“You are a very perceptive young woman,” Jamie said. “And I’m pleased to know you’ve not bought any of the rubbish my brother, the venerable Lord Winton, has undoubtedly tossed your way.”
“Lord Winton?” Mrs. Spencer said. “What do you mean by that?”
“My brother has a title, dontcha know?”
Mrs. Spencer turned to Win, then bopped him in the chest with a panther-hair clutch.
“Of course I didn’t know!” Mrs. Spencer said.
“Well, well, well.” Jamie whistled through his teeth. “I’m aghast. Usually our lordship doesn’t let an hour pass without reminding someone. I’m surprised he doesn’t have it embroidered on his shirt. Ladies and ladies, before us stands a bona fide earl.”
“No!” Pru said. Her jaw fell open.
“Yes, indeedy. The Right Honorable Earl Jerome Casper Augustine Seton of Winton, hence the deplorable nickname Win. Ironic, isn’t it? Like a three-legged dog named Lucky.”
“Aw, sod off,” Win said, smiling. “You jealous bastard.”
“Lord Winton,” Pru said under her breath. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“James, before your brother further abuses my precious ears with his rough language, can you please show me to my rooms?” Mrs. Spencer asked. “An earl. Honestly, you’d never imagine it.”
“Please follow me, Lady Marlborough,” Jamie said. “I’m chuffed to have some company. Because of your vast esteem, I shall offer you the master suite. It has the most sensational views of the Seine. A person can spend entire days simply watching the barges pass.” He leaned down and grabbed the handle of her tattered croc suitcase. “My room is right next door. Anything you need, just ask.”
“Merci, Monsieur Seton. Je vous remercie de tout mon cœur,” Mrs. Spencer said. “And what about those two?”
She crooked a thumb toward Win and Pru.
“Ah, let’s allow Lord Winton and his lady friend to divvy up the space in the third bedroom. Thankfully Miss Innamorati is petite because they will have to contend with an exceptionally narrow bed.”
Sixty-nine
ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
FEBRUARY 1973
Pru chucked her bag into the closet and heaved herself onto the bed. She sighed and let her arms and legs sprawl the width of it.
“Any room on there for an old friend?” said Win’s voice from above her. She could nearly hear Mrs. Spencer tittering from down the hallway.
“Earl of Winton, huh?” Pru said, one arm thrown over her eyes. “Lord Winton. That is an interesting tidbit you managed to avoid.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“The ‘Earl of Winton’ doesn’t mean anything? The title has no significance whatsoever? Nothing?”
“To me it’s just a name. Something handed to me without any effort on my part. Why? Does the title matter to you? Do you find it important?”
“Oh yes. Endlessly so. As you have rightly assessed.”
Pru turned on her side to face a brown lacquered desk. That no woman lived in the home was abundantly clear. The place was filled with heavy, ornate antiques interspersed with pieces of cheap modular furniture. Between the shag rugs and velour upholstery, any visitor would be treated to a full compendium on the permutations of the color brown.
“Had I known it was an earl I was dealing with,” Pru said. “I would’ve expressed my unreturned devotion to no response three times instead of merely the two.”
“Don’t be like that, Laurel.”
She felt the bed sink with his weight.
“No problem there,” she said. “Being ‘like that’ was my first mistake.”
“You know how I feel.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“I can’t … you’re too young. Vibrant. You have the world ahead of you. It’d be wrong, don’t you see? To return the words? Even though I feel them?”
“Too young and vibrant. It’s Berenson and Mrs. Spencer all over again. Win, you know about Charlie. You know about my childhood. And because of this you know I’ve probably dealt with more hard knocks in my two decades than you have in three and a half.”
The bed shifted again. Pru inhaled and closed her eyes, as if fortifying herself against some kind of blow. She felt Win’s body inch closer to hers.
“Win,” she said. “What are we doing here? Why are we even in Paris?”
“It was GD’s idea, remember?”
