Keep it, mate, he told himself. Keep the lot of it.
CHAPTER 3
HEATHROW AIRPORT, TERMINAL FIVE
LONDON, ENGLAND
Caro walked past the gated shops in Terminal Five, wasting time until the duty-free boutique opened. She’d forgotten to pack a hairbrush, and if her curls were allowed free rein, they’d weave together of their own accord, hardening into woolly knots, and she’d have little choice but to shave her head.
She walked under paper globes that hung from the ceiling. Way off in the distance, a baby cried and cried.
Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she drifted down the sunlit corridor. The Harrods window display caught her attention. A Portmeirion tea set had been arranged on a spill of green velvet, each cup showing a different British flower. These same dishes were in her uncle’s Oxford kitchen, lined up in the Welsh cupboard.
Her eyes filled and she pressed her fingertips against the glass. When she was five years old, thieves had set fire to her family’s home in Crab Orchard, Tennessee. An elderly couple had found her wandering on Millstone Gap Road, and they’d driven her to a hospital. Caro was suffering from smoke inhalation, a third-degree burn on her hand, and singed hair. The next day, a man in a brown fedora showed up at the hospital. He had a barrel chest and red cheeks, and he spoke with a strange accent.
“I’m your uncle Nigel,” he said. “Well, technically I’m your third cousin, but let’s dispense with the proprieties, shall we?”
He checked her out of the hospital, pausing to steal her medical chart from the nurses’ station. The uncle had explained that all traces of her had to vanish. “Or those bad men’ll get me?” Caro asked, blinking back tears. She wiped her bandaged hand over her eyes.
“Not on your nelly,” Uncle Nigel said.
They drove to New Orleans and somehow he’d obtained a new passport for Caro without producing her birth certificate. The next day they’d flown to England and made their way to a cozy, book-lined house in Oxford, then he’d tucked her into a poster bed in the guest room. Caro had tried to sleep, but a striped cat had leaped onto her chest and begun kneading, its claws tugging the wool blanket.
Tears pricked Caro’s eyes as she remembered her old house in Tennessee—a white clapboard with green shutters, deep porches, and a flying pig weathervane. Their driveway had a gate that ran on solar power and no one could pass through without a code—or so they’d thought. She remembered limestone, black dirt, coal mines, copperheads, biscuits, syrup running down the blade of a silver knife. Her mother had painted an Alice in Wonderland mural in the nursery. Clocks, chess pieces, the Caterpillar’s mushroom, a croquet game with hedgehogs and flamingos. Now everything was gone; the white house had burned.
The next day, Caro and her uncle took the train to London and went shopping at Harrods. They stepped onto the Egyptian Escalator, and her uncle steadied her when her bandaged hand skidded on the rail. In Toyland, her uncle bought her a Paddington Bear, and then they drifted over to the Georgian Restaurant, where a man in a tuxedo led them past tea carts that overflowed with tiny cakes and lemon tarts, to a table in the center of the room. Their waiter’s head reminded Caro of a giant volleyball, white and round, with fine black hairs combed just so. He recommended the high tea, twenty-four pounds per person; a glass of champagne added nine additional pounds.
Caro sucked her bottom lip, trying to understand how one drink could cause a sudden weight gain. Her mother, Vivi, had often served champagne and she hadn’t grown or shrunk.
“And what for the lass?” The waiter smiled. “A cup of milk?”
“Champagne,” she said, eager to sample these magical English foods and beverages. Hadn’t Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland involved cakes and drinks?
“Er, it’s a bit unseemly for a child to drink an alcoholic beverage,” the waiter said.
“Oh, all right. Bring her a pot of Moroccan mint tea,” Uncle Nigel said.
“Sir?” she asked her uncle. “Why is it called a high tea? Because it’s served on a high floor?”
“I like how your mind works.” Uncle Nigel’s lips tugged into a smile. “Tea is a fancy meal. American tourists add the high, my darling.”
While he lectured her about the history of British food, the waiter brought a three-tiered serving tray. The bottom layer was crammed with tiny crustless sandwiches; the smaller, higher plates held scones, crumpets, and tartlets. Not a single one had EAT ME written on it. She sighed and reached for a raisin scone, but her bandage was cumbersome and it knocked the pastry to the table. She lowered her head and her eyes filled.
