I'll See You in Paris

by Michelle Gable

  “Nicely done,” Pru said, though didn’t wholly mean it.

  His prose was sufficient, but the story was not exactly groundbreaking. Whatever “preliminary research” he’d conducted was for shite.

  “What else have you got?” she asked and turned another page.

  It was blank. She flipped again. Still blank. After thumbing through the rest, Win shirking in the corner, Pru realized this was all he’d written. Two bleeding paragraphs.

  “Well,” she said. “I see what you mean about the long game.”

  “The young American said with tangible disdain.”

  “I’ll be in the book? Not sure how I feel about that.”

  “Look. You said it yourself. She’s given me bugger all to go on and you’re the liveliest person in this joint, even if you blush if forced to utter more than two words.”

  “You’re some kind of charmer,” Pru said with a roll of her eyes. “So what happens if Mrs. Spencer doesn’t give you the rest of it? Will you write her story anyway? Make something up? Or will you just leave?”

  “No. I won’t leave.”

  Win sighed again and then sat on the edge of his bed.

  “This may sound positively bonkers,” he said. “To someone like you, so young and with limitless possibilities. But this writer nonsense? It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Surely not all.”

  “It certainly is. And if I give up on it, then what do I have? Nothing. And to suddenly have nothing, no direction, no future at all, is a terrifying prospect. I can’t explain it.”

  “You don’t need to explain it,” she said. “I’ve—”

  “You’d simply never understand.”

  Pru turned away as a blanket of red spilled across her powder-white face. She’d been on the cusp of telling him she knew a thing or two about dim futures, but the miserable bloke made it so damned hard to create a real human connection.

  “You want to write her story that badly?” Pru asked, face hot. “That you’d subject yourself to poor ventilation, middling food, and a general lack of hygiene? Not to mention all the damned dogs. You are that committed to telling the duchess’s tale?”

  “Yes,” Seton said, after a great, long while. “It may sound crazy, but apparently I am.”

  Twenty-seven

  THE GRANGE

  CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

  JANUARY 1973

  They sat in Win’s room as snow swirled outside.

  The house bent and wailed in the wind, the three of them warmed by the fire, which Mrs. Spencer kindled with letters from “unexceptional lovers.”

  “Were they unexceptional in social status?” Win wanted to know. “Or in sexual performance?”

  Pru blushed, despite the cold. She pulled the bearskin throw farther up onto her shoulders with one hand and held a book to her face with the other. She’d taken to reading during these interviews, to pass the time between Mrs. Spencer’s filibusters. No one seemed to mind, or even notice at all.

  “Ha!” the old woman barked. “Sex or status. That is the question, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me about the men,” Win said. “Unexceptional or otherwise.”

  “I don’t have ample time left on this earth to tell you about the men.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be specific. Let’s begin with the Duke of Marlborough.”

  “Nice try. But no.”

  “Why not? Because you can’t speak to his sexual prowess? Or you don’t want to?”

  Mrs. Spencer pretended to take a sip of bourbon. It dribbled onto her purple silk gown.

  “All right,” he pressed on. “If you won’t yield on the duke, surely you can regale us with stories of your prior betrothals, the broken hearts you’ve left along the way.”

  “Ah!” Mrs. Spencer’s face brightened. “Well, there were quite a number of them. I was very attractive in my youth. As your friend Miss Valentine can attest, if a woman has the beauty, she will also have a history of affiancing. She’s already one down.”

  “Mrs. Spencer!” Pru said, and yanked her gaze from the book.

  That night it was H. G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau. Dog-Man, Hyena-Swine, and Fox-Bear Witch were appropriately ghoulish for a dark and howling winter’s night at the Grange.

  But certainly when I told the captain to shut up I had forgotten I was merely a bit of human flotsam, cut off from my resources, and with my fare unpaid …

  “Oh, Miss Valentine, don’t fret! One betrothal at your age is acceptable. It’s true you have a ways to go, more’s the pity, but it’s a valiant start!”

  Win’s eyebrows lifted straight off his face.

  “Well, now,” he said. “I’ve ragged her a bit, joked that I’d include her in my book. But it’s beginning to seem like a better idea by the minute.”

  “That snoozer?” Mrs. Spencer said and affected a yawn. “Miss Valentine is a pretty thing but her life story wouldn’t fill a cocktail napkin.”

  “You two are much too kind,” Pru grumbled. “Really.”

  “Fine then,” Win said, an eye still on Pru, who tried to bury herself beneath the bearskin throw. “Let’s leave Miss Valentine be and discuss the Crown Prince of Prussia. It’s one of my favorite Blenheim stories, told often, as it’s where the two of you met. I couldn’t walk past the tennis courts without picturing you on them.”

  “Never played a set in my life.”

  “Prince William of Prussia,” Win continued. “Little Willy they called him. You beat him. In tennis, at a minimum.”

  Mrs. Spencer snorted.

  “Oh, Little Willy,” she said. “Little indeed.”

