I'll See You in Paris (9 page)

“Um, I don't know,” Annie replied, surprised to be thinking of Gus, and of the duchess. “Ya know I'll pass. Hang out here.”

“I thought you'd seen the sum total of Banbury proper?”

“Yeah. But.” Annie shrugged. “I don't feel like schlepping around London alone. I'd rather go together, when we have more time.”

“Okay. But I'll miss you.” Laurel said this distantly, her face not on Annie but turned toward the window, and the Banbury Cross outside. “Should we get something to eat? I'm famished. What about that place you mentioned earlier?” She flipped back around. “Do they serve dinner?”

“No!” she snapped. “No. I mean, they serve dinner but I ate there for lunch. Let's try something else. Didn't Nicola mention a nice restaurant in a neighboring town?”

“She probably did, though I tune out ninety percent of what she says.” Laurel tilted her head toward the door. “Shall we?”

“Sure, but can we stop by the lobby first? I want to shoot Eric a quick e-mail. Tell him about my day.”

“You poor thing. Thanks to my endless meetings, that's going to be the dullest e-mail between two lovebirds since the dawn of time. Or the dawn of e-mail. ‘Dear Eric, today I did nothing while my mother committed various acts of child neglect.'”

“Actually,” Annie said with a smile. “The day wasn't so bad.”

With that, Annie grabbed her bag, taking with her not only a wallet, but
The Missing Duchess,
visions of Mrs. Spencer, and the feeling of words left unsaid.

 

Eleven

 

The Earl of Winton?

If that doesn't sound like a sack of crap, I don't know what does. Be careful, Annie. You're a trusting girl. Too sweet for your own good. That's how you ended up with me, I'm pretty sure.

I'm sorry things are off with your mom. Maybe she really doesn't remember the book? It might be hard for a big-brained reader like you to grasp but sometimes books are just a bunch of papers between two thicker pieces of paper. You should probably dump me on the spot for that kind of talk. Good thing I'm not there in person. That's probably blasphemy in the eyes of Annabelle Jane Haley.

But of course I'm not with you. I'm here, on an MEU. Traveling fifth-class to Kandahar, which I can't picture even though I've
seen
pictures and videos. It still feels like fiction to me, a place described in a book. I don't know what to expect when we get there. It's a brave new world, even for those of us who are trying to fix it.

I love you, Annie. Be safe.

Eric

 

Twelve

THE BANBURY INN

BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

NOVEMBER 2001

 

In Paris, Gladys's mother met her match with famed homme fatal
É
mile Fran
ç
ois Abeille. Abeille was a relatively plain figure made dashing by his family's Suez Canal–acquired wealth. Also he had a deep voice. A very deep voice. An associate who knew him said it “went all the way down to his goolies.” The yacht and access to Paris's most private clubs topped off his charms.

Florence and Abeille met because of a past-due bill, which was generally the only type of bill Florence Deacon bothered to have. When Abeille heard the married—but “open”—beauty had rung up quite the tab at Doucet's, the most fashionable atelier of the day, Abeille telegrammed Mrs. Deacon with a message.

If the lovely Florence was willing to meet at his private apartment, he'd gladly pay off the debt, plus any that might follow. It was a very fair trade from Mrs. Deacon's view. Her daughters were starting to come up in age. If she were to be the mother of a duchess or a princess, she would have to dress the part.

A casual observer might think, why, this woman sounds like a prostitute. And, if you want to get to the nuts of it (so to speak), that's exactly what she was. A prostitute with a short, highly discriminating client list. It was a job that paid exceedingly well.

—J. Casper Augustine Seton,

The Missing Duchess: A Biography

“Nicola?”

“Oh! Crumbs!”

The woman fluttered a hand against her neck as she reluctantly ripped her eyes away from an episode of
Coronation Street,
which was playing on a small television behind the front desk.

