Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

S tella slept all day, and Grace’s pages remained blank, or messy with odd loose words adrift from any sense. She glanced down at the page without any clear memory of what she’d been writing at all, and saw, with a terrible sort of grief, that the page was scattered with words from that damn notice. Jason de Witte. Jack had offered to find him and punch him in the jaw when it had first appeared, and Grace had been strongly tempted to let him.

Stella’s agent, usually steely and unflappable, had been rattled when Grace spoke to her on the phone. She understood why Stella was upset, but fleeing London seemed an excessive reaction. She was sure that the gossip in the newspapers would die down in a matter of days, and The Lyric, where Stella had been appearing, would be happy to have her back on stage at once. On the other hand, a pair of detectives from Scotland Yard were eager to talk to her, and would make the journey to Highbridge the day after tomorrow.

Grace screwed up her latest piece of foolscap and tossed it into the wastepaper basket, then picked up a shawl from the back of her chair and went out through the house, and through the French windows leading from the drawing room to the terrace at the rear. The sleet had stopped, but it was a damp and misty evening. She pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders and walked along the gravel path between the turned earth of the flower beds and breathed in. Wet grass, straw, woodsmoke. They would be getting ready for the evening performance at the theatre now: the principals in their dressing rooms; the stage crew checking and coiling the fly ropes; the musicians arriving and hanging their coats in the band rooms, exchanging greetings; the chink of the glasses in the bars as the staff slid them onto the shelves and polished the brass fittings. God, she missed the theatre, and The Empire in particular, but there was no way to get back to it other than by writing this damn play. And she could not write. She should have been a great deal more specific in her prayer, she realised. She should have asked for something to happen which would get her home, put the boards under her feet again.

The French windows rattled behind her and she turned. Jack and Lillian were stepping through them onto the terrace, in the midst of what looked like a fierce argument. Nikolai was following a few paces behind, staring off into the middle distance with the expression of a man who is making it clear he is trying not to listen, even though he obviously cannot avoid doing so.

‘No, Lillian, absolutely not,’ Jack hissed at his mother as they came within earshot. ‘You can’t possibly ask her!’

‘Ask me what?’ Grace asked, alarmed at Jack’s slightly wild look.

‘Well?’ Lillian said to her son.

‘I’m not having it.’ Jack ran his hand through his hair. ‘Before I tell you anything, Grace, you have to know that.’

Grace was really worried now. ‘Jack, do just tell me.’

He inhaled. ‘Very well. Archibald Flynn, our director for the panto, has disappeared.’

‘He’s done what ?’ Grace gasped.

‘We got a call from his agent this afternoon, telling us that he is unavailable.’

Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, Lord! Is he ill?’

‘That’s what I asked,’ Jack replied. ‘His agent wouldn’t say, so Lillian has been calling people in London this afternoon.’

‘Evie said there’s been a rumour doing the rounds in town that he got involved in a tax avoidance scheme,’ Lillian said with a sigh. ‘The authorities apparently got wind of it and Archibald has fled the country.’

‘Whatever the ins and outs,’ Jack said crossly, ‘the long and the short of it is, we start rehearsals in a week and we have no one to take the helm.’

Grace stared between them. Lillian looked a little pleased with herself – strange for a producer in her position – and Jack looked furious. ‘So what were you two arguing about?’

Lillian adjusted the fur wrap around her shoulders. ‘I told Jack we have an excellent director at Lassiter Court.’

‘You mean Nikolai?’ Grace asked, then noticed that gentleman vigorously shaking his head.

‘No, Grace, you goose,’ Lillian replied. ‘I meant you.’

Grace recoiled slightly. ‘But, Lillian, I’ve never directed a panto!’

‘Neither have I!’ Nikolai exclaimed. ‘I have not even seen one, whereas you, Grace, have seen many productions while you worked at The Empire, I think.’ He caught a black look from Jack, lifted his hands, took a step back and pretended to be very interested in the flagstones of the terrace.

‘That’s exactly what I said, Grace,’ Jack said. ‘You can’t possibly do it. You haven’t been well and you’re writing. It’s a ridiculous idea – the strain would be enormous. What, just a few days to prepare, then be thrown in at deep end with a vast cast! No, ridiculous. We’ll find somebody else, of course we will.’

Lillian pursed her lips. ‘Everyone experienced is already booked! Grace knows the theatre back to front – good Lord, she helped build it – and half the cast. She’s directed comedies and written musicals. Honestly, I don’t know why we didn’t hire her to direct in the first place!’

