It was also possible, I acknowledged with curiously mixed emotions, that Gerald didn’t love Lucy. The pressure of working closely with someone whose deepest affections he couldn’t return might have become too much for him. Once his father, Anthea, and Williston had retreated from the scene, things might have gotten too close for comfort. He might have gone to Haslemere to spare himself, and Lucy, further pain.
I felt my heart swell as yet another possibility occurred to me: What if Gerald had made those alleged errors in judgment on purpose? What if he’d sent himself into exile as a gallant way of shielding his lovelorn cousin from humiliation ? I had no trouble believing in that scenario. Gerald had treated me with such tenderness that I couldn’t conceive of his being anything less than honorable where Lucy or the firm was concerned.
Then again, I thought, catching sight of Reginald’s knowing gaze, perhaps I wasn’t an entirely disinterested observer.
Unsettled, I popped the last of the greasy chips into my mouth and rested my head against the back of the seat. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why, with so much else to think about, I was dwelling on Gerald.
Gerald had paid attention. He’d sensed that something was troubling me and gone out of his way to find out what it was, and what he could do to help. Maybe, when all was said and done, that was where love began and what kept it alive: the simple, everyday act of paying attention. Too bad I hadn’t included it in my marriage vows.
Why talk Willis, Sr., out of moving to England? I asked myself suddenly. Why not move with him? I could live with a fax machine at the cottage. I could even live with a photocopier. But I wasn’t sure I could go on living with a husband who no longer paid attention.
Paul’s voice came over the intercom. “Scenic or direct, madam?”
I glanced out of the tinted windows and realized that we’d reached the M25, the great ring road around London ; I had to make a decision about our route. “Direct,” I answered. “How long will it take us to get to Cloverly House?”
“Two hours, barring road works,” Paul replied.
I glanced at my watch. “I hope we get there before closing time.”
“What difference does it make, as long as we find William?” Nell asked.
“Oh, we won’t find William,” I said, slouching against the glove-leather upholstery. “Mark my words. By the time we get there, he’ll be gone and we’ll have to play hunt-the-journal-page again. I wonder If they’ll let us in to see Uncle Williston?” I put my head back and gave a tremendous yawn. I’d expected the food to wake me up, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. Or maybe it was simply the oppression that settled over me when I contemplated my failing marriage. Whatever the reason, I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Nell pulled a tartan blanket from under the seat, shook it out, and spread it over my lap. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she soothed. “I’ll think of a way to see Uncle Williston.”
“Okay,” I said sleepily, “but keep it legal....”
17.
Despite Paul’s “barring road works”—a ritual incantation in August, in England—we were faced with a veritable Maginot Line of construction barriers on our way to Cloverly House. With a foresight remarkable in a people that had been around long enough to know better, the English regularly tore up and repaired their main highways and interchanges during the very month in which most of them took to the road for extended vacations, and this August was no exception. My nap was intermittent at best, and the cumulative delay put us at the entrance to Cloverly House precisely one hour past the closing time posted on the gates.
“Damn and blast,” I growled as Paul turned the limo and drove back to the main road.
“Why, madam,” Paul scolded, “what would Mr. Willis say if he heard you talk like that?”
“If he were here, I wouldn’t have to talk like that,” I grumbled, pushing the tartan blanket aside and squirming out of my tweed jacket. Although cool breezes wafted from the air conditioner, I was uncomfortably warm. “I hate the thought of wasting an entire evening we could’ve spent looking for him. Do you know if there are any hotels around here?”
“Lady Eleanor’s seen to that, madam,” Paul informed me.
Nell gestured toward the cellular phone. “I made some calls while you were asleep, and found a place where we can spend the night. It’s not far. I told Mama about the deed and Julia Louise and Sir Williston and Lord William. And she said to tell you that she’s put the filing cabinets in the shed with the photocopier and the fax machine.”
“Filing cabinets?” I said.
Nell nodded. “Two of them. They’re black and lockable and they have four drawers each.”
