The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(85)
“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.