OUR GUEST AUTHOR, J.F. HOWARD, SHARES WITH US AN EXCERPT FROM HIS NOVEL, 'A SCANDAL OF SECRETS'
- Eva Bielby
- Jul 1
- 11 min read
As a lover of history and the written word, as well as someone fascinated by human nature and the emotions that control it, A Scandal of Secrets has become my way of examining and paying tribute to those things. It seems strange that a chance meeting on social media with a wonderful lady, who just so happened to share my passion for storytelling, gave me the chance to achieve a lifetime ambition that I plan on turning into a saga.
But a saga needs a beginning, so here is a snippet from where it all began, A Scandal of Secrets:
EXCERPT
Anthony lay on his luxurious bed and gazed at the ceiling. Dinner had been a quiet affair, with seemingly everyone concealing something. He had taken up the role of making small talk as the usual performer of that task, his mother Jane, was clearly elsewhere in her mind. Philip had made his usual grunts and comments about ‘quality food’ and ‘excellent wine’ but they had been more like statements rather than invitations to conversation.
Not that Anthony minded. He had a number of things on his mind. Cecile may have been at the front of those thoughts but hearing his mother argue back with Philip had invaded his head and was refusing to leave. It was not customary of Jane to argue, she had become so adept at taking verbal blows and directing conversation back to where Philip could feed his ego and stay true to his traditional views of how people of his class should live life.
What had his stepfather done to evoke such a reaction?
Anthony gazed down and decided to remove his shoes. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his tie removed. This was something he felt comfortable doing in the safety of his bedroom. Philip’s standards must be maintained, which meant dressing for dinner, even if the Crawfords weren’t entertaining. In his room, though, he needn’t worry. Citing a long day and desire for an early night, he had politely asked to be excused from the dinner table, kissed his mother goodnight, and acknowledged his stepfather before ascending the grand staircase and hastily making his way to his room at the end of the long corridor. He’d quickly brushed off Soames,’ “Will there be anything else, Master Anthony?” and, closing the door behind him, he strode to the window and drew back the soft, off-white curtains to gaze out over the vast, open grounds that stretched as far as Anthony could see in the matt darkness of a stormy night. Troubled by thoughts of his mother, Cecile, his own future, Harry’s cold, and the last conversation, which all ran amok in his head, he’d thrust the curtains shut again and threw himself on his bed, where he now lay, half undressed.
He fantasized about Cecile alongside him. It would surely be a risk she would not be prepared to take, but he hoped that their next encounter would be somewhere more comfortable than the pokey, drab office where they’d consummated their ‘arrangement’.
Not that he was complaining. Her beauty was matched by her confidence. She knew what she wanted, and she was going to have it. Women like that excited Anthony and Cecile was a craving he wanted and needed to continually satisfy. He thought about her – how she’d felt, how she’d smelt, how her nails had raked against his back as she kissed his neck. A passionate lover, she was in charge and knew how to get pleasure in whatever she did. Anthony had been curious as to how much Benson could potentially hear, but it hadn’t bothered Cecile as she devoured her new leading man.
Leading man! At least that is what he hoped. His mind drifted back to Fairbanks as Robin Hood. Though cinema was silent but for the music, the dashing American had an uncanny ability to say so much through facial expression and physical prowess. A different acting style to Chaplin, Anthony always felt he combined the best attributes of the two. Enid Bennett had been Fairbank’s love interest as Maid Marian and was an attractive lady with a charming look of innocence, although Anthony reasoned that Cecile would never be as subservient, and winning her heart would probably be an even more formidable task than defeating the evil Sir Guy of Gisbourne. But, of course, he would do it with a sense of style, panache and humour that would even draw the praise of Hollywood’s leading lights.
In the cold light of day, there was no way they could be together, and Anthony knew that this wouldn’t have the fairy tale ending where the king would give the happy couple his blessing. Where would this lead? He didn’t know, but he would take from it what he could, which hopefully included many stolen moments with the beautiful wife of Robert Ford. Cecile had assured Anthony that she would explain more about the film projects upon their next meet. Not too interested in making conversation as they had hastily dressed after their encounter, it was as though she had overrun and was perhaps late for something else. Or maybe she had developed a sudden fear of being caught in the act and the eschewing scandal that would undoubtedly follow.
