I'll See You in Paris (21 page)

With a sigh, Pru plunked down onto the bed.

“I can stay,” she said. “For a minute.”

She wasn't “done for the day” but Win was more interesting than shoveling dog feces, which was the very best she could say about him.

“Here,” he said and passed her the wine. “Bottoms up.”

Pru took the bottle and peered into it. Might there be glasses downstairs? Or was she supposed to guzzle straight from the top? Pru wasn't the persnickety type but some stemware would've been nice.

“Where'd you get this?” she asked.

“Brought a few liters with me.” He released a silent, though pungent, burp. “My family owns a winery. Welsh Wine. It's for shit and I advise you never to put it near an open flame. But, alas, it is wine. And sometimes that's all you need.”

Pru was never a wine drinker. She enjoyed the occasional beer in college, a few tokes on a periodic joint, but that was the extent of it. However, she was now holed up in a haunted house, her only human companions a writer and a lunatic. Wine seemed like a damned logical medicine to take.

“Well, here goes nothing,” she said and downed a gulp.

As it slid into her throat, hot and slightly burning, Pru immediately understood his comment about the open flame. Within seconds, her belly loosened. Pru tipped the bottle back again.

Win might've been a little drunk, but he was a lot befuddled. It was a remarkable situation to have a female exactly where he wanted her. In this case, voluntarily entertaining his attempts at conversation.

And Pru was something more than most, different from the ordinary gals he met at university and in not-so-subtle setups arranged around his parents' supper table. All those Imogens and Rosalies and So-and-So Poppleswell-Hawkes, not a one as appealing as Pru.

Oh yes, he'd noticed, she'd be surprised to learn. Though seemingly on a one-way journey to Duchess-ville, Win Seton had developed no small regard for Pru. She was lovely and smart and had a wicked snap of humor beneath all the jitters and nerves. He didn't know her well but the truth was Pru intrigued him from the start. Now that she sat beside him, the big problem was what to do with her, the bigger yet how he might entice her to stay.

 

Thirty-six

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

JANUARY 1973

“So, my fair American,” Win said as they passed the wine back and forth between them. “What are you doing here?”

“Delivering your food, same as always. But if you want me to leave…”

Pru rose to her feet. Already her legs were warm and weak.

“No,” Win said, and pushed her back onto the bed gently.

He did not immediately move his hand from her lap. A chill rippled through Pru's body.

“Stay,” he said. “And I didn't mean why are you here, in this room. I meant why are you here? In this old house, with that old lady? Here, have another sip.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied, increasingly emboldened by the wine, its taste continuing to sting the back of her nose. “As opposed to you, I'm getting paid. Quite handsomely at that.”

“Well, your excuse is far superior to mine.”

“Not exactly a high hurdle.”

“Ouch! I think I have a scar from that hit.” He chuckled in return. “You think it's odd, don't you? That I care so much about this old broad?”

“Odd is one word for it.”

“I mean, what precisely have I accomplished in the last three weeks?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell,” Pru said, and took another drink.

“So much effort. So much unneeded strife! Subjecting myself to drawn-out confabulations, fretting over blank tapes, possibly catching typhoid in this dank and musty home. All in the name of research.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Don't I know there are hungry children in the world?” he rolled on. “Natural disasters? There are wars, for Christ's sake! In Africa. And the Orient. Thanks to you chirpy Americans, there are entire villages being blown to bits!”

Pru flinched, and then swiped the bottle from his paws.

“Now I see why you're a writer,” she said. “You don't have the proper interpersonal skills for a real job.”

“You'll get no dispute from me.”

Damn, he was blowing it already and didn't even know why. Alas, no surprise there. Mishandling the attentions of this pretty young thing was only a matter of time.

“Listen, I'm not sure what I said to offend—”

“I may live in a dilapidated mansion,” Pru said, cutting into his sentence with the bite in her voice. “And I might work for an old woman who likes to shoot at people for recreation. But at least I have the good sense not to spout off about things I'm completely ignorant on.”

