The House of Vandekar (2 page)

Lunch did go well. Nancy had learned in America that it's better not to entertain at all than to watch the expense account. They lunched at the Savoy; she had made sure of a good table overlooking the river and she was well known there. People noticed if you were treated with deference as an old customer. The French were very status-conscious. It all contributed to the aura of confidence and success. And the fact that she spoke perfect French, and could manage passable German also impressed them. She didn't explain that it was the result of having a French governess from the age of ten. That side of her life was permanently camouflaged. It belonged to the past, like her real name. It had nothing to do with Nancy Percival.

She left the office early. One order was assured. She had made the first major breakthrough into a market that regarded British designers with caution. David was collecting her at six. He was never late. She had a bath and changed. Her mood was buoyant and excited. She wondered where they were going that was so special. Somewhere where she would need nice clothes. Not a green-wellie-and-waterproof weekend. That wasn't David's style. He worked out and kept fit; he played squash and tennis, but she'd learned early in their relationship that a typical English weekend in the country was his idea of hell. He hated going for walks; he disliked getting muddy or wet or cold. He didn't shoot and he had never put a leg over a horse. ‘I'm Urban Man,' she remembered him saying. ‘If I'm going out of London I want a nice centrally heated hotel with a big colour telly in the bedroom. And I don't want to talk to anybody either. Except you.'

She picked out a black dress. Dinner on her birthday would be something special. He hinted that much. She was feeling excited; there was a fluttering sense of anticipation she hadn't felt since she was a child, coming downstairs to find the dining room festooned with balloons and everyone assembled in their party dresses for tea. How odd that she should think of that. But it was her birthday and birthdays were always celebrated with great pomp, even the children's.

She reached into the back of the cupboard; she took out a packet sealed in tissue paper and opened it. Diamonds flashed in the palm of her hand. Why not? Why not wear it on that special night? It was all she had left now, hidden away in a shoe at the back of the cupboard. Everything else had been sold to raise money to buy out Becker. But not this. She didn't know why she had kept it back. It was by far the most valuable. She had forgotten how big and pure the diamonds were. The brooch commanded attention – it was so much larger than life, even for a piece of Edwardian jewellery. Like the woman who had first worn it. Too large, too aggressive for the other one, who had felt troubled and ill at ease with it pinned to her shoulder.

Then the bell rang and she realized David was outside and she wasn't ready. She put the brooch into her bag.

‘Settle back,' he told her. ‘We've got a long drive ahead. Had a good day?'

‘Wonderful,' she said. ‘Rowland rang up with a moan about the Grosvenor's project.'

‘Stupid old fart,' he remarked, concentrating on the traffic. ‘I don't know why you don't fire him. There are plenty of good people around who'd do his job.'

‘Maybe,' she said. ‘One day he'll go too far and I will. But not yet. He's very, very good, that's the trouble. Now let me tell you the really big news …' And she told him about the French order.

‘Don't overreach yourself, that's the only danger.' It was good advice but he wasn't fooled by his own motive. He didn't want her to be too successful. He had other plans.

‘Let's have some music,' she suggested, and he put on a tape. He had no appreciation of music, he just liked a soothing noise, and all the better if it sounded familiar. Nancy let the bland background harmonies and the rhythm of the windscreen wipers lull her into leaning back and closing her eyes.

And then the dream began. The child was hidden in the doorway watching, as the dainty figure floated towards the lover who whispered his invitation. ‘In here, darling …' The guilty glance, the strange excited smile … And then the one who followed, hiding its evil from the light, a creeping shadow among shadows. The child's cry of warning that would never be heard.

David said harshly, ‘You owe me an explanation, Nancy. What the hell is all this about?'

‘You shouldn't have brought me here,' she said. ‘You should have told me.'

‘How was I to know?' he countered. ‘How was I to know you weren't who you said you were? That this place had anything to do with you?'

‘I'm sorry, that wasn't fair of me. David, let's go home? Leave things as they were – we've been so happy.'