“Right. Which makes all the sense in the world. Who wouldn’t let a ninety-year-old, marginally sane woman dictate what country they’re in? I think this is how adults end up missing.”
“It’s the Marlboroughs,” he said. “She’s afraid of them.”
“You see, this doesn’t sound like a real problem,” Pru said. “It sounds like paranoia. What would they be trying to steal from her anyway?”
“Tom exists. She was right about that.”
Win scooted closer, the barrier between them so thin it was more awkward than if they’d actually been touching. As a test, Win gently rested his fingers in the nook of her bent elbow. She did not shake him off.
Did Win love her? Of course he loved her, this girl who was some balled-up mix of innocence and wisdom, delicateness and strength. The truth was he loved her so damned much it went past that one trite feeling and into something else.
And because of that, there was no use pursuing it. The whole deal would go tits-up at some point and the poor girl would have to suffer yet another heartbreak. Not that Win fancied himself anywhere close to the league of Charlie but that bloke had reason for leaving.
“So what happens next?” Pru asked.
“Um…” Win glanced at his hand, and her skin below it. “I guess we wait.”
“Perfect. And how long will that take? To be clear, what are we waiting for? Mrs. Spencer to come to her senses? For her to die? What?”
“What’s the big hurry? Do you have someplace to be?”
“We can’t stay here forever,” she said.
Can’t we? Win thought.
“We obviously need to get her home,” Pru added.
“And how do you propose we accomplish that? Mrs. Spencer only does what she wants, nothing more. Which is why we find ourselves in Paris, by the by.”
“We need to assure her that there’s nothing to worry about,” Pru said. “That no one’s out to get her.”
“Don’t you think we should first make sure it’s true?”
“You could talk to them,” Pru said.
“Talk to whom?”
“The Marlboroughs. Convince them she doesn’t need hospitalization or whatever it is they’re thinking.”
“Once again, I ask, shouldn’t we make sure that’s true?”
“I don’t get it,” Pru said. “I understand why Edith would care about Mrs. Spencer’s mental health. Or at least feel some sort of obligation toward her. But why do the Marlboroughs care if she’s wasting away in some ramshackle house? Heck, you’d think they’d want her dead. A duchess no more.”
“You have compassion for miles.”
“I’m serious. Tell me, Win. Why do they care?”
“How am I to know?”
“Well, you are of their kind,” Pru said with a snort. “Seeing as how you’re a peer.”
“I’m not a duke. Furthermore, Marlborough and Winton are hardly the same. No Blenheim for this crew. Thank God.”
Pru jerked away. As Win reached for her, she rolled over to face him. Their noses were but five centimeters apart.
“Blenheim,” she said, green eyes shining in the stream of streetlight coming through the window. “You told me that place is a money pit.”
“Yes. Blenheim costs more to run than most countries. And it doesn’t even have its own army anymore. If the Grange is a money pit, Blenheim is ruinous.”
“Maybe that’s what they want,” Pru said. “Her money. You’ve seen the diamonds. And the minks.” She flicked her hand in the direction of the master bedroom. “If the
y declare her incompetent can they get access to her estate?”
“Huh, that’s not out of the question,” Win said, noodling on the concept.
“If those are her traveling diamonds, can you imagine her black-tie jewels? And the Grange might be a total heap but it has to be worth something.”
“And the paintings,” Win said. “Nearly incomprehensible value.”
“You mean the Boldini? The one that disappeared from the dining room?”
“Yes. That. But also.” His gut began to churn. “The barn. Tom’s. It’s, I think, filled with artwork. Pieces stacked wall to wall.”
“You went into Tom’s barn? You are even stupider than you look.”
“That barn is how I accessed the property the day I met you. Tom wasn’t in there, thank heavens. Probably would’ve bludgeoned me with a hammer if he had been. Nevertheless, given the nature of my visit—”
“Trespassing, you mean.”
