I'll See You in Paris (35 page)

“It's the writer, isn't it?” Annie said. “Memories of him. The home you're giving up. I think you feel guilty.”

Laurel shook her head, then nodded. She sighed and shook her head again.

“Guilty's not the right word,” Laurel said. “It'd be silly to hang on to a house just because of a few good months.” She snorted. “They weren't even that good. It's a miracle I didn't end up with pneumonia or Lyme disease.”

“Mom, I have to ask,” Annie said. “Do you know where he is? The writer? Have you tried to track him down?”

“I did try once,” she said. “Long ago. It ended badly.”

“That sounds like something Mrs. Sp—the duchess would say.”

“Oh, Bernard Berenson
?
Yes, that did not end well. Quick, let's change the subject.”

“Ha,” Laurel said. “You're right. She would say that.”

“Do you think the duchess loved Berenson?” Annie asked.

“What?” Laurel wrinkled her forehead. “Berenson? Where is this coming from?”

“You thought she loved Berenson, didn't you? The art critic not the duke.”

Laurel nodded.

“That's what I believed, yes. Still believe, I suppose, though I haven't thought about it in years. But, you're correct. In my opinion, Gladys Deacon only married the duke because she'd acted as his mistress for so many years. And she only did
that
because Berenson chose to move to the States with his wife.” Laurel exhaled, blowing a long, wavy lock of hair from her face. “But who knows. It's only a theory. And probably a biased one at that.”

“Well, I have my own theory,” Annie said as her mom glimpsed repeatedly at the board.

“Honey, I have to get to the track…”

“Here's what I think. In the end, the duchess didn't love either. She wanted to love one or both, to love anyone really, but after a hundred years came up short.”

“Wow,” Laurel said. “That's depressing.”

“It happens.”

“Geez, I'd expect a newly engaged girl to have a more idealistic view of the world.” Laurel reached in for a hug. “I'm sorry. I have to run. My train is arriving.”

As Laurel squeezed her, Annie felt like she was touching some other person, not the woman she'd lived with for a lifetime.

“Do something fun,” Laurel said. “You have the credit card. Use it however you want.”

“Bye, Mom,” Annie said, confused and hurt and not sure why. “Safe travels.”

As Laurel walked away, marching at her typical Laurel Haley quick clip, Annie remained in place, staring at the departures board.

Kings Sutton.

Bicester North.

Haddenham & Thame Parkway.

She turned and walked toward the ticket booth.

“Hello there,” she said to a woman in a blue smock. “Do you have a train to Paris?”

The woman snickered.

“Wouldn't that be nice,” she said. “I'd love a one-way ticket to Paris myself right about now. No, dear, if you want to get to Paris, it requires a bit of a rigmarole.”

She leaned out her window and pulled a map from its bin on the wall.

“Here.” She laid it out in front of Annie, and then made several circles with a black Sharpie. “First you take the train to London Marylebone. About an hour's ride. Then Marylebone to St. Pancras. Change trains there and two and a half hours later you'll find yourself at Gare du Nord in Paris!”

“That doesn't sound too complex,” Annie said and folded up the map. “When's the next train to Marylebone?”

“We have a 10:40.”

“Oh! No! That's too soon.”

Annie didn't want to risk running into Laurel at the station.

“Okay…” the woman said, eyeing her dubiously. “There's also the 11:04, and the 11:40…”

Paris. Could Annie really go to Paris? Gus said the writer was there, and she still had Win's luggage tag in her jeans.

“Would you like a ticket, dear?” the woman asked.

“Um…”

So far there was Gus's story on the one hand, and Laurel's on the other, but what about Win's? His story was in print but
The Missing Duchess
and the tapes in Annie's backpack were surely not all he had to say.

“Miss? There's a queue forming behind you. If you don't mind terribly—”

“You know what?” Annie thwacked her mom's credit card on the counter. “Yes. Please. One ticket to Gare du Nord by way of London. Paris, here I come.”

 

Sixty-two

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

FEBRUARY 1973

“Miss Valentine! Seton!”

Mrs. Spencer stood in the doorway, looking rabid.

“They're here! The people! They're back!”

Pru was in no mood for another one of Mrs. Spencer's fits. She'd just told Win that she loved him and he'd given no response. How was it possible for a full-grown man to be so thick?

“You don't have anything to say?” Mrs. Spencer howled.

Pru was thinking the exact same thing.

“Mrs. Spencer,” she said. “Now is not a good time.”

“Actually…” Win glanced at Pru with a jittery smile. “I think you arrived at the optimal time. Saved by the bell. Close one, Miss Valentine. You'll thank Mrs. Spencer later.”

“You really are something else,” Pru said.

She was not one for middle fingers but desperately wanted to use both right then. As usual, Win was under the boundless misconception that he had sufficient humor to get himself out of a thorny situation. With one well-timed joke, everyone might tee-hee along and forget what transpired. Unfortunately he'd never done the math, thus didn't realize this worked for him zero percent of the time.

“Something strange is going on,” Mrs. Spencer noted.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Pru began.

“That's nice. But I don't actually care. I have bigger problems than the two of you.”

“I love him,” Pru blurted.

“Beg pardon?” Mrs. Spencer's eyes bugged.

“That's what he meant by ‘saved by the bell,'” Pru said. “I told Win that I loved him and he clammed up. You saved him from admitting he is capable of real, genuine feelings.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Of course you love him. And he loves you. But if everyone can stop making googly-eyes at one another, we need to focus on me.”

“Look at him!” Pru said. “Just look at him! He has that stupid dumb look on his face. Ugh, I am so disgusted with myself.”

“He displays many dumb looks on his face, dear. And this type of behavior is why he's unmarried and living with us.”

“Don't mind me. You two carry on like I'm not here,” Win said. “Alas, it's true, I'm a horrible, sophomoric individual who deserves the station in which I find myself.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Pru said.

“Now that we're all in agreement,” he said. “Mrs. Spencer, what's wrong? I've never seen you this out of sorts. And that's saying something. Also, are you aware that your shirt is on backward?”

“I had to take my clothes off in town so they wouldn't recognize me.”

“Great. Another visit from the police,” Pru moaned.

“Er, um … don't you think disrobing might've had the opposite effect from what you intended?” Win asked.

He desperately wanted to share his astonishment with Pru, but of course she wouldn't accept any of his lame attempts at camaraderie. He'd cocked up the whole thing as he so often did, their brief, tenuous friendship already strained.

“It was the only way to hide,” Mrs. Spencer said.

“Righto. Hide in the buff,” Win said with a firm nod. “Makes sense. Tell me, who were you hiding from, exactly?”

“The Marlboroughs!”

“Wait,” Pru said. “The Marlboroughs? Sunny's family? I thought it was Edith Junior you were concerned about.”

“Her too. They're in cahoots.”

“Are you sure?” Pru said. “Are you sure it was them?”

“I can diagnose that terminally weak Marlborough chin and lemon-frown anywhere. They're here. They want me out of the way so they can wrest my things from me.”

“Your things?” Win said, eyes flicking around the room: to the books, the broken bed, the single typewriter, much abused. “What things?”

“You don't know the half of it.”

“Apparently I don't.”

Suddenly they heard a distinct stumping noise, the sound of boots clomping up wooden stairs. Without a thought, Pru bolted to Win's side and clutched his arm.

“Mrs. Spencer?” said a voice.

She gripped tighter. Win placed one hand over hers.

“Should we hide?” Pru whispered.

“The gun,” Win hissed. “Where's the revolver?

“Calm down, you two,” Mrs. Spencer said, for once the voice of reason, the sole unruffled duck. “It's only Tom.”

“Tom?”

Pru took in a giant swallow of air. Her heart pounded so hard it left little space to breathe. She tried to catch Win's eyes but looked away again, remembering she was livid.

“Yes,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Tom, my Pole. Normally he stays in the barn but desperate times and all that. Oh, Tom! We're in here! Come meet the rest of my staff!”

 

Sixty-three

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

FEBRUARY 1973

One might say Tom materialized in the room, but his entrance was more lumbering than that.

The man was two meters tall, or six and a half feet by Yank standards. He was no rangy thing either, weighing in at around twenty stone, the size of an American football lineman. He moved like one too.

“Tom?” Pru said, gaping.

Tom the Pole was fair-skinned, made almost exclusively of beige. His brow bone was heavy, a hard shelf above his face.

“Tom?” she said again.

His eyes skipped over her with some degree of apprehension. He seemed nervous, almost. Interesting for a man whose hands were the size of Pru's skull.

“I'm sorry to come inside, Mrs. Spencer.”

“Please, Tomasz. I'm the one who should apologize! I'm so very embarrassed.” Mrs. Spencer grabbed at her throat. “I haven't had a chance to tidy up this week.”

Pru lifted her eyebrows.
This week?
As far as she could tell, Mrs. Spencer hadn't tidied up this year, or that decade, or even the one before it. The home had more litter in it than any given public park. There was a pile of dog feces that'd been in the room so long it didn't even reek anymore.

“Mrs. Spencer,” Tom said. “I regret to report the Marlboroughs are in town. Not to worry, I shooed them away. But my guess is they'll be back.”

“They're here?” Win said. “In Banbury? Are you quite certain?”

“Yes, I'm certain.” Tom narrowed his eyes, though the distance between them remained wide. “Who are you?”

“Don't worry about him,” Mrs. Spencer said. “He's just a writer.”

“The name's Seton.” Win extended a hand, which went ignored. “They don't teach manners in Poland, I gather. In any case, are you sure the people you saw weren't trying to sell knives or encyclopedias? I know our girl Gladys likes to stir it up, but just because she claims to see the Marlboroughs, does not make it so.”

“You saw them too?” Tom said and turned to Mrs. Spencer.

In the new light, his eyes darkened, changing color like a hologram.

“Yes, that's what I was trying to explain to these two nitwits,” she said. “I saw the Marlboroughs lurking around Banbury proper. They even sent an emissary to my front door, replete with stolen pup. Where did you see them?”

“Near the front gate. I chased them off with a hammer.”

Win batted a piece of hair away from his eyes.

“Remind me to stay off your bad side,” he said.

“It was the eleventh duke,” Tom said. “And various family members. They also had a barrister with them, plus a
lekarz
from St. Andrew's.”

“A doctor.” Mrs. Spencer sighed. “Christ. What are we going to do?”

She looked back and forth between Pru and Win. Somewhere in the distance, a grandfather clock chimed.

“It might be time to … disappear,” Tom said, making some sort of gesture with his fingers. It looked like he was wagging kielbasa in the air.

“Hmm…” Mrs. Spencer said. “You may be right.”

“Disappear?” Pru said. “Where?”

Were they going to ship her back to America? Already? Her heart galloped. Then again, perhaps the farther away from Win the better. “Saved by the bell.” For the love of God. He had a perilous level of stupidity.

“Seton,” Mrs. Spencer said, spitting his name through her teeth like a particularly satisfying swear word. Pru knew exactly how she felt. “Didn't you mention Paris? You have a home in Paris? Or something? I can't believe they let you into that city.”

“Yes, Lady M., I do have a flat there.”

“Brilliant. We're moving in.”

“Er, hold up. I'm not so sure that's wise. Also, I'd prefer to stay at the Grange and finish your biography.”

“You'll get your damned book,” Mrs. Spencer said. “As if I'd waste all this time with nothing to show for it. I'm only thinking of a different venue from which to conduct your work. Your home, is it large?”

“It's a fair size,” he said. “About two hundred seventy-five square meters. Mrs. Spencer—”

“How many people live there? Parents? Siblings? Staff?”

“It's been some time since we've had any staff,” Win said. “And my parents are dead. It's only my brother at present.”

“Excellent!” Mrs. Spencer spun around. She pushed past Tom and out into the hallway. “We leave tonight!”