunities to build on that with you.”

She stiffened at that voicing of her own private thoughts, and Griff shoved his hand through his hair. It was such an uncharacteristically ruffled gesture from the master of imperturbability that it cut short any defensive retort she might have made.

“My claim of possessing tact was obviously premature.” His mouth compressed. “You’re such a...fundamentally positive person,” he said, as if he were accusing her of a mortal sin. “I seem to be the only person who can upset you without even trying.”

Freddy considered that, playing with the brown tape on the box she was trying to open. “No,” she said after a moment. “There are a handful of people in my life with the power to upset me. But most of them have been in my life since I was born. You do seem to be an...anomaly in my experience, but it’s not because you can make me cry.”

Rain was starting to patter against the windows, which were barred. In conjunction with the grey walls and iron fixtures, it wasn’t the jolliest nursery Freddy had ever seen, but it seemed to suit the sudden tension between them.

When Griff said nothing, she took a deep breath and looked into the box she’d managed to wrestle open. It was full of old notebooks and playbills, which she would usually find interesting, but right now her mind was skittering over the surface of everything. She picked up a pile of letters, absently. They were neatly folded and tied together with a ribbon, which she undid. She could hear Griff’s breathing over the light pit pat of raindrops.

Darling Vi... The writing was faded but unmistakably masculine—a hasty, barely legible scrawl.

Her eyes focusing, Freddy unfolded the top piece of paper and turned it over to read the signature.

All love, Billy.

“I think these are the letters Wanda mentioned.” She felt as if she’d intruded on Violet’s privacy just reading that simple, affectionate sign-off. “Your Great-Aunt Violet and her mystery man.”

It seemed to take a long time for him to appear at her side. He reached down for a letter, turned it over, and smoothed it out.

“You can’t read it,” Freddy said, and it seemed to make him more comfortable to give her his usual impatience glance.

“You’re the one who endorsed making Violet a fully fledged person rather than a symbol of pathetic pathos in the film. In order to depict a person with some degree of accuracy, I’m afraid you have to get into their personal space.”

“I can’t see you ever letting anyone push their way into yours,” she muttered.

Without looking up and with no inflection in his voice, he said, “Can’t you.”