I'll See You in Paris
Page 11
Oh dear, Pru thought. This man must be old-fashioned. Nay, ancient.
In fact he was thirty-four and so her assumption was correct.
“Ah, the young lady is already softening toward me. I can tell. A relief to not be shot.”
“I’m not softening!” she said. “You still haven’t explained why you’re trespassing!”
“I do apologize. You startled me.”
“I startled you?”
“I thought the property was empty,” he said. “I saw the lady of the manor motor off into town in her little black car. She has a license to drive that thing?”
“She drives it all the time.” Pru sniffed.
“Yes, well, I’m quite certain I just saw her mow into a herd of schoolchildren. She was laughing. The children were not. So. You haven’t told me your name?”
“You’re trespassing on my property and you want a name?”
“Your property, is it?” he asked with a squinch.
“Well, I mean, not exactly. But I live here. Did I mention you’re a trespasser?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
He grinned, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Win was attractive, but in a lazy sort of way, like he’d never had to work too hard for anything. As though he’d been mollycoddled all his life, which was the general status of things.
“I’ll fess up,” he said. “I’m a trespasser. But also a writer, which means I’m a danger to no one but myself.”
“Okay, Seton,” she said. “Mr. Seton. If you’re a writer, why do you dress like you’re on a hunting safari?”
She pointed to his crisp white shirt and khaki trousers.
“The lady of the manor, as you call her,” Pru went on, “positively hates shooting animals for sport. In fact, before large hunts she used to sneak out at dawn and scare the animals from bushes and trees. So if you saw the ducks or foxes and think there’s shootable game on this property, think again. Also, it’s cold. You’ll probably catch pneumonia in that getup.”
Win laughed again.
“So sweet of you to be concerned with my health!” he said. “And I am familiar with the lady’s antihunting sentiment. She used her infinite spaniel collection to flush out the prey, did she not?”
“How did you know…”
“She has a million stories,” Win said. “A few of them might even be true. And her affinity for tall tales, fair one, is why you find me standing before you.”
“Come again?”
“As mentioned, I’m a writer. And I’m here to pen the biography of the woman who lives here.”
“Mrs. Spencer’s biography?” Pru said, a little baffled. “I must tell you, I don’t think she’d be too keen on the idea.”
“We’re all mates here.”
“Not exactly…”
“Enough with this ‘Spencer’ rubbish. Let’s call her what she is. Gladys Deacon. The dowager duchess. Lady Marlborough.”
“She insists she’s not the duchess.”
“Oh yes.” Win smirked. “I’m sure she does. Now, please kindly show me to the home. Let’s wait for your ‘Mrs. Spencer’ to return. She will not be shocked to see me.”
Twenty-three
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 1972
“Is it your habit to let strange men into the house?”
Mrs. Spencer dragged them into the parlor. She backed Win and Pru up against a cupboard using a chair and what appeared to be some sort of spear.
“Mrs. Spencer, calm down,” Pru said.
“Lord Almighty! Americans! No wonder you get yourselves enmeshed in pointless, stupid wars!”
“I thought you were expecting him?”
Pru could feel the man’s presence beside her. She moved several paces to the right.
“Mr. Seton told me you knew he was coming,” Pru said.
“Yet he had to sneak onto the property while I was out. Does that sound like someone I was expecting? Use your brain!”
The woman had a point.
“But he said…” Pru tried.
She felt a tickling by her ear and turned to see a cat peering out from behind a book. Conrad. The Duel.
“I don’t give a cow’s tit what he said!” Mrs. Spencer crowed. She tossed the chair against a wall. “For Christ’s sake! Do you even know the first damned thing about him?”
“Well, not exactly…”
“He’s probably some sort of confidence trickster, wanted throughout the U.K. But you don’t care.”
“I care, Mrs. Spencer. I do.”
“Charmed the pants right off you, no doubt, with those good looks of his. I guess you’re headed for betrothal number two. I’ll host the party here at the Grange.”
“Betrothal? He’s a thousand years old!” Pru said. Then she turned to Win: “Sorry, it’s just—”
“No apologies necessary.” He put up both hands. “A spade’s a spade and all that. One thousand years exactly. Lady Marlborough—”
“MRS. SPENCER!”
“First off, let me say that this is a marvelous room,” he said, gesturing. “You have an unparalleled collection of books and art.”
“Which you want to steal, presumably.”
“No! Not in the least. But where’s the rest of it?”
“Rest of what?”
“Now, now, don’t be coy.”
“Oh go fuck yourself.”
“Mrs. Spencer!” Pru yelped.
Win made a sound—either a laugh or a choke. Pru could not tell.
“I have no ill intent,” he insisted. “Quite the opposite, actually. You see, I’m a writer.”
“A writer, huh?” Mrs. Spencer snorted. “Well, that’s a dubious pedigree if ever I’ve heard one. What have you written?”
Win flushed. It was a tough issue for the man, being positively ancient and in his midthirties almost, with not much to show for it. He’d endured the past dozen years or so as one of your standard, ten-a-penny struggling writers. His lack of success was a much-trodden topic among his otherwise successful family.