‘I'll still want that explanation,' he said. She had never seen him angry before. He wasn't a man to be taken lightly. He felt a fool. He felt deceived. He was right; he was entitled to know the truth about her.

‘All right, David,' she said at last. ‘All right. But please, leave me alone for a while. It isn't going to be easy for me. I'll change and come down as soon as I can.'

He went out without another word, and without looking at her.

She went to the windows again and drew the curtains fully back. The rain had stopped. The marble lovers were locked in their embrace for ever, a symbol of love where there had been so much hatred. The room was unrecognizable from the bedroom her Aunt Fern had shared in loveless union for so many years. It had been cluttered with ornaments and photographs, lacking in the flair and taste that characterized the other suites.

She felt cold and shivered. How ironic that of all the lovely rooms at Ashton she should find herself booked to spend the night in this one. She looked around her slowly, wondering if there was anything left of the woman who had lived here, any aura that had survived the transformation. Nothing. There was no atmosphere, no sense of the past. Perhaps unhappiness and bitterness did not survive. Only her grandmother's magnificent apartments could provide an answer. Alice. She spoke the name aloud. Alice watching her from the canvas in the hall downstairs. She could feel her come to life. If there was any ghost at Ashton, it would be Alice. Not, please God, the other one, the sad little wanton who had flitted past her room on the last night of her life. She had left no impression behind her.

Nancy changed into the black dress. It made her look even paler and her red hair more fiery. She pinned the big circle of diamonds to her shoulder. ‘They suit you,' the long-stilled voice echoed down the years … ‘You've got to be tall to wear them.' As she was tall.

‘Maybe,' Nancy said aloud, ‘maybe you meant me to come back.'

David was waiting downstairs. She went out into the corridor, the corridor of her nightmare, brilliantly lit now, warmly carpeted, welcoming. She closed the door and went down to face her past.

David chose a seat near the fire. The portrait of the famous Alice Vandekar looked down at him. He studied it. My grandmother, Nancy had said. It didn't mean as much to him as it should. His childhood hadn't been spent in surroundings like these. You didn't know much about millionaires in the back streets of Deptford. But then Nancy didn't know about that. She'd never pried into his background. Now he knew why. She hadn't asked questions because she didn't want to answer any. He ordered whisky. A couple in evening dress passed by; they looked at him and smiled. He looked away. There was a private dinner party in the French Room, the waiter explained, putting his drink down beside him. David didn't respond.

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Get me a brochure from the desk, will you?' He'd read it before, but then he was interested in the photographs, the facilities and the prices. He had skipped the history of the house and the Vandekars. Now he read the introduction carefully: a famous house, built in the early eighteenth century on the site of a seventeenth-century royal hunting box. Bought in 1935 by Hugo Vandekar after his marriage to the American beauty Alice Holmes Fry, the house had been used as a convalescent home for RAF officers during the war. After the war it became famous for its lavish parties and gatherings of celebrities in politics and the arts. Alice Vandekar was one of the noted hostesses of the post-war period. Members of the royal family were entertained there, and signed photographs of the King and Queen and the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, with many famous figures of stage and political life, were still on loan to the house. The furniture was mostly original, purchased when the house was sold by the Vandekar executors.

That didn't tell him much. But he had a feeling that something was left out. It was all a little too bland. What happened to the Vandekar millions? Why was the house sold?

‘Hello,' said Nancy.

He looked up and put the booklet down. He saw a blaze of diamonds on her dress. He felt as if he'd been looking at her a few minutes earlier.

‘I tried not to be too long,' she said.

‘That's all right. What would you like to drink?'

‘The same as you, I think.'

We were meant to be celebrating, he thought. Champagne, a special dinner. I've got a birthday present upstairs that I was going to give to her. It wouldn't look much beside that brooch.

‘I've been reading this.' He held out the booklet. ‘It doesn't say a great deal.'

‘I don't suppose it does,' Nancy said. She didn't read it. ‘Have you looked at the portrait?' She got up and went to stand in front of it.

