GD: Boldini? Hmm, the name sounds familiar.
WS: Surely you’re not going to lie about this! It’s the most fetching portrait the old bastard ever did, as far as I know. Unless there’s some other lady in some other country hiding some other portrait in her broken-down home.
GD: He was a bastard, wasn’t he? Oh, I adored the man!
WS: So he did paint you.
GD: Perhaps. It’s all starting to seem familiar.
WS: There’s not a person alive who finds creeping dementia so convenient.
GD: You’re mistaken, though. About the painting. There’s never been a portrait of me on the premises.
WS: You’re truly going to claim the Boldini wasn’t in your dining room?
GD: It wasn’t. Ever. Not for a single second.
WS: Note to manuscript. Writer’s assistant looks at GD agog.
PRU: I’m not your assistant.
GD: Who’s GD? Surely you’re not calling me goddamned.
WS: Simply your initials. Though it’s also a highly appropriate coincidence.
PRU: Mrs. Spencer, that portrait was there. I saw it with my own two eyes! Why can’t you admit it? What’s holding you back?
GD: Boldini painted me, it is true. And he sketched me many times besides, the renditions of which I’m happy to provide. But the portrait was never in my home. My former husband kept it, if I recall.
WS: He’s been dead, quite a while now.
GD: Probably incinerated the thing. He hated Boldini. Called him a pig. To his face and behind his back. Boldini had a salacious reputation with women and my former husband worried he’d make me look like a tart.
PRU: Mrs. Spencer, I don’t understand. The portrait was there. We both saw it.
GD: I don’t know what you think you saw but it wasn’t me. And so what if I did remove it? Why is it any concern of yours? There are things about me you don’t know. Things not even a would-be biographer can weasel out of me with his incessant quizzing. Though, I am sure, that won’t stop him from trying.
Fifty-two
WS: Two bobbies showed up at the door today while you were out on a very rare afternoon constitutional. Would you know anything about this?
GD: How could I?
WS: Mrs. Spencer, I noticed the front of your car is demolished.
GD: Yes. A goat ran into the fender while my car was parked in the yard.
WS: Must’ve been some goat. Unfortunately the coppers offered an alternate explanation.
GD: I’ll bet.
WS: Frideswide’s Dress Shop reported that a certain black car smashed into its front window display earlier today. Were there goats in town too?
GD: There might as well have been!
WS: Mrs. Spencer …
GD: Fine! I did it! All right? I busted through her window. And I don’t regret it.
PRU: But you could’ve injured someone. That plus the “small fire” you set the other night …
GD: Oh please. Frideswide’s was closed. No harm, no foul.
WS: The insurance broker believes it some foul.
GD: I didn’t want Frideswide infecting this town.
WS: Infecting? Is the sweet clothier ill?
GD: In the brain maybe! Do you know what she had on display in that picture window of hers? Polyester! Polyester trousers! FOR WOMEN. It had to be done, Seton. It positively needed to happen, lest this town fall victim to horrible taste.
Fifty-three
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
“I’m glad I tracked you down.”
Nicola waddled out from her office and to the breakfast table where Annie was piling minicroissants onto her plate.
“Track me down?” Annie scooped up three pieces of cantaloupe. “I’m staying right upstairs.”
“Yes, but you seem to flit and flitter all over the place,” Nicola said, dancing her hands in demonstration. A passerby ducked to avoid getting socked in the face. “Like a hummingbird.”
“I’m generally not one for flitting.”
“Further, your mum said you were leaving for the States the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t risk not seeing you.”
“Excuse me?” Annie said, the plate at once too heavy for her hand. “Leaving? She told you we’re leaving? In two days?”
But what about the sightseeing? The promised trips to London and to Blenheim? Not to mention all of the things remaining in Banbury, the pieces of Win’s puzzle—and of Laurel’s—Annie still had to connect. Laurel said that she was “done” but never mentioned how fast she wanted to get out of town.
