I'll See You in Paris

by Michelle Gable

  The attaché, named Murray as it turned out, sighed and placed his briefcase on the hall table atop a pile of clipped-out newspaper articles. There were more articles spread across the floor—hundreds, thousands perhaps. As wind gusted through the broken windows, the papers fluttered like leaves.

  “Regarding your new companion, m’dear,” Murray said. “There’ve been myriad complaints from the locals plus a well-placed call from the head of the county. Everyone’s concerned about your welfare. Plus no one’s keen on witnessing accidental gun deployments.”

  “There’s nothing accidental about my shot.”

  Pru would’ve snickered if she hadn’t been so stupefied by the woman and her house.

  “So I need to be ‘dealt with,’ you’re telling me,” Mrs. Spencer said.

  “Precisely. As such, your options are admission to the local sanitarium or the company of a lovely young woman with impeccable references. Ergo, our Miss Valentine.”

  Pru flashed him a look, eyebrows punched up into her hairline.

  Impeccable references? Admittedly, she dropped some big names during the interview, but as far as she understood, no references were verified. If the aunt had checked, it’s unlikely Pru would’ve gotten the job.

  “She knows the Kellogg family,” Murray went on. “Are you familiar with the dry goods people?”

  The woman, this Mrs. Spencer, removed her straw hat and dropped it on Murray’s briefcase. She shook out her hair, which was fine, translucent, and hung halfway down her back.

  “The dry goods people,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Is that right?”

  Her eyes were an arresting and startling shade of blue, like glaciers. When they met gazes, Pru felt a sting of cold across her chest. How would she ever get warm in a place like that?

  “That’s them,” Pru said, her mouth dry.

  Was it possible that Charlie’s family had uttered a single nice comment about her, or even a neutral one? She couldn’t picture them recommending her. Then again, they probably just wanted Pru out of the country.

  She’d done nothing wrong per se but what kind of woman couldn’t keep her man at home? They were Berkeley students, for Christ’s sake. University of hippies and draft dodgers, a school filled with nonpatriots. At the very least, she could’ve gotten “accidentally” knocked up and guilted their golden boy into remaining stateside.

  “The Kellogg family adores our Miss Valentine,” Murray said, and lightly tapped Pru on the shoulder. “Go on. Tell her.”

  “I, uh, have known them for about two years—”

  “Save your breath,” Mrs. Spencer said. “As if I give a shit about the Kelloggs. Come. Follow me. The both of you.”

  Pru gave a muted smile as they made their way deeper into the home. Who gave a shit, indeed. Well, she gave one. But she didn’t want to.

  The Grange was imposing from the outside, not due to size but because it carried a palpable moodiness, as though it produced its own dark weather. But once inside, the home grew more foreboding and expansive with every step. As Pru moved along, the ceilings rose above her, walls jumped out of her grasp.

  “Try to keep up!” Mrs. Spencer bellowed.

  The woman quickened her pace, just for fun, just so Pru and Murray would have to jog.

  “Crap!” Pru yelped as she tripped over a hole in the parquet floor. She leaped to avoid falling into a second one. “What the hell?”

  “Excuse her language,” Murray said. “Americans. You know.”

  “No excusing necessary. I’m pleased Edith Junior would dare hire someone possessing even the slightest hint of moxie.”

  Pru felt grateful for the compliment as “moxie” was not a word usually ascribed to her. Maybe this wasn’t the worst possible situation after all.

  “And speaking of manners,” Mrs. Spencer rambled on. “You could’ve provided some warning that you were bringing a nonresident alien to live in my house. That’s some how-do-you-do. Perhaps she’s a thief. Or a murderess.”

  “You’re the one with a handgun, Mrs. Spencer.”

  “I don’t know why my niece pays you a single red cent. Honestly, Ferguson.”

  “Murray. The name’s Murray.”

  “Hold on,” Pru said, her voice hoarse from lack of use, not to mention the clouds of dust swirling in the air. “You didn’t know I was coming?”

  “Lord no.” Mrs. Spencer sniggered. “You’re unknown to me before today, which is probably for the best. Had I recognized Perry from the road I would’ve shot you both on sight.”

