I'll See You in Paris (14 page)

Annie nodded, then shivered. The dried-sweat chill was starting to set in.

“So the intruder?” she said, gesturing toward the barn. “Was it Tom? Escaped from his cell? Arms out like zombies? Shackles clanging?”

“Not exactly. But this barn is how the intruder penetrated the property.” Gus jiggled the doorknob. “You see, someone left the back door unlocked. As a result, Pru's new compatriot turned this very knob and walked right on through.”

 

Twenty-two

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 1972

“What are you doing?” Pru yelled as she clambered across the wintered gardens. “Hey! You there! I see you!”

The figure disappeared.

“Might as well show yourself! Get back here!”

But the man had vanished. Like a ghost.

Pru stopped at the goose pond, its surface just starting to crackle and freeze. Where did he go? Behind a tree? Inside the barn? How did he even get onto the property in the first place? The boy hooligans had been trying for years, to no success.

“Hello?” Pru called out meekly.

She glanced down at her feet and the shabby, crummy slippers that covered them. Above the shoes, her legs were bare and speckled with fleabites. Farther up was the ratty gray nightgown last laundered on some other continent. Pru looked out across the orchard to the old house. The place was making her mad.

She turned to go.

Then: another rustle. Louder. Heavy-footed.

“I know you're there!” she called. Maybe she wasn't crazy after all. Or not in that particular way. “We have guns!”

Pru scrambled toward the noise, tripping over branches and stones.

“I'm not screwing around here,” she said. Then mumbled, “As evidenced by the seriousness of my attire.”

The right words, as it happened. The would-be sneak thief couldn't resist. He stepped out into the sunshine.

“There's nothing wrong with your attire. Comfort first, I always say. The name's Seton.”

He extended a hand.

Pru jumped and promptly backslid down an embankment toward the pond. She grabbed on to a tree branch to save herself from submersion, not to mention death by hypothermia. The pond was partially frozen and, worse, infested with goose excrement.

“Need some help there, miss?”

“How did you get through the gate?” Pru asked, huffing as she hoisted herself back up to safety.

“A little chicken wire never held me back,” the man said.

“You broke through the wire?”

“Sure.”

Truth was, he'd come through Tom's mythical barn. The girl seemed pleasant enough but the man had seen something in the building. Maybe even something big. So he preferred to keep the information to himself. For now.

“Chicken wire's like an old chum,” he added. “Mum used it around my cot to keep me inside.”

“Seriously?” Pru's eyes went wide.

“Nah.” The man laughed. “Not that I can recall. But it does sound like something she might do. Anyhow. Like I said, the name's Seton. Win Seton.”

He extended his hand again as Pru studied his face.

This Win Seton was on the youngish side, though definitely older than Pru. He was tall, his blond hair thick and cropped tightly to his head in a manner that surprised. Pru had grown accustomed to the shaggy mops at Berkeley. Even Charlie's hair hung to his shoulders before he buzzed it off for the army.

Oh dear,
Pru thought.
This man must be old-fashioned. Nay, ancient.

In fact he was thirty-four and so her assumption was correct.

“Ah, the young lady is already softening toward me. I can tell. A relief to not be shot.”

“I'm not softening!” she said. “You still haven't explained why you're trespassing!”

“I do apologize. You startled me.”

“I startled
you
?”

“I thought the property was empty,” he said. “I saw the lady of the manor motor off into town in her little black car. She has a license to drive that thing?”

“She drives it all the time.” Pru sniffed.

“Yes, well, I'm quite certain I just saw her mow into a herd of schoolchildren. She was laughing. The children were not. So. You haven't told me your name?”

“You're trespassing on
my
property and you want a name?”

“Your property, is it?” he asked with a squinch.

“Well, I mean, not exactly. But I live here. Did I mention you're a trespasser?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

He grinned, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Win was attractive, but in a lazy sort of way, like he'd never had to work too hard for anything. As though he'd been mollycoddled all his life, which was the general status of things.

