Виктория Холт: Daughter of Deceit

Daisy Ray … Desiree. Just that. You can get away with things like that in the profession. So I became Desiree.” “And you took the road to fame and fortune.” “Here! What are you doing, keeping me here talking? It is time I was up! Dolly will be here in a minute.”

I was regretful. The session was over, but I learned a little more from each one, although I was aware that a curtain could come down if I was too curious; and what I wanted most was to hear about my father.

I was sixteen and quite mature for my age. I had learned a good deal about theatrical life and a little of the world. There were always people coming in and out of the house; they talked continuously and if I was there I listened. Charlie Claverham and Robert Bouchere were constant visitors. They both had houses in London, and Charlie had a home in Kent, Robert one in France. They came to London on business and were devoted to my mother. She had other admirers who came and went but those two remained.

There came a day when Dolly called at the house in that certain frame of mind which I now knew meant that he had found what he called an excellent “vehicle” for Desiree. It often happened that what he considered excellent was in her opinion plain rubbish, and then we were prepared for trouble. It came.

I sat on the stairs near the drawing room, listening. Not that that presented any strain. Their raised voices reached most parts of the house.

“The lyrics are awful.” That was my mother. “I’d be ashamed to sing them.”

“They’re delightful and will please your public.” “Then you must have a poor opinion of my public.” “I know all there is to know about your public.” “And in your opinion they are only worth rubbish.” “You must get this notion right out of your little head.” “If your opinion of me is as low as that, then I think we have come to the parting of the ways.”

“My opinion of you is that you are a good musical comedy actress and many like you have come to grief by fancying themselves too good for their public.”

“Dolly, I hate you.”

“Desiree, I love you, but you are an idiot and I can tell you this. You’d still be in the back row of the chorus if you had not had me to look after you. Now, be a good girl and have another look at Maud. ”

“I hate Maud, and those lyrics embarrass me.”

“You, embarrassed! You’ve never been embarrassed in your life! Why, Maud is grand opera compared with Follow Your Leader!”

“I don’t agree.”

“A good title, too. Countess Maud. They’ll love it. They’ll all want to see the Countess.”

“I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”

“Well then, there’s only one thing for me to do. I shall get Lottie Langdon to do it. You’ll be green with envy when you see what she makes of it.”

“Lottie Langdon!”

“Why not? She’d fit the part well.”

“Her top notes are shaky.”

“That has a special appeal to some people. They’ll love the story. The shopgirl who is really the daughter of the Earl of Somewhere. It’s just what they like. Well, I’ll be off … to see Lottie.”

There was silence.

“All right,” said Dolly at length. “I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. Then I want a straight answer. Yes or no.”

He came out of the room. I watched him go and then I went up to my room. I felt certain that soon my mother would be plunging into rehearsals for Countess Maud.

I was right. Dolly was paying frequent visits to the house. George Garland, the pianist who always worked with my mother, was in constant attendance, and the household was humming tunes from Countess Maud.

Dolly appeared every day with new ideas which had to be fought out; Martha was dashing round finding patterns and buying what would be needed. It was that period with which we were all familiar, and we should all be relieved when the alarms that flared up during it were over and the first night’s misgivings were proved to have no foundations and we were settled for a long run.

We were getting near opening night and my mother was in a state of nervous tension. She had always been uneasy about Countess Maud, she declared; she wasn’t sure of the lyrics and she thought she should be wearing blue, not pink, for the opening scene. She was sure her gown would clash with the costumes of the chorus; she was getting a little husky. What if she should have a sore throat on the opening night?

I said to her: “You are thinking of every calamity which could befall you. You always do and they never have. The audience will love you and Countess Maud is going to be one of your greatest successes.”

“Thank you, pet. You are a comfort to me. There’s something I’ve just remembered. I can’t possibly dine with Charlie tonight.”

“Is he in London?”

“He will be. He’s coming up today. I’ve got a rehearsal this afternoon and I’m not satisfied with the dance routine with Sir Garnet in the last scene, when he sings: ‘I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still.’ “

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I think he ought to come on from the other side … and I’ve got to make sure I don’t drop my feather boa when I do that quick twirl at the end. But the point is, I’ve got to let Charlie know. Take a note to him for me, will you, darling?”

“Of course. Where is he?”

It suddenly struck me as odd that, close friends as we were with Charlie, I did not know his London address. When he was in London he was constantly visiting us. In fact, sometimes it seemed. as though he lived with us. My mother might have visited him, but I never had. The same applied to Robert Bouchere … though, of course, his home was really in France.

All the same, there was a vague mystery about these two men.

They came and went. I often wondered what they were doing when they were not with us.

However, this was an opportunity to see where Charlie had his London residence, and I seized upon it.

I found the house. It was close to Hyde Park. It was small but typically eighteenth century in origin, with an Adam doorway and spiderweb fanlight.

I rang the bell and a neatly dressed parlourmaid opened the door. I asked if I might see Mr. Claverham.

“Would that be Mr. Charles Claverham, miss, or Mr. Roderick?”

“Oh, Mr. Charles, please.”

She took me into a drawing room where the furnishings matched the house. The heavy velvet curtains at the window toned with the delicate green of the carpet and I could not help comparing the simple elegance with our more solid contemporary style.

The parlourmaid did not return. Instead, a young man entered the room. He was tall and slim with dark hair and friendly brown eyes.

He said: “You wanted to see my father. I’m afraid he’s not here just now. He won’t be in until the afternoon. I wonder if I can help?”

“I have a letter for him. Perhaps I could leave it with you?”

“But of course.”

“It’s from my mother. Desiree, you know.”

“Desiree. Isn’t that the actress?”

I thought how strange it was that Charlie, who was one of my mother’s greatest friends, should not have mentioned her to his son.

“Yes,” I said, and gave him the letter.

“I’ll see that he gets it as soon as he comes in. Won’t you sit down?”

I have always been of an enquiring nature and, because there seemed to be something mysterious in my own background, I suspected there might be in others’. I had always wanted to discover as much as I could about the people I met and I was especially interested now. So I accepted with alacrity.

I said: “I wonder we have not met before. My mother and your father are such great friends. I remember your father from the days when I was very small.”