  “Thank heavens for lucky breaks, then,” Murray said.

  Pru turned to him. “Mrs. Spencer didn’t know about me? You didn’t tell her?”

  “Believe me, we tried.” He exhaled loudly. “Mrs. Spencer, Edith rang you umpteen times. You were fully aware of the situation but chose not to listen, per usual.”

  They stepped into the kitchen and for Pru almost onto some chickens. She blinked. The place was a scene. Trash. Broken furniture. Upended appliances. Enough animals to start a petting zoo.

  Pru would soon come to learn that nothing in the room was used for its intended purpose. The stove provided the home’s heat, the multiple refrigerators were for storage, and the furniture sheltered Mrs. Spencer’s crop of amorous spaniels. These dogs were the reason for the holes in the floor, too. Mrs. Spencer cut them so the pups could clump together beneath the floorboards, burrowing like small woodland creatures.

  “I don’t know why Edith thinks I need assistance,” Mrs. Spencer said as chickens clacked by her feet. “As if she knows what I need at all. The woman’s exactly like her mother, who’d just as soon see me dead as properly looked after.”

  “Edith cares about you,” Murray insisted. “She’s loved you for a lifetime and only wants to ensure you’re healthy and happy. Also, the entire population of Banbury is terrified.”

  “That’s hardly my problem. They’re silly. And bored.”

  “People are moving out of Chacombe because of you,” Murray said. “Local estate agents are in a frenzy. You are single-handedly depressing home prices.”

  “I think declining property values have more to do with the floating pound than an old lady in the countryside. Though I s’pose I can’t expect the village rubes to comprehend basic economics. Anyhow, I don’t much care what they say. They’ve been wagging tongues about me for decades. Not an ounce of it is true.”

  “The gossip about the revolver,” Murray said and pointed to her ankle holster. “Seems reasonably accurate.”

  “As if that isn’t their favorite thing about me! The Shooting Duchess!” Mrs. Spencer lit a cigarette, a Woodbine. “What a story for them to tell.” She looked at Pru. “Lest you believe the townsfolk sane, they think I’m the long-lost Duchess of Marlborough.”

  “A duchess?” Pru said, trying not to smile. “Really?”

  “A load of horseshit.” Mrs. Spencer blew a stream of smoke over her shoulder and into Murray’s face. “What would a duchess be doing in this derelict hamlet, I ask you? Especially a duchess of that caliber. The ol’ D of M was the most beautiful creature to ever exist. The press called her ‘the embodiment of sunshine.’”

  “A bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Murray asked.

  “I’m merely repeating conventional wisdom,” Mrs. Spencer said with a little shrug. “So, based on the not-so-trustworthy accounts of a bunch of hayseeds, you’ve brought some pretty young thing to look after me?”

  “I have.”

  “And what if I reject this proposition?”

  “Regrettably, that’s not an option,” Murray said. “If you wish to continue living in your home, Miss Valentine is your choice. Otherwise I have a bed reserved for you in the O’Connell Ward at St. Andrew’s Hospital.”

  “St. Andrew’s!”

  “You see? Miss Valentine is not such a bad alternative.”

  Stomach lurching, Pru considered how she might be a suitable replacement for a mental institution. It was funny how quickly a perfectl
y decent option could morph into a horrifically bad idea. When was the next flight to Boston? she wondered.

  “As I’ve said, Mickey, I’ve lived alone for decades without incident.”

  “Not without incident, m’love. And you’ve done wondrously. Alas, you are over ninety years old. Don’t you want help around here? It would be nice to have some company at least.”

  Mrs. Spencer sighed, her blue eyes fixed on a windowpane. She seemed to be relenting, or plotting. There was something very purposeful in the way she chose to humor Murray. It was quietly frightening.

  “I’m not alone,” she said, and turned in his direction. “Have you forgotten Tom? He’s in the barn.”

  “Yes. Tom. In the barn.”

  “Tom!” Pru yipped. The ad mentioned only one person to look after. “Who’s Tom?”