“Precisely,” Win said, his smile glinting in the dark. “Due to the trespassing, I didn’t tarry. But along the way I pulled back a few drop cloths. Artwork, prime artwork, each with a personal note from the artist wedged into the frame. The first three I checked: Degas, Monet, Gauguin. One. Two. Three.”
“Holy crap,” Pru said.
“Holy crap is right.”
“Maybe that’s what the Marlboroughs want,” she said. “The sale of those pieces could keep the old homestead running for a few more years. Who knows, maybe even the books would draw a pretty penny. There must be thousands in that library of hers. Most are first editions, and signed.”
“An influx of cash would definitely be welcome by that crew. No more cafeteria lines and tourists in their backyard.”
“You have to talk to him!” Pru said. She swatted Win on the shoulder. “You have to call Gads tomorrow.”
“Gads? Why? Do you have a puppet show you’d like to produce?”
“Gads is a Marlborough! He can tell you what’s going on.”
Win deliberated this.
In addition to being a Marlborough, Gads was also a barrister. Whether he might be on the side of his family or on the side of law, Win couldn’t guess. Gads had never been particularly motivated by integrity. On the other hand, he called any gathering of three or more family members “the arse and pansy show.” And he was not above doing something out of spite.
“I’ll reach out to him in the morning,” Win said.
“Brilliant.” Pru yawned. “As you would say. Simply brilliant, ye olde bloke.”
“I would not say that.”
Pru let her eyes go heavy.
“You’re really going to sleep here?” she said and yawned again. “Next to me?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she said with another yawn, wider this time.
“Fair enough. Well, the answer is yes. I do plan to sleep here.”
She nodded, her hair scrunching against the pillow.
“Good night, Lord Winton,” she said.
“Good night, sweet Pru. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
A simple concept, a short-term promise, a word to throw away almost. If only Win and Pru had understood the problem with tomorrows. Namely, that they had so very few of them left.
Seventy
ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
FEBRUARY 1973
As it happened, Mrs. Spencer’s floor-length sable was merely the start.
It was as though with one step off the train and into Paris, the woman returned to her former splendor, the Gilded Age all over again. Oh sure, Mrs. Spencer’s movements were sometimes jerky and crude. Her eyes flashed between maniacal twinkles and clouded blue confusion. But damn, the old bird was back.
Lady Marlborough was back to her clothes, the cocktails, and an unending social calendar. The closet, her glass, her datebook all filled. The glimmer of Paris fell on the woman like the first dusting of snow.
“I dunno, mate,” Jamie said to Win early in their stay. “You’d see more of her if you rose at a reasonable hour. By the time you two miserable tramps stagger out of your bedroom, Lady Marlborough’s already out shopping or calling on an old chum. It’s a marvel she still has friends, that she hasn’t outlived them all.”
“Give her time, yet,” Win said.
Because Mrs. Spencer was so constantly occupied, Win and Pru were left to their own devices, forced to play tourists in the very best city of all.
Donning scarves and overcoats, the two braved the biting air and relentless sheets of drizzle to hoof about Paris. They visited cafés and museums. They paid homage to the Nymphéas, Monet’s water lilies at l’Orangerie, as well as the new La Tours at the Louvre.
At the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, they spent hours ogling artifacts of the French Revolution, combing through prisoner dossiers and private papers from officers and the royal family.
They visited the Diocèse de Paris, where they dug up Abbé Mugnier’s fifty-seven cahiers de moleskine and hunted down each mention of the duchess. Afterward they spent the night dancing at Le Sept, a small, fusty, and raucous gay nightclub.
And they dined. They dined in two-bit cafés and at those with more repute. Win took Pru to Café de Flore in Saint-Germain and La Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse, the latter a favored stomping ground of Wilde, Fitzgerald, and Sartre. Hemingway wrote most of The Sun Also Rises at its mahogany bar.
When they ate together it was for hours, one meal bleeding into the next. Sometimes there was coffee, other times wine, though most often they had both. Waiters tried to shuffle them on but Win and Pru lodged themselves too thoroughly in their chairs and in each other.
