by Julia Whelan
My ear pricks, like hearing a different frequency. They sound rehearsed. Teasing and wink-wink-nudge-nudge. “How so?” I ask.
“Well . . .” Gavin sighs theatrically. “You know the trouble we’ve been having filling the deputy political director position.” God, do I. It’s practically all we’ve talked about for months now. Janet doesn’t like any of the people Gavin and I and everyone else have thrown at her and we’re running out of suggestions. “We’ve realized that there’s one detail, one quality, that none of them have.”
My mouth dries. “Oh yeah?”
“None of them have been twenty-five.”
“Not a one!” Janet chirps.
“And we’ve agreed that’s a deal breaker. We just can’t have someone who isn’t twenty-five.”
I feel as if the smile taking over my face is going to run right off it. “I completely agree,” I manage to say.
“Good,” Gavin says. “We thought you would.” Now they both laugh. “So, you’re in?”
It’s a funny thing, clocking the moment your life changes forever while it’s happening. Usually a moment’s significance only matters in retrospect. Seeing the exit you meant to take in the rearview mirror, that sort of thing. Not this time. I suppose it’s like seeing your boyfriend go down on one knee, or watching a plus sign appear on a pregnancy test. Or, on the other side of life, opening your front door to find a sad-eyed cop with his hat in his hand.
Which just makes me think of another birthday, twelve years ago. I push it down.
“I’m in! Thank you! Both of you!”
“Just remember,” Gavin says, his stern-father voice on. “Enjoy the rest of your time there. But, on June eleventh, the carriage turns into a pumpkin and the footmen into mice. You come home and help us change the world. We’re counting on you.”
“It’s a plan,” I answer.
We hang up and I float back to my friends in a daze. I sit down once again next to Jamie; he takes my hand.
“Everything all right, Eleanor?” Antonia asks.
“Yes!” I chirp. “Sorry about that.”
“No need, love. But, if we may . . . we have something for you. William and I,” she clarifies.
William moves to stand behind her chair. They look as if they’re posing. In fact, I’m reminded of the photograph in Jamie’s dining room and realize that it was taken in this library. William sets his hand on her shoulder while she reaches into her pocket and takes out a small blue velvet box. Its edges are threadbare, showing its age. As Antonia extends her arm, presenting the box palm up, my heart drops into my stomach.
“It appears they’re proposing,” Jamie drawls.
At my hesitation, Antonia thrusts the box closer to me. “Go on, then.”
I take it. I try to keep my hand from shaking. I try to breathe. I open the lid. It’s exactly what I didn’t want to see. It’s a ring. A diamond ring. I move to hand it back. “Antonia, please, this is—”
“The diamond is flawed,” Antonia blurts. “It has no monetary value, really. No need to refuse. Jamie told us that you’re not a jewelry person,” she says, smiling. “It’s for your love of history, a keepsake that you might find of value.”
I gaze up at her.
She takes a breath. “Before the war—the first one—a wealthy American woman married into this family. Quite unwillingly. She was more than content with a young clerk she had decided upon, but her father refused their engagement and shipped her off to the wilds of Scotland. This was the ring her clerk had given her.”
I look back down at it. Emeralds encircle the diamond, which is small but well set. The band looks brand-new. Never worn.
“She kept that ring in the back of her nightstand drawer. Now, you might pity her, but don’t. She had a surprisingly happy marriage here. Had four children. My father was her eldest, actually. My grandmother and I were quite close.”
William interjects awkwardly, “She was my grandmother-in-law, you see.”
The entire room pauses. Antonia looks up at him and smiles, giving his hand a loving pat. “Yes, dear, very true.” She turns back to me and continues: “She never heard from her clerk again. She did what was asked of her—well, if it comes down to it, what she was told—yet she had a fine life regardless. Now, we don’t always get to choose what happens in life, don’t we all know. However, we can choose what we do with what we’re given.” Antonia pauses. “And so this ring is for you. A thank-you from two parents who are quite impressed with the choices you’ve made in this situation you’ve found yourself in.” She glances quickly at Jamie and smiles back at me.