Kissing him softly while running her hand down his chest, she had whispered, “Till we meet again,” before motioning his departure by turning from him. Anthony walked away briskly and with purpose, barely able to hide the smile or spring in his step. This was a danger that appealed to his rebellious and creative nature and the sort of story Hollywood would crave but never admit it was ready for. Perhaps he, Anthony Crawford would be the revolutionary trailblazer to drag the film industry forward and free of inhibitions! He was on top of the world, and anything was now possible.
His good mood had been briefly halted by the sign of Benson. His creepy eyes followed Anthony out of the door, but the young Crawford had been polite enough to acknowledge Cecile’s chauffeur. He had taken an instant dislike to the man but was unsure why. Perhaps he acted as a stark reminder that if what Cecile and Anthony were doing became known, it would create such a scandal amongst high society that two extremely important families, both great London households, would be gravely impacted – perhaps even destroyed – by the revelations.
Replaying the day’s events had made him restless. He sprung up from his bed again and paced up and down. The thick carpet felt soft and comforting beneath his feet and he removed his socks to enjoy the sensation even more. This was something he enjoyed as a child and recalled how much his mum would chuckle as she watched her son enjoy stepping on the carpet as though he’d never stepped on anything like it before. Which was true. Jane often hid her guilt of not providing for her young son behind a smile; burying her thoughts and fears and carrying on with life for the benefit of others. Anthony tried so many times to say that she had no need to feel guilty, but it was not the kind of conversation Jane would entertain. He’d understood why she had worked long hours doing all manner of jobs. He had friends that were as hungry as he but, for a man who loved literature, he could never articulate to his mother that her love was enough to make him happy, despite those long, cold nights and endless days of deliberately avoiding the chip shop as the aroma of salt and vinegar were too much to endure on an empty stomach. His mother’s marriage to Philip had guaranteed both her and son’s future and provided opportunity. That was enough and she was willing to play whatever role was expected of her to ensure that future remained secure.
This brought Anthony’s thoughts full circle. What had Philip done to cause his mother to argue with her husband? Business? Possible, but unlikely. Although Jane had been Philip’s secretary and knew more about his business than she ever admitted, she was never consulted by Philip and was certainly not privy to any of her husband’s business plans. Personal? This was more likely, Anthony surmised. Was it an affair? Anthony never saw Philip as a philanderer, more married to his work than anything, but of course, he was a man who had the opportunity and the wherewithal to conduct an affair. He never talked about where he’d been, or what he had done, so neither Jane nor Anthony would ever know if he was engaged in a clandestine relationship. But something about this scenario didn’t sit right with Anthony. He was miscasting his stepfather into some villainous, straying husband and Philip was nothing of the sort.
Maybe he had been meddling in Anthony’s life again? Philip did so like to interfere, always wanting to be in control and not accepting anyone was entitled to a private life. This could be a possibility. Jane always put her foot down where her son was concerned, and Anthony knew that his mother would go into battle for him and had done so on several occasions in the past. Had this been one of those times? Or had Philip simply caught Jane on a bad day?
The trouble with the upper classes, Anthony thought, was that they were so bloody straight-laced – or at least they gave that impression when, in actual fact, the air of respectability was often nothing more than a deceptive smoke screen for anything from marital rows, business troubles and even hedonism involving extra marital affairs.
Anthony’s fears were now bordering on paranoia. He returned to the window again and opened his curtains before lifting the sashes and letting the night air into the room. The storm was still threatening but it remained dry. The night air was bitter, but Anthony welcomed the cold, fresh breeze on his face. He found that fresh air often cleared his head and provided oxygen for creativity. Still full of crazy thoughts, he could feel his mind beginning to ease, as though each and every topic was being carefully arranged in a filing cabinet for him to address when ready.
Feeling refreshed and calmer, Anthony remained by the open window, enjoying the cold night air. What was going on outside? Metaphorically transporting himself into the homes and lives of others was a usual escape for him during the numerous times Philip had scolded or belittled him over something he had or hadn’t done. As the conversations had grown into various pitches for a place in the family business usually followed by a firm rebuke, Anthony continued to use this tactic of imagining life away from the Crawford residence. He would make up comedic, exciting tales about the scandalous goings on in the various addresses that he could barely make out over the horizon. Stories that would one day become cinematic classes that would be endorsed and celebrated by Chaplin and the elite.
