Lucy looked perplexed. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Something else Uncle Williston said,” Nell replied easily. “It’s not important.”
Lucy lifted a forkful of soufflé, then set it down again. “The thing you must remember about my uncle,” she said earnestly, “is that he isn’t so much re-enacting an historical event as ... hiding behind an historical disguise. He interprets everything through the filter of his own illness.”
“That’s what we were told at Cloverly House,” said Nell, and promptly changed the subject by asking Swann if she might brew a pot of Sir Poppet’s herbal tea for me. I gave a brief summary of the tainted-pudding episode, and while Nell prepared the tea, Swann entertained us with a series of anecdotes about his own encounters with exotic foods in far-flung places. He was in the midst of explaining that declining dog meat in Beijing was nearly as difficult as detecting it when I gave a yawn so big I nearly inhaled my teacup.
“Oh, I say, do forgive me.” Swann looked contrite. “You must be knackered after your long drive. Lucy, take your cousin upstairs immediately. A lie-down before dinner will do her a world of good.”
The bedroom Lucy took me to was furnished country-style—a double bed with a simple oak headboard and a patchwork coverlet, a chintz-covered easy chair and ottoman, an oak wardrobe and dresser, and a colorful braided rug on the floor. Reginald was sitting on the bedside table, beside the telephone.
“He’s adorable,” said Lucy, crossing to pick Reg up. “Have you had him for a long time?”
“Ever since I can remember,” I said, blushing. I wasn’t used to introducing Reg to strangers.
“It’s so sweet of you to bring him with you.” Lucy sank onto the armchair, touching her nose to Reginald’s pink snout.
“Some people might call it infantile.” I slipped my shoes off and sat on the bed with my legs up. Too much sitting in the limo had left them feeling a bit swollen.
“Some people are churlish fools,” Lucy said decisively. “He reminds me of my uncle Tom. Not that Uncle Tom looks like a rabbit,” she added, laughing. “But he has a giraffe that he’s had ever since he was a small boy. It’s called Geraldine. He used to keep it on the bookshelf behind his desk at the office, and I used to tell Gerald—” Lucy gave Reginald’s ears a listless tweak as the laughter faded from her eyes. “I used to tell Gerald that he’d been named after a stuffed giraffe,” she finished softly. She looked up with a wistful smile that pierced my heart. “You know what cousins can be like.”
“I don‘t,” I countered. “I never had any.”
“None?” Lucy said incredulously.
“My parents were only children,” I told her. “So am I. Now that my mom and dad are dead, I have no relatives at all.”
“Yes, you do,” Lucy declared. She returned Reginald to the bedside table, sat on the edge of the bed, and took my hands in hers. “You’ve got quite a large family, in fact. There’s Arthur and my sisters and me, and my mother and Swann and Uncle Tom and Uncle Williston.” She leaned a little closer. “And Uncle Williston, as you know, counts as two.”
She gave a little gasp, as though she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just said, then we folded up, giggling like schoolgirls at a sleep-over. In that moment, Lucy Willis ceased to be a stranger, and I knew that, whatever happened between Bill and me, I’d never let go of my English family.
“It’s unkind to joke about my poor uncle,” Lucy said, leaning limply against the headboard. “He’s been through so much.” She dabbed at the comer of her eye with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and asked, a shade more seriously, “Did he really say that he was afraid of Julia Louise? The only reason I ask is that he’s never spoken of her before. I can’t help but wonder what it means.”
“I don’t think he actually mentioned Julia Louse by name,” I temporized. “He said something like ...” I closed my eyes and tried to remember the transcript: “ ‘I cannot tell you all, because Mother will hear of it and I’ll be punished.’ ”
“Do you have any idea what he was talking about?” Lucy asked.
“I assume it has to do with your father and Uncle Williston’s wife,” I replied.
“Douglas and Sybil,” Lucy murmured, shaking her head. “It sometimes seems as though we’ll never stop paying for their sins.”
“I’d say your mother has,” I told her.