“I do tend to do that, don't I? Anyhow, I enjoy being the nob. Expertise is overrated and my boggling nature makes people grateful not to be saddled with my very convoluted brain. I'm doing society a favor! Come now, enough with that sour-lemon face. I'm allowed to have an opinion on things. What do you call it in America? Free speech?”

“Yes, free speech, which doesn't necessarily entitle one to act like an ignoramus.”

“Jesus H. A bit tetchy about Vietnam, are we?”

Win tipped over the bottle but they'd sucked it dry. He wondered if she wanted him to open another.

“TETCHY!” Pru said. “Do you have any manners at all?”

“What's wrong, never met anyone against the war?” he asked, and discarded the bottle onto the floor. It hit the boards with a clonk, then rolled toward Pru. “You said you went to Berkeley. I hear there are a few protestor-types round there.”

“You don't know the first thing about it,” Pru said. “So I respectfully request that you button your piehole.”

“Damn, I didn't expect such spice—”

“And, since we're speaking of wars,” Pru continued, good and fired up now. She kicked at the bottle and watched it roll back toward him. “You're welcome for saving your pale, puddingy countrymen from the Germans.”

Win's face dropped. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

The man was many things, not the least of which was Banbury's resident village idiot, but Win Seton was never intentionally unkind. Yes, he was accidentally cruel at a near-criminal rate, but never on purpose. He hadn't realized he was doing it until he saw how low he'd brought the girl. All the way down to his godforsaken level. And for what? He didn't give a shit about Vietnam, either way.

“Shite on a biscuit,” he said and ran both hands over his stubble. “Aw, Miss Valentine, I didn't aim to be such an arse. I was going for waggish. And failing spectacularly as it happens.”

“Yeah, you weren't funny at all,” Pru said, and crossed her arms.

She studied him for several moments before finally speaking again.

“But I probably overreacted,” she admitted. “It's a sensitive topic for me.”

“Oh Christ,” he said, the truth hitting him with a crack. Of course she was sensitive about Vietnam.
Of course.
“You have some beloved fighting the Charlie over in Nam, don't you?”

Pru bit her lips together, refusing to answer, unwilling to kick about in this game.

“Fuck it all to hell,” Win said. “Please forgive me, if you can. I'm a writer. We exaggerate. We make nonsensical statements and see ourselves as cleverer than we could ever hope to be. Here! Let me open this bottle. Let's have another and forget this conversation ever happened.”

Within seconds, a cork popped. Before he could blink, Pru grabbed it and took the first swig.

“No, you're right,” she told him after a satisfying gulp. “I am ‘tetchy' about the subject. There is no beloved in Vietnam, though, sorry to report.”

“Really? No grand love blasting away the VC?”

Eyes stinging, Pru shook her head.

“Nope,” she said. “None at all.”

“Thank Christ! That's a relief. I almost piddled myself. If you haven't noticed, I'm brilliant at putting my foot in my mouth. I bodge everything. Always.”

“You didn't ‘bodge' this,” Pru said. “You simply didn't know.”

He reached for the bottle but she pulled it back for one more gulp.

“You want to know something funny?” he said as Pru finally relinquished the wine. “When Mrs. Spencer was talking about betrothals … huh.” Win looked pensive for a second. “A discussion not involving domesticated birds. Outstanding. At any rate, as Mrs. Spencer sermonized on the importance of racking up fianc
é
s, she gave you this
look.
”

“Mrs. Spencer gives me many looks. Eye rolls. Winks. Glowers of spite.”

“This was a conspiratorial look,” Win said. “It made me wonder if that's why you were here. Figured you'd ditched some poor bloke, a warmonger perhaps, and came to hide out in jolly old England.”

“Well, you were wrong,” Pru said, head weaving. “No jilted fianc
é
s. No ditched warmongers for miles.”

“Damn, I hate to be wrong. Happens far too often.”

A junked fianc
é
in Vietnam? She should be so lucky.