“That’s what she told me,” Nicola said in a clipped tone. “You rushed out of here so briskly on my bike I didn’t have the chance to tell you.”
“Nicola.” Annie winced. “I’m sorry. I assumed it was fine.”
“S’okay.”
Nicola went back to her desk and disappeared beneath it. She remained submerged for so long Annie worried she might’ve capsized.
“Nicola?” She stretched across the top of the counter. “You still down there?”
“Ope! Here it is!” Nicola popped back up, face reddened and eyes slightly crossed. “Whoa, nelly.” She shook her head. “Someone left this for you.”
She passed Annie a manila envelope.
“Someone?”
“That older gentleman from the other day? The one with the brother?”
“Oh right.” Annie took the envelope. “Gus.”
“Is that his name? Well, no matter. His brother is the important one.” She wiggled her brows. “That man, easy on the eyes. I’ve had a crush on him for donkey’s years.”
“You know Gus’s family?” Annie asked. “How well?”
It was worth a shot. Maybe if Nicola knew Gus and his brother, she’d have a string to tie some corner of the story together. Gus insisted he wasn’t involved in the tale, that he was an outsider, on the periphery. But outside was still a place. It was part of something too.
“I didn’t know him particularly well,” Nicola said and pulled at her blouse. “He’s much older. But I had a wicked crush on him as a girl. Anyhoo, off I go. I’m leading a band of tourists to Blenheim Castle for the day. Are you familiar?”
“I’ve heard of it, yes.”
“You should check it out. Beyond fabulous,” Nicola said. “Did you know the Germans planned to destroy it during the war but Hitler called them off? Fancied he’d assume residence when the Krauts took over the world. It’s nice to dream big, I suppose. Well, ta-ta! Enjoy your day! Cheers!”
Nicola spun around and toddled off, leaving Annie amused—another Hitler story for the duchess—as well as alone. Alone with a package from Gus.
Fifty-four
15/11/2001
Dear Annie,
Poor timing.
I’ve been called out of town to contend with a family emergency. Don’t worry! Everything is jolly good. For now.
Only as I leave this derelict hamlet do I realize that I want to finish the story. All along I thought I’d tell you only as much as you had the time and tolerance for, and perhaps not even that.
But you should know how things concluded, what happened to Win and to Pru and whether Mrs. Spencer ever revealed herself as the duchess. Of course, titled folks aside, Pru is the true hero of the story, of Win’s biography even, though she’s not mentioned in it once.
Because I cannot enchant you with my winning personality face-to-face I’ve enclosed a set of recordings. These tapes, and the accompanying recorder, are provided gratis. You will not have to commit larceny in order to hear them.
Likewise, your bill has been settled at the clock shop. Ah, you’d not told me about those purloined tapes, had you? A little birdie snitched on you. He said a mysterious American girl arrived in his shop with a stash of someone else’s recordings. The list of suspects was short.
When you put those recordings together with what is in the envelope you now hold, you’ll have a cl
earer picture of The Missing Duchess. And by that I mean the story behind the story. A book is nothing without the backstory, the through-line holding it all together. I don’t know the full tale myself of course. I’m just one person, one viewpoint, an old bachelor at that. But I’ve shared with you what I can.
Finally, Miss Annie, I will answer one of your more nagging questions. The writer does still live in Paris, on the Île Saint-Louis, at the address you discovered. Do with that information what you please.
Until I met you, I hadn’t realized what was here. Thank you for showing me, however inadvertently, the narrative’s scope. Thank you for researching and for nosing your way into the lives of Win, Pru, and the duchess. And thank you for asking an old bugger some tough questions. I hope I’ve been of some use to you as well.
Good-bye, for now. Please come see me on your next scholarly expedition.
Cheers and all good things,
Gus
Fifty-five
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
The biography was coming along.
Win was getting what he needed, if not what he wanted. Maybe this would turn into a legitimate book yet.