One would think that in all this time and closeness Win must’ve returned Pru’s previously declared feelings of love. Alas, he did not. The man was a prat, a wanker, a no-good sissy, a chump. He lacked the balls and Pru had the politeness to let the matter slide.
Tacit contracts to ignore hairy topics notwithstanding, Win understood he was bungling this irretrievably, even as they sat beside each other in cafés and danced near in clubs.
But Win saw how Pru looked at him, with faraway eyes, their distance increasing by the day. Each time they spoke, there was no shortage of laughter, but Win could see a wall forming, a new brick added with each conversation. Through it, he clung tightly to what they had.
“I’m working on it,” Win said whenever Pru asked how they might entice Mrs. Spencer back home, and how they should handle the Marlboroughs. “I’m doing my best.”
Naturally, Win took his time.
He’d call Gads, eventually, but was in no great hurry to leave Paris, or to finish the biography, or do anything that might chase away their moment. All those years Win thought a book would make him happy, that he needed some modicum of commercial success to feel content. But he was wrong. In the end, all Win needed was a paranoid old broad, Paris, and the attentions of a girl called Pru.
Seventy-one
ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
MARCH 1973
In early March a frost settled upon Paris.
Though it made for slippery sidewalks and drafty homes, at dark, beneath Paris’s glittering lights, the city shimmered.
Win and Pru walked home late one night. Both were decked out in coats and scarves but they bunched together tightly, succumbing to a need for closeness that had little to do with keeping warm.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” she said as they crossed the footbridge near the Notre-Dame. “First you took me to Le Sept. Now this play. Do I need to start questioning your sexual preferences? Or does anything go in Paris?”
They’d come from the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, where they watched a production of the new play La Cage aux Folles, a story centered around two gay men. It was the first of its kind.
“You’re questioning my sexual proclivities?” Win said with an abrupt halt.
They were at the center of the bridge, the
Seine dancing below, the grounds around them still. There were no tourists that time of night or even that time of year. In the summer, people flocked to the square outside Notre-Dame along with the pigeons. Win’s island was not the tourist mecca it’d one day become but it had its fair share of guests. Yet in that moment the city felt like theirs alone.
“Yes,” Pru said. “I am questioning it. Don’t look so glum! I used to live in San Francisco. You’ll get no judgment from me.”
“How can you doubt the persuasion of such a strapping man?”
“There’s the insistence on gay nightclubs for one,” she said, smiling.
“Hmm. I seem to recall a certain American sweaty and winded from all the fun she was having at such places.”
“I wasn’t sweaty! Maybe a touch damp.”
“You were a lot damp.”
Pru rolled her eyes.
“What’s more,” Pru said. “Tonight you took me to a gay-themed play. Are you trying to tell me something, Lord Winton? Don’t be shy. This is the seventies. You no longer have to hide your true feelings. It’d probably make you more interesting to the general population in any case.”
She tried to walk on, but for once Win refused to let a pointed comment go ignored.
“Pru,” he said and grabbed her arm.
He pulled her back around.
“I’m not gay,” he said with more earnest than necessary.
“I’m only kidding—”
“It’d be easier in some respects. My family would hate it but at least they’d be able to more easily pinpoint their dissatisfaction. Alas, men are selfish, hideous, hairy creatures and it’d be terrifying to crawl into bed with such a monster.”
“Hmm, you are a monster, yes,” Pru said. “Honestly, though? I sort of wish you were.”
She tried to smile, though her eyes were too forlorn to pull off the cheer.
“What do you mean?” Win asked, already regretting the question.
“Well, for one, it would explain why you seem to enjoy my company while summarily rejecting my romantic advances.”
“Sounds like you’ve caught the batshit insanity bug from Lady M.,” he tried.
“I’m struggling to not take this personally,” Pru said as her mouth began to quiver. “I’m putting everything into brushing off what happened, or didn’t happen. I don’t want to be some tiresome girl boring you to death with my insecurities, but you have to understand…”
I'll See You in Paris Page 29
