The Winter Secret Page 4

  ‘You’re a foolish old woman!’ she scolded herself. ‘Stupid and silly.’

  She squinted over the lane at Fitzroy House, which housed the ex-Mrs Redmain. Whatever was happening to her eyesight meant that, bizarrely, it was easier to see across the lane than to see her own hands. She watched for a moment, looking for movement beyond the curtains, but all was still.

  Where is she? Away again?

  Watching was one of her pleasures. She had watched and observed over the ten years since she had sold Charcombe Park to Redmain and his wife, Ingrid. They had arrived with their two small children and looked around the place, her expression reserved and cautious in contrast to his bubbling enthusiasm and happiness with every aspect of the place.

  ‘But, Charles,’ Xenia heard her say as she restrained her little boy, who was trying to climb the rickety back stairs in the kitchen, ‘it’s a total mess. It will take years to get this shambles sorted out. How can we live here? It’s dangerous right now, and it’ll be a building site for months.’

  ‘We’ll live temporarily in one of the gatehouses, they’re very decent,’ Charles said airily. ‘And it won’t take years. Give me six months, you won’t know the place.’

  Xenia had felt vaguely offended that the wife thought so little of Charcombe, but, really, she knew that the poor house was dilapidated and in desperate need of repair. She had been a bad guardian, despite her best efforts and her promises to look after it, but a house like that took more money than she had. In the end, selling it was her only option. By the time Redmain bought it, she had been existing in just a few rooms, her possessions piled into the most watertight places she could find. Seeing it through their eyes, she could understand why Mrs Redmain had her doubts.

  ‘I prefer the other house,’ the wife said quietly as they inspected the kitchen. ‘It’s far less work and we could move straight in. And there are excellent schools nearby – this is miles from anywhere.’

  ‘I want this one,’ Charles had said firmly. ‘It was Edward Redmain’s house. This is the one. You understand that, don’t you?’

  The wife had nodded and said nothing more.

  It seemed to Xenia a little unfortunate that the poor woman had endured the years of work on the house – it had taken at least three years to restore and remodel it – and now no longer lived there to enjoy the fruits of all that effort and money. She had to make do with Fitzroy House instead, forever shut out of her old home but still within its shadow.

  A very strange state of affairs.

  A movement caught her attention and she turned her head to squint at the large wrought iron gates of Charcombe Park. In her time they had been rusting and almost immovable, locked most of the time with a huge padlock. Now they were gleaming and moved soundlessly at the touch of a button. The gates were opening, slowly and smoothly, and a car was approaching.

  ‘Who is it this time?’ she wondered aloud. She knew them all now: the housekeeper and her husband who did maintenance – they lived in a newly built bungalow in the grounds and were always coming and going; the man in the battered old jeep, who looked after the horses; the cleaners in their small cars or on their bicycles; Redmain, who roared past in his ostentatious sports car, or was driven out in a large silver car.

  Spoiled. Rich. Inconsiderate.

  And, last of all, the new wife. Xenia had not managed to get a good look at her yet, catching only glimpses of her as she went past in her dark blue car. She had seen blond hair, wide eyes fixed firmly ahead, not looking at either of the twin houses near the gates, intent on wherever she was going. Xenia was sure she knew what kind of woman the new wife was; a greedy young woman looking for a rich husband and a foolish old man marrying youth and beauty was a story as old as time. This woman was no doubt avaricious, manipulative, ruthless. She had seen her chance and captured the fancy of a lonely man who could offer her the life she wanted.

  Good luck to her. She’ll find out there’s a price to pay for everything in the end.

  The car drove through the open gates and past the house, but Xenia found that she couldn’t focus on the occupant in time to see much. She could make out the outline of the car but the middle was a dark blur, and she tutted in exasperation as her chance was lost. She would have to go back to the doctor before too long about her eyes.

  The sound of rustling plastic made her look around and she squinted hard as her focus changed. Petrova had stopped washing herself and was now investigating the interior of one of the bags Xenia had pulled out from under the bed.

  ‘What are you doing, puss?’ She went over and hauled Petrova out of the bag, lifted it up and tipped out the contents on her bed. This one contained a mass of old cards, letters and programmes. She knew what they were, she had read them all before: endless notes between Papa and Mama from the early days of their marriage when Mama was still a stage actress. Papa had written to her almost every day: short notes and dashed-off letters for her to read in her dressing room; and she had left questions and instructions for him about all manner of things – telling him who might be dining with them, or what Cook needed to know, or asking his advice – because she would not see him that day. Glimpses of their neat, slanted handwriting – hers rounded and his spiky – filled her with melancholy and yet also brought them close to her again, just for a moment.

  She noticed an old theatre programme and picked it up. It was for the first play in which Mama had had a proper speaking role. Inside was the cast list. The hole in the middle of her vision shimmered and blurred the print while tiny black dots flew across her eyes, but she blinked and squinted, trying to make out the words. Mama was third on the billing. On the inside of the programme, a cutting from a newspaper had been pasted. Star in a night! was the excited headline, and underneath words that Xenia had read often but that never lost their ability to thrill her.

