The House of Vandekar Read Free

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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