by Beau North
“I could stay here forever,” she said with a toothy smile, her cheeks flushed pink from the sea wind and too much wine.
“Where, in Brighton?” Or with me, you wonderful, frustrating woman?
She shook her head. “This isn’t Brighton. This is a fairy land. A kingdom of our own making.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, playing along. “Atlantis Part II, risen from the sea.”
“No, not Atlantis. Nothing so grand. Besides, nobody cares for sequels these days.”
“All right, strike Atlantis II then. Call it whatever you like.”
She let go of him, throwing her arms wide toward the sea and the setting sun. “The Floating Republic of New Evelyn! It looks very like the Republic of Old Evelyn, I’m afraid, but it feels bloody brilliant.”
“And you will be the monarch of this land,” he said. “The seagulls will be your army.”
She giggled. “Some army.”
“You’ve never been on the wrong side of a gull, I take it. Trust me, my queen, you will be as feared as you are beloved.”
“And who will you be? The royal consort?”
“Court Jester.”
Her arms found their way around his waist, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. They stood there, watching waves crash and slide across the pebbled shore.
“It is a place that can be visited but never known,” she said after a minute, her tone more sober.
He kissed the top of her head. He could still smell his cologne in her hair.
“A private kingdom?”
“Worse. A temporary one. It will soon sink back into the sea, gone and forgotten.”
He turned her around, pulling her closer. She looked up into his eyes. “Never forgotten,” he assured her, brushing her windswept hair from her face. Their lips met in a kiss that was slow and hot and tasted of sweet wine. When he pulled back, he took her face in his hands, kissing her cheeks with a reverence that was almost holy.
“Never forgotten. Long may she reign.”
36
August 20, 1959
The Seaside Inn
Brighton
“That’s my bus.” He stood, handing his suitcase off to the porter along with a tip.
Evie stood too. She put her hands to his face, kissed him. He smiled down at her.
“What do you think…” He hesitated.
“About?”
“What do you think about giving it time? Say…one year? We can carry on like we always have. And if you want to try again in a year, we’ll meet back here. On this day.”
She stretched up like a sunflower, giving him another kiss.
His arms went around her waist, wanting to take her back up to the room. He didn’t think he could ever get enough of her.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “I probably won’t think of anything else.”
The porter interrupted to tell him the bus would be leaving soon.
“I guess that’s my cue to exit gracefully,” he said, rolling his eyes.
She laughed and kissed him again, promising to write soon.
They parted with no regrets.
November 23, 1959
Los Angeles
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Richard called back into the house while he busied himself packing. “Anne and Charlotte have been pestering me to bring you out East.”
Bert stood in the doorway, going through a stack of mail. “No thanks, Fitz. I don’t much care for planes, and it’s too damn cold out there right now.”
Richard nodded at the mail in Bert’s hands. “Anything I need to look at before I go?”
“Nothing urgent, no. But this came for you.” Bert held out a familiar-looking envelope, covered in Richard’s own handwriting and festooned with red ink stamps. He took it, frowning.
“It’s a letter I sent to Evie last month.” He squeezed his false eye shut, squinting at the stamps, all marked “Return to Sender.”
“You two haven’t corresponded much since…”
“I’ll call her when I get to New York,” he said, stuffing the envelope into his suitcase. He tried not to worry. He had a long flight ahead, and then there would be the usual exuberant reunion with Ben, Anne, and with Charlotte. It was true that he and Evie had not been in regular contact the way they had before Brighton, but he’d only assumed it was because she needed time to sort out her feelings, about him, about Arthur and about James. What’s going on with you, Eve?
He closed and latched his suitcase, the letter safely tucked inside. He turned and looked at Bert.
“Come on, Bert. Come see New York.”
Bert shook his head. “Thanks, Fitz, but I think I’d rather make sure everything here doesn’t fall apart.”
Richard grinned and held out his hand. Bert took it in his own and gave it one good shake. “Well, I guess there’s nothing left to say but happy Thanksgiving.”
Bert smiled back. “Yeah, Fitz. To you too.”
December 24, 1959
Gramercy Park
New York City
“Can I get you a drink? Hot toddy?” Anne asked.
Richard stood back and looked at their handiwork. The big tree in the corner of the den was covered in tinsel and lights, so many presents underneath that Richard couldn’t see the floor anymore, only boxes wrapped in festive paper.
“Nothing for me. Thanks.”
Anne fell back onto the sofa, exhausted from the last-minute shopping and decorating. “Between you and Charlotte, the kid’s going to be spoiled rotten.”
Richard chuckled. “Well, some of these are for you, Annie. Would you rather I took them back?”
“Don’t you dare.”
She handed him an envelope. “This came yesterday.”
“Oh, it’s from Lizzie and Will. How nice.” It was a card showing a pink-cheeked Santa. Inside was a new family photograph. Darcy, Elizabeth, Maggie—who was already the spitting image of her father, and the newest member of the Darcy family, little Tom.
“We got one from Georgie and Ari yesterday,” she said. “You should see how much she looks like Aunt Anne these days.”
“Where are they now?” he asked, tucking the photo back in the card, the card back in its envelope.
“Tuscany. Siena, actually. I don’t know if they’ll ever stay here for long.”
“Georgiana spent twenty-three years being cooped up at Pemberley. There’s a lot of world out there to see.”
“I don’t know that anyone could be cooped up at Pemberley. Rosings, on the other hand…”
Richard sighed and sat beside her, taking her hand.
“You miss her? Your mother?”
Anne thought about it for a minute. “Sometimes, sure. I do. I know Charlotte feels the same way sometimes, even with as terrible as her mother was to her. There are things only another parent would understand when you become one.”
For the first time in years, Richard thought of the admiral. He didn’t think his own parenthood would have changed their relationship one iota. It was poisoned nearly from the start. He thought of Ben, who was only a few years younger than Richard had been when his life changed so drastically. He couldn’t imagine holding the weight of that resentment against a child, against his child.
“We can only try to be better,” he mused.
“How is Evie spending the holiday?” Anne asked, changing the subject.
Richard frowned. “I’m honestly not sure. I’ve written and my letters come back unopened. I’ve telephoned, but the number is out of service. Honestly, Annie, it worries me.”
“Have you tried the local authorities? Maybe the minister…the vicar, or whatever they call them there.”
“That’s not the worst idea,” he admitted. “I’ll try it.”
Charlotte came in, glasses perched on the end of her nose as she mended one of Richard’s shirts.
“Really, you should find a good seamstress in Los Angeles instead of always bringing your alterations back for me,” she
scolded, but her smile was indulgent.
“I don’t trust anyone else with it,” he said, smiling back at her. “Is our boy excited for tomorrow?”
Charlotte grinned, shaking her head. “I thought I’d never get him to bed.”
“Right, well, that settles it.” Anne got up and disappeared, coming back a few minutes later carrying a tray. On the tray was an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, and three crystal champagne flutes.
She handed the cold bottle to Richard. “You do it. I can never manage without making a racket.”
He grinned, ground out his cigarette, and took the bottle, squeezing the cork off. It made an audible pop! but not nearly as loud as it could have done. He poured and Anne handed them each a glass. He left his own empty. A symbolic toast would have to be as good as a real one.
“Well,” she said, smiling at each of them. “Here’s to us.”
“To family,” Richard said.
Charlotte went last. “Merry Christmas.”
January 21, 1960
St. Michaels
Bray, Berkshire
Dear Sir,
I understand you’ve been asking after Mrs. Evelyn Ward and her daughters. If you are still yet unaware, Mrs. Ward sold her cottage and moved back to Australia about five months ago. She’d been planning the move for some time, not long after Mr. Ward’s accident, God rest him.
I regret that she left no forwarding address, as my own wife likes to send cards at Christmastime, and she was rather fond of Evie and her two girls. I’ve taken the liberty of returning all your correspondence to her, which has been sitting in the Parish post-box for some time. Perhaps you might have better luck in locating her current address than I have had. If you do manage to get in touch with her again, please give Mrs. Ward and the girls our best.
Yours,
The Rev. Robert Lowman
37
February 19, 1960
Dear Eve,
You were not exaggerating the charms that the village of Bray has to offer. It’s a lovely little place, even coated in winter frost as it is now. I wanted to see it, your little cottage with its blue walls and creaky wood floor, the alder tree outside. I wanted to see the sun shining on its leaves the way you always described it to me. I wanted to take your arm and walk you to church on Sunday, or set up croquet on the green for the children. But the cottage was empty, the blue walls faded and bare. The tree has lost all its leaves, and anyway, it’s a sunless day. Even the church is empty; the local publican told me this parish is going to be consolidated with another. Now people travel to the next village over for the more modern, more comfortable church. He remembered you a little, but he remembered Arthur very well. Why didn’t you ever tell me things had gotten so terribly bad? Why did you let me spill my soul in ink, and you keep all of this to yourself? Sitting here, in this lonely place, I feel the last few years of my life thrown into question. Were you ever real? I’m angry, Eve. And I’m glad James never got to know this side of you. Maybe you can put a brave face on and smile through life, but I’ve done my share of that and I can’t anymore. I’m tired. Tired in my bones and in my soul. I don’t have the heart to fight for you. I feel all the pain of losing you when, in truth, I never really had you, did I?
Richard
(letter unsent)
February 23, 1960
Gramercy Park
New York
It was Charlotte who came to the door, looking frazzled. She clapped her hands to her cheeks when she saw him standing there.
“Richard!”
“Hi Char,” he said, managing a smile.
“Everything okay?” she asked, her brow wrinkling. “You look exhausted.”
“Can I come in? I…wanted to see Ben. And I feel like I need to be here right now.”
“Of course!” She hopped aside, sweeping open the door for him. “It’s your house.”
Was it? For so long he’d thought of the Gramercy Park townhouse as Charlotte and Anne’s home, forgetting that he and Darcy owned part of it too.
It was more cluttered now than it had ever been. Swatches of bright fabrics and large canvases, some blank, some awash in splashes of lurid color, were stacked against walls, tables, mantles. There were books everywhere, mostly the things that parents might read to their children. He found his son in the glassed-in conservatory, which was roughly the size of a good closet, the sun-dappled room where Anne liked to paint. A room which children were expressly forbidden from entering.
Ben and Anne stood opposite one another, hands on their hips in near-identical poses. Neither of them noticed Charlotte and Richard standing in the doorway.
“I’ve told you no,” Anne said, looking every bit like her mother. “Nyet, osel.”
“I can play in here if I want to!” Ben shouted. “You’re not my mother!”
“Benny!” Richard snapped. Ben turned to see his father standing there, expression melting from shock to delight to chagrin.
“We don’t talk that way, especially not to women. Not ever. Now, apologize to Anne.”
Ben’s face turned scarlet. His apology came reluctantly through gritted teeth.
“Go to your room, please, Ben,” Charlotte said, her voice calm and sweet, a balm to the child’s hurt feelings. “I’ll be right there.”
Ben ran from the room, still red-faced at his father’s unexpected admonitions.
“Richard!” Anne rushed to embrace him. He held her tight, feeling a little bit of color come back into the world. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be going back to England.”
“So did I.” It was all he would—all he could—say on the matter.
“Richard.” Charlotte kissed his cheek. “You can’t just pop in after being months away and shout at him. You’ll confuse the boy.”
“That’s all you have to say to him right now?” Anne bristled. “Look at him. The poor bastard’s miserable.”
“Anne, language.”
“Thanks for that,” Richard said with a laugh. “But Charlotte’s right. I’ll go talk to Ben.”
Anything to avoid talking about England, and Evie.
What it all came down to was wondering where he fit in. Where was the place where he belonged? Not in Los Angeles anymore, that place had gone stale for him. Only Bert and their work with the foundation had kept him on the West Coast the past few years. Now neither Bert nor the foundation particularly needed him. He’d thought he would make a home with Evie, wherever she was, but she’d made it perfectly clear that wasn’t the future she wanted. He felt adrift, a piece of flotsam buffeted by the wind, never quite touching ground.
In the end, it was Ben who made the decision for him. Ben, who looked up at him with those big blue eyes and asked if they could go somewhere that summer. The house in Annapolis made more sense than living with Anne and Charlotte in Gramercy Park, where he’d just be in the way. Charlotte wasn’t happy with the idea of Ben coming to stay a whole summer with him, so they’d agreed that he’d come stay for a few weeks in July.
“They need a little manly bonding time, Ducks,” said Anne, who seemed a little giddy at the thought of two weeks of child-free silence.
“Just…have a care what you expose him to,” Charlotte said, ignoring Anne. “I know you like to have fun, but he’s just a child.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t want him to turn out like me either,” Richard retorted. Exactly what in the hell did she think he was going to do? Take him to a cat house the way his own father had taken him and James and Will when they were barely old enough to have hair on their upper lips? He was guilty of a lot, but he could never be accused of following in his father’s footsteps.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No need to explain,” he said briskly, giving her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
March 1, 1960
Los Angeles
Bert was frowning over a ledger when Richard walked into the home office that served as
the base of operations for the Disabled American Veterans Association. The organization would soon enough need its own office, with a staff and someone to run it. Richard just knew that person wouldn’t be him.
“Oh good, you’re back,” Bert said dryly. He glanced up at Richard, seeing everything he needed to see in one look. “I take it things didn’t go as planned.”
Richard threw himself into the chair on the other side of Bert’s desk and sighed.
“Do they ever?”
“You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
“Is that an invitation to come cry on your shoulder?”
“Try it, cooyon.”
Richard grinned at his friend and companion, feeling a little less miserable. “Do you have a dollar?”
Bert’s scowl returned. “Richer than King Midas and you’re taking the last dollar from a broken-down vet with one leg.” But he fished out his wallet and passed the dollar across the desk. Richard pocketed it with a smile.
“How’d everything go in my absence?” he asked.
“We got approval for the new halfway house from the zoning board, but the contractor needs to push the groundbreaking back another week. I know you’re going to New York again next week. Do you want me to reschedule it for when you come back?”
Richard sighed. “No need. I won’t be coming back this time, Bert.”
Bert looked up at him, his brow ticked up in annoyance. “Good. I’ll get more done with you gone.”
“I’m serious. I’ve decided that I want to live closer to my son. I want to be able to hop in my car or on a train and be there in half a day. I want him to come spend time with me in the summer, or Christmas, or his birthday. I want to be a better father to him than mine was to me.”
Bert nodded, looking resigned. “As good a reason as any.”
Richard steepled his fingers, pointing to Bert. “I want you to oversee the groundbreaking.”