Pru was the one ditched. Either intentionally or by circumstance, she had been cast off by every single person in her life. Charlie. Her parents. Various aunts and second cousins thrice removed. College friends. Even Charlie's parents.

Oh, she was faring adequately at the Grange, caught up in the daily tasks of spaniel-grooming and writer-minding. But sometimes in the thick part of the night, when the owls had flown home and the old house stopped chirring, she would find herself panicked, breathless with just how very alone she was.

If she died at the Grange (gunshot wound, tetanus, name your poison) there'd be no place to send her remains. Murray, Edith Junior, Mrs. Spencer, now Win. These, the four measly souls who knew where Pru was. Only two of them were even on her same continent. Only one would bother hassling with the outcome, likely packaging her up with the cats.

“Put a smile on that mug, Miss Valentine,” Win said, discomforted by seeing someone more sullen than he. “Chin up. It'll be okay.”

Pru pondered what Win might think if he knew the pictures playing in her mind. Dead cats. Obliterated fianc
é
s. Her body parts boxed and stored away.

“I'm sure one day it will be okay,” she said, unconvincingly. “I'm just not there yet. So is there more wine? I feel like this bottle is smaller than the last.”

Win thought then that he probably should've kept the bird from the booze. Pru was young and fresh livered, her ability to battle alcohol's dispiriting qualities heretofore untested. He was corrupting the only decent creature in the whole bloody place.

“Oh, Miss Valentine,” he said and uncorked a third bottle, healthy livers and bad influences be damned. “You're a beautiful girl. There will be plenty of blokes to eighty-six in your future. Having been on the receiving end of many such exchanges, I know of what I speak.”

He inspected the wine before passing it to Pru.

“It's not that I want to—”

“Think we can get Mrs. Spencer to partake in this swill?” he asked, ripping into her train of thought, ramrodding straight into the progress she was beginning to make toward the truth. “It might get her talking.”

Pru grunted. Mrs. Spencer. Of course. It always went back to
The Missing Duchess
. There was absolutely nothing else to the man. He was even more pitiful than she first surmised.

“You really are something,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“That was
not
a compliment.”

Pru snatched the bottle from Win's hand and took another sip, the heat of the wine continuing to fill her body and mind.

“I don't get it,” she said after a hard swallow. “Why are you so obsessed with her? Mrs. Spencer. Lady Marlborough. Gladys Deacon. Whatever you want to call her. This is the first you've met, right? Technically I've known her longer than you have.”

“That's true. But it
feels
as though I've known her forever.”

“That makes no sense. Also, it's highly irritating.”

“It's like this,” he said with a contrived chortle.

Irritating? Was he really that terrible?

“My life's been filled with these fairy tales,” Win continued. “Countless stories of the legendary Gladys Deacon. In my head, she's this mythical creature, a chimera-witch hybrid whose powers never waned.”

“Plus she was beautiful,” Pru added. “So that helps.”

“Yes, sure. That's true. As an adolescent, her portraits stirred … well, they stirred something inside of me. Or, rather, on the outside if you want to speak medically.”

“Oh, God, please stop,” Pru said. “No more commentary on the stirring of your appendages. So do you love her?”

“Who? The duchess? God no! She's nearly a hundred years old.”

“So she's about your age, give or take.”

“It's curious,” Win said, grinning, nothing forced about his humor this time. “You have a spirited mouth for someone who appears so perpetually blush-faced and innocent.”

Win thrust the bottle into Pru's hands and took to pacing the floor.

“Let's put it this way,” he said. “To me she was a myth, a legend.”

“Isn't a myth, by definition, made up? By the by, it sounds like she created most of it herself, starting with the famous shifting birth date.”

“The duchess was known to tell a tall tale or four,” he said. “But in the words of Thomas Hardy: ‘Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.' The most outlandish of her stories are the very ones people swear are fact. What about you, Miss Valentine? Who beguiled you as a wee one? Whose stories filled your mind?”