  Last night, a star was born in London’s theatreland. Natalie Rowe, a twenty-two-year-old unknown actress, made her debut and captured the heart and soul of everyone who witnessed her outstanding performance as Mrs Crichton in the new play by Gerald Garfield, Mrs Crichton’s Malady. This paper’s critic has called her the brightest young talent for many years, with a glittering future ahead. See page 45 for a full report and review of the production.

  Underneath was a grainy photograph of Mama in her costume, her hands buried in a muff, a hat jaunty on her head. Even though the quality was so poor, her beauty shone out.

  ‘Oh, Mama,’ Xenia breathed, and ran a finger over the dear face. ‘Your glittering future.’

  But for a while life had glittered, when everything had seemed possible and they believed that youth and success would last forever.

  Chapter Five

  London 1948

  When Xenia heard the clink of the tea tray passing the schoolroom, she leapt up.

  ‘Where are you going, dear?’ Gunter asked, looking up from sewing buttons back on Xenia’s kilt. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be doing your French exercises?’

  ‘Mama’s awake,’ Xenia said, excited. ‘Didn’t you hear the tray? She’s rung for her tea.’

  ‘You shouldn’t bother the princess first thing, she hasn’t got herself together yet.’

  But Xenia loved this time, when Mama was rested and the evening’s performance was still hours away, with no one else to take Mama’s attention away from her. Ignoring Gunter, Xenia dashed out of the schoolroom and was in Mama’s room almost at the same time as the maid, who hadn’t even put the tray down yet.

  Mama was sitting up in bed against a mound of pillows, wrapped in a peach-coloured ruffled nightgown, her hair tucked up in a silk turban, looking impossibly young and pretty.

  ‘Here’s my girl,’ she said gaily, holding out her arms, and Xenia kicked off her shoes so that she could jump up on the bed and snuggle up to Mama. ‘Mind the tray!’

  The maid was setting the bed tray up on its little legs, lowering it down over Mama’s lap. It was loaded with a china teapot, cup and saucer, some pills, a glass
of water, and a bud vase with a white rose. A small pile of envelopes sat on one side, neatly stacked.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Mama said to the maid.

  ‘Shall I draw your bath, ma’am?’

  ‘Give me half an hour first.’

  The maid bobbed and went out.

  Mama put her arm around Xenia and hugged her. ‘We can share this tea, if you like. A sip for you, a sip for me. How are you, little Xenia? Are you working hard at your lessons?’

  ‘I don’t see why I should do lessons, it’s the holidays,’ Xenia grumbled.

  ‘It’s good for you to remember everything you’ve learned at school. It’s only for a few hours a day. Gunter will take you out somewhere nice this afternoon.’

  ‘Can’t you take me, Mama?’

  ‘Perhaps. One day soon. We’ll go for tea and visit Harrods. Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh yes, I would.’

  Mama often made promises to take her out, but they didn’t materialise very much. Xenia liked the way that people recognised her mother and made a fuss of her, but Mama found it uncomfortable and preferred to stay at home or to visit friends in their houses, where she didn’t have to be on her guard.

  ‘Well, not today, but one day. Gunter will have to do in the meantime.’ Mama said consolingly, ‘You should ask your friend Rachel if she wants to join you. Shall I telephone her mother?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Xenia brightened. Anything was better than being on her own with boring old Gunter, who got frightened crossing the road, and trembled when they got too near the horses being ridden in the park. ‘How was the play last night?’

  ‘It was all perfect. Nothing went wrong, even old Roger didn’t forget his lines. It helps that we’ve now stuck most of them around the set so he can rush over and read them when he dries.’

  Xenia giggled. She had seen the play on the opening night, feeling very grown up as she went into the theatre on Papa’s arm. He’d been so handsome in his evening clothes, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, and she had worn a green velvet dress, a little fur jacket and white gloves. Press photographers outside the theatre had taken pictures as they went in to join the rest of the glamorous crowd in the foyer. The play had been enchanting and Mama was so beautiful and so convincing that Xenia had almost forgotten that the mesmerising woman on the stage was her own mother. She had begged and begged to go again but they had always said it was too late for her to stay up except on very special occasions.

  ‘Did you have a party last night?’ Xenia asked disingenuously. She already knew that there had been a party, because she had seen it. It was one of her favourite things: to slip out of bed and sit on the stairs, concealed in the darkness, staring down through the spindles at people arriving. The parties started late, after the curtains came down in the theatres, and the acting crowd began their fun for the evening. The gramophone in the drawing room would be playing, and she could hear the tinkle of glasses and the chatter of voices, and smell cigarette smoke. Papa would stride out into the hall to answer the door, for the maids were in bed.

  ‘How marvellous to see you!’ he would boom, that tang of an accent in his voice, to the new arrivals in their dinner jackets and shimmering dresses. ‘Come in, my darling, can I make you a cocktail? Natalie is on her way, she’ll be so thrilled to see you.’