If Nell had been able to reserve a hotel room, discuss the Willis family feud, and get a detailed description of Willis, Sr.’s latest indulgence in office furniture without disturbing my slumber, I’d clearly slept more soundly than I’d thought. Which was strange, because I still felt tired, and my legs ached a bit. My stomach wasn’t doing too well, either. I’d never had a problem with motion sickness, but I was beginning to think it had been a mistake to mix watercress sandwiches, rich petits fours, a pair of fat red puddings, a bag of greasy ...
“Paul,” I said urgently, “stop the car.”
I’d always admired the hedgerows of England for their leafy beauty and for the protection they afforded small birds and wild animals. Now I was grateful for the handholds. The sausages had been a big mistake, and by the time I finished atoning for it, I was as limp as a rag doll. Paul helped me stagger back to the limo, where Nell put a handkerchief dampened with mineral water on my forehead and repeated her assurance that the place where we would spend the night wasn’t far from Cloverly House.
It was, to be precise, next door. I stared blearily out of the window as we cruised down the long drive, past a lake and through a small, landscaped park, to a pleasantly symmetrical redbrick Georgian that was either a small hotel or a large B&B. I didn’t much care.
The front door opened before Paul had brought the limo to a full stop, and two men in black suits hustled forward to open the car doors for Nell and me, and to confer with Paul about the luggage.
A third man remained on the doorstep. He was tall, spare, and distinguished-looking, with a beautiful mane of silvery hair combed back from an attractive, deeply lined face. He wore an elegant navy-blue sportcoat, tan slacks, a light-blue shirt, and an ascot. I’d never really believed that people wore ascots outside of films, but this fellow looked as though he’d been born with one already in place. Great, I thought, pushing my curls back from my damp brow, we’re bunking with an ex-prime minster.
“Sir Poppet,” Nell said, nodding graciously to the man on the doorstep.
“Lady Nell, how good to see you.” Sir Poppet made a formal bow in Nell’s direction, but greeted me with a grin. “And you must be Ms. Shepherd. How d‘you do? Sir Kenmare Poulteney, at your service.” He stretched out a hand to grip mine, and took a closer look at my face. “I say ... Here, Ms. Shepherd, take my arm. You’re not looking at all well.”
There are times when furniture, paintings, rugs, and wallpaper simply do not matter, and that night was one of them. I could have been in the Taj Mahal or a shack in the Australian outback and I wouldn’t have noticed a thing. If Bill had somehow magically appeared at my bedside, I‘d’ve told him to take a running leap into the deepest part of Little Moose Lake.
Sir Poppet delivered me into the hands of Mrs. Chumley, his housekeeper, who took me upstairs, supervised my bath, fed me dry toast and tea, and put me to bed before the sun had set. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow and didn’t wake until seven the next morning, when the dry toast and tea decided to make a comeback. Food poisoning, I told myself, and swore off street vendors for life.
Once I’d taken a shower and pulled on my jeans and cotton sweater, though, I felt a bit steadier, and when Mrs. Chumley showed up with more dry toast, I was willing to give it a try. Afterward, the housekeep
er escorted me to a paved terrace at the back of the house, where Sir Poppet, Reginald, and Bertie were seated on cushioned, bamboo lawn chairs, savoring the morning air. Sir Poppet was wearing a dapper gray three-piece suit that complemented his silvery hair, Bertie had donned a herringbone tweed blazer suitable for a country-house weekend, and Reginald was clad in his customary pink flannel.
The view was spectacular, in an understated, Kentish sort of way. Sir Poppet’s house rested on a hilltop overlooking the rolling, golden hops fields and neatly planted orchards of the Weald of Kent. In the distance I could see a straggle of dun-colored farmsteads, a white-clad windmill, and the weird, cone-shaped roof of an oasthouse. Oasthouses had once been used to dry the hops harvest, but many had been converted to chic, expensively decorated homes for simple country folk like Sir Poppet, who had to pull down several hundred thousand pounds a year just to afford the view.
“Ah, Ms. Shepherd,” said Sir Poppet, getting to his feet. “You’re looking much brighter this morning. I trust you slept well?”
“Like a rock,” I said. “And I’m sorry about last night. A touch of food poisoning.”