Uncle Nigel dragged an enormous handkerchief from his pocket. “No tears before bedtime. We’ll get on famously, but for your own privacy and security, it might be wise to establish some ground rules. Do you know what those are?”
“You lay a ruler on the ground?” She wiped her eyes. The handkerchief smelled faintly of tobacco, and one edge was monogrammed in black. C for Clifford.
“You’re quite precocious for a tot. Let’s just call it a list of ‘mustn’ts,’ shall we?” he continued. “First, when people ask how you came to live with me, you mustn’t answer. I want you to shrug. Like this.” He demonstrated. “And roll your eyes. Got it?”
She nodded. Her daddy had played games like this.
“Second, you mustn’t tell anyone you are from Tennessee—don’t even mention America. Third, you mustn’t speak of the fire.”
Caro didn’t ask why. Something ghastly had happened to Mother and Daddy, but she didn’t know the whole story. Her uncle’s reluctance to discuss the fire was like a red ribbon pulled tight between them. She wanted to thrum and pick at that ribbon, but he just smiled and poured milk into her tea.
“I don’t suppose you can tone down that Southern accent,” he said.
“What’s an accent?” she asked.
“Never mind, darling. I’ll hire a speech therapist. Here’s another scone. Do you want clotted cream?”
“What does clotted mean in British? Spoiled or just lumpy?” How would she ever remember that tea was another word for supper? And what about that nine-pound glass of champagne? Her uncle had taken quite a few sips, but he didn’t seem heavier. Yet. Great Britain was looking more and more like a place where the English language wasn’t English and food had whimsical effects.
“Clotted cream is delicious,” he said. “Rather like a British version of whipped cream, but thicker.” Her uncle had smiled and patted her hand. “Caro, you’re a dandy.”
All these years later, when she heard the word tea, she still thought in dualities. Tea was a beverage and a late-afternoon meal. Meatless teas were her favorite. She liked nothing better than eating scones and jam and clotted cream while she watched old movies. Once she’d plowed through an entire jar of Devon cream while Olivier had attacked the Spanish Armada in Fire over England.
She blotted her eyes with tissues the embassy driver had given her. The overhead speakers crackled and a crisp voice announced that Flight 1887 was boarding—not her plane. There was still time to look for a hairbrush.
She turned away from the Harrods display and bumped into a man. He wore a brown leather jacket and carried a backpack. It was the man who’d been lurking outside her flat. His eyes were blue, with brown chips in the left iris. He resembled the actor in the Dunhill Cologne commercials, but his dark, expressive eyebrows were just like Humphrey Bogart’s. Normally she was skittish around strangers, especially handsome ones who seemed to be following her, but the news about her uncle had left her numb.
“You were on Bow Street,” she said. “Did you follow me?”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said, sounding anything but sorry. He stepped sideways, giving off a gust of cologne. Caro was surprised that it wasn’t Dunhill, after all, but Acqua di Parma, the same scent Uncle Nigel wore. Used to wear.
“Are you following me?” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, are you a reporter from the Observer? Or a staffer from the Daily Star?�
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“Yes, I followed you. And no, I’m not a reporter.” His lips twitched as if he were repressing a smile. “I’m a biochemist.”
“That was my next guess. Biochemists are always skulking outside my flat.” Her voice sounded clear and confident, but his quick smile was getting to her. His upper lip was well-defined, forming a wide M. Her hands began to shake, and she tucked them behind her back.
“There’s a Starbucks ahead. Do you have time for a sit-down?” He pointed at the corridor, where people with backpacks and tote bags were rushing to their gates. A crooked line was forming outside the ladies’ room.
“I shouldn’t,” Caro said, though she desperately needed a gingerbread latte.
“It’s rather urgent or I wouldn’t pester you,” he said. “I won’t take much of your time. When does your flight leave? Mine’s leaving at eight forty.”
He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a folder that held his ticket and passport. Behind him, a young woman in a plaid coat struggled to control her three toddlers. A chubby girl in a white bunny coat broke free and ran past Caro, straight for a nearby construction zone.