“I'll fess up,” he said. “I'm a trespasser. But also a writer, which means I'm a danger to no one but myself.”

“Okay, Seton,” she said. “Mr. Seton. If you're a writer, why do you dress like you're on a hunting safari?”

She pointed to his crisp white shirt and khaki trousers.

“The lady of the manor, as you call her,” Pru went on, “positively hates shooting animals for sport. In fact, before large hunts she used to sneak out at dawn and scare the animals from bushes and trees. So if you saw the ducks or foxes and think there's shootable game on this property, think again. Also, it's cold. You'll probably catch pneumonia in that getup.”

Win laughed again.

“So sweet of you to be concerned with my health!” he said. “And I am familiar with the lady's antihunting sentiment. She used her infinite spaniel collection to flush out the prey, did she not?”

“How did you know…”

“She has a million stories,” Win said. “A few of them might even be true. And her affinity for tall tales, fair one, is why you find me standing before you.”

“Come again?”

“As mentioned, I'm a writer. And I'm here to pen the biography of the woman who lives here.”

“Mrs. Spencer's biography?” Pru said, a little baffled. “I must tell you, I don't think she'd be too keen on the idea.”

“We're all mates here.”

“Not exactly…”

“Enough with this ‘Spencer' rubbish. Let's call her what she is. Gladys Deacon. The dowager duchess. Lady Marlborough.”

“She insists she's not the duchess.”

“Oh yes.” Win smirked. “I'm sure she does. Now, please kindly show me to the home. Let's wait for your ‘Mrs. Spencer' to return. She will not be shocked to see me.”

 

Twenty-three

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 1972

“Is it your habit to let strange men into the house?”

Mrs. Spencer dragged them into the parlor. She backed Win and Pru up against a cupboard using a chair and what appeared to be some sort of spear.

“Mrs. Spencer, calm down,” Pru said.

“Lord Almighty! Americans! No wonder you get yourselves enmeshed in pointless, stupid wars!”

“I thought you were expecting him?”

Pru could feel the man's presence beside her. She moved several paces to the right.

“Mr. Seton told me you knew he was coming,” Pru said.

“Yet he had to sneak onto the property while I was out. Does that sound like someone I was expecting? Use your brain!”

The woman had a point.

“But he said…” Pru tried.

She felt a tickling by her ear and turned to see a cat peering out from behind a book. Conrad.
The Duel.

“I don't give a cow's tit what he said!” Mrs. Spencer crowed. She tossed the chair against a wall. “For Christ's sake! Do you even know the first damned thing about him?”

“Well, not exactly…”

“He's probably some sort of confidence trickster, wanted throughout the U.K. But you don't care.”

“I care, Mrs. Spencer. I do.”

“Charmed the pants right off you, no doubt, with those good looks of his. I guess you're headed for betrothal number two. I'll host the party here at the Grange.”

“Betrothal? He's a thousand years old!” Pru said. Then she turned to Win: “Sorry, it's just—”

“No apologies necessary.” He put up both hands. “A spade's a spade and all that. One thousand years exactly. Lady Marlborough—”

“MRS. SPENCER!”

“First off, let me say that this is a marvelous room,” he said, gesturing. “You have an unparalleled collection of books and art.”

“Which you want to steal, presumably.”

“No! Not in the least. But where's the rest of it?”

“Rest of what?”

“Now, now, don't be coy.”

“Oh go fuck yourself.”

“Mrs. Spencer!” Pru yelped.

Win made a sound—either a laugh or a choke. Pru could not tell.

“I have no ill intent,” he insisted. “Quite the opposite, actually. You see, I'm a writer.”

“A writer, huh?” Mrs. Spencer snorted. “Well, that's a dubious pedigree if ever I've heard one. What have you written?”

Win flushed. It was a tough issue for the man, being positively ancient and in his midthirties almost, with not much to show for it. He'd endured the past dozen years or so as one of your standard, ten-a-penny struggling writers. His lack of success was a much-trodden topic among his otherwise successful family.