Lucy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Ah, but she has Swann. We’re not all of us so fortunate.” She got to her feet. “I mustn’t keep you from your nap. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you again so soon, Lori. It was all that talk about family history that made me want to come up and visit Mother. I’m glad I did. There’s nothing like good, clean Yorkshire air for putting the heart back into one.”
I stared thoughtfully at the door after Lucy had left, then picked up the telephone and dialed Emma’s number, reversing the charges.
“What’s up?” she said. “A new assignment?”
“Additional information about an old one,” I told her. “Remember Sybella Markham? The woman whose name is on the deed to the Willis building in London? Nell seems to think she was an orphan, and that Julia Louise was her legal guardian, but Lucy claims that Julia Louise never had a ward.”
“Interesting.” Emma was silent for a moment. “Do we suspect Julia Louise of banishing her ward, the way she did her son, while conveniently retaining ownership of her ward’s property?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “How reliable are Nell’s hunches?”
“Extremely,” Emma assured me. “But I’ll see if I can find something to back them up, if you like.”
“Thanks, Emma. Gotta go.”
“Me, too,” she said. “It’s a gorgeous day, and the runner beans are calling.”
I crossed to the dresser, where Swann had placed my briefcase, retrieved the blue journal, and brought it back with me to the bed. I opened the front cover, but hadn’t yet opened my mouth when Aunt Dimity’s words began scrolling across the page.
There’s no trace of Julia Louise here, my dear, and if she isn’t here, she must be in the other place. Oh, Lori, I fear she must have done something truly wicked. I knew this quest of William’s was ill-advised.
If you must tell Lucy, do so gently. She needs a friend, and she’s becoming quite fond of you. She might pull back if you reveal her revered ancestress in too harsh a light.
I waited; then, when no more words appeared, closed the journal. With a pensive sigh, I stretched out on top of the patchwork coverlet and gazed up at the ceiling. Had Nell guessed right? Had Julia Louise been Sybella Markham’s legal guardian? Had the dragon-mother done something “truly wicked” to her ward?
“What happened to Sybella?” I wondered aloud, and shivered as a chill passed through me, as though someone had stepped on my grave.
23.
I slept straight through dinner. The lingering scent of roast beef wafted up to me as I descended the staircase, but the sound of animated discussion drew me to a sitting room just off the entry hall. I recognized Anthea’s voice along with Nell’s and Lucy‘s, and their conversation seemed to indicate that they’d spent the afternoon trekking around the farm.
I stood for a moment unnoticed in the doorway. The sitting room was as inviting as the kitchen and as generously proportioned. The walls were hung with framed watercolors of horses, and the mantelpiece was chocka- block with trophies, rosettes, and ribbons. An eclectic collection of furniture added to the cheerfully cluttered atmosphere—an island of chintz-covered chairs and a cushy sofa filled the space before the fireplace, with a sprinkling of unmatched ottomans, paisley cushions, and tables of assorted shapes and sizes. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the windows to keep out the cool night air.
One corner of the room had been turned into a kind of study, with another Irish-pine bookcase to match the one that held dishes in the kitchen, and a long dining-room table serving as a desk. The table was littered with pens and pencils and a score of well-thumbed bo
oks, but an ancient Remington typewriter held pride of place, surrounded by piles of paper that I thought must be Anthea’s biography of Julia Louise, the one Lucy had mentioned back in London. A peculiar sensation crept over me when I saw another portrait of Julia Louise on the wall in front of the typewriter. She was dressed in gold brocade, with a choker of diamonds and pearls, and it was hard to shake the feeling that she was watching me.
Anthea sat between Lucy and Nell on the couch in front of the fireplace, with a photograph album opened in her lap. Lucy still wore her casual clothes, but Nell had, predictably, decided to dress for dinner. She’d changed into a blue velvet dress with long sleeves and a crocheted collar; Bertie, who sat in her lap, wore a dashing black cape lined in red silk.
“Lori,” Anthea said, coming over to greet me. She’d let her gray hair down and exchanged her riding clothes for a spectacular flowing gown of sea-foam green. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’m sorry for that shout-up in the village as well. Selling a horse always puts me in a foul temper. I simply hate to let one of my darlings go.”