“Lacie, no,” the mother cried, holding on to the other children.
Caro shuddered as she remembered the family she’d briefly misplaced at Waterloo Station. She stepped around the biochemist and ran. Just before little Lacie ducked under the scaffold, Caro caught her. A burgundy tint suffused the tot’s pale cheeks as she pummeled Caro.
“Put me down!” Lacie cried.
“Let’s go find your mum, shall we?” Caro said.
“Bugger off!” Lacie yelled.
The mother rushed up, dragging the other children. Caro set the squirming child on the ground “Be good,” she said, patting Lacie’s shoulder.
“Oh, thank you, miss,” the mother said, pulling the children off to the side. Lacie scowled at Caro.
The biochemist caught up with her. “If you can give me five minutes, I’d be grateful.”
She glanced at her watch. In ten minutes her flight would start boarding. She’d have to buy a hairbrush in Kardzhali. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she began, “but I’ve suffered an enormous loss, and I’d just like to be alone.”
“Yes, I’m dreadfully sorry about your uncle. That’s why I’ve been dogging you. He invited me to tea. I was supposed to give you a lift to Oxford. Then I learned about his death.”
Her throat tightened. He’d known Uncle Nigel? Wait, was this the man from Switzerland? “How did you find out?”
“The Zürich airport. It was all over Sky News. They referred to Sir Nigel as England’s most beloved tomb raider.”
She put one hand on her hip. “Just who are you?”
“Sorry, I should have introduced myself straightaway. I’m Jude Barrett.” He extended his hand, but she ignored it. Had he really been invited for tea or was he a clever paparazzo trying to pump her for information?
They stepped around a queue outside Plane Food. Morning light spilled through the tall windows, falling in brilliant stripes along the corridor.
“How did you meet my uncle?” she asked.
“Actually, I didn’t. We corresponded. His letters were baffling.”
Her pulse sped up. “Do you have them?”
“Yes.” Jude paused under a departure monitor and glanced at the schedule. Then he pointed to a desk. “That’s my gate. Perhaps I could change my reservation. I’ve got a dreadful layover, anyway. What’s your flight number? If I switched, we’d have three and a half hours to talk.”
He walked to a British Airways counter and explained his dilemma to the ticket agent, whose face was shaped like a fist. “I’m terribly sorry,” the agent said. “I’m afraid all seats are taken.”
Jude turned back to Caro. “Well, I tried. Perhaps we can reconnect at the Sofia airport. It’s a big ask, but could you wait there until my plane arrives?”
“Someone from the embassy is meeting me.” She felt a pinch of disappointment. She was dying to know what was in those letters. From the overhead speakers, a woman with a clipped voice announced Caro’s flight number.
“That’s me,” she said. “I should go.”
“But how shall I find you?”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Ustra in Kardzhali. Let me give you my mobile number.”
“I don’t have a mobile.” He stepped backward, toward his gate. “I’ll hire a car and make my way to Kardzhali. Perhaps we can have tea and discuss your uncle.”
The loudspeaker kept announcing Caro’s flight. She reluctantly turned and ran to her gate. It wasn’t until her plane taxied down the runway that she realized she’d forgotten his last name. It started with a B, she was sure of it. She was so discombobulated, all she remembered was Jude. If he forgot her hotel, she’d never find him. And those letters would be lost. If they existed.
CHAPTER 4
WILKERSON PHARMACEUTICALS
EAST LONDON, ENGLAND
Harry Wilkerson rose from his desk and paced in front of the long windows. His office was on the twenty-fifth floor of Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals, the newest building in the East End of London and home to the biggest pharmaceutical company in Europe. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at the River Thames, watching a tourist boat chug through the gray water.
If Caroline Clifford was out there, he would find her. Maybe she was his daughter, and maybe she wasn’t. Either way, nothing would change for him.