Oh sure, he had the swagger and the charisma, the faux hunting garb and quick laugh, but deep down he was criminally unconfident, as most failures and/or writers typically were.
“Yes, writer? Go on. Speak. What magical tomes have you penned?”
“Er, um, well. Nothing in the public domain,” he finally settled on. “Yet.”
Pru felt a momentary gut-pang of pity. Win Seton was a bit of a loser, she decided. Aimless, sad, and hopeless, like a little boy who dropped every ice cream he ever held. She wanted to give him a hug.
“Nothing in the public domain,” Mrs. Spencer echoed with yet another snort. “How rather on the nose.”
“But I aim to change that by writing your biography.”
“My biography? Who cares about some old lady in the countryside? Or is it that you don’t want anyone to read your work? You seem to be doing a bang-up job of that already, without my help.”
“Lady Marlborough—”
“Mrs. Spencer!”
“The interest in you remains strong,” he said. “People still whisper your name at parties and dinners!”
“Oh codswallop!”
“You must comprehend your legendary status throughout England and in all of Europe, really. America, too, from what I’ve gathered.”
He looked toward Pru, who shrugged.
“Silly boy. There’s not a person outside the gates of this property who gives a whit about me!” Mrs. Spencer said.
“I spent many summers at Blenheim,” Win said and cleared his throat, waiting for a reaction.
Poor sod, Pru thought. The bloke was faring worse with each breath.
“At Blenheim,” he repeated. “They spoke of you endlessly, decades after you’d left. New people were born. The old ones died. Marital unions formed and broke apart. The circle of life in full effect. Through it all, talk of you.”
“I’m not familiar with this Ble
nheim place.”
“It’s your family seat. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Is she…” He turned to Pru and made a circular motion at the side of his head. “All there?”
“I can hear you, Seton.”
“She seems perfectly sane to me,” Pru said with a sideways smile.
“Right.” Win laughed nervously. “Surely you haven’t forgotten Blenheim, Mrs. Spencer?”
“Now that you mention it, the name rings a bell. Isn’t that where Coon lived? During her first marriage?”
“If by ‘Coon’ you mean your old pal Consuelo Vanderbilt, your preceding Duchess of Marlborough, then yes.”
“I’m not a duchess!”
Blenheim.
Pru’s mouth curled in reflection. Blenheim. As she looked between Seton and Mrs. Spencer, it struck her. The name was at once shiny and familiar, like an American penny found on a foreign street. Tidbits gleaned at university were still there, it seemed, despite the shoddy dress and flea-bitten legs.
“You summered at Blenheim?” she asked Win. “Isn’t that where Churchill was born?”
“Yes,” he said. “The very place.”
“Jesus. Here we go again.” Mrs. Spencer rolled her eyes. “That old bastard Churchill. He was not a great man. Of course he wasn’t. The English just like to create heroes and worship them.”
“I think respect for him is fairly worldwide,” Pru said. “So you can’t pin it on the Brits.”
“He just had a certain faculty for making noise. There are people who go through life bashing cymbals. He was one.”
“Goodness, Lady Marl—Mrs. Spencer,” Win said with a chuckle. “If you were chummy with Sir Churchill then you must have some tales to tell, dowager duchess or not. To be frank, I plan to write the biography at any cost. You might as well have your say.”
“I’m confused. Are you writing a book about me or about the Duchess of Marlborough?” Mrs. Spencer asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“Either or. It depends on you.”
“Hmph.” She crossed her arms.
“And Proust!” Pru chirped. “She was pals with Proust!”
Mrs. Spencer shot her a look.
“What? You told me about your pal Marcel on my first night here. You never mentioned it was a secret.”
“Even better,” Win said. “Proust. Churchill. Shall we name the others?”
“Thomas Hardy,” Pru said, feeling Mrs. Spencer’s glare bore into her. “Edith Wharton. J. M. Barrie. D. H. Lawrence. H. G. Wells. E. M. Forster. All the good initialed folks.”
“Honestly, Miss Valentine! Do you ever stop?”
“Mrs. Spencer,” Win said, outright grinning now.
He was entirely enchanted by Pru. Problem was, he had no capacity to enchant in return. It was not in his genetic makeup. He only hoped to not repel her altogether.
“Surely your story is fabulous,” he said. “If nothing else, you’re intriguing enough, lovely enough, that the good people of Banbury think you’re Gladys Deacon. As you must know, she was universally agreed upon as the most intelligent and beautiful woman to ever exist.”
“I’m sure she wasn’t as spectacular as all that.”
“Oh but she was! With that fine-spun, red-gold hair. Her stunning blue eyes. And that magnificent style! The bright colors … the fur, the feathers, the beads.”
Mrs. Spencer made a puffing sound but then—could that be right?—she reddened. Had Win Seton gotten to her that quickly? He was buttering up the old broad, any goat could tell. Pru found herself impressed.
“Feathers and beads?” Mrs. Spencer said. “Sounds a bit obvious. Like a damned peacock.”
“A dazzling peacock.”
“They also thought the duchess was nuts,” she said. “Did your Blenheim exploits teach you that? The duke’s family thought the great, grand Duchess of Marlborough was touched in the head.”
