The House at the End of Hope Street Read online

  The first thing Greer sees is a long, delicate shift dress of green silk. She stands, lifts it carefully from the hanger, walks out of the wardrobe and slips it on. The dress is cut low down her back, exposing her white skin even below the drop of her long red curls. The front is a single column of color that matches and lights up her eyes. Now she needs footwear. She scans the field of scattered shoes that is her bedroom floor and spots a perfect pair of silver slippers. Now she has ten minutes for makeup.

  Half an hour later they’re sitting in a black leather booth at the back of Blake’s favorite restaurant. As the waiter pours from a bottle of rather expensive merlot, Blake grins, and Greer feels as though she’s blinking into a lightbulb.

  “Well, well, Red,” Blake says, “what a knockout you are.”

  “My dad used to call my mum Red.” Greer smiles. “Before he knocked her up. The Philadelphia Story is her favorite film. We both worship Katharine Hepburn. And Cary Grant, too, of course.”

  “Of course.” Blake grins. “And what did he call her after?”

  “After what? Oh, yes, I see. Nothing. He left. I never met him.”

  “Sure.” Blake nods as though he wouldn’t have expected anything else. “My mama left us when I was six.”

  “Oh?” Greer asks. She’s touched that they have this in common, together with a love of Katharine Hepburn films. “I’m sorry to—”

  “Hey.” Blake shrugs as if to suggest it’s a tragedy he’s long since put behind him, as if he never wakes in the middle of the night, alone and scared and feeling six years old again; as if he doesn’t like to keep his bed populated to avoid this very occurrence. “I haven’t seen her in nearabout twenty years, I can’t even remember her.” He reaches for his glass and takes a gulp of merlot, swallowing down this careless lie. For although he can’t recall her face, and must rely on photographs, he remembers the smell of her, Lily of the Valley face cream and perfume, and how she felt when he clasped her close, burying his face in her breasts. It is a scent that returned to him when Greer stepped into his life and it nearly stopped his heart. It’s the reason he hired her, the reason he asked her out.

  Blake puts down his glass and gazes thoughtfully at Greer, his veneer momentarily rattled. “You remind me of her some,” he admits—a half-truth. “So well fixed up all the time. I never seen someone so well dressed come to work in a bar.”

  Greer would have been touched by the compliment—had she heard it. But all she can think is that he’s twenty-six. Thirteen years younger than her. Greer reaches for her own glass and drinks, tipping her head back, until it’s empty, then wipes her mouth. “I’m an actress,” she blurts out—as though he’d asked, as though this explains everything. She regrets it the second she says it and waits for the critique of her lifestyle she knows is coming. After all, why would a successful actress work in a bar?

  But Blake surprises her. “That’s cool,” he says, once again reminding her how young he is. “I’m a writer. Hey,” he smiles, “maybe I can write something for you to star in.”

  “Really? Well.” She puts on a southern accent, a joke to hide her delight. “My, my, that would be simply marvelous.”

  Blake laughs. “So, what d’ya wanna eat? I’m figuring on bangers, mash and beer. I think that sounds pretty darn delicious.” He draws out every syllable of the last word, sucking all the juice from the letters, and Greer stares at his lips. She nods, now thinking only of what it might be like to kiss him.

  —

  “I don’t understand.” Alba sits in the solicitors’ office, a shoebox of letters on her lap. “Why would she leave these to me?”

  “Elizabeth didn’t inform us of the reasons why,” Mr. Stone explains. “She only requested we retain them, and pass them to you upon her death.”

  “But why me?” Alba asks. “They aren’t mine.” She lifts a letter out of the box. It’s addressed to her mother in a tiny black scrawl. The postmark is dated 1989. Nearly a decade before the divorce of Prince Charles and Lady Di. Three years before her birth. Suddenly she’s afraid to ask any more questions.

  “As I say, she didn’t leave us any further instructions,” says Mr. Stone, “so perhaps, if you’ll permit me, I’ll continue with the will.”

  Charlotte sighs. Edward shoots her a look. Alba frowns, her welling sense of dread now threatening to overflow. The black smoke of deceit circles the room, as if Mr. Stone had lit a fire under his desk and everything was burning.