He turned away from the view, stepped over to his desk, and reached for an old newspaper. It was dated November 5, Guy Fawkes Day, and showed a photograph of a pretty, but apparently ditzy, London tour guide who’d lost an entire family at a tube station. Days ago, when he’d read the article, he’d been captivated by the girl’s heart-shaped face and wide-set eyes that slanted upward just the slightest bit. Except for the bushy, shoulder-length hair, which appeared to be dishwater blond, she was the image of his dead wife, Vivienne.
At first, he’d thought the girl was Vivienne—had she somehow survived the fire? If Vivienne hadn’t perished, she would now be in her forties. He found a magnifying glass and held it over the photograph. This girl was younger. Her skin was plump, glowing, and unwrinkled. Yet the resemblance to Vivi was uncanny. Surely her daughter, Caroline, had died in the inferno. But the remains of only two bodies had been found in the ashes. Wilkerson abhorred loose ends, and his experts had assured him that the bones of a five-year-old child would have been cremated in that blaze. Now, decades later, here was Vivi’s dead ringer in the newspaper. He threw down the newspaper, strode to the bar, and poured a glass of scotch.
Twenty-six years ago, on the Ides of March no less, he’d sent Vivienne to Sotheby’s to bid on ten pages from Historia Immortalis. Vivi had been a manuscript curator, quite the little know-it-all on Psalters and whatnot, and according to her, scholars were divided about the book. Some believed it was an account of early astronomers who’d mapped the evening sky; others claimed it was a history of vampirism. Whatever it was, Historia Immortalis had launched a crusade in southern France and had played a role in the Inquisition. A tremendous role. Then it had vanished for nearly eight hundred years, only to resurface at the auction.
He’d told Vivi to bid on a medieval icon, too—a sort of companion piece to the manuscript.
“How much are you willing to spend?” Vivi had stood in front of the gilt mirror, brushing her shoulder-length hair. The straight, shiny locks were precisely the color of Earl Gray tea.
“Whatever it takes,” he said. “You’ve got carte blanche.”
That afternoon she’d called to say she’d won both the icon and the pages. She brought them to their Kensington flat and stood off to the side, watching with a curious expression as Wilkerson locked the items in his safe. He slipped into a burgundy robe and uncorked a bottle of Merlot, but Vivi wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. She pleaded exhaustion and went straight to bed.
Weeks later, on an unseasonably warm morning in April, Vivi left the flat in a
hurry. Later, Wilkerson found a home pregnancy test in the trash bin. He held up the pink stick as if it were a mouse tail and blinked at the plus sign in the display grid.
Damn her. Vivi knew he wasn’t ready for a baby. She’d clucked sympathetically when he’d told her about his workaholic father and his barmy, social-climbing mother. His parents had dumped young Harry into a boarding school where older boys had tormented him. He’d endured their tricks and insults. Now they were dead, the whole lot, and Wilkerson had restructured his late father’s pharmaceutical company. He’d worked eighteen hours a day, sometimes sleeping in his office. Vivi hadn’t complained. Her job as curator sent her around the world. What kind of parents would they make? Terrible ones, that’s what. Without fail, they’d used contraceptives. Yet here she was, carrying a snot-nosed imp in her belly. Well, she’d just have to get rid of it.
Wilkerson stayed home from the office that day. He poured a glass of scotch and rehearsed a speech. The pregnancy wasn’t negotiable. She’d get an abortion or face the consequences. After four years of marriage, he’d grown tired of her. True, Vivi was both exquisite and educated, but she was a bore, and besides, his mistress was far more titillating in bed.
He waited all day for Vivi to come home. At dusk, he began to worry. Had something happened? Was she injured?
I do love her, after all, he thought.
When first light rose over the steep rooftops in Kensington, he’d changed his mind about fatherhood. What would his child look like? Would it have his hazel eyes or Vivi’s strange pewter ones? Would it inherit the Wilkerson square chin?
He began to panic when Vivi didn’t show up the next day. A sharp-edged fear, hard as shattered granite, sliced through his chest. He ran to his safe, spun the dial, and opened the steel door. Empty, except for a first edition Evelyn Waugh and Vivi’s wedding rings. The bitch had left him. His detectives said she’d run off with a wealthy Frenchman she’d met at the auction, taking her unborn child and the artifacts with her.
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 3