  Murray leaned in. Pru felt his breath hot on her neck.

  “Some groundsman, allegedly,” he said. “Yet the landscaping is garbage. Presumably, this Tom is a figment of Mrs. Spencer’s highly acrobatic imagination.”

  “I can hear you, you know.”

  Murray pulled back.

  “Until I see evidence to the contrary, what else am I to believe?” he asked, then looked again toward Pru. “Allegedly ‘Tom’ lives in a barn but no one’s seen him in a quarter of a century. He’s a Pole, by the by, a displaced person from the war. Mrs. Spencer spent far too much time with Germans in her younger years, I suspect. And now she has her very own Polish indentured servant. Dreams do come true in the end.”

  “That’s quite enough. Lord Almighty. You pay Hitler one compliment and no one ever lets you forget it. I stand by my statement.”

  “She lauded Hitler,” Murray said in a stage whisper.

  “All I said was that he accomplished a lot!”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “When you think how hard it is to create a rising in a small village, well, he had the whole world up in arms. He was larger than Churchill. Churchill couldn’t have done that!”

  “You and Adolf Hitler, birds of a feather. You both create risings in small villages to great success.”

  Mrs. Spencer rolled her eyes, then grabbed a black cloak from a broken-down chair. Pru had been so hypnotized by the woman’s eyes and her back-and-forth with Murray, she’d nearly forgotten about Mrs. Spencer’s bare chest.

  “So you insist upon staying,” she said and looked at Pru.

  “I’m not sure if ‘insist’ is the word…”

  “She does,” Murray said. “She insists. We all do.”

  “Fine. Off with you, henchman to the awful Edith Junior. Miss Valentine, come with me. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  Nine

  THE GRANGE

  CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

  NOVEMBER 1972

  Pru’s eyes sprang open.

  It was early morning. The room was dead dark except for a single candle glowing above her head. Behind the flame was a pair of crystalline blue eyes. Behind the eyes, a face like rumpled tissue.

  Pru scooted up onto her elbows.

  “Mrs. Spencer?”

  She was disoriented, out of breath, but not nearly as terrified as she should’ve been. Was she really so heartbroken, so numbed and paralyzed that she couldn’t muster a prudent level of panic?

  “So you’re still with me,” Mrs. Spencer noted, holding the light close to Pru’s face.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I half expected you to flee in the middle of the night.”

  “I’ve been hired to do a job, Mrs. Spencer. I plan to do it and do it well.”

  Plus Murray had left that evening, her only opportunity for escape probably sitting in a lounge at Heathrow, if not somewhere over the Atlantic. Not that it mattered, or that she’d even go with him if given a second chance. The Grange was a pit but there was nothing left for Pru back in the States.

  “Look to the right,” Mrs. Spencer barked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Turn your head to the right. Do it!” She clonked Pru in the skull with the brass candleholder. “Now!”

  “Sure thing,” she said, one eye fixed on the flame.

  What this seemingly demented woman might do behind a partially turned back Pru couldn’t begin to guess.

  “I gotta be honest,” Charlie wrote in a letter not received until after his death. “Out here it’s hard to tell the good from the bad. They all look the same.”

  Damn if that wasn’t true about most things.

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Spencer said.

  Pru felt the heat of the flame alongside her cheek.

  “You have the perfect Hellenic profile. It’s exquisite. You are a lucky girl.”

  “Oh. Thank you?”

  “You remind me of myself.”

  Mrs. Spencer snuffed out the candle and reached over to flick on the bedside lamp. The woman smelled a little sweet, like baby powder, but also sour. Pru scrunched her nose though the scent wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

  “What time is it?” Pru asked. “Maybe we should talk in the morning?”

  “Don’t be such a pansy.” Mrs. Spencer dropped onto the bed with a small bounce. “It’s well after four o’clock. We rise early at the Grange. Bixby! Diamond!” She whistled through her teeth. “Up here! Up with Mama!”

  First came the sound of nails clacking on the hardwood floors and then the zip of two tawny-coated spaniels into the bed. The dogs spent several seconds scrabbling and yapping about the yellowed lace coverlet before ultimately settling against Mrs. Spencer’s thigh.

