I'll See You in Paris (33 page)

WS: In what way, exactly, did you toss it out the window?

GD: I went straight into Sunny's arms, just as Mother would've wanted, though he was not yet divorced from Coon. We began traveling together, not bothering to conceal our relationship. Those were some of the best years of my life.

WS: He was your destiny.

GD: If you want to get unnecessarily romantic about it.

WS: And how did Coon feel about all of this?

GD: After the war our friendship petered out. But, not to worry, she was thrilled with her fresh new life.

WS: Why didn't you two get married right away, then? If Coon was so happy without Sunny?

GD: They weren't formally divorced. And we weren't in a particular rush.

WS: You were thirty-seven when the war ended.

GD: Twenty-seven!

WS: Sure. Yes. Most women of your standing would be anxious to marry at either of those ages, especially to a renowned duke.

GD: Oh, I don't know. [Audible sigh]. I always found the prospect of being a mistress far more alluring than being yet another duchess. In the words of Edith Wharton, “I don't know if I should care for a man who made life easy; I should want someone who made it interesting.”

 

Fifty-eight

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

JANUARY 1973

“I'm not even sure what it means,” Pru said, Nixon's words being kicked around by her brain. “It's over? Is that what he's telling us? That soon the troops will return?”

“That's what he's telling us, yes,” Win said. “Though it'd unlikely work as fast as all that. My best guess anyway.”

Remarkably, Win's best guess was the right one. The war would drag on but of course they didn't know that then. The reports, they sounded final enough.

“It's done?” Pru said, inhaling deeply. “I can't believe it's over.”

Win put a careful hand on her shoulder. He could feel Mrs. Spencer watching them from across the room. She made no move to disrupt the gesture, despite not being party to it. Instead she remained an observer, for perhaps the first time in her life.

“In addition to the cease-fire,” the radio voice droned on, “both sides promise to release prisoners of war. The American government estimates that over thirteen hundred United States citizens are currently being held by opposition forces.”

The men were finally coming home.

Was Pru happy for the families waiting? Chapped about the timing? A day late and a dollar short, to be sure. She had a lot of emotions right then, all of them jumbled together, not a one that stood out.

“Pru?” Win said in a whisper. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, and then shrugged, unsure what to feel.

“Well,” she said at last. “A lot of weed will be smoked at Berkeley tonight.”

Win spat out an awkward laugh. He looked to Mrs. Spencer as a gauge, which tells you something about his state of mind. On the other hand, the old gal had lived through two wars and had seen people “blown to atoms.” Gladys Deacon was not unaccustomed to war.

“She's in shock, Seton,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Leave her be.”

“In shock?” Pru looked up, her face drawn and whitewashed. “Why would I be in shock? The war was going to end, one way or another. Eventually.”

“The North Vietnamese returned to the negotiation table,” said the man on the radio. “Likely at the urging of the Soviet Union and Red China.”

The volume was turned up, but none of them were fully listening.

“I'll take my leave,” Mrs. Spencer said as she moved toward the door. “Let you two sort this all out.”

With her words, Win was suddenly gripped with panic. He was supposed to help “sort it out”? What did he know about sorting anything of this magnitude? He scarcely had the resourcefulness to pay bills on time and buy toothpaste when he ran out. The bloke had half a mind to follow Mrs. Spencer straight out of the room.

“You'll know what to do, Seton,” Mrs. Spencer said, reading him flawlessly.

The door clicked behind her.

Several uncomfortable moments passed. And then, several more after that. Win broke into a cold sweat.

“So—er—I hear the Dolphins won the American Super Bowl,” he said, finally, in a magnificent display of verbal acuity. The man had all the empathy of a lab rat. There wasn't a situation he couldn't make more awkward. “First team ever to have a perfect season. Nineteen and zed.”

“The Dolphins?” Pru looked at him walleyed. “What are you even talking about?”

“Sorry, sorry. Gads swears that when running out of things to say to Yanks it's best to bring up American football. Or baseball. Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers? Yes? No? Baseball players have the cheekiest names.”