But could Cecile help make this dream a reality? Could this illicit encounter provide a springboard for achieving his dreams of a career in film and would it enable him to no longer have to worry about wanting to be part of the Crawford empire? Anthony felt another bout of anger towards his stepfather boiling up before a twinge of guilt cut through him, reminding himself that he was using Cecile to gain revenge against his stepfather for not wanting him in the business. Anthony shook his head, the cold realisation that he was no better than the hypocritical elites he purported to despise! How had that happened? Taking a deep breath of cold night air, Anthony quickly reminded himself that Cecile was a grown woman who had approached him with offers of opportunity and passion, and all he had done was accept what was on offer. He was guilty of nothing, he thought, rather complacently, as he stepped away from the window, full of self-assurance that he was the victim, not Cecile!
Closing the sashes and swishing the curtains closed again, Anthony knew that sleep would not be his friend tonight. He sat at his desk and prepared to write to Cecile. He didn’t dare communicate via telephone; the only other form of communication he could think of, short of a face-to-face encounter. He needed to know when they were to meet next, he wanted to tell her how he felt. Ten minutes in, and he was still struggling with the opening address.
Dear Cecile. My dearest Cecile. My Darling. Frantically crumpling pieces of paper, he was at a loss to know how to write his feelings down and reasoned that perhaps it would be a task better completed when not so emotionally charged. Deciding he needed a drink, he put on his shoes and socks and made for the door. Anthony would never venture out his room without shoes, years of etiquette training from Philip had made the very thought seem peculiar. His shirt was still unbuttoned at the collar which he reasoned was fine since he was only looking to quench his thirst and at this late hour, there would be no-one about.
Making his way down the stairs, Anthony should have known that Soames would appear, as if by magic. The butler greeted him as soon as he stepped into the hall.
“Master Anthony,” Soames bowed his head, deferentially. “Is everything alright, Sir?”
“Fine, thank you, Soames. Just a bit thirsty.”
“Allow me to assist, Master Anthony. What do you desire?”
She lived in another house with her husband about eight miles away. The thought made Anthony smile as he answered Soames.
“A glass of hot milk would be fine, thank you.”
“I will get Rose to fetch you one, straight away. Should I instruct her to bring it to your room?”
Anthony knew that was code for ‘get yourself to bed’, but he agreed and made his way back to his bedroom. He was unsure if he would write to Cecile tonight but would make his decision after his drink, which he discovered he was looking forward to. The frothy milk, and a hint of cinnamon had become a firm favourite with the young Crawford and even now that he was a grown man, it still sustained and calmed him. Back in his room, he waited for the knock at the door, which followed almost immediately. Suddenly feeling a tinge of tiredness, he bade the servant ‘Enter!’ and thought about Rose. A maid, who had been in service longer than Anthony had been alive, she was painfully thin with grey hair that was always pulled into an excruciatingly tight bun, which sat beneath her maid’s cap. A popular figure in the household, Rose’s pleasant demeanour and positive voice were always something that cheered him up.
That happy feeling was short-lived as Soames entered his room with a glass of hot milk.
“Your milk, Master Anthony.”
“I thought Rose was bringing it?”
“Apologies, Sir, it slipped my mind but after you’d retired, a message addressed to you was delivered.” Soames’ eyes motioned to the platter, which had a small, brown envelope on it. ‘I felt it more appropriate for me to deliver it, rather than entrust it to one of the maids."
“Thank you, Soames.” Anthony took the message with his free hand, almost spilling his milk due to his eagerness to obtain the envelope.
“Will that be all, Master Anthony?” Soames asked.
"Yes. You may retire.” Anthony answered quickly and closed the door, his earlier paranoia returning. Soames never forgot anything, delivering the envelope the way he had was deliberate. But why? Setting aside his much-desired milk, he sat down at his desk and opened the envelope. There was no address on the front, simply his name. He didn’t recognise the writing. Somehow, it made him feel uneasy. Unfolding the paper, a cold shiver came over him as he silently read the message.
'History has taught us through the years,
Most situations will end in tears.
Your actions will cause you much remorse,
Playing with things that are not yours.
Think on your sins, I ask not that much,
Carry on your wicked ways, and I shall be in touch.
Bad things happen when people are scorned,
Think on your sins, you have been warned.'
**********
The sequel to A Scandal of Secrets, Secrets of Scandals Past, arrives on the virtual and physical shelves later this year.
COMING SOON: On Friday 4th July, our team member, author Lorraine Carey, is sharing chapter two of the second book in the 'Women of Willow Wood' trilogy, 'On Borrowed Time'.
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