  “The animals are permitted on the furniture, I take it?”

  “This is their home, more than yours,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Speaking of my home, why are you in it?”

  “I thought Murray explained everything? Your family placed an advertisement for a personal assistant…”

  “No. I mean, why are you here? With me? And not doing some grander thing? Child, I’m asking if all of your talents have been brought out of you.”

  “Ha! Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It is the question. So I’m waiting for an answer. Do they not teach the particulars of holding a basic conversation over in America?”

  “No, they do. It’s just … it’s not something I’ve been asked before. So yeah. Sure. My talents have been brought out of me. Not that I had many to start.”

  “Well, what are they?” Mrs. Spencer asked. “These talents. I’m positively dying to know.”

  “Er, well, I’m a voracious reader.”

  “That’s truly more of a hobby. An honorable one, mind you! But a hobby all the same.”

  “I’m fairly competent in writing essays.”

  “Lord Almighty. You are in rough shape, aren’t you? Vastly insecure.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘vastly.’”

  “I can smell it a mile away. But you’re smart. I can smell that, too. I myself am a certified genius, despite being raised by a mother who was beautiful but not so sharp. I was a miracle. Differential calculus was too low for me!”

  “Well, class is in session,” Pru said, trying for a joke. “Maybe you can teach me a thing or two. I’m horrible with numbers. I guess I prefer things that are made up.”

  “Why are you here?” Mrs. Spencer asked again. “Why? You should be attending university instead of living with an ancient dame in the countryside. Education is everything. It smooths a life.”

  “I did attend college. In California. I was a literature major, for a while.”

  “Yes, and then?”

  “Then … I left.”

  Pru was in no mood to recount her backstory, or to deflect the uncomfortable combination of pity and disgust she was bound to receive. Her fiancé was dead, which was a tragedy, but surely he’d obliterated more lives than one. It wasn’t even a fair trade.

  “So your leaving was about a fellow,” Mrs. Spencer said with a cluck. “A little advice, Miss Valentine. Never let a man dictate your li
fe.”

  “That’s not exactly what happened.”

  “I didn’t get married until I was forty years old—by choice. I had my own apartment, in Paris no less, when I was half that. An independent woman, at the turn of the century. You beatnik, hippie feminists think you’re sailing uncharted waters but I’ve done it all before. Even the drugs.”

  “I’m hardly a beatnik or hippie.”

  Pru thought of her friends back at Berkeley with their protests and marches and flowerized names. Debbie who was Petal and Linda who was Daisy and every last one of them who so quickly turned on Charlie, and on Pru, when he didn’t fight his draft.

  “As a group, they’d be offended you thought I was one of them,” she added.

  “So, what was it, then?” Mrs. Spencer asked. “Your face is as sad as a gala without guests. I’m sensing a broken engagement?”

  “More or less.”

  “For Christ’s sake. Don’t mope around because of a silly betrothal gone awry. If you haven’t racked up a few, you’re doing something wrong. The minimum ratio is five engagements for every one marriage. The bare minimum! Mine is much higher, as you’d expect.”

  Mrs. Spencer looked toward the ceiling and chuckled through her nose.

  “Ten to one?” she said. “Fifteen? No matter. You don’t get married for the first time at age forty without promising to marry a string of fellows along the way.”

  “What’s the point, then? Of accepting proposals you don’t intend to follow through with?”

  “Why, you’re dumb as a post!” Mrs. Spencer said in a tone that was hard to read.

  “That settles that, then.”

  “Oh, calm down. I say it with kindness. Silly girl, engagements are about the celebration and pomp. The good bits without the trouble that comes later. As soon as the wedding is over, so’s the party. Salt mines and skimpy meals the rest of your days.”

  She lifted the covers and scooted in beside her. Pru inched to the far side of the bed.

  “You mentioned you love to read,” Mrs. Spencer said.

  “Yes,” Pru replied, eyes closed as she willed the woman back to her own quarters. “I was a literature major. It’s one of the reasons I came to work here. They told me you love books, particularly those by British authors, which was my concentration.”