“You have problems,” Pru said, annoyed but also grateful. His ineptitude was a good diversion. “Your mental issues are severe.”

“Devastatingly accurate. Pru, I haven't the vaguest notion what to say. Other than, I'm sorry. I'm so bloody sorry for the news.”

“Win, that's sweet,” she said. “But what, exactly, are you sorry for? A war ending?”

“I flub all kinds of things. Approximately ninety-two percent of what comes out of my mouth is a bungle of some sort. But ‘sorry' is the proper word here. It hasn't been a year since Easter. Not one fecking year. Shit timing. Out-and-out shit.”

What he said, this was Pru's very problem.

Because Win was right, which was tricky on a number of grounds. Not one fecking year. A handful of months were the difference between life and death, for Charlie and for who knew how many other men.

Each month tacked onto the skirmish added nothing to the story. It served only to lengthen the mess, no additional plot but ever more body bags. If it were a film or a book, critics would call the deaths gratuitous, unnecessary. Because of this, anyone would understand if Pru was glad the war was ending but still felt enraged by the timing. Unfortunately this was not the emotion that Pru had.

When she first heard the news, her heart plummeted. And then it whispered something to her brain. It said: thank God the war went on a bit longer. Thank God everything happened as it did.

 

Fifty-nine

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

JANUARY 1973

Pru had fallen for Win.

Arse over tits, he'd say, if speaking about someone else. Either way, she had fallen, and hard. It seemed impossible but there was no other explanation for Pru's reaction to the cease-fire.

The whole thing felt like a harmonious convergence of circumstance. She ended up with Win! At a remote estate on another continent! How lucky they were to find each other in this big, mad world.

Of course Pru appreciated the level of selfishness required to believe fate might intervene in such cruel fashion. Her romantic interests were not important to the world order and there'd been far more to Charlie than who he planned to marry. Most would argue it was the very least of him.

As for Win, the lucky bastard didn't even comprehend her feelings, or see that she was trying to express them in her quiet Pru way. Yes, he had some inkling but the scenario seemed too far-fetched, too “dream on, bugger,” and so the man shucked off the thought whenever it poked its head through the door.

At any rate, Win didn't have time to ponder the love of beautiful girls he didn't deserve. There was a book to finish and the duchess was once again uncooperative. They were back to her old sidewinders and geese.

In some ways it wasn't as bad as before. She had admitted to being the duchess after all. Yet in other ways it was far worse because of what they'd already gone through. They were in the middle of the story. Too far to turn back but with ungodly lengths to go. Middles were daunting, insurmountable. Middles were the very reason Win Seton had yet to finish a book.

“Mrs. Spencer,” Win said one night as they sat in his room, dining on codfish. “I want to hear more about your marriage to Sunny.”

“What do you want to know? It was properly awful.”

“I'm sure there were some good times. What about the sixtieth-birthday party you threw for him? I have a quote from one of Blenheim's neighbors.”

Win flipped open his notebook and flicked through the pages.

“Ah! Here it is!” he said. “‘The Blenheim dinner and dance was most amusing. They had got H. G. Wells of all people, and the duchess made him dance, a most comic business.'”

Mrs. Spencer giggled.

“Sunny was acting like an utter bear that night,” she said. “But Wells did lighten the mood. ‘We all have our time machines, don't we. Those that take us back are memories … and those that carry us forward, are dreams.'”

“A Wells quote?” Win asked to Mrs. Spencer's pleased nod. “Sounds like a memorable night.”

He did not mention other reports from the festivities, including Evelyn Waugh's view of the partygoers: “about forty hard-faced middle-aged peers and peeresses.” Mrs. Spencer herself was described as “very battered with fine diamonds.” The night was supposed to be grand, over the top, but the consensus was that it smelled of desperation and last-ditch efforts. Already their marriage was frayed.

“We had
some
fun,” Mrs. Spencer conceded. She pulled her lips into a tight and distant smile. “But it was such a confusing night.”

