When the car turned into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel, her underlying fears crystallized into actual terror and she could hardly force herself to get out when the door was opened for her.
The chauffeur followed her inside and spoke to the receptionist.
“Will you see that Miss Kingsley is taken up to Lady Davenport’s suite?” he said, smoothly, and Samantha’s eyes widened. Lady Davenport. Her grandmother was Lady Davenport. Her stomach turned over. This was even more frightening than she had expected.
One of the bellboys took her suitcase and asked her to follow him into the lift. Speculative eyes watched their progress. Samantha was made uncomfortably aware of the limitations of her poplin coat and flat-heeled shoes.
The lift halted on the second floor and she was conducted down the corridor to her grandmother’s suite. The bellboy waited until a maid opened the door and then Samantha was left in her charge.
By this time Samantha felt rather like a parcel that was being handed round from person to person and felt sure her grandmother must be quite an awe-inspiring person.
However, she seemed to have reached her destination, for the maid took her coat and said kindly: “Sit down, won’t you? Lady Davenport will be with you directly.”
“Thank you.” Samantha complied with her instructions and seated herself on a low couch. The maid left the room, apparently to inform Samantha’s grandmother that she had arrived and Samantha looked round her with interest. It was a massive room, beautifully decorated, with a thick carpet fitting into all alcoves. The furniture was expensive and luxurious and the room was heated and wonderfully warm after the cold air outside the hotel.
A few moments later a door opened and Samantha looked round and rose tremblingly to her feet as an old lady came into the room, leaning heavily on a stick. She was very small and fragile looking, with grey hair and a lined face. She was dressed fashionably in a mauve silk two-piece and her eyes, which were a definite blue, twinkled a little.
Samantha stood before her, wondering what she should do; or say. Lady Davenport smiled. She had a warm gentle face and Samantha felt some of her trepidation leave her.
“My dear,” she said softly. “Samantha, you’re here!”
“Grandmother,” said Samantha slowly. “It sounds so strange. I never knew I had any other relations.”
The old lady made her way across the room until she was close to her and then said: “You may kiss me, my dear.”
Samantha bent and touched the soft cheek with her lips, and then the tension she had been feeling snapped and she put her arms round the old lady and hugged her, feeling tears coming to her eyes.
“There, that’s better,” said Lady Davenport, her own eyes a little moist. “Shall we sit down, my dear? My legs are not what they used to be.”
They sat, side by side, on the couch and Lady Davenport looked at her thoughtfully.
“You’re much more like John than Barbara,” she said, at last. “Oh, Samantha, you’ve no idea how I’ve longed to see you.”
“But why …?” Samantha halted.
“In a moment, my dear,” said her grandmother gently. “Let’s have some tea first, and then we can talk.”
The maid brought in a tea trolley, and for a while the clatter of the cups and the tinkle of spoons on bone china silenced both of them. They each seemed to be studying the other. Both had so much lost time to make up.
When they were finished, her grandmother offered Samantha a cigarette from a onyx cigarette box and after it had been lit, Lady Davenport lay back against the damask upholstery.
“And now! You feel refreshed?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” said Samantha, smiling.
“I was sorry I could not meet you at the airport, but I have a little trouble with my old body and my doctor insists that I rest after lunch every afternoon. Did Barnes find you satisfactorily?”
Samantha smiled reminiscently. She was thinking again of Patrick Mallory. “Yes, he found me,” she replied quietly.
“Good.” Lady Davenport bit her lip. She was obviously finding it difficult to begin. At least, Samantha thought, she was no ogre. She was a sweet old lady, but where was her mother?
“I suppose I must begin by telling you about my daughter,” said Lady Davenport slowly.
“My mother?”
“Yes, your mother. Barbara.” Lady Davenport sighed. “Your mother is my only child. She was born when both Harold and I were past believing we would ever have any children. I’m telling you this because Barbara was always spoiled and I’m afraid Harold and I were to blame. She grew up accepting everything as her right. When she met your father she wanted him, too. She was eighteen at the time and far too young really to know her own mind. They were married two months later. It was just after the war as you know, and Barbara was an up-and-coming actress in a London repertory company, mainly entertaining the troops and going on tours. You know the sort of thing. Your father was in the Navy and looked very handsome in his uniform. Lots of couples were getting married at that time and Barbara was so sure she was in love. Naturally, soon after the wedding John went back to sea and they saw little of one another for some time. By then you were a little over a year old.” She paused and twisted a ring round her finger.
“When Barbara found she was pregnant in the first place she was furious. She had to leave her career and come home to Wiltshire. After you were born, she could not wait to get back again.” She frowned. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry about this, but you were an encumbrance.”
Samantha felt the tears come to her eyes, but she forced them back. “Go on,” she said, longing to know and yet dreading the inevitable.
“When John was demobbed, he came home to find you living at Daven with me, and a nanny, of course, and Barbara back in London. I did not mind. You were a delightful child and I thought the world of you. Unfortunately, John did not see it that way. He thought, and naturally so, that Barbara herself ought to have care of you. Before the war he had been a schoolmaster and he had seen the result of this kind of upbringing on a child whose parents were separated. At any rate, he took you away from me and got a flat in London. For a while the old attachment seemed to work on Barbara, John was so masterful and still a very handsome man. For a while she did only bit-parts and looked after you and lived with John.
“I was sure everything was going to turn out all right, now that John was home again. Barbara seemed happy enough …” She sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I must be frank, John found out she was having an affair with a film producer. He had probably promised her all sorts of parts in his films. He was a married man too.” Samantha felt dreadful. Was this the mother she had so urgently wanted to meet?
“By then, you were nearly four. John refused to speak to Barbara after that. Without our knowledge, he sold everything he could lay his hands on, drew his savings out of the bank and disappeared, with you. Later his solicitors contacted us from Milan to say that he was living in Italy and did not wish to let us know his address.
“Barbara seemed not to care and without her support there was little I could do. She began getting bigger and better parts and as the years went by she became famous. Now she is able to choose her own parts. She is a remarkably good actress, whatever her faults may be.”
“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Samantha. “How could she do such a thing?”
“Barbara is wilful and single-minded. She always intended being a success and she has succeeded in her object. She likes men. There have always been men hanging around