“I think she’s actually into it,” Pru said one night as they went through the library, matching Mrs. Spencer’s stories with the books her friends wrote. “I think she likes how this is going.”
“Of course she does! Look around!” Win said, waving toward the seemingly infinite library. “This woman is an avid reader. She must gaze upon these, tickled that she will eventually star in one herself.”
“Not to mention all the most lauded writers of the day will be only meager players in her story.”
Win chuckled.
“You’re right,” he said. “Conrad. Proust. Mere footnotes. Single entries in the index. ‘Please refer to page ninety-three.’”
“But, a piece of criticism if I may,” Pru said, lifting a John Galsworthy from the shelf. The Skin Game.
“Please, yes. If there’s one thing I lack at the Grange it’s a constant barrage of flak provided by family and friends. It’s like music that’s abruptly gone out.”
“I didn’t realize you were feeling so neglected.” Pru coaxed the book back into place. “I’ll try to step up my game. Anyhow, if you ask me, the phrase ‘avid reader’ is too tepid. You’ve used it at least three times in your book.”
“You’ve a better description, I suppose?”
“Avid is for girls who hide flashlights beneath their pillows so they can finish the latest Nancy Drew after the lights go down.”
“Like our Miss Valentine, I presume.”
“Yes,” she said. “But unlike Lady Marlborough, I never once read so much that I had to spend a week in bed with black bandages over my eyes.”
“Fair enough. I’ll try to be more descriptive.”
Win pivoted around to face her.
“You know, I was thinking,” he said. “That here we are writing the duchess’s story…”
“We’re writing her story?”
“Yes. We. Did you not just offer editorial notes? So. Here we are penning Gladys Deacon’s tale and perhaps somewhere, someone else is writing the story of us.”
“The story of us?” Pru balked. “Sounds like a snore. And I’m not a fan of novels with protagonists who are writers. Get some originality, people.”
“But, Pru! Think about it!”
Win was starting to get that peppy way about him, the big eyes and spaniellike bounding. It charmed Pru every time.
“Think of all the great writers Mrs. S. has known,” he said. “All the folks in her index. Maybe in an alternate universe someone famous is doing a turn on all of us. The duchess can be in our footnotes.”
“Did you take LSD or something?” Pru said with a snort. “Some of Mrs. Spencer’s laudanum? Because you’re not making a lick of sense.”
“I’m clean as a whistle! We haven’t even partaken of Welsh wine for over forty-eight hours. Humor me. Who would write about the duchess?”
“Uh, I thought you were writing about the duchess?”
“I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers. “George Bernard Shaw. He would do a bang-up job with the old gal.”
“Well, he did hate Winston Churchill, so they have that in common.”
“Yes! As G.B.S. famously wrote the man: ‘I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend … if you have one.’”
“‘If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance,’” Pru quoted, playing along.
“And, by gosh, are there family skeletons.”
“He hated hunting, too,” Pru added. “Just like Mrs. Spencer. ‘When a man wants to murder a tiger he calls it sport; when a tiger wants to murder him he calls it ferocity.’”
“Aces!” Win said. He did a little hop-dance toward the shelf at the far end of the room and pulled from it a red leather book. “Here we go, another Shaw quote! ‘War does not decide who is right but who is left.’”
At once Pru’s face fell, and with it the temperature in the room.
“Oh fecking hell! Too much. Too much, Seton! Okay. Proust could write her too, you know. Though I suppose that’s a stitch obvious.”
He shoved the book back into its place.
“Proust should write about himself,” Pru said, still smarting from the war comment.
She shook her head, trying to rattle away the feeling along with it.
“No, no, no,” Win said. “Where’s your originality? Blenheim practically screams Proust!”
“Blenheim?”
“Yes! It’s perfect! He could go on and on about that sprawling space in true Proustian fashion. Like his own writing. Interminable. Over a hundred characters per part.”