“You scared the bejeezus out of me,” Nicola said, fixing an engine-red curl that had gone rogue near her cheek. “Oh dear! Look at you. Alone again. Why'd your mother bring you all this way if she was going to strand you so repeatedly?”

“It's fine,” Annie said. “I don't mind being alone. I wanted to ask you about this book I found…”

“You know, I can accompany you on some sightseeing adventures, if you'd like!”

“No, that's okay. I don't want to take you away from the inn.”

“Not a problem. My cousin is staying with us. A real do-nothing if you ask me.” Nicola rolled her eyes. “He can sit at the desk for a spell while you and I paint the town.”

“Really, it's fine,” Annie said again. “Listen, I came across this biography.”

She passed the book to Nicola.

“Have you read it?” Annie asked.

“Where'd you get this? Trudy's place?”

“Yes. Trudy's. Where else?”

Gus. Her mother. Now Nicola. If any of these people decided to ask Trudy about her number one customer, she'd be in a hell of a tight spot.

“Ahh, Trudy,” Nicola said. “We've known each other since we were girls.”

“Yeah, she's a peach.”

As Nicola squinted at the cover, Annie realized the book seemed more beat-up than it had the day before. The blue was grayer, the pages more yellowed.

She snatched it back.

“Have you heard of it?” Annie asked. “Or the woman it's about?”

“Honey, if you don't let me see the book, I can't answer.”

“Sorry. It's just fragile. Old.”

“Aren't we all?” Nicola said. “Come now, show me the thing. Who's it about, did you say?”

She passed it back.

“The Missing Duchess…”
Nicola read, showing little-to-no recognition whatsoever.

“She lived here,” Annie said, cringing as Nicola's fingers made teeny grease spots on the linen. “Or so the story goes.”

Was it possible the woman hadn't been the town terror or its most noteworthy citizen? Annie half expected Nicola to react like Gus, identifying the book on sight.

“The Duchess of Marlborough disappeared from her palace in the thirties,” Annie said. “And was found in Banbury forty years later. Does any of this ring a bell?”

“Well, everyone knows Blenheim Palace and its celebrated Marlboroughs.”

“Then you must know of the duchess?” Annie pressed. “Her real name was Gladys Deacon but she called herself Mrs. Spencer? Passed away in her nineties. Probably around 1978 or 1979?”

Nicola looped a strand of hair around her pinkie, mouth twisted in contemplation.

“I was under the impression the duchess was well-known in Banbury,” Annie said. “Is that not true?”

“Could be. I grew up in Banbury but I didn't really live here, if you catch my meaning.”

“Um, not exactly.”

“Mum sent me off to school as soon as one would take me. She had many brilliant qualities, but mothering wasn't one of them. While I was growing up, Banbury was my ‘home' but I was only ever here for school holidays.”

“So you don't remember Mrs. Spencer?”

“Hmm. It's somewhat familiar. Although ‘Spencers,' ya know.”

“She ran naked through town?” Annie tried next. “And lived at the Grange?”

“The Grange?” Nicola made a face. “Oh God, that horrific bodge? What a place. I wish whoever owns it would do something with the property instead of letting it go to rot.”

“So you
do
know the place?”

“You bet. My best girlfriend lives next door. She loves to josh about ‘accidentally' setting the home on fire. Pat's just the type to do it, too, if she could avoid incinerating her own home in the process.”

Nicola handed the book back.

“I have some recollection of the woman who lived there,” she went on. “I was a wee thing when she was alive, and mostly away at school. But I do recall that the local schoolboys would sneak onto the property, carrying back enough ghost stories to fill a book. It's funny, now that I think about it, I always had the sense she was more legend than woman.”

“I don't think you're alone in that.”

“So, what's your interest?”

“Oh. Well.” Annie paused. “She's a captivating figure. Obviously. Given she was the subject of ghost stories and folklore. And I'm an English major so reading about the writers she consorted with is pretty juicy. On top of that I'm, uh, working on a little research project…”

“A research project?” Nicola balked. “Your mum said you were unemployed. Out of university and with nothing to do vocationally.”

