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Overview
Ashton. The place dreams are made of?
For most of her life, Nancy Vandekar has been haunted by the same disturbing nightmare in which a menacing figure in the shadows calls out her mother’s name: Diana. When Nancy found love, she thought she’d left her past far behind. But now a capricious twist of fate brings her back to Ashton. The magnificent family home masks a legacy of damning secrets, illicit love, suicide, and violence that casts its long shadow over three generations of women.
First, there’s Nancy’s grandmother Alice, the spirited American beauty whose passionate wartime romance has far-reaching consequences for those who come after her. Then Diana, the vivacious debutante whose sexual obsession nearly destroys them all. And finally Nancy, the last remaining heir. She alone can restore the Vandekar name. But is she ready to face the truth about her family?
Spanning decades of extraordinary change, The House of Vandekar paints an indelible portrait of three unforgettable women.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504024273 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 12/15/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 348 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas (1926–2108), a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book, The Occupying Power, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel, The Tamarind Seed, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony’s books have been translated into nineteen languages.
Read an Excerpt
The House of Vandekar
By Evelyn Anthony
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1988 Evelyn AnthonyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2427-3
CHAPTER 1
The child opened her bedroom door: it was easy to unlatch and made no sound. There was a light in the long corridor outside and the massive clock at the foot of the stairs struck two. A woman was coming down the corridor, floating dreamlike on the surface, her red hair gleaming under the light. The child heard a whisper. 'Diana – in here, darling,' in a voice she didn't know. The man was always in shadow, while the woman's face was clear and the negligée drifted round her slight body like a cloud. There was a smile on her face and her eyes were bright, but her look was furtive. Once she paused, one hand pressed to her mouth in fear, as if she heard something. It was a long, long corridor, with no end in sight, as in all nightmares; there were deep patches of shadow where the lights did not penetrate.
The child drew back, watching unseen, and the woman passed by. She did not see the one who followed her, but the child did. Only a shadow, moving out of the radius of the light, a blur of menace that frightened the child so that she wanted to cry out a warning, but no sound came.
Nancy woke, shocked out of sleep by the terror of that old childhood nightmare. Her heart beat too fast; fear made it difficult to breathe for a few seconds. The man beside her didn't notice. He was concentrating on driving through the rain storm. She hadn't dreamed of it for years. Why now? It never varied. She used to wake screaming when she was little, terrified by the shadow without a face that haunted her since she was eight years old. A shadow that was as real as the woman it pursued that night.
Over the years it happened less and less. Time and distance kept it at bay and she herself repressed it, as she had repressed her name and her past life.
It was all over now, nothing left but the nightmare, if and when it came. But the fear and the guilt were still there, lying in wait for her. She hadn't cried out in real life; she had cowered behind the door and crept back into bed, a little girl afraid because she had seen what wasn't meant to be seen by anyone that night.
'David,' she said, 'are we nearly there? I wish you'd tell me where we're going.'
'No chance,' he said, and squeezed her hand for a moment. 'You'll have to wait and see. You were asleep for a bit. It won't be long now, about half an hour.'
It was her birthday and her lover had planned a surprise. 'I'm taking you away for the weekend. Somewhere really special,' he had said, 'No, I'm not telling you where. Just pack a few nice clothes and I'll pick you up at six.'
They had been together for six months. It was the first serious love affair for Nancy since a disastrous episode with a married man in New York which had left her hurt and disillusioned. From that time on she had concentrated on her career and, until David Renwick came into her life, that career was all-important. He wasn't typical of the kind of men she met. Their worlds were very different. Her friends were in antiques, the art world, the auction houses, part of the wide circle of interior designers. Renwick was a self-made millionaire with interests in development and property. Renwick's Estate Agents had expanded into a big public company from the tiny agency he had set up with borrowed capital. At thirty-five he was a well-known subject for the gossip columnists, something of an enigma in a world where self-promotion was part of the business.
She had met him at a dinner party given by a rival colleague who was also a friend. Renwick had engaged his company to decorate his new house in Holland Park. She hadn't expected to like him. Her friend said he was demanding and cost-conscious, but the order was enormous and he had to be kept happy. Nancy was prepared for an arrogant money man with an inflated opinion of himself. Instead she found him charming, intelligent and very attractive. Power and great wealth could endow a man with spurious sex appeal. There was nothing phoney about David Renwick.
The attraction was mutual and he made no secret of it. He didn't waste time: he insisted on driving her home and took her out every night until she asked him to stay. He was so good to her, she thought, and good for her. There were no complications. No wife or ex-wives. They were lovers because they wanted to be, and she knew how important their relationship had become when he said for the first time that he loved her. They'd been together for nearly three months before it happened. Marriage wasn't mentioned. Nancy resisted his suggestion that she give up her flat and move into the new Holland Park house. She teased him by saying she couldn't live with someone else's decor, and he accepted her refusal. She wasn't ready to make the commitment even though he was. He knew how to be patient. He looked at her and smiled.
Not his usual type at all. He liked brunettes, he liked them petite and not very clever. She was tall, had bright red hair and was decidedly intelligent.
He wanted this birthday to be special for her, because he had something special in mind for them both. That was why he had chosen this particular hotel. He was enjoying keeping the destination a secret. He wanted to surprise and delight her. It would be her sort of place. She was that sort of woman. Although he didn't know much about her personal life, he could tell that at a glance. He had had a lot of girlfriends. He liked beautiful girls and beautiful girls liked him. Not just because he was rich, as one indiscreet young lady put it, but he was a fantastic screw as well. The remark ended their affair. Since meeting Nancy he had dropped his other women friends.
The gossipmongers had got bored and stopped watching him. Other men had the headlines now. David didn't mind. He hadn't cared about the publicity when it was directed at tarts calling themselves models and socialites who were both. But Nancy was different. He didn't want the muckrakers getting after her. He slowed in the driving rain – there was a signpost nearby and he didn't want to miss the turning. 'Light me a cigarette, darling, will you?' he said, to distract Nancy's attention. She missed the notice and he turned the car through a blur of wrought-iron gates. There were speed bumps along the drive and he slowed to 20 miles an hour. Great trees arched overhead, dripping silver rain. The headlights searched the way ahead, twisting and turning for over a mile. She was peering through the whirring wipers, trying to see out. And then they rounded the last corner and the house rose up before them bathed in floodlights. Two wide wings embraced the central building. Its grace and symmetry had thrilled him the first time he saw it in a photograph. The reality was far more splendid.
'Here we are, darling,' he announced. 'Ashton! Quite a place?' The car had drawn up in front of the steps leading to the portico.
'Yes,' Nancy answered.
Someone opened her door, holding an umbrella. She got out. She heard a man say, 'We'll put the car in the garage, sir, and bring up your luggage. This way, please.'
They walked up the steps and through the open double doors into the hall.
'If you'd like to sign the register, sir?'
She took a few steps forward while David went to the desk. The lighting was subdued in the enormous hall. A room, not a hall, with a big open fire blazing at one end. The tapestries still moved as if there was a draught, and at each side were suits of armour, oiled and gleaming. The one nearest the stairs had a grotesque German animal helmet that used to frighten the children. And there, by the fireplace, was the portrait.
David came hurrying back to her, taking her arm. 'Like it? Fantastic isn't it?'
'You're in the Fern Suite.' A young man in footman's livery preceded them to the main staircase, massive and dark, with carved sentinel figures on each newel post. For a moment Nancy touched the banisters. She didn't mean to, but she moved ahead, passing them both, leading the way.
'It's here,' she said, and turned to the right a few yards down the corridor.
'Yes, madam.' The footman sounded surprised. He opened the door and stood aside.
They were in a high-ceilinged room, lavishly decorated, with a handsome half-tester bed facing the windows. There were flowers and an ice bucket with champagne. David had thought of everything. He tipped the young man, who thanked him and said, 'Your luggage will be brought up in a moment, sir.'
Nancy went to the window and drew back the curtains. There, in the distance, was the shimmer of the man-made lake and the famous Bologna group of Cupid and Psyche embracing in the driving rain, haloed in a single spotlight.
Behind her she heard him say, 'You've been here before.' She turned away, letting the curtain fall.
He was standing, staring at her. He looked angry and disappointed. 'You have been here before. It's only been open for four months. Who brought you here?'
'No one.' Nancy said quietly. 'No one, David. I was born here. This was my Aunt Fern's bedroom. My real name is Vandekar. Alice Vandekar was my grandmother.'
The day had begun well. Her office was in Culver Place. When she arrived that morning her personal assistant had brought in a handsome potted plant with best wishes for her birthday from the staff.
She had engaged a young man. She liked him and so far there had been no clash of personalities between them. He didn't mind taking orders from a woman. She had gathered a good team of designers around her and a small but dynamic sales force. She kept the tradename Becker because it was prestigious and added the one she had adopted for herself. Percival. Becker & Percival Interior Designers.
'Tim,' she said to her secretary, 'Get Mr Rowland on the line, will you? I want to talk to him about the Grosvenor order – and I'd love a cup of coffee.'
The morning had passed quickly; the plant looked very well on her desk. How nice of them to remember, she thought. Lunch with two French buyers, both new clients with some very big companies on their books. An order for exclusive Becker & Percival designs would expand her European business into something really serious. So far the company had only nibbled at the French and German textile industries. If it went well over lunch and during the afternoon, she might end up with a head start over some of her larger competitors.
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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The House of Vandekar by Evelyn Anthony. Copyright © 1988 Evelyn Anthony. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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