“You must be famished,” Lucy put in, joining us. “I’ll ask Swann to bring a tray in here for you, shall I? He and your man Paul are doing the washing up.”
“Swann’s tickled to have another man about the place,” Anthea told me as Lucy left the room. “I’m afraid your father-in-law wasn’t much use. Too preoccupied with...” She waved toward the work space in the corner. “Bores poor Swann speechless, which is quite a feat. Now, you must come and hear what Nell’s been up to while you were resting.”
Nell had evidently gone horse-crazy. She couldn’t say enough about the chestnut mare and foal Swann had introduced to her, and the excitement of Anthea’s return on the big bay gelding made her trip over her words. I’d never thought I’d see Nell’s cornflower eyes fill with rapture at the mention of currycombs, but Swann’s tour—as well as his sunny disposition—had made a convert of her.
Lucy returned, and Swann followed soon after, bearing a tray filled with the warmed-over remnants of the roast-beef-and-Yorkshire-pudding feast he’d prepared in our honor.
“Paul’s gone up,” Swann announced, placing the tray on a table Lucy had pulled in front of my chair. “I’m yours for the evening, ladies, though I warn you: One whisper in praise of the dragon and I’ll vanish.”
“Poor Swann,” said Anthea with mock solemnity. “He suffers from overexposure to you-know-who.” She pointed to the portrait over the typewriter, then held her hand out to her husband. “Pax, my dear. I hereby declare a moratorium on family history—for the moment.”
Swann took Anthea’s hand, and she drew him down beside her on the couch, while Lucy curled up in a chair by the fire and Nell launched into another hymn in praise of horseflesh. I started in on the roast beef and contributed little to the ensuing conversation, preferring instead to observe my host and hostess.
They made a splendid couple. Swann was attentive but not fawning, Anthea affectionate but not doting, and though they reigned over separate kingdoms, Swann seemed to take as keen an interest in the stableyard as Anthea did in the affairs of the house. They listened to each other, laughed with fresh delight at stories they’d probably heard a thousand times, and left me feeling curiously elated. If this unlikely pair could achieve such a perfect partnership, surely there was hope for Bill and me.
When I’d finished as much of the meal as I could manage, Swann took the tray back to the kitchen and returned with a pot of Sir Poppet’s tea.
“This is wonderful stuff,” he told me. “Goes down a treat after a large meal.”
“And stays down,” I commented wryly. “I’ve got a trunkful of it. I’ll give you a supply first thing in the morning. I have a feeling that large meals are the rule around here. You’re a brilliant cook.”
“Swann is a treasure,” Lucy agreed. “I put on at least a stone every time I come to visit.”
“Which isn’t often enough,” said Anthea.
Lucy rested her chin on her fist. “It’s not easy to get away, Mother, particularly now, with—”
“With the girls at home having babies and only that great oaf Arthur to lend a hand.” Anthea nodded. “I understand, Lucy, but it’s no use running yourself ragged.”
Nell smoothed Bertie’s cape and suggested innocently, “You could ask Gerald to help.”
The effect of her words was quite startling. Lucy flinched, as though she’d been slapped; then her face crumpled and she ran from the room without speaking. I stared after her, stunned, and for a few moments no one spoke.
“Poor girl,” said Anthea, making no move to follow her daughter. “She’s exhausted.”
Swann snorted. “Nonsense. She’s heartbroken and you know it. Gerald is, too, but he won’t admit it.” His blue eyes flashed in my direction. “Did you speak with Gerald when you visited him in Surrey? Did he happen to mention why he left London?”
I shrugged noncommittally. “He said he made some mistakes and had to leave, for the good of the firm.”
“Utter nonsense,” Swann declared.
“Swann ...” Anthea murmured.
“Sorry, darling, but I’m sick unto death of all of you tiptoeing around the subject. Lucy’s miserable, and when she’s miserable you’re miserable, and that makes me miserable as well.” He returned his attention to me. “Gerald, unlike that great oaf Arthur, is a gifted solicitor. He’s intelligent, charming, discreet, and he loved what he was doing. I simply don’t believe that he decided to leave the firm because of one easily remedied mistake.”