I’m caught in her eyes. Eyes that hold the weight of her two sons. One here, one not. And still, she chooses to smile at me. To thank me. To give me a family heirloom like a daughter.
I know my mouth is hanging open. I turn to Jamie. He shrugs, says, “That story’s correct.”
I see Maggie, Charlie, and Tom exchanging confused, curious glances, but they’re too polite to speak up, to ask for clarification.
Then, as if none of this ever happened, Antonia glances at her watch and stands. “I must talk to Smithy about the roast. Happy birthday, love.” She bends down and kisses my stunned cheek, straightens, and walks to the door.
Jamie calls after her, “Aren’t you going to tell her your grandmother’s name?”
“Oh, bother, of course.” She sighs, turning back to me, briefly. “Carolina Vanderbilt.”
I AM SO full of so many things right now and none of them have anywhere to go. “Jamie, where’s the bathroom?”
“I’ll take you.”
“No, just point the way.” It comes out sharper than I intended.
Jamie shows me where to go and I take off across the grand foyer and down a long hallway. I want to bolt out the front door, a horse out of the corral. Instead, I’m going to go lock myself in one of the twenty-seven bathrooms for a minute. Just a minute.
I finally find it, and close the door, leaning against it, breathing. In and out. In and out.
I see myself in the exquisite mirror over the sink. It’s as if I can see the thoughts running in and out of my head like Metro Center at rush hour.
I want to look at the ring again, focus on that for a moment. I take the box out of my pocket and pop it open. The ring really is beautiful, trinket or not. I gently take it out and—dammit!—it slips from my hand, falling into the copper sink. I dive after it, trying to grab it before it goes down the drain. It escapes one hand and I pounce with the other, trapping it with my palm. I slowly lift my hand, pinching at it with my thumb and forefinger, but end up shooting it closer to the drain. Jesus! I lurch forward with both hands, a final, desperate grab before it disappears into drain hell. Got it!
I steady my hands before I oh-so-gently pluck the ring out of the sink and carefully put it back in the box.
I’m never taking it out again. It’s as if the ring knows I’m unworthy of having it.
I look in the mirror. A newly appointed deputy political director stares back at me.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE the smell of good food being prepared by people who know what they’re doing. Smithy is one of those people. “Before we leave, will you show me how to make coq au vin?” I ask her.
Her face lights up. “You like it, do ya?”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had.” I’m not blowing smoke either. I’ve become addicted to Smithy’s coq au vin.
Charlie, Maggie, and Tom are exploring the grounds and Jamie is taking a nap, tired from the drive. I watch Antonia and Smithy put the finishing touches on dinner. They’ve given me a menial task, folding napkins. Which they had to teach me how to do first. I had no idea there were so many wrong ways to do it.
Suddenly William walks into the kitchen, his determined gait interrupted by my presence. He has a moment of hesitation, as if he’s stumbled into the women’s bathroom at a restaurant. “Hello,” he mutters. “I’ve finished for the day. I came to see if there’s anything I can do.”
I glance down. “Wanna help me fold?”
“Surely one person is more than enough.” He looks to Antonia. Then, seeming to hear his answer on a delay, he glances back at me. “But thank you.”
Antonia bustles over to him, wiping her wet hands on her apron. She takes him by the elbow and steers him toward a beautiful old door with handcrafted ironwork, which I’ve been peering at, trying to figure out where it leads. “Go down to the cellar and pick out some wine. Champagne to start.”
“Colin can choose, you know I’m not the best at—”
“I have complete faith in you,” she drawls. “Now shoo!”
William sighs, looking like a reprimanded child, and leaves through the iron door, disappearing down a spiral staircase. It’s endearing, the way this overbearing, hotheaded man defers to his wife.
Antonia goes back to the island where she’s been chopping an onion. After a moment, she says, “William is actually quite happy to see you. He knows you had everything to do with getting Jamie here. He’s thrilled. He’s talked about it for days.”
“Have they said anything to each other yet?”
Smithy glances between us as she kneads dough, lips pursed, tracking everything. “When the two o’ thems don’t speak a word is when they say the most, if ya ask me.”