“But Lady Nell seemed to think—” Sir Poppet bit back his words, then shook his head. “Never mind. It’s good to see you looking so refreshed. Lady Nell has gone with your man Paul to feed the swans, but they should be back directly. Please, join us.” He offered his own lawn chair to me and pulled another over for himself.
“It was very kind of you to put us up for the night,” I said. “I take it you’re a friend of Nell’s family?”
“I was at school with her grandfather,” Sir Poppet explained. “It was he, in fact, who invented my soubriquet.” Sir Poppet’s lips tightened, as though the memory was not a particularly fond one. “Our paths diverged after that, of course. He went on to become ... what he is, and I went on to study medicine, but we’ve kept in touch over the years.”
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
“Didn’t Lady Nell tell you?” Sir Poppet said. “I’m the director of Cloverly House. I understand you’re interested in one of our—” He stopped short when I began to laugh.
I couldn’t help it. When Nell had said she’d think of a way to get us in to see Uncle Williston, I’d expected her to come up with a scheme involving false mustaches, or rope ladders and grappling hooks. I’d seriously underestimated her audacity. “Forgive me,” I said, “but Nell’s resourcefulness sometimes leaves me speechless.”
Sir Poppet nodded his understanding. “She’s a remarkable child,” he commented, then surprised me by calling out to Bertie, “the most remarkable child we’re ever likely to meet, eh, Sir Bertram?”
Nell will introduce that bear to the queen one day, I thought, and no one will bat an eye.
“Lady Nell told me that you came here for much the same reason as your father-in-law,” Sir Poppet went on, “to discuss certain points of family history with Williston.”
“That’s right,” I said, silently blessing Nell’s ingenuity. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I encourage visitors. I’m happy to say that Williston has quite a few. Lucy comes to see him once a month, as do Gerald and Arth—”
“Gerald?” I said, sitting up.
Sir Poppet looked discomfited. “Hmmm. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that, and I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself. Gerald Willis is persona non grata with his family, but I consider his visits a boon. He’s the only one of the lot Williston responds to. He comes here every month, all the way from Surrey—on the train, no less. A good man. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him.” I made a show of listening soberly, but I was singing inside. I’d been right, and Miss Kingsley and Arthur had been wrong. Gerald didn’t travel from Haslemere to London to dally with the Dumpling. He went there to catch the train to visit Uncle Williston at Cloverly House. He probably met the Dumpling at the Flamborough for a quick bite of lunch and an earful of professional gossip between trains.
And if Gerald went so far out of his way to visit his uncle in Kent, was it really so incredible to think that he might make a second monthly train trip to visit his father in Bedfordshire? Arthur could laugh all he liked, but I found it quite easy to believe. I reached over to plump Reginald’s cushions, then leaned back in my chair and tried to clear the red-gold haze from my mind.
“I’m convinced that Williston reacts well to Gerald,” Sir Poppet was saying, “because Gerald respects his delusions. He always brings a suitable present for his uncle—a silver card case, an enameled snuffbox, a gold watch-fob, that sort of thing.”
I wondered what kind of delusions demanded such expensive bibelots, but decided not to press the issue. I’d find out for myself soon enough. “When can we see Uncle Williston?”
“This morning would be best,” said Sir Poppet. “I’ve had my secretary advise him of your visit, and he seems to be looking forward to it. I believe that these historical discussions may prove beneficial. Are you familiar with his condition?”
“I know what caused it,” I replied. “His wife and his brother-in-law, Douglas ...” I left the distasteful details unspoken.
Sir Poppet nodded, to show that he understood, then swung his legs over the side of his chair. “Do you feel up to a stroll, Ms. Shepherd?”
We tilted a green-and-white-striped café umbrella to keep Reg and Bertie from fading in the sun, and made our way around the side of the house to a well-shaded path that dropped gradually to the edge of the small lake. Nell and Paul were on the far shore, tossing bread crusts to a cloud of clamorous swans, and they didn’t seem to notice our approach. Sir Poppet walked slowly, gazing down at the path.
