The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(84)

“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 looked 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.”