  “He was tall,” Win said, wiggling his mouth to chase away a smirk. “And fair from head to toe. Rumor was Little Willy’s ears would turn red in your presence. I feel as though I have the same effect on our Miss Valentine.”

  Pru glared at him from over the top of her book.

  “I only blush when I’m perturbed,” she said.

  “Perturbed. Riled up. Excited beyond reason. So, Mrs. Spencer, as the story goes, the young prince first saw you at Blenheim, where he witnessed your wicked serve and ultimately fell victim to your punishing forehand. Your beauty and intellect enchanted the man and your athletics paralyzed him. No one had ever beaten him before. And Little Willy liked his beatings.”

  “You make it sound so libidinous,” Mrs. Spencer said, her lips twitching into a smile.

  “By week’s end,” Win said. “Whilst on a drive, you coaxed the confirmation ring right off his finger and declared yourselves engaged. Much to the dismay of the kaiser, as you were never a true princess.”

  “I don’t need a fledgling biographer to tell me that I’m not a princess.”

  “You’d lured Willy into an engagement though he was, as everyone knew, happy to be caught. He never would’ve had the balls to do it himself, to upset Vater.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Mrs. Spencer mumbled.

  “When political powers on both sides of the Atlantic heard about your engagement, a surge of relief washed across the globe. This would not be a simple marriage but instead an important alliance between Germany and the United States.”

  “I’ve had many engagements, Mr. Seton, but I don’t recall a single one of them surging anything across the globe. What’s an alliance anyway but a verbal agreement among two separate people with opposing interests? Easily formed, quickly broken.”

  “They say the two of you could’ve prevented the first war.”

  “Oh, I hardly think—”

  “Mrs. Spencer, admit it. Everyone knows your love might’ve saved the world.”

  Twenty-eight

  THE BANBURY INN

  BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

  NOVEMBER 2001

  “Their love might’ve saved the world?” Annie said. “Don’t you think that’s a tad much?”

  “No,” Gus said. “Why, is that what you think?”

  “Uh, yeah. This author is every bit as dramatic as Mr
s. Spencer herself, from the sounds of it.”

  “Admittedly, he was prone to theatrics about all manner of things. But in this regard he was correct. Even Churchill echoed the comment. And he never would’ve voluntarily given Gladys that much credit.”

  “I still don’t understand why Mrs. Spencer refused to admit she was the duchess.”

  Annie uncoiled Gus’s scarf and handed it back to him. She shivered in the brisk, sunny air.

  “The duchess’s reputation wasn’t exactly sterling,” Gus pointed out.

  “I get that, but it’s not like Mrs. Spencer was the town’s most respected citizen, either. What did she have to lose? I would’ve been, like, damned straight my beauty was capable of keeping men from war!”

  “So you remain convinced that she was the long-lost duchess?”

  “Look, it’s very cute how you’re trying to frame this as a mystery but there is no other conclusion. Take Consuelo Vanderbilt. We know that she was the Duchess of Marlborough.”

  “We do.”

  “And we know that she and Gladys were close friends.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Mrs. Spencer herself told Win and Pru that she and Coon were the tightest of pals. So there you go. One example of many.”

  “Surely Consuelo Vanderbilt had more than one friend.”

  “Perhaps. But probably not another friend that close. Coon was timid and insecure because of her hearing problem. ‘A black swan aloof in soundless waters,’ et cetera. She needed Gladys Deacon. Their relationship was special.”

  “An aloof black swan? Where did you hear a thing like that?”

  “I can’t remember,” Annie said, heart beginning to thrum. “Um, probably in the book?”

  The words were from the transcript, which was in her backpack, Annie realized too late.

  “The writer mentioned it,” she blathered on. “I’m pretty sure.”

  “I don’t think it was in the book,” Gus said, eyes darkening.

  “Whatever. The point is…” Annie moved the backpack from her right shoulder to her left. “When triangulating the data, the information lines up. Not only with Coon, but all the other little details.”

  “Triangulating…”

  “Yes, you know.”

  Annie drew a shape in the air that was decidedly not a triangle. A sloppy rhombus, at best.

  “Aren’t there usually three sides to a triangle?” Gus asked.

  “Yes, that’s generally how triangles work. But like I said, I hate math. Or whatever shapes are. Geometry? That sounds right.”

  “So, then, where’s your third side?” Gus asked. “The first side is the book. The second is our conversations. What’s the third?”

  “Uh, I think it’s just an expression?” she said, face flaming.

  “Tell me, Annie, what is your third source of information?”

  “I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing here.”

  “You went into the Grange, didn’t you?” he said, and narrowed his gaze. “After you showed up at the George and Dragon looking dusty and unkempt, asking oddball questions about the property, I knew something was amiss. But I thought, no, this girl is not a criminal. She is a sweet thing, missing her fiancé and getting lost in a book.”

  “Gus…”

  Annie closed her eyes and sighed. The wind whipped around her. She could almost imagine herself in the parlor of the Grange, a bearskin throw pulled to her chin, winter streaming through the gaps in the walls and doors.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m busted. Yes. I went inside the Grange. Call it—”

  “Research? Nice try.