  Charlotte says, “I think it’s about time we—”

  “Don’t, Lottie,” Edward warns. “Not yet.”

  “Why not? You can’t keep it from her now, can you? I’m glad she’ll finally know.” Charlotte crosses her legs. “And then we can all drop this ridiculous charade.”

  “Know what?” Alba’s lungs are filling with the smoke. The crisp leather chairs and cream carpets are shifting. She’s losing her grip on the box. “What?”

  Surprisingly, Charlotte keeps her mouth shut. Edward glares at Charles, who shrugs and says nothing, while Mr. Stone continues reading the will as though nothing was wrong. But all Alba can think about are the letters sitting in her lap, weighing down their paper box until her legs are numb, her fingers white and drained of blood. When it’s time to leave, Alba can’t get up. She stares at Edward helplessly. While Charlotte and Charles wait impatiently in the foyer, Edward persuades Mr. Stone to let Alba stay in his office to read the letters, while they take him out for an expensive lunch.

  “Do you know what these are?” Alba asks Edward as he is about to close the door. “Do you know what they say?”

  “No,” Edward says softly, “not exactly.”

  His words mix together in green and black, the color of truth and lies. His aura is still as gray as it was when his wife died. “But you know something, don’t you?” Alba says. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “It’s probably best this way.” Edward falters, hoping that’s true. “It seems this is how Mother wanted it.”

  Alba looks down at the box and forgets to look up again. After a minute of watching her, of wishing he could undo years of lies, Edward gently closes the door behind him.

  Several hours later, after a long and liquid lunch, the siblings return to Stone & Stone to find Alba gone. Charles questions the pretty receptionist, who says Alba left an hour ago.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Charlotte sighs. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Go home,” Charles says. “She’ll be there. She probably couldn’t stand another endless bickering trip up the M4, and took a train.”

  “Good point,” Charlotte says. “I should do the same.”

  “Shut up,” Edward snaps, “and have a little sensitivity. How the hell must she be feeling now, knowing every minute of her life was a lie?”

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody dramatic,” his brother says. “She’ll be fine. Let’s go. By the time she gets home, she’ll be fine.”

  “She’ll be better than I will,” Charlotte says, “after another three hours in your car.”

  “Well, then,” Edward says, ignoring her, “let’s get a bloody move on.”

  He doesn’t want to leave Alba alone for long, just in case she’s not okay at all. He wants to invite her to stay with him and Tilly in London for a while, to answer some of the hundreds of questions she’ll have. But he won’t be able to, because Alba isn’t going home, at least not to Ashby Hall. While Edward is unlocking his car, Alba is sitting on the train back to Cambridge, clutching a shoebox to her chest.

  Chapter Nine

  Alba sits on her bedroom floor with the shoebox in her lap. She’s read every letter, every poem, is familiar with every endearment, turn of phrase, every sentence steeped in love and longing. Reading them took a while; the words were blurred by Alba’s tears. But it all makes sense now. This is why her father left, why her siblings hated her. She’d always thought she
was just the new baby who stole their thunder. But she was so much worse. She was their half sister, the constant reminder of her mother’s betrayal. When did they find out? she wonders. How long have they known?

  Alba leans against her bookshelves and shuts her eyes. A soft wind whistles through the pipes in the wall, a low, sorrowful tone matching her mood exactly. She thinks of her father. Or rather, the man she believed to be her father. When did he discover that she wasn’t really his daughter? And does this mean he’s still alive? Memories of Lord Ashby are scarce but Alba dredges the depths of her blank, black mind for something.

  The first picture she sees is the piano in the playroom at Ashby Hall. Her mother bought it, a miniature version of the Steinway grand that furnished the foyer, for Alba’s seventh birthday. A tutor came every Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock, until it became clear that musicality was not one of Alba’s talents, and the piano was left to look pretty and collect dust.

  Then one night, Alba couldn’t sleep, so she crept downstairs to her playroom to find a favorite doll she’d forgotten was there. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, falling in silver stripes across the piano’s shiny black surface, and suddenly it seemed magical, as spooky as a coffin, as enticing as a forbidden room.