I looked uncertainly at Anthea. “I thought Lucy asked him to leave.”
“Lucy?” Anthea said, her eyes widening. “Ask Gerald to leave?” She gave her teacup to Swann and got up to retrieve a framed photograph from the mantelpiece. After glancing briefly at the picture, she brought it over and handed it to me.
The photograph showed five children, three girls and two boys, decked out in riding gear and posed in the open doorway of the stable. Although it was a group portrait, the two oldest children, a dark-haired girl and a boy with chestnut hair, had pulled slightly apart from the rest and were smiling at each other instead of at the camera.
“Swann is quite right,” Anthea said. “Those two have been in love with each other ever since they first conceived the idea of being in love. They never talked of marriage. It was simply understood. I don’t know why Gerald decided to leave the firm, but I can assure you that it wasn’t because my daughter asked him to.”
The fire crackled and a gust of wind rattled the windows. Anthea returned the photograph to the mantelpiece, resumed her place on the couch, and took her teacup back from Swann. I thought about Lucy, crying her heart out upstairs, and Gerald, eating his heart out in Haslemere. It made no sense whatsoever.
Nell broke the silence. “Then why did Gerald leave the firm?”
I closed my eyes, wishing that she’d given us a few more minutes to recover from the effects of her first bombshell before dropping another, but Anthea took the question in stride.
“God knows,” she said. “If Gerald can lie to himself about his love for my daughter, he can lie to anyone about anything.”
“Anthea’s an expert on liars,” Swann put in.
“I should be,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I was married to one.” She leaned into Swann’s side and gazed at the fire meditatively. “I must admit that there’s an odd similarity between my late husband and Gerald.”
“It must be extremely odd,” Swann commented. “Gerald’s a decent bloke, whereas Douglas was a swine.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t always like that,” said Anthea. “Douglas was basically a decent bloke until he got involved with that doctor....”
“Sally the Slut,” said Swann, with a reminiscent smile. “The ferret-faced physician with the bottomless pill bottle.”
“Dreadful woman.” Anthea shook her head and spoke to me. “She had a husband of her own at one time, but he fled in horror when he
realized what he’d married.”
Swann gave an approving nod. “Clever fellow.”
“Sally was a monster,” Anthea agreed matter-of-factly. She turned toward me with a bemused gleam in her eyes. “She actually tried to blackmail me once. Claimed to have compromising photographs of Douglas. I told her to publish and be damned. Never heard from her again, of course.”
“Only way to deal with such vermin.” Swann gave his wife’s knee an encouraging pat. “All I can say is that Sally must’ve learnt some clever party tricks at her anatomy lectures. From what you’ve told me, she couldn’t have got by on looks alone.” He waggled his eyebrows at Anthea, then raised her hand to his lips. “But we shall not allow Sally the Slut to spoil our evening. I hereby declare the moratorium at an end. You may discuss the dragon to your heart’s content, my darling. I’ll go up and have a word with Lucy.”
“Thanks, old boy,” Anthea said, and as he left the room she added, “He’s much better than I at bucking Lucy up. She won’t let me come within ten yards of what’s really bothering her.” She raised her palms toward the ceiling, concluding with a bittersweet smile, “A mother’s lot is sometimes not a happy one. Now, then ...” she continued, rising gracefully from the couch, “Lucy said you might enjoy seeing the documents she’s collected concerning Julia Louise. If you’ll come over to my work area ...”
For the next hour, Anthea, Nell and I played a game of historical show-and-tell, with Anthea keeping up a running commentary as she displayed her treasure trove of family papers. There were letters, legal notices, and calling cards, bills from dressmakers, hatmakers, jewelers, and scent shops—a fascinating blend of professional and personal details that would lend Anthea’s biography a sense of immediacy.
“Julia Louise was a widow from Bath who took London by storm,” Anthea explained proudly. “I hope that today’s young women will regard her as a role model.”
As I examined yet another authentic-looking deed to number three, Anne Elizabeth Court—this one in Sir Williston’s name—Toby Treadwell’s admonition came back to me: “They made fakes back then, too, you know.”
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