“Williston was severely traumatized when he lost his wife,” he said. “He dealt with the trauma by withdrawing from the world entirely. In effect, he became someone else.” Sir Poppet clasped his hands behind his back. “I won’t bore you with technical jargon, Ms. Shepherd. I’m sure you’ve heard of patients who claim to be Sherlock Holmes or Mother Teresa or the pope. Williston chose something a little closer to home. One of his own ancestors, in fact.” Sir Poppet stopped walking and turned to face me. “Our Williston is firmly convinced that he’s the twin brother who took over the family firm in the early eighteenth century.”
“Uncle Williston thinks he’s ... Sir Williston?” I said, in some confusion.
“The diligent, conscientious Sir Williston,” Sir Poppet elaborated, “who harbored a deep hatred for a reprobate brother who went to the colonies.”
“Like the hatred Uncle Williston harbors for a reprobate brother-in-law who went to Canada,” I said, beginning to get the picture.
“Precisely.” Sir Poppet nodded. “The parallels are obvious. It isn’t difficult to understand why Williston identifies so strongly with his ancestor.”
“And you think our visit might help?” I asked.
Sir Poppet turned to gaze reflectively at Nell, who’d walked a little ways away from Paul to feed some of the outlying swans. “As I said, Ms. Shepherd—who knows? I’ve been attempting to get through to him for two years, without success. I’m willing to try a new approach.”
Cloverly House was a redbrick Georgian not unlike Sir Poppet’s residence. There were no bars on the windows, and the front lawn was dotted with oaks and maples, beds of cheerful red geraniums, and well-dressed patients sitting on wooden benches or strolling with white-clad attendants. Overhead, congregating clans of swallows and house martins filled a sky hazed with dust from the hops harvest—Emma wasn’t the only gardener hastening to reap the rewards of August.
Sir Poppet breezed through the entrance hall to his ground-floor office, where he stopped to confer with his secretary in professional undertones before leading us up a curving staircase to a red-carpeted corridor. When I commented on how wide-open the place seemed, he explained that violent patients were not admitted to Cloverly House and that a variety of carefully concealed surveillance devices allowed his staff to monitor the movemen
ts of every resident.
Uncle Williston was a fortunate man, I thought. Cloverly House was more like an upscale country club than a home for the mentally ill. There were paintings on the walls, flower-filled vases on the tables, and a fresh, clean scent in the air—not a hint of the antiseptic tang that made hospital visits so trying.
Nell had dressed for the occasion in a high-necked, long-sleeved dress in white georgette. She looked like a Victorian valentine, with her daintily ruffled collar and cuffs, but she cut the sweetness by assuming an air of unapproachable dignity—a silent reproof, I was sure, for my refusal to change out of my old sweater and jeans. I didn’t care what she thought. My touchy tummy approved of what I was wearing, and as long as it was happy, I was happy.
Sir Poppet stopped at a door halfway down the corridor. “Here we are. I’ll come back in a hour, to see how you’re getting on.”
I gave the door a nervous glance. I hadn’t expected to face Williston alone.
“Don’t worry,” Sir Poppet said. “We’ll be listening.” He winked, turned on his heel, and strode back down the corridor toward the staircase.
“Let’s hear it for carefully concealed surveillance devices,” I muttered. I glanced at Nell and squared my shoulders. “Here goes,” I said, and rapped gently on the door.
“Come,” said a deep voice.
Nell followed me into a spacious drawing room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in number three, Anne Elizabeth Court—or the eighteenth century. The walls were painted a pale leaf-green, damask drapes covered the windows, and a mirror-bright oak floor reflected fine antique furnishings. There were candle sconces on the walls and oil lamps on the tables, but no electric lights, no telephone, television, radio—no visible concession whatsoever to the modern world.
Uncle Williston sat in a shield-back chair at a Queen Anne kneehole desk, with his back to the door. Even seated, he was an imposing figure, as large as Arthur, but with none of his son’s softness. He wore a black tailcoat, black knee-breeches, white stockings, and square-toed black shoes with silver buckles. His long white hair had been pulled back into a softly curling ponytail that was held in place by a black velvet ribbon. I could see the feathery tip of a quill pen bobbing in his right hand and hear the scratch of its sharpened tip across the paper. At our entrance, he stopped writing and turned slowly, his back erect, his face an expressionless mask.
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