Oh sure, he had the swagger and the charisma, the faux hunting garb and quick laugh, but deep down he was criminally unconfident, as most failures and/or writers typically were.

“Yes, writer? Go on. Speak. What magical tomes have you penned?”

“Er, um, well. Nothing in the public domain,” he finally settled on. “Yet.”

Pru felt a momentary gut-pang of pity. Win Seton was a bit of a loser, she decided. Aimless, sad, and hopeless, like a little boy who dropped every ice cream he ever held. She wanted to give him a hug.

“Nothing in the public domain,” Mrs. Spencer echoed with yet another snort. “How rather on the nose.”

“But I aim to change that by writing your biography.”

“My biography? Who cares about some old lady in the countryside? Or is it that you don't want anyone to read your work? You seem to be doing a bang-up job of that already, without my help.”

“Lady Marlborough—”

“Mrs. Spencer!”

“The interest in you remains strong,” he said. “People still whisper your name at parties and dinners!”

“Oh codswallop!”

“You
must
comprehend your legendary status throughout England and in all of Europe, really. America, too, from what I've gathered.”

He looked toward Pru, who shrugged.

“Silly boy. There's not a person outside the gates of this property who gives a whit about me!” Mrs. Spencer said.

“I spent many summers at Blenheim,” Win said and cleared his throat, waiting for a reaction.

Poor sod, Pru thought. The bloke was faring worse with each breath.

“At Blenheim,” he repeated. “They spoke of you endlessly, decades after you'd left. New people were born. The old ones died. Marital unions formed and broke apart. The circle of life in full effect. Through it all, talk of you.”

“I'm not familiar with this Blenheim place.”

“It's your family seat. Don't tell me you've forgotten. Is she…” He turned to Pru and made a circular motion at the side of his head.
“All there?”

“I can hear you, Seton.”

“She seems perfectly sane to me,” Pru said with a sideways smile.

“Right.” Win laughed nervously. “Surely you haven't forgotten Blenheim, Mrs. Spencer?”

“Now that you mention it, the name rings a bell. Isn't that where Coon lived? During her first marriage?”

“If by ‘Coon' you mean your old pal Consuelo Vanderbilt, your preceding Duchess of Marlborough, then yes.”

“I'm not a duchess!”

Blenheim.

Pru's mouth curled in reflection. Blenheim. As she looked between Seton and Mrs. Spencer, it struck her. The name was at once shiny and familiar, like an American penny found on a foreign street. Tidbits gleaned at university were still there, it seemed, despite the shoddy dress and flea-bitten legs.

“You summered at Blenheim?” she asked Win. “Isn't that where Churchill was born?”

“Yes,” he said. “The very place.”

“Jesus. Here we go again.” Mrs. Spencer rolled her eyes. “That old bastard Churchill. He was not a great man. Of course he wasn't. The English just like to create heroes and worship them.”

“I think respect for him is fairly worldwide,” Pru said. “So you can't pin it on the Brits.”

“He just had a certain faculty for making noise. There are people who go through life bashing cymbals. He was one.”

“Goodness, Lady Marl—Mrs. Spencer,” Win said with a chuckle. “If you were chummy with Sir Churchill then you must have some tales to tell, dowager duchess or not. To be frank, I plan to write the biography at any cost. You might as well have your say.”

“I'm confused. Are you writing a book about me or about the Duchess of Marlborough?” Mrs. Spencer asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“Either or. It depends on you.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms.

“And Proust!” Pru chirped. “She was pals with Proust!”

Mrs. Spencer shot her a look.

“What? You told me about your pal Marcel on my first night here. You never mentioned it was a secret.”

“Even better,” Win said. “Proust. Churchill. Shall we name the others?”

“Thomas Hardy,” Pru said, feeling Mrs. Spencer's glare bore into her. “Edith Wharton. J. M. Barrie. D. H. Lawrence. H. G. Wells. E. M. Forster. All the good initialed folks.”