I lean forward. “They need to be locked in a room somewhere until one of them crawls out bloodied and victorious, eating the other’s heart.”
Antonia snorts. “They might do, it wouldn’t surprise—” She looks up and her face alights with that special smile she reserves for Jamie. “My lad! You’re awake. Feeling better?”
He’s loitering in the doorway, looking adorable. Hair still rumpled from his nap, misbuttoned shirt. His voice is throaty when he says, “Yes, cheers. Slept quite soundly, actually.” He crosses over to me and kisses the side of my head. I lean into him, loving the smell of sleepy Jamie. “What can I do?” he asks.
“Fold?” He won’t refuse me.
He nods and scoots out the chair next to me. The easy silence that fills the kitchen gives me a sense of calm that I haven’t felt since I don’t know when; members of a family, working together, preparing a meal. It’s all so . . . right. Except for William. He belongs here and yet his presence would be disruptive. If only these two men could see what I see in them, a boyishness, a tenderness. They’ve lost sight of—
“Jamie, can we have champagne? Now?” I ask. “I’m feeling celebratory.”
“Of course.” He stands, kisses me. “I’ll just run upstairs for a jumper. Bit dank in the cellar.”
He leaves and the kitchen goes silent.
Antonia and Smithy look at each other and, as one, turn to me. Antonia, wide-eyed, whispers, “You clever, clever girl.”
Panic sets in. This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to have a mediated sit-down, a Camp David–worthy summit. “You think? It was totally spontaneous, I didn’t really think it through—”
“It was brilliant.”
“Shall we ready the whiskey and bandages?” Smithy quips, slapping her dough onto the table.
Antonia takes a stuttered breath, her casual bravado gone. “What now?”
“We wait, I guess.”
“All right, we wait.” We all go back to our tasks. Smithy continues to work her dough. Antonia begins chopping anything in front of her.
“What if they need a referee? I mean, you’re so good at that.” My voice has accelerated.
Antonia stops chopping and peers at me. “They should have their time. Some privacy, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Of course.”
“We’ll give it twenty minutes. If they don’t reappear, we’ll take the back stairs down.”
“There are back stairs?” I sound desperate.
Antonia nods once.
I fold. Antonia chops. Fold. Chop. Dough slap. Fold. Chop. Dough slap.
“Twenty minutes is a long time,” comes out of me.
“Ten minutes, then. We’ll give them ten minutes.”
Fold. Chop. Dough slap.
Smithy looks between us, her eyes moving like a metronome.
Fold. Chop. Dough slap.
Antonia and I stop. We look at each other.
Without another word, we both leave the kitchen.
Chapter 26
And we were in that seldom mood
When soul with soul agrees,
Mingling, like flood with equal flood,
In agitated ease.
Coventry Patmore, “The Rosy Bosom’d Hours,” 1876
The “back stairs” are encased in one of the turrets. Timeworn stone spirals downward into what might once have been a dungeon. I’m definitely coming back later to explore. If we’re still here, that is. Or if I’m not being questioned by police.
Antonia precedes me, and at the last stair, just before we step through an archway, she stops. I hear footsteps coming toward us, echoing in a tunnel. We tuck back into the staircase, hidden from view by the curve of its rough wall. There’s a small cough, which I immediately recognize as Jamie’s. The footsteps turn before they reach us, and stop. “Oh! Sorry.”
“Not at all,” I hear William say, and realize that the cellar must be on the other side of the wall we’re leaning against. “Can I help you?” William’s voice sounds even more ominous in the cellar’s echoes.
“Ella asked me to fetch champagne.” Jamie pauses. “Though I’m beginning to think . . .”
Antonia and I grimace guiltily at each other.
“Right,” William mutters. “Well, since you’ve come, you might as well—”
“I’m sure you have it well in hand.” Jamie’s shoes click, as if he’s turning to leave.
“Jamie.” William’s voice is tight. “Might we have a word?”
I hold my breath. Antonia and I stare at each other, on tenterhooks. Jamie sighs. “Must we?”
Antonia’s eyes close, looking as disappointed as I feel. Dammit, Jamie.