“Only because she went missing,” Win said. “Nearly forty years and for no discernible reason.”
“Her husband was dead. He left her alone, in a prison, with people who despised her. Is that not ample reason for you?”
“A prison? Surely you don’t mean Blenheim.”
“Of course I mean Blenheim! It’s a monolithic beast of a supposed home.”
“Lady—Mrs. Spencer—I’ve been to Blenheim countless times. It’s breathtaking. Surely the duchess would’ve been pleased by the meticulous grounds, the statues of her likeness in the gardens, those blue eyes of hers painted on the portico ceiling.”
“What’s a little paint and some plaster?” Mrs. Spencer grouched.
“Even if the palace didn’t please the duchess, surely she could’ve absconded to their London home, or her private Paris pied-à-terre. Why would a woman of her stature disappear so completely?”
“You’d have to ask her directly.”
“Please, Mrs. Spencer,” Win said. “Let me write about you. Allow me to commit your life to the page. We’d have a jolly good time in the process, the two of us.” He glanced at Pru. “The three.”
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Spencer said, and began to pace. “I’m not sure about any of this.”
“You do have fascinating stories,” Pru said, jumping in. “The German POWs who cut your trees. The years you spent in Paris. All those broken engagements.”
With that, Mrs. Spencer leaned forward and tried to wallop Pru in the head with a newspaper.
“You would be interested in broken engagements,” Mrs. Spencer harrumphed as Pru ducked out of reach. She turned back to Seton. “Well, writer, if I say yes, I suppose you’d make a gadfly of yourself and set up shop in this very house.”
“Please call me Win. And yes, that’s the idea. To stay in residence. It would enable me to get closer to the subject.”
“Also you probably don’t have a quid to your name.”
“Think of yourself as a patron to the arts,” Win said.
“Oh Lord, that must mean you fancy yourself the art. I don’t know.” She sighed. “What do you think, Miss Valentine?”
“Uh, what?” Pru said. She did not expect to be called to vote. “Me?”
“Yes, of course you! Good grief, and they say I’m touched in the head. What say you, Miss Valentine?”
It was the question, wasn’t it?
What exactly did Pru think of this unfamiliar man? The sort-of-handsome writer who’d shown up in the brush wearing pressed attire? Clothes that were, it must be said, already sullied by dog hair and slobber.
“I guess it’s fine?” she said tepidly.
He didn’t seem dangerous. Of course, just because someone wasn’t dangerous didn’t mean he wasn’t trouble.
On the other hand, it’d be nice to have another (human) body in the house. Someone to guard against the specter of Tom and, more important, help clean up after all the damned dogs.
“How do you feel about spaniels?” Pru asked.
“Wonderful creatures. Positively aces.”
Pru turned toward Mrs. Spencer.
“Let’s do a trial run,” she said. “See how it works out.”
“A trial run? Miss Valentine, you’re barely out of yours.”
Mrs. Spencer tried to frown but her resolve was splintering.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll permit this dreggy writer to live with us and pen my memoirs. What a waste of paper.”
“Brilliant!” Win said and gave a loud clap. “Who wants to help with my baggage? It’s out on the street.”
“Before you start hauling all your rubbish into my home, one thing I want to make clear, Mr. Seton.”
“Like I said, call me Win.”
“I will not call you Win. For one, it’s impolite. For two, it reminds me of Winston Churchill and you do not want to be mistaken for him. Mr. Seton, this book will be mine, not yours. I get the final say on what goes into it. Do you understand?”
“That’s what I planned all along,” he said.
“Also I want a cut. A financial interest.”
“I don’t care about custom!” she said. “I care about what makes me happy. This is your choice. I give you my time and you compensate me as I please.”
Win pretended to ruminate on the offer, though everyone in the room knew he’d agree to the terms. Money was not the point of the book. The book was the point. Moreover, he’d made precisely nothing from his authorial endeavors thus far. Mrs. Spencer was welcome to her half of zed.
“Very well, Mrs. Spencer,” he said. “I accept your proposal.”
Frankly, he didn’t have another choice. What was the price of a dream anyway? Win Seton was willing to give up half the money for the whole of this, his last chance to prove his worth.
Twenty-four
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
Gladys’s father was arrested for murder. “Parisian flirtations” aside, you simply couldn’t shoot someone through a couch and expect to get away with it.
That is, unless you cried adultery. In those days, murder was an acceptable response to a cheating wife. Had Edward Deacon attested to Florence’s dalliance with the now-dead Coco, she would’ve been the one in the clink. But Mr. Deacon refused to turn her in. Noble or stupid? It was certainly up for debate.
Mrs. Deacon did feel some guilt about the outcome. Immediately after her husband’s sentencing, she canceled an engagement with the Princesse de Sagan. Florence didn’t care to endure a luncheon less than twenty-four hours after her husband was carted off. She may not have loved him, but Florence Deacon had some semblance of a heart.
Alas, the press did not take kindly to this social misstep. Famed dandy Count Robert de Montesquiou wrote a poem about the event, asking at the end, “Does disaster preclude politeness?”
Evidently, it did not. Florence would not make such a mistake again.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography