WS: To be clear, you’re talking about his visits to Blenheim.
GD: Yes, of course I am.
WS: Your family seat.
GD: They’re not my family.
WS: Churchill was your husband’s cousin. His best friend.
GD: I’m telling you he’s not my family.
Thirty-nine
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
When her father passed, he left each of his daughters a sizable trust. Naturally, this sudden influx of riches rendered Gladys Deacon ever more attractive to potential suitors. The “cash for class” business was thriving, this a term invented by Consuelo Vanderbilt herself. Old Coon was quite aware of her position in that particular exchange.
Despite a revolving door of paramours, Gladys saw in the dollars not a dowry but her chance at freedom. She bought her very own Parisian apartment at the Trocadéro and flitted about the best salons, not a care to be had. On weekends she visited Monet in Giverny and consorted with the likes of Renoir, Rodin, and Degas.
Because of this freedom, Gladys endeavored to improve herself in every conceivable way. She understood beauty and money would disappear long before she had a chance to appreciate either. But knowledge, education, and the ability to dazzle at salons, these were qualities age and bad decisions could not erase.
Already a skilled mathematician and almost grotesquely well read, Gladys set out to better understand the art world, an education garnered via a close father-daughter relationship with renowned art critic Bernard Berenson.
What happened to their friendship leaves room for conjecture. They went from touring the world together for months at a time to a permanent severing of communication. Whatever caused the rift must’ve been monstrous given the friendship ended with such bitter finality. On the plus side, not a single person was shot.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
“Bite me, Gus,” Annie said to herself as she climbed up into the windowsill, breaking and entering without compunction. “And you too, Mom, while we’re at it.”
She didn’t mean it, not really, but it was comforting to say. Gus who told her only half the story, then made her feel silly for wanting the other half.
“So they slept together?” she’d asked, when he finished his tale about the wine-slugging.
“I didn’t say that,” he replied.
“So they didn’t sleep together.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Thanks, jerk.
And then there was Laurel, who’d promised a memorable mother-daughter adventure yet they’d spent more time apart than together. Not that their separation didn’t have certain advantages, like more time for Annie to snoop.
With a sigh, she hopped down from the window and scanned the room. Everything appeared the same as before. Using much less caution and far more haste than her first visit, Annie made a straight line toward the opposite end of the house, where she bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“All right, Seton,” Annie said as she stepped into his room. She dropped to her knees and peered beneath the bed with a flashlight. “What did I miss the last time through?”
Among the dust and bug carcasses, Annie uncovered little, only a few more sheets of paper, which she dragged toward her with a stick. Another look indicated there was nothing else to find, at least not beneath the bed. Annie leaped to her feet and crammed the transcripts into her backpack.
“What next?” she said with a small hack. Already her throat felt sore and scratchy, her eyes swollen. She’d have to get out of there soon.
Approaching the typewriter, Annie noticed a half-torn, ragged sheet of paper lodged inside. She turned the knob, which caught on its own rust. Using both hands, she pried and jerked until she finally released the words.
“Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well-you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me.”
—Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth
“I have nearly died three times since morning.”
—Marcel Proust
Annie shoved it into her bag along with the rest of the purloined manuscripts. There wasn’t much to learn from dead-writer quotes, but as the Diet Coke incident proved, sometimes there was more to a page than the words written on it.
Before heading out the door, Annie paused to stare at the desk. It had two drawers, she noticed for the first time. She doubled back to case them out, but found both were stuck.
“Hmm,” she said, eyes skimming the room. “Hmm. If a thief wanted to bust open a furniture lock, what would he use?”
The bed, she thought with a startling quickness. The very bed where Pru and Win had their maybe-salacious, maybe-innocent drunken evening. Surely there was a loose spring she could use to jimmy open the drawers.
Chin held high, she moved swiftly, assuredly across the room.
“Hello, coil,” she said, yanking one from the frame.
With a grimace and a heretofore-untapped physical strength, Annie stepped on one end and pulled the entire spring taut. Then, after only a few minutes, she was able to force open both locks. If fake researcher didn’t pan out, Annie had burgling down pat. The CIA wasn’t too far from Goose Creek Hill, maybe they needed a new covert operations specialist.
But despite her efforts, the drawers revealed nothing more than a smattering of pencils, several spools of errant typewriter ribbon, and some blank sheets of paper.
After Annie tossed her findings onto the bed, she reached farther back in the drawers, where her hand made contact with a set of plastic cartridges. Audiotapes, eight in total, all of them damaged with thin brown ribbons gnarled and kinked. What Annie might do with broken tapes and nothing to play them on, she hadn’t the faintest but she added them to her backpack of thievery nonetheless.
As Annie went to leave, she gave the bed one last look. Poor confused Pru Valentine. A feminist and Victorian lady both.
Smiling, Annie headed toward the stairs, no longer afraid she might fall right through them. Somehow it felt safer knowing Win and Pru had been there first.
After reaching the bottom step, Annie swung around the banister. She skipped forward a few paces then froze.
Something caught her eye.
“Huh?” she said, backing up.
Annie crouched down and saw, lodged in the banister, a tan, rectangular piece of leather, across it a strip of metal. It was a luggage tag, caught on a spindle.
She picked it up and ran her finger along the brass plate. The metal was blackened and mottled but the inscription was decipherable. She’d seen the address before.
JAMES E. SETON
24 QUAI DE BÉTHUNE
PARIS
Forty
BASIL’S WATCHES & SUCH
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
Annie stood at the counter, staring down at the luggage tag in her right hand, a cluster of cassette tapes in her left.
James E. Seton. Paris.
Gus had never mentioned the J in “J. Casper Augustine Seton” stood for James. Granted, Annie cared far more about what happened between Win and Pru than the details behind their given names, but Gus’s ongoing fact embargo needled. It was another hidden tidbit, a plot point withheld.
“Hello, miss, can I help you?”
A man bumbled out from behind a mauve curtain.
“Oh, hello there.” Annie slid the tag back into her pocket and extended a hand over the counter. He stared at it with suspicion. “My name is Annie Haley.”
She let her arm drop back to the counter, hand untouched.
“Anyway,” she said. “Nicola Teepers gave me your contact information. I’m in possession of some damaged audiocassette tapes.”
As Annie pushed the cartridges forward, they squeaked against the glass.
“She thought y
ou might be able to repair them,” she said.
The man, who was reed-legged but round across the middle, twisted his mouth in confusion. And who could blame him? They were in a clock shop and she was handing him a pile of broken tapes.
“Right,” Annie said and dragged them back toward her. “I can see where this would be a crazy place to come. I must’ve misunderstood. Well, have a splendid day. Cheers!”
“Stop.”
He grabbed her hand. His fingers felt cold and dry.
“I can help you,” he said.
“Really?”
She slipped out of his hold, then glanced at a cuckoo on the wall. The poor bird was getting himself stuck each time he tried to exit the doors.
“We’re mostly watches in this shop,” the man said. “And clocks. But I do the odd job here and there.”
He pulled a magnifying glass from his shirt pocket and studied each tape.
“I think I can fix these,” he said.
“That’s terrific news!”
Annie smacked her hands together, which sent the cuckoo once again spiraling out of its hole.
“I do appreciate it,” she told the man as he shook his head wearily. “You see, I’m a researcher and trying—”
“It’ll take about a week.”
“A week? Mister … I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name. Are you … might you be the eponymous Basil?”
“Sir. You can call me sir.”
“Mister, uh, sir. I’m grateful for your help but I don’t have a week. You see, I’m from the States.”
“You don’t say.”
“I have to go back. Soon. I’m not sure when, exactly, but most likely within the next few days.”
“And the town shall weep,” he said. “I’ll try my best to fix them sooner. No promises, though. You’re not the only thing I have going on.”
“Got it. Thank you for doing what you can. You can reach me at the Banbury Inn. The name’s Annie Haley. Do you need to write it down?”
The man stared at her tiredly, one of his eyes wandering off in some other direction.
“I see,” she said. “Well, I’ll check back in a few days. Thanks again!”
He was already gone, evaporated behind his mauve curtain.
“Not very jolly, are we?” Annie muttered.
She tucked her hair behind both ears and walked back out the door.
“Okay,” she said to herself, under her breath. “This is a start.”
Step one was getting the tapes repaired. Step two would be figuring how to pay for it. But she also had to find something to play them on, in the next few days, all without Laurel catching on. Annie frowned. Things were not looking too prospective. Already deflated, she began shuffling back toward the inn.
“Excuse me,” she said, jostling between a couple and then around a woman. “Pardon. Sorry.”
No. She would not cry. Not there. Not in a foreign country about a set of tapes.
“Sorry.” Her eyes ached. “Excuse me.”
“Annie?” said a voice.
She tried to shake away the cobwebs.
“Annie? Annabelle! What are you doing?”
Annie whipped around. The woman she’d not-so-politely skittered past was her mother and she looked rather pissed. Not the good kind of pissed, either, as in drunk like the Brits. No, Laurel Haley was full-blown American mad.
Forty-one
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
“Oh,” Annie said, swallowing hard. “Hey, Mom.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing really. Strolling around town. A walk, you know.”
“A walk. Have you given up jogging already?”
“Ha! Good one!”
As her pulse quickened, Annie reminded herself that she hadn’t done anything especially shady. She didn’t even have the stolen tapes on her anymore. The person who should’ve been acting sheepish was Laurel.
“What is it you’re doing?” Annie asked, trying to turn the tables though she mostly lacked the strength. “I thought you were in meetings all day.”
“Ah, yes, the meetings,” Laurel said with a wry smile. “The ones I walked out of.”
“You walked out?”
“Indeed I did. Dramatically and in a huff. Not my usual MO, but I was over it. Done. I’m so tired of haggling.”
“You? A lawyer? Tired of haggling?”