  Alba crept over to the piano and slid onto the stool. She pushed at a soft pedal with her bare foot and slowly pressed the keys. Muffled notes slipped into the air and Alba listened. What had sounded dull and simple during the day, at night became exciting and eerie. Intrigued, Alba explored every ivory key. The notes were still a jumbled racket, but in the darkness she started to hear words floating into her head. They looped around, linking together, sliding and colliding in rhythms and rhymes. Alba jumped off the stool, ran across the room, found a notebook and a crayon and started scribbling her words on the page so she wouldn’t forget the little songs. After that Alba crept downstairs every night to hit random notes and write down the words that came with them. Then, one evening, her father walked past the playroom. He stopped and frowned. “Alba.”

  “Hello, Papa.” Alba quickly sat on her hands and chewed at her lip.

  “It would be a shame,” he said at last, “to waste your time believing you have talent for something when you have none. Don’t you agree?”

  Alba nodded slowly, her wet eyes glued to his face.

  “The world is filled with fools. You wouldn’t want to be another one, would you?”

  Alba shook her head.

  “Good.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

  Alba sits very still as the smoky remnants of her memory evaporate. Then, with a little sigh, she stands, shuffles across the room, opens the door and peeks into the corridor. Just before reaching the bathroom Alba stops at a photograph of a young woman with big eyes and a sleek bob, wearing strings of pearls and a collar of silk. Alba knows she’s seen her before, but can’t for the moment place her. And then she realizes she’s staring at the author of one of her very favorite novels.

  “Rebecca,” Alba whispers. “I mean, Miss du Maurier, sorry. Oh my goodness. I didn’t see you before, I…”

  “Well, well.” Daphne smiles. “At last she speaks.”

  Alba flushes, suddenly self-conscious. “I adore your books,” she says softly. “Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I…”

  “No, no.” Daphne holds up a delicate hand. “Please don’t.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” Alba says again, “you must get that all the time.”

  “Less and less as the years pass,” Daphne admits, “but, flattering though it is, I’d still rather have a real conversation with you.”

  “Yes, of course.” But Alba has no words worthy of this grand dame of English literature, so she simply stands in silence and smiles, utterly starstruck.

  “Well, all right then, if you’ve nothing to say to me, then I’ve got something to say to you. So listen up,” Daphne declares with a flourish. “There is no going back in life. No return. No second chance. When you waste your days, they are wasted forever. So be honest about the things you really want, and do them, no matter how fearful you might be.”

  Alba frowns, a little taken aback. “Gosh, well, I… The thing is, I’m not really sure what I want anymore. I thought I wanted something, but now I’m not—”

  Daphne looks up, her gaze so sharp it unnerves Alba. “Stop lying to yourself,” she says. “You know exactly what you want, you’re just too scared to admit it.”

  —

  Peggy sits in her kitchen with Mog on her lap. She understands now, after so many thwarted attempts, that there is clearly no point asking the damn door to open anymore. In sixty-one years she’s never had a problem getting into the room; whenever she needed help or advice, she always got it. But she’s now being denied entry and, though Peggy can’t understand why, she thinks there must be some strange sense to it. Indeed, she’s starting to wonder whether or not the house actually wants her to find a successor. Perhaps it’s had enough; like her, it’s too old and exhausted to want anything else but peace and quiet. Perhaps it simply wants to retire. In which case, it might very well get its way. So perhaps she should simply abandon the house to its fate and live out the remainder of her life with Harry, a prospect that is becoming more and more tempting as the days go by and death starts tapping on her shoulder.

  Peggy tickles Mog behind his ears. He gives her a quick pitiful look before jumping off her lap and padding across the room with his tail in the air. She sips her tea, tasting sweeter memories of the days when the Abbot family was fertile and full of candidates wanting to inherit the house. When Peggy was a little girl, and her great-aunt Esme inhabited the tower, all her sisters, cousins and distant relatives aspired to the position. Though none more than Peggy.