“Mrs. Spencer did call the palace neurotic,” Pru said. “And Proust was a total head job. But mostly I find his style introspective and Blenheim is as ostentatious as it gets. Give me more gold! More statues! Paint my eyes on your ceiling in dizzying pattern!”
“Forget Blenheim for a minute. What about Tom?”
“Tom?” she said, gawping.
“Yes, you know, Tom from the barn?”
“I’m familiar with the trope. You believe he really exists?”
Oddly, Mrs. Spencer hadn’t brought up his name in some time. Not since Win showed up, Pru didn’t think.
“Of course he exists!” Win said. “I’ve seen his home.”
“His home? You mean the proverbial barn?”
“That’s the one. I walked through it on my way onto the property. You wouldn’t believe the stuff in there. I think the…” He batted the air. “Never mind. But, yes, Tom exists.”
“Holy cow,” Pru replied, dumbfounded by his assuredness.
Tom existed and Win did not seem to doubt this. He didn’t even have the good sense to be alarmed.
“Okay, Tom would be written by … um … Conrad?” she said, still dizzy.
“Conrad?” Win twisted up his face. “How’s that?”
“Joseph Conrad. Also known as Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski. He deemed himself a Pole, through and through. Assuming Mrs. Spencer’s own Pole exists, he’s her longest-standing friend and she simply cherishes Conrad.”
“Oh! I used to revel in his books,” Mrs. Spencer told Pru once, before Win Seton stumbled onto the scene. “I wanted to take to the sea at once!”
No wonder the woman had a copy of Sailing Alone Around the World in her collection. The longer Pru lived at the Grange, the more simpatico she felt toward Mrs. Spencer. Maybe, in the end, they’d need two beds at the O’Connell Ward, side by side.
“Ah, Conrad,” Win said. “‘We live in the flicker.’ That’s a good one.”
He whipped out a notepad from his back pocket and began to scribble.
“You’re writing this down?” Pru asked.
“Yes, this might be the best interview I’ve conducted to date. Naturally,
Edith Wharton would write you.”
“Me?” Pru squawked. “She writes about the privileged class!”
“The Kelloggs are pretty privileged, far as I can tell.”
“Doesn’t count. I was never part of their family. I’m an orphan, remember?”
“The fetchingest orphan to ever exist. Sorry, Miss Valentine, I’ll have to overrule you. Wharton is a prime choice. She wrote with humor, wit, and warmth. Her characters were always beautiful.”
“I do adore her stories.”
Pru sighed, conceding that perhaps the reason she loved Wharton was because she wanted to live in the worlds she created, which happened to look a lot like Charlie’s.
“‘Set wide the window,’” Pru quoted. “‘Let me drink the day.’”
“‘If only we’d stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.’”
“That sounds more like Mrs. Spencer than it does me,” she said. “I’m closer to Henry James. His protagonists are often young American women enduring oppression and abuse.”
“Somehow I don’t like where this is headed.”
“Oppression.” She pointed directly at him. “And abuse. All wrapped up in one writerly package.”
“Ah!” he said, laughing now. “So I’m the antagonist in this story. Domineering you with my tyranny!”
“Yes. Exactly. And as for you, Evelyn Waugh is the clear choice. His novels center on the rise of mediocrity in the common man.”
“There’s nothing on the rise about my mediocrity.”
Bump. Bump. Thump. Stomp.
“What in the world?” she said.
Thump. Stomp.
Together Win and Pru wrenched their heads toward the door. They’d been too loud, too aggressively spirited in their repartee. There was no telling how Mrs. Spencer would react, catching the two of them in her sanctuary, in the hidden den of books.
“We’re in the shit now,” Win murmured.
At once, the Duchess of Marlborough burst through the door, the purple silk gown wafting out behind her like a sail on a ship. In her hands she held a radio.
“Mrs. Spencer, let me explain,” Win said, speaking fast. “We stumbled upon your impressive library—”
I'll See You in Paris Page 24