  Xenia had watched the guests last night as Papa ushered them in. She longed to be downstairs with them, all grown up in a long gown, her hair curled, her mouth dark with lipstick. She yearned to look like Mama – so heart-stoppingly beautiful – but when she stared in the mirror, she saw only her own ordinary face, her boring straight hair and her schoolgirl clothes. Mama had arrived last of all, driven back from the theatre wrapped in her fur coat, pale from the effort of her performance but still the most charismatic of them all. As she came into the hall, everyone piled out to greet her, eager to welcome her back. That was how it was with Mama: people sought her attention, and they fawned on her, petted her, offered her drinks and cigarettes and laughed at her jokes. Mama was important somehow, more important than any of the others. She was even more important than Papa, despite the fact that he was an actual prince. It was more than simply her beauty. Xenia knew that Mama was a famous actress whose plays sold out night after night and whose photograph sold magazines and newspapers.

  The curious thing was that although Mama loved the theatre and her work, she was also oppressed by it. Xenia could sense that Mama was always disappointed in herself, as though she was never quite the great actress she wanted to be no matter how hard she tried. Her beauty was what people loved, but that meant nothing to her. She wanted to be sublime as an actress, that was all.

  That was why at these times, cuddled together with Xenia in her sweet-scented bedroom, when the evening’s performance was still only a distant shadow on the horizon, Mama was happy and relaxed and loving.

  ‘I hope our party didn’t wake you up, darling,’ Mama remarked. ‘It did go on rather late.’

  ‘No, no. I slept very well.’ Which was true, but only after she’d sat on the stairs until her eyes were too heavy to stay open and she’d gone back to bed. No wonder Mama had to sleep until lunchtime every day.

  Mama poured out the tea as she asked Xenia questions, and then she turned her attention to her small pile of post, flicking through the envelopes until she saw one with the printed address of Lawrence Bowman, her agent, on the top corner. Xenia had learned that these letters were the ones of most interest to Mama; she plucked it from the pile and opened it quickly with nervous fingers. Inside were a note and a letter. Mama opened the note and scanned it quickly. Xenia saw it was only two scrawled lines:

  Natalie darling, this has just arrived along with a telegram warning me of its contents. Read it and let me know what you think as soon as you can – it’s exciting. L.

  She glanced up at Mama, who seemed curious but a little anxious.

  ‘How odd,’ she muttered, and opened the letter. Xenia could see that it was typewritten, with her mother’s name written in ink at the top, and a signature at the bottom, but she couldn’t see the body of text. All she could see was the letterhead, a famous logo of a dove. She had seen it before but couldn’t place it, so she waited patiently for Mama to finish reading.

  Mama put the letter down on her tray, her face ashen. ‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Is it bad news?’ Xenia asked, surprised.

  ‘No. Not bad news, just—’ Mama stopped and stared at the letter on the tray.

  ‘What is it?’

  Mama bit her lip, looking worried. ‘Lawrence is right, it’s exciting, extremely exciting.’ She turned to Xenia. ‘A film director in America wants me to go there to test for a role in his motion picture. It’s a famous part, lots of actresses would love to be cast in the role. They want me to go, at once.’

  ‘But isn’t that good?’ Xenia ventured. ‘You don’t seem terribly happy about it.’

  ‘I have the play to think of. And I don’t want to leave you and Papa. If I got the part, it would mean I’d be away for months and months.’

  Xenia was quiet. That was a horrible idea.

  Mama dropped an absent-minded kiss on Xenia’s cheek, her mood completely changed from the earlier cosiness. ‘Run along now, darling. I must telephone Papa at his office and talk to him at once.’

  Xenia got reluctantly off the bed. She knew how it was when grown-up life came to take Mama away from her, and she went quietly away as Mama reached for the telephone beside her bed.

  It must have been much more important than Xenia realised, because when she came back in for tea after her outing with Gunter – Mama had forgotten all about inviting Rachel along – Papa was home and her parents were talking earnestly in the drawing room.

  Gunter bustled away to take off her coat, while Xenia loitered at the door, listening, slowly unbuttoning her own gaberdine.

  Papa’s voice was urgent and intense. ‘You can’t give up this opportunity, Natalie, I won’t let you
.’

  ‘I know it’s a marvellous offer, darling, but—’

  ‘No buts! You’d regret it forever if you let it pass by. Archibald Thomas has already seen the most famous actresses in Hollywood and still he wants to audition you. He thinks you have the talent for this role, and so do I. It will make your career. It’s everything I hoped for you.’

  ‘But I’d have to get permission to miss the rest of the run – that won’t be easy. Besides which, I could go all that way and not get it. So much effort – for nothing.’

  ‘No, no. Just testing for the role will bring you to the attention of the studios, and who knows what might happen after that? You’re bound to meet people of influence, and you’ve already got friends out there who can introduce you to Hollywood society. I mean it, Natalie, it’s the most marvellous chance.’

  Mama sounded wistful. ‘But I’d be away from you and Xenia for months and months.’

  ‘We’d come with you, darling. We’d make it happen. You wouldn’t be alone.’

  There was a long pause, and Xenia could imagine exactly how Mama would be: worried, full of self-doubt and yet desperate to please her husband and longing to do the thing she loved the most – act.

  Why is it that Mama loves her work so much, and is so afraid of it?