“Did she now?”

In what manner did “Mum” drop that piece of knowledge? Was it said as a complaint? A matter of some unavoidable fact?

“Oh, golly, Annie, I didn't aim to upset you.”

“Don't apologize, please. It's true. It's no vacation for me.”

“She was perfectly lovely when she said so!” Nicola insisted. “Not bitter a'tall! Listen here, young lady. Whatever feelings a mum has toward her children are rooted in the feelings she has about herself.”

“Gotcha,” Annie said with a sharp nod. She was suddenly very anxious to get outside.

“No judgment here, m'dear. You're young. Faff about however you please. It's a young woman's privilege and there's plenty of time ahead for the serious bits. Your mum is a little overemployed if you ask me. Lord Almighty.” Nicola shook her head, the curls moving in concert. “We're all so bloody damaged, aren't we?”

Annie nodded, mystified. Here was a woman with infinitely more depth than the innkeeper who greeted them, the one stewing in floral patterns for fifteen minutes straight. They were all so bloody damaged, indeed.

“Tell me about this project,” Nicola said. “What do you plan to use for your research? Other than a ratty old book?”

“You said your friend lives next door to the Grange?”

“Patricia. That's her.”

“I'd love to see the property,” Annie said. “Learn a few ghost stories for myself. Do you have the address?”

“Sure. It's…” The woman thought about this. “Four Banbury Road. It's privately owned, by what purveyor of bad taste and poor neighborly manners I cannot guess, but privately held it is. It may be abandoned but you can't trample through willy-nilly. I don't s'pect you wish to be jailed for trespassing in a foreign country.”

“No! I don't!” Annie barked out a laugh. “I only plan to check it out from the road.”

Already Annie knew she'd try to get inside. As long as she didn't disturb anything, or take anything, the arresting authorities couldn't get too perturbed. If caught, she'd chalk it up to being a clumsy tourist, affect a foreign accent or feign a loose grasp on English if necessary. Annie knew a little Spanish, and some French.

“Well, if you stop past, pop by Patricia's afterward. She'd be chuffed to host you!”

“Will do. Thanks, Nicola.”

“Care for a bike? You can walk but biking is always more fun! There are biking tourist groups these days, did ya know? Personally I don't fancy all that spandex, but they bring the business.”

“Fantastic idea,” Annie said. “I'd love to borrow one. Maybe I'll take a ride through the Cotswolds afterward. No spandex though, promise.”

“A ride shouldn't be so bloody lonely, though.” Nicola frowned.

“You're sweet to worry, but I'm an only child. Being alone is my gig and this is temporary. My mom isn't usually like this. She's retired, actually.”

“Ha!” Nicola huffed. “Retired? Coulda fooled me. Anyhoo. Annie, I'm pleased to lend you a bike. Come with me, I'll show you where we keep them.”

 

Thirteen

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

NOVEMBER 2001

 

And what of the husband, of Gladys's father?

Edward Deacon knew all too well of his wife's flexible marital standards, likewise her flexible legs and other body parts. And he was fully apprised of the manner in which these parts interacted with Abeille's.

But Florence swept off his concerns, forever reminding her husband of his lack of culture and sophistication. Parisian flirtations were common, expected even! The only people who clucked about it were the help.

—J. Casper Augustine Seton,

The Missing Duchess: A Biography

Annie pedaled up Banbury Road into Chacombe Parish, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Somewhere past the huddled limestone cottages sat the Grange. She pictured a towering, crumbling manse, a building stooped and keening. It would lord over everything beside it, casting a long and crooked shadow across town.

But before Annie stumbled upon any decayed manors, the road split, right there in the middle of a bunch of very unimposing homes. Middleton Road went right, the Ring veered to the left. Banbury Road had ended.

“What the hell?”

She stopped her bike on a triangular patch of grass and examined the sign again. One car puttered past, and then another. In the distance she heard the squabble of birds.