“Of course not,” William huffs. “I thought you might have an opinion on the wine, but I’m perfectly capable—”
“I believe it was champagne she . . .” But even talking about wine seems too overwhelming. “Never mind.” Jamie’s footsteps fill the ancient stone tunnel and then diminish.
Antonia and I look at each other. Should we leave? Should we stay? On the other side of the wall, we hear William root through wine bottles. The sound of glass knocking against wood, of bottles yanked from a rack and pushed back in. Then, an unnatural stillness.
Then, an explosion of shattering glass.
Antonia and I both jump. It’s not the sound of something being dropped; it’s the sound of something being dashed. William’s breathing grows so loud we can hear it from around the corner, guttural and choked. The bull has entered the china shop.
Then he’s sobbing. Feral, bestial sobs. A pained little groan slips from Antonia’s lips and she turns to go to him. I grab her hand. She looks at me, bewildered. I point toward the hallway and then to my ears.
Jamie’s returning footsteps.
William must hear them, too, because he swallows his sobs. Jamie’s clacking heels turn the corner into the cellar and, once again, stop dead. “Not one of the Château Lafites, I hope.” Then, “I thought I heard something as I topped the stairs.” William doesn’t reply. Jamie doesn’t move. “Everything all right?” Jamie ventures.
“Smashing,” William chokes out.
“Rather.”
“It slipped. Nothing to fuss about.”
“I’ll get the broom.” Jamie’s voice deadens as he moves deeper into the cellar.
“Leave it, I’ll have Colin or one of the—”
But I hear the creak of an old hinge and Jamie says, “I’ve got it.”
“Don’t. Let it be. The last thing I need is you cutting yourself.” The sound of glass scraping against the floor. “Damn it all, I said leave it!” William explodes. “Might I be allowed to run my own ruddy house?”
“F
or Christ’s sake, I’m only—” A heavier set of footsteps strides toward the tunnel hallway. “Right, of course! Walk away. God, I hate . . .” Jamie falters. I imagine him clenching his jaw, his fists, every part of him in one tight coil ready to spring.
“Go on,” William dares. “You hate . . . ? You obviously have something to say, so say it, you ungrateful—”
“Stop!” Silence. Then, “Oliver’s last word, remember?”
“What are you dredging up now?”
Antonia’s hand finds mine.
After a moment, Jamie continues. “We were standing on opposite sides of his bed, arguing over him, and he said, ‘Stop.’ You pretended not to hear it. ‘Stop,’ and then he passed out. Never regained consciousness. Four hours later he needed the ventilator and I had to make the decision. And you hated me for it. ‘Stop.’ His word, not mine.”
Antonia squeezes my hand and I watch her eyes fill and overflow, tears trickling down like a roadside waterfall.
“I wasn’t aware,” William blusters. “I couldn’t hear—”
“‘Stop.’”
After a moment, the sound of tinkling glass resumes. “Hand me the bin.” Jamie sighs. A metal pail scrapes across the floor, followed by the tinny ring of glass dropping into it.
“You routed me,” William says more strongly.
“And you gutted me,” Jamie fires back.
“How so?” William shouts. “Maybe, had you consulted me, instead of behaving like some petulant child—”
The bin crashes to the floor. Oh God, are they going to come to blows?
“You said,” Jamie yells, “his body still warm before us, you said, ‘Why Oliver? Why did it have to be Oliver?’”
My eyes pop open. As do Antonia’s. She doesn’t know this either?
Even William sounds appalled. “I never said such a thing!”
“You did.”
“I would never!”
“First you blamed me for killing him and then you salted the wound by wishing it were me in his place.”
“No! Untrue! A father doesn’t favor—”
“Oh, come off it, you would have gladly exchanged—”
“I was talking about myself!” William roars. “I wanted it to be me lying there! Me! Not you! God forbid, not you.” Rasping breath and then, “I said what I said, Jamie. I did. I blamed you, yes.” William’s voice is as tight as an overwound clock. “But wish you dead? I love you! It was just . . . the pain had nowhere to go, you see, nowhere to—”