“I’m as baffled as anyone. But it was … I don’t know…”
Laurel struggled to find the words, a first as far as Annie knew.
“It all suddenly seemed so pointless,” she said, puffing out her cheeks. “Every last bit of it. All the hassle, and to what end? The chance to grab a few more dollars? What a waste, especially when offset with lawyer’s fees, lodging costs, and the anxiety medication I’m surely going to need.”
“Wow, Mom. I’m surprised. It’s good, though. I guess. Why stress out over something that’s basically a gift?”
“Yes.” Laurel exhaled. “Exactly.”
“So what now?”
“I think…” Laurel started. She looked up at the sky, at the clouds shifting overhead. “I think it means I’ll take the lowball offer. What the hell. It’s only money.”
“You have enough, don’t you?” Annie asked. “For retirement? To last … until…”
“Oh, we’ll be fine. I saved plenty while working at the firm and even the deal as it stands is a nice chunk of cash. Plus how much money does a person need? I should’ve just let my lawyer handle it and waited back in the States for a check.”
“Wow,” Annie said again, the thought jarring. “Just wow.”
What if her mom had done that?
What if they’d stayed in Virginia, Laurel continuing to ride her horses while she waited for a check? Annie could barely remember what she did all day before trailing after old codgers and getting herself mired in life at the Grange. If they’d never come to England nothing would’ve changed yet everything would’ve been somehow different.
“Why didn’t you?” Annie asked. “Why didn’t you just collect your money?”
“I ask myself that very question ten times a day. I guess I felt like I had to see it, pay the property its due respect. Not to mention I was more likely to get top dollar if I came in person, which seems preposterous now. I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“About you not getting top dollar?” Annie crossed her arms, and then uncrossed them again. “No. I’m not disappointed about that.”
“I’m sorry, Annabelle. I’m sorry that I couldn’t get a higher price for you.”
“For me? What does this have to do with me?”
“Well, eventually, this, what’s here.” Laurel gestured with both hands. “What’s at home. It all will go to you. Not soon, of course. That I know of. But one day.”
“God, Mom, don’t think about it like that.”
As if Annie cared about her inheritance. As if she even assumed there would be one.
She wondered if her mom would’ve gone to the trouble if Annie had a job, or any financial promise whatsoever beyond marrying some dude with a steady paycheck. Military pay wasn’t exactly known for its high tax bracket, and it couldn’t keep the lights on at Blenheim, but Eric’s pay was a veritable fortune compared to the zero dollars Annie made.
“Don’t do it for me,” Annie added.
“Why not?” Laurel asked. “You’re the reason I do anything, period. My sole motivation in life. It’s been that way since the moment you were born. Before, even.”
“But, Mom, like you said, it’s only money.”
“That’s true, but I’ve always wanted to give you the most of everything, all the top dollars, literally and figuratively. This is too much, though. The land. The lawyers. The other sellers. Even this town is getting to me.”
“Yeah,” Annie said, glancing in the direction of the George & Dragon. “I know what you mean. Mom, it won’t be like this forever. I know you worry, but I’ll get a
job. I’ll make something of myself. I’m not as lost as I seem.”
“Annie,” Laurel said, and turned to face her. She grabbed her daughter by both shoulders. “You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to marry Eric to prove you’re a grown-up.”
“Geez.” She jerked herself out of Laurel’s reach. “Is that what you think of me?”
“I don’t think that about you,” Laurel said and pressed her lips together. “I worry that you think that about yourself.”
“Mom…”
“A marriage is not adulthood,” Laurel said. “And it’s not security. In fact, a crappy marriage is the most insecure place in the world.”
“I’m sorry that your marriage was bad,” Annie said. “I mean that because it would’ve been awesome to have a father in the picture.”
“I know.” Laurel’s eyes began to water. “I wish I could’ve given you a good dad and the support that comes with it. He was simply not that kind of man.”
“Did you even give him a chance, though? A real chance?”
“Of course I did,” Laurel said with a nod. “I wanted nothing more than for us to be a family.”
“But you left him before I was born.”
“Yes, but we’d been together for many years before that. A family doesn’t have to include kids. You rug rats are not the center of the universe,” she tried to joke.
“Not funny,” Annie said. “I’m trying to have a serious discussion with you.”
“Annabelle, simply put, things with your father were bad. Worse than bad. This wasn’t about a few fights over bills or a slammed door or two. I had no choice. And I’d do it again, in a flash.”
“Maybe things were terrible for him, too.”
Annie thought of the transcripts, the story of the duchess and Gladys’s own dad. The man was an assassin and she forgave him. The word “forgiveness” had, at its heart, so very much give.
“Absolutely,” Laurel said. “Things were awful for him but in a way that had nothing to do with us. I tried, Annie. God, I tried. But you can’t fix someone else.”
“I get it,” Annie said with a defiant sniff. “You made the only choice you could. But just because it was bad for you doesn’t mean that it will be for me.”
I'll See You in Paris Page 18