David followed her. A member of the staff watched them from the other side of the hall. He was used to people admiring the picture. It was one of the focal points in the whole house. A beautiful work of art as well as a memorial to a fascinating woman.

‘She was very beautiful,' Nancy said. ‘It doesn't flatter her.'

The painted figure was just below lifesize, the work of a fashionable portrait painter in the fifties who said that the sitter had inspired him to do his best work. The woman was very slim, with a sensual body draped in a blue dress that was moulded to the breast and thigh. She was very blonde, with a white skin and dazzling blue eyes that seemed to follow you. The neck was exaggerated, a little too long, the bare arms and shoulders highlighted against the dark background. The expression was challenging, proud and provocative. She wore no jewellery except a glittering dab of light at her breast.

‘There's a strong look of you,' David said. ‘Isn't that the same as you're wearing … the same brooch?'

‘Yes,' Nancy answered. ‘She gave it to my mother as a wedding present and my mother left it to me.' She stood staring up at the picture. ‘She hated cowards,' she said suddenly. ‘She wouldn't be proud of the way I've run away. Let's sit down, David.'

He drank his whisky, waiting for her to speak. There was a look, a definite resemblance between that self-confident beauty in the portrait and the woman he had been going to ask to marry him that weekend. ‘My real name is Vandekar. Alice Vandekar was my grandmother.' No wonder he sensed she was different.

‘Why did you change your name?'

She looked at him, and he realized she had been far away, thinking of someone else. ‘Vandekar's a famous name. You say you were born in this house. Why were you running away, Nancy?'

‘It seemed the only thing to do,' she said. ‘I wanted to make a new life, forget everything. I've just told you, I was a coward. You really want to know about my family? About me?'

‘I really want to.' There was no give in him at all.

‘It's a long story,' Nancy said quietly, ‘and things may never be the same for us again … We all lived here together, my cousins Ben and Phyllis – they were my aunt's children – and my father and mother. This was our home, whether our parents had houses in London or not. Alice liked having the grandchildren. At least she liked having me near her. I was always her favourite. But then she simply worshipped my father. You're still angry, aren't you?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Just curious. I've lived with you for six months and I don't know anything about you. It's a funny feeling.'

‘I'm sorry. I wasn't deceiving you. For all these years I've been trying to deceive myself. If you want to understand, David, you've got to know about my grandmother. Let me start with Alice.'

2

June was truly glorious that year. Everyone agreed that the season opened with a spell of lovely weather. May was warm and delightful, so different from the dismal chilly late spring of 1933. Yes, 1934 was going to be a vintage year for people who wanted to enjoy themselves. The debutantes were pretty, some outstanding. One or two, like the young beauty from Boston, Alice Homes Fry, were a gift to the society columns. There were balls and cocktail parties and luncheons every week. The Derby, Royal Ascot, Henley, Cowes; country-house parties at weekends and nothing in the world to worry about except love affairs and which invitation to accept. For the rich, that is.

But Alice Holmes Fry, who had arrived in proper style on the
Queen Mary
, with her mother as chaperone and a ladies' maid, had just enough money to last the year in England. If she failed to catch a rich husband she would have to go home to Boston and take what she could get. Americans were sought after and popular; many were very rich and the less well-endowed bachelors with expensive houses to keep up and diminishing resources circled around the little pool of heiresses like hungry crocodiles, teeth bared in ingratiating smiles. They didn't trouble Alice. The Holmes Frys were Boston aristocracy; they had a well-documented Founding Father among their ancestors, but they weren't rich. Alice's father had seen to that. Gambling and women had eaten away what remained of a substantial inherited fortune. When he died there was not much left beyond a modest trust which had eluded him. Alice was twenty-two.

It was her idea to go to England. Her mother was described by friends and family as a sweet woman, by which they meant she was weak with her profligate husband and too stupid to see their ruin approaching. But Alice knew better. Alice knew it wasn't weakness or stupidity. Her mother loved him. And she always spoke of him as ‘your dear father', even though he had died in another woman's bed.