“Tell me more,” Win pressed. “Tell me everything about the guests. The decorations. The food. It must've been marvelous.”

“I've said all I want to on the subject.”

“Mrs. Spencer…”

Pru shot him a look. As much as she cared for him, as much as her heart squeezed at every one of his rakish, crinkled grins, the man had learned little in their weeks at the Grange. For one, he still had the appalling propensity to push when it was very clear Mrs. Spencer needed to be pulled.

“I think the young lady wants me to back off,” Win said, locking eyes with Pru.

“The old lady, too,” Mrs. Spencer said. “By the by, you should know there's been a mix-up in town. They claim I stole a can of gooseberry pie filling and some drinking chocolate from the market.”

“So we can expect another visit from—”

Suddenly thuds and crashes erupted throughout the house, as though someone were trying to roll a bookcase down a flight of stairs.

“What in the world?” Win said and stood. “The police again?”

Mrs. Spencer flew to the window.

“Who is that?” she said. “What's out there?”

“Probably a cat,” Pru said, pulse screaming. “Or a dog.”

“Helluva cat,” Win said.

“They're coming for me! They're here! I saw them.”

“Who?” Win asked. “The coppers? Perhaps if you stopped instigating calamities in town…”

“Not the police, you clown!” Mrs. Spencer said, slightly out of breath. She took to pacing by the window. “Yesterday a man showed up at the door.”

“Someone was here?” Pru said. “At the Grange?”

“Yes. And he drilled me with all kinds of questions about my health, my welfare, and even about you.”

“ME!”

“You answered the door?” Win said. “Without firing any shots? This is an interesting turn of events. Do I need to fish some poor bloke's body from the pond?”

“No dead bodies. This time. And I didn't shoot the intruder because he was holding a bitch.”

“He picked you up?” Win said. “All the way off the ground? Why, the nerve! But please don't speak so harshly of yourself.”

Mrs. Spencer glared at him, the corners of her mouth quivering as she tried to keep away a smile.

Meanwhile, Pru began to fidget and pace. Had this man really been asking about her? Mrs. Spencer had been “acting up” lately and the last time she regularly vexed authorities the family hired Pru. Maybe this time they'd hired someone who could actually keep Mrs. Spencer in check.

“Bitch,” Mrs. Seton said. “So very droll, Seton. Alas, of every living creature in this house, including the dogs, you are the bitchiest. For your information, I allowed the stranger on the premises because he looked familiar and I thought he was a spaniel showman. I've been in the market for another.”

“More dogs?” Pru yawped.

“Alas, he was holding one of mine that allegedly escaped. After dumping Jangles on the floor, the man immediately took to quizzing me about my health. Naturally I informed him that the only medical assistance needed would be to get my cane removed from his bum. He was gone in a flash.”

Mrs. Spencer checked the other window.

“Don't see anyone now,” she said. “Maybe Tom scared him off.”

“It was probably some tramp,” Win offered. “Who heard there's an old duchess around and figured he could swindle you for a pound or two.”

“Who you calling old, Seton?”

Mrs. Spencer paused and crossed both arms over her chest.

“Oh, you're right,” she said with an exhale. “It probably
was
some filthy drifter looking to make a fast quid.”

“Nothing more,” Win agreed with a nod.

Though he and Mrs. Spencer both felt satisfied, Pru sensed the true explanation was not so simple. Whether the man was there on behalf of Edith, or the mental hospital, or some different entity altogether, it didn't matter. At that precise moment Pru understood, without the slightest hesitation, that her time at the Grange would soon come to an end.

 

Sixty

THE GRANGE

CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

FEBRUARY 1973

“She hardly talks about Sunny,” Win said, sliding a half-bitten pencil behind one ear.

A week had passed.

No further men showed up looking to compile medical dossiers. Not a single constable appeared at the door. Things seemed calm, even as Pru's insides coiled and turned. It was all she could do to stop herself from grabbing Mrs. Spencer and pleading for her life.