  She wasn’t born with the gift; at least her mother didn’t think so. She was the last of seven sisters, unexpected though not unwanted. And by the time she arrived, everyone already thought her oldest sister, Julia, would inherit the house. But Peggy was determined and, like a marathon runner in training for the Olympics, she prepared. While her sisters chased boys and stole their mother’s makeup, Peggy meditated on her goals and practiced her gifts, until the tiny sparks finally caught fire and burned within her so strongly that no one could overlook her anymore.

  Peggy remembers the day she was chosen more clearly than any other day of her life. It was her thirteenth birthday. Esme invited her to tea, fed her slices of the three-tiered chocolate cake, explained all the rules, introduced her to Mog (then called Ginger) and took her into the forbidden room. This was the most anticipated moment, for every Abbot girl had grown up with the legend, spending innumerable hours in speculation, desperate to discover the truth.

  The room’s contents certainly surpassed all of Peggy’s expectations and she longed to tell her jealous sisters, each of whom was born on the first of May, all about it. But it was a secret she’d have to keep forever, along with everything else she learned that day.

  From her kitchen window Peggy watches the sun setting behind her willow trees, feeling as though the same energy is draining from her, too, as if her light is gently going out. As the sky darkens Peggy notices the violet glow from the midnight glory has crept around to the back garden. It won’t be long now before it exposes everything and the house will be visible to everyone. Peggy surveys the garden. She knows that, even if she might want to desert her post for a little late-in-life hedonism, she’ll never do it. However much she might love Harry, she owes the house more.

  —

  Greer has stepped onto a film set, and everything is illuminated and in Technicolor. She sees him every day, and nearly every night. Now she knows how Katharine Hepburn felt, sharing all those films with Spencer Tracy. In the few days since their first date, their first kiss, since the greatest sex of her life, she hasn’t even bothered looking for acting jobs. She’s stopped worrying, she�
�s stopped feeling like a failure.

  Greer knew she shouldn’t sleep with Blake on their first date, but when he invited her back to his flat, she simply hadn’t been able to say no. It was past midnight and they’d both crept upstairs like thieves. When the bedroom door closed they fell against each other frantically, kissing and grasping, pulling and tugging at clothes. Crashing onto the bed, Greer pulled away for a moment. “Oh my God,” she gasped, “this is crazy.”

  Blake said nothing, just slid his hand up her leg, green silk sliding over his fingers. The moon escaped the clouds and cast a pale light across the bed, illuminating them both as he smiled and began, ever so softly, to kiss her skin.

  “Oh, damn it,” Greer sighed, her breath catching in her throat as his fingers reached the tops of her thighs. He kissed her belly, reached for her breasts and lingered there before moving on to her neck, her ears, her hair… When Blake at last returned to her thighs, Greer’s breath quickened until she couldn’t hear anything except the rush of blood in her ears. “Yes, don’t stop,” she begged, “please… Yes, that’s it, yes, yes…”

  It’s midnight now, on a Monday night, and Greer hurries along the street toward The Archer. Blake invited her to meet him at the end of his shift and she’s late. At the door she stops to catch her breath and fluff her hair. Inside, someone is playing the piano. The music is soft and gentle. The notes drift out to Greer, who swallows them like raindrops. Then, while she surrenders to the sounds (just as she surrendered to Blake), the music shifts, suddenly high-pitched and sharp. Before Greer can close her mouth she’s swallowed something else, bitter and sharp, and she wonders if it might be a warning of what’s to come.

  —

  Alba sits at the kitchen table, staring into a cup of cold, black coffee, half-listening to the photographs chattering away to each other. Since speaking to Daphne du Maurier, Alba now hears the photographs all the time, winking and whispering as she walks past. Last night they woke her with some sort of strange chorus, the colors filling her room like fireworks. For a moment she was scared, but then her fear evaporated. For something has taken hold of Alba now, a fire of her own, and suddenly she’s no longer the scared little girl she once was. She had spent her whole life trying to get the love and approval of everyone else, only to find out most people are liars and frauds. She’s not going to do that anymore. The deception of Dr. Skinner no longer stings so sharply, is now tainted not with sadness and longing but with hatred and anger. Though that betrayal seems almost nothing compared with the one orchestrated by her own family.