I'll See You in Paris (27 page)

“My dearest sister Audrey and I both demonstrated early musical prowess so we trained at the Sacr
é
-C
œ
ur. I can still feel Audrey's hand in mine as we promenaded through the wooden-planked entrance and toward the white domes that loomed over the city. We found our greatest happiness inside the basilica's cool towers. So many people hated the Sacr
é
-C
œ
ur, so whipped up were they in Gothic furor. Audrey and I never felt threatened by the building's aggressive Catholicism, though. Mostly the place made us want to sing.”

“Tell me about living in Rome,” Win said. “With your mum in the aforementioned unicorn castle.”

“It was a decline in station,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Despite the Renaissance palace. Mother encountered great difficulty in trying to establish herself. Italians are more rigid than their Parisian counterparts, and much less amenable to colorful backgrounds and spotty pasts. Parisians celebrate liveliness and intellect, irrespective of skeletons lurking in the closet.”

“Literal skeletons. Ergo, Coco.”

“Through it all,” she went on, doing a hero's job of trying to hide her vexation. “Mother kept her head high and her elegance intact. She suffered no fools. She suffered nothing, really. Even at her most destitute, at the end of her life when the bills had come due and there was no one left to pay them, even then she lingered on in the palace, blue and white peacocks strutting across the lawns.”

“Form over substance, eh, Mrs. Spencer?” Win asked with a sly grin.

“Young man, my mother was nothing but substance. It was only fitting she had the form to go with it.”

 

Forty-five

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

JANUARY 1973

A few days later, Pru was washing a trio of dogs when she happened to glance out the window. She almost couldn't believe her eyes.

It was Win Seton. Outside. Standing beneath a weeping birch in the honest-to-God daylight. He hadn't even yet disintegrated into a pillar of salt. Pru thought it her duty to investigate.

She approached as Win stood on the embankment, whistling and skipping stones across the partially frozen goose pond. Whether he was trying to hit the geese on purpose or suffering the effects of his poor accuracy, Pru didn't know.

“And the writer emerges from his lair,” she said, walking up behind him. “Finally.”

He turned to face her, grinning wide.

“Never let anyone—ahem, my father—tell you I'm not a keen outdoorsman,” he said as the sunlight shot through his hair. “A glorious day, isn't it?”

Pru nodded, feeling daft and off-kilter. Lord help her. She'd been cooped up in that blasted home too long. Win Seton was starting to resemble a movie star, all golden and radiant. Pru shook her head. This would never do.

“Here,” he said, handing her a stone. “Would you like to have a go?”

“I'd love to.”

Pru took the smooth, cool rock and with a flick of her wrist sent it ricocheting across the water.

“Not too shabby,” he said. “Though I think the ice helped.”

“Ice, nothing. I realize it's no tape recorder against a wall,” Pru replied, and skipped a second rock, inordinately pleased with her newly discovered skill. “But it works.”

Seton grinned again. Hard. It felt almost like a violation though he'd done precisely nothing wrong.

Pru immediately cranked her head away, flushed once again. She thought to leave but what Win said was true. Right there, in the dead of winter, it
was
a glorious day. It hardly looked like winter at all.

Around them witch hazel abounded, also honeysuckle with its lemon-scented flowers. Viburnum bloomed its cotton-candy pink and bright purple irises burgeoned beside the southernmost wall. Across it all, a dusting of snow and ice, like a swath of glittering tulle.

What was this? Pru wondered. This unfamiliar feeling? Was it some sort of … happiness? It seemed too exotic a thought.

“So what brought you out here on this bright and pleasant day?” Win asked.

“Oh. Well. I was passing through. Decided to say hello.”

She didn't mention that she'd spotted him from Mrs. Spencer's bedroom, way up in the highest spot of the house. Pru left three dogs shimmying and spraying water on Mrs. Spencer's gold lyrebird wallpaper, just so she could check him out.

“And what is it
you're
doing out here?” she asked. “I don't think I've seen you leave the house.”

“Huh. I'm not sure that I have. Well, the answer is I've been writing like mad and needed a break. A jolly good problem, to be sure. Mrs. Spencer is finally giving me what I need.”

“And probably much that you don't.”

“That too. But I'll merrily take it all, even if she is still a bit cagey about her title. Tell me, what do you think of our old gal? Prostitution? Kidnappings? Murders? To name the things she was exposed to prior to age twelve.”

“Ironic,” Pru said. “Given she accused
me
of being fast and a bad influence. But, personally, I prefer Mrs. Spencer's later years. Like her relationship with Proust.”

“A friendship for the ages.”

“I adore the fact that he chased her around the globe, obsessed with befriending her. Demanding it, really!”

“But she relished the chase.”

“Without question,” Pru said. “Though she did have the good sense to be galled when his dogged pursuit landed her in a Roman jail.”

“Well, it
was
illegal for priceless art to leave the city,” Win said with a laugh. “And Proust had to find some way to slow Gladys down. He was something, wasn't he? The neurotic basket case that holed up in a cork-lined bedroom for months at a time. What a spectacle those two must've been together.”

“I was telling Mrs. Spencer that a few months back I read
À
la recherche du temps perdu—
”

“Ha! You're one for slim tomes,” Win said, smiling, eyes wrinkling in the sunlight. “You probably read it in French to boot. I never made it through that unwieldy book, though not for lack of trying. Too many pages, too little plot.”

“Don't let Mrs. Spencer hear you say that! Proust is not my favorite, but with him, the plot is not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“
In Search of Lost Time
is a study on mankind,” Pru said, her view on the writer softening thanks to Mrs. Spencer. “Quite revolutionary for its day, or even for now. One of my professors insisted it's hands down the best novel of the twentieth century so far.”

“Count Robert de Montesquiou called it ‘a mixture of litanies and sperm.'”

“I think that's meant as a compliment, coming from a dandy like him.”

“You know the best bit?” Win asked. “Of her stories and anecdotes and tales?”

He skipped another stone across the pond. The geese squawked and flapped.

“The best part is,” he said. “I think most of it is true.”

Pru chuckled.

“I hope so,” she said. “It'd be a shame for the world to miss out on her.”

Pru extended a hand and Win placed another rock in her palm. She turned and sent it skittering farther and straighter than even his best shot.

“But she hasn't admitted she's the duchess,” Pru said. “Which is annoying and strange.”

“But she's opening up, so for now I don't mind. And you…” He pointed at her. “I have you to thank for everything.”

“Me? All I did was wake up in your bed, looking like a harlot.”

“Precisely. Lady M. is a jealous cat. Bernard Berenson said about her…” He closed his eyes, remembering. “Among other things, he said that she had ‘the need to dominate, to crush under her heel the heads of those who were weaker than she. Thus no sooner would she see a possible victim than she forgot everything else, even her deepest interests, and would set out to pursue him until she had led him to his end.'”

“So you're the one she's pursuing,” Pru said and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “How big of you to think so.”

“It's not a testament to me. Only to my gender. The duchess wanted nothing more than to be loved. By everyone. Always.”

“Not so unique a wish, when you think about it,” Pru said. “It must've hurt, those words coming from Berenson. She loved him so deeply. For a time anyway.”

Win made a face.

“Nah,” he said. “She looked up to him, surely, but it was more akin to a father-daughter, mentor-mentee relationship.”

“He almost left his wife for her!”

“Which makes him about as unique as a housefly. Gladys Deacon wanted every man to love her, even if she didn't return the sentiment. With Berenson, she had no romantic schemes whatsoever. She simply wanted him to have schemes on her.”

“Rubbish, as you would say. Why else would she spend so much time with him?” Pru asked.

“Gladys Deacon deemed herself the most intelligent and cultured woman in existence but her artistic credentials were feeble. In her mind, Berenson was the only person capable of teaching her something new. She used him for her own benefit, to broaden her mind, and develop new skills to trot out at the salons.”

“She didn't need Berenson for that,” Pru said. “She was friends with Monet! Degas! Name your artist! No, the Old Masters enthusiasm was a ruse to spend time with Berenson. You can tell by the way she says his name. She's never once insulted his sexual abilities. She's insulted Proust's and he was gay!”

“You're living in too many novels, sweet Pru. Those two were eons apart in age. Almost fifteen years.”

The same amount of years, as it happened, between Win and Pru.

“Wasn't Sunny eleven years older?” she asked. “And they got married.”

“To resounding success.”

“I don't see what age has to do with it. You've heard the snide way she speaks about Berenson's wife even though they were once friends. She doesn't do that with Coon and Coon was married to the duke!”

“Coon never tried to crowd her spotlight,” Win said. “If she had, well, she would've been done for. You and I, case in point. Not until she found you in my bed did Mrs. Spencer begin to entertain my queries. She'd rather give me attention than allow my attention to wander to you.”

Pru blanched.

Attention?
Was Win giving her “attention”? It'd been so long Pru didn't even know what romantic interest was supposed to look like when it flashed on her.

“Your mere presence incensed the lady of the manor,” Win said. “She needs to be the nucleus of everything, not outshone by some runabout, confused American girl.”

“Hmm.” Pru smiled tightly. “I don't know that I'm confused. Or runabout. And didn't you just finish telling me that there was nothing between her and Berenson because of the fifteen-year gap? Or are you saying that you're closer to Mrs. Spencer's age than that?”

“Hilarious. Yes. I'm in my late eighties. My liver looks like it in any case.”

“Even if I agreed with your hypothesis,” she said, “that she viewed me as competition, what would a ninety-year-old woman care about snaring a young man's appreciation? I use the term ‘young' loosely, of course.”

“Of course! You see, Miss Valentine, that's the problem with getting old. Your body changes but your heart does not. Lady M wants the same things that she always has.”

“Mostly I think you like to fancy yourself the center of romantic intrigue.”

Win dropped his head back and laughed.

“Oh, my new friend,” he said. “You'll make this endeavor worthwhile, no matter what I manage to wheedle from Mrs. Spencer.”

Suddenly, Win grabbed for her hand. The effect was far more startling than any gunshot that had ever echoed across the property. As his hand beat inside of hers, Pru took in a sharp breath, hoping he didn't hear the gasp that escaped her mouth.

“Come,” he said. “Come inside with me. There's something I want to show you.”

Speechless, Pru allowed herself to be pulled along across the heather and thyme. As they went, she squinted toward Mrs. Spencer's bedroom. The wet dogs would be okay for a little while.

Then suddenly she noticed movement in the window. Pru blinked once, and then a second time. She looked down to navigate a series of fallen logs. When she glanced up again, Pru could've sworn she saw Mrs. Spencer's flinty stare shimmering against the glass.

 

Forty-six

THE GRAND DINING HALL

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

JANUARY 1973

“You wanted to show me the dining room?” Pru said. “Thanks but I've seen it approximately nine hundred times, mostly while carrying wet dog.”

As they stood in the doorway, Win slipped his hands from hers. Pru tried not to frown. It was probably for the best. Mrs. Spencer would throw a wobbler if she witnessed bona fide physical contact between them. And she would be down, any minute now.

“I should be getting back…” Pru started.

“Shh! Just hold on a moment. First, this is not a mere dining room. It's the Grand Dining Hall.”

He pointed to a placard above the door frame.

“Can't you see?”

“Grand,” Pru said. “That's a stretch.”

The room wasn't small, but neither was it “grand.” In it was a dining table that somehow seemed too narrow and too large for the space simultaneously. Around the table was seating for exactly four guests, provided they were of small-to-medium build and one guest didn't mind a stool.

“I'll allow that the room itself is not particularly impressive,” Win said. “But that.” He pointed to the portrait above the fireplace. “That is a masterpiece.”