‘She’s not well!’ Jack said again, his face pale and jaw set.

Lillian met his gaze, but did not reply. Nikolai cleared his throat.

‘Perhaps we should let Jack and Grace discuss this in private, Lillian,’ he said eventually. ‘Let me mix you a Martini.’

Lillian lifted her chin, then, without further comment, she turned to the terrace and allowed Nikolai to lead her back into the house.

‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Jack shouted at their retreating backs.

Grace took a step towards him. ‘Of course there is, Jack. You know as well as I do, every experienced panto director in the country will be booked. Who do you mean to hire?’

‘We’ll muddle through, darling,’ he said, trying to smile as he patted her arm. ‘You aren’t well and you want to write. You’ve always wanted to write. I can’t let the latest of my muddles get in your way. Perhaps Harold would like to direct as well as being the dame. Nikolai might assist him . . .’

A terrible thought struck her. ‘Jack, do you think I can’t do it? That I’m not capable?’

‘No! You’re an excellent director, Grace. Clear, and actors love you, and you’re terribly organised. But you haven’t been well.’

She bit her lip. ‘Do stop saying that, Jack. I’m not sure that staying at home is making me any better. Perhaps I should do it. The doctor says I’m healthy as a horse physically.’

‘No, Grace! What about your writing?’

‘Jack, I want to be at The Empire!’ His face looked drawn and confused. She took hold of his wrist, feeling the taut muscles under the suit jacket and shirt, stroking the inside of his wrist with her thumb. The quiet darkness seemed to lean in towards them. She stepped forward, so the light from the drawing room windows fell across her face. ‘I’ve felt so terribly lonely, and now here’s a chance for me to come back to the very heart of things for a while.’

‘Grace, you’re very brave, but the strain of directing a panto . . . It’s the biggest production of the year!’

‘I’ve just told you, the doctor says I’m perfectly well,’ Grace snapped, pulling back from him and only just managing to prevent herself from stamping her foot. ‘And I know what staging one is like just as well as you do. I saw five of them through from casting call to first night before you even knew The Empire existed.’

He carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘You’ll have to do all the preparations and plan the rehearsal schedule. Of course, Nikolai has offered to assist you and Lillian says she’d be happy to supervise the set design.’

‘Excellent.’ Grace felt a flare of excitement. ‘It will be difficult . . .’

‘Exactly! I won’t have Nikolai and Lillian bullying you back into the theatre. Lillian has the best address book in theatre land. We’ll find someone.’

‘Jack Treadwell, just stop and listen. I know you think you’re protecting me, but you aren’t! You’re standing in my way.’ That brought him up short. He blinked at Grace as if seeing her clearly for the first time since he’d barrelled into the garden. ‘Jack, you’ve been treating me like I’m made of china for months, and sometimes it’s very nice to be looked after, but this is too much. Look at me, darling.’

He did, and some of that flare of excitement must have shown on her face.

‘Are you sure, Grace?’

She laughed. ‘No, it’s a terrifying idea, but I’d do pretty much anything to be back in the theatre again.’

He wrapped his arm round her waist. ‘You’ve missed it so much?’

‘I have. I was beginning to get very jealous of Miss Chisholm.’

He laughed softly. ‘How unfair, when I’ve been gritting my teeth about you reading stirring dramas with Nikolai. Is this another product of your prayer, Grace?’

‘I hope not.’

They walked back up to the terrace, hand in hand.

‘How is Stella?’

‘Still asleep. Her agent said she’ll be welcome back at the Lyric any time, but we need to get her through the next few days first. Jack, a pair of detectives from Scotland Yard are coming up to question her.’

He groaned. ‘If ever the thought crosses your mind to wish for something to happen again, you must promise me you’ll go outside and spin and spit.’

‘I promise, I will,’ she said with conviction.

He opened the door for her and the sound of the gramophone greeted them in the hallway. He immediately brightened. ‘What’s that?’

‘Evie sent some records over from New York. That’s Louis Armstrong playing “Muskrat Ramble”.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sounds like the sort of tune Lillian puts on when she’s celebrating. She knew you’d say yes, didn’t she?’

She kissed him. ‘Lillian is a very clever woman. Try not to hold it against her.’

‘Grace, are you absolutely sure?’

She leant against him, listening to the music. ‘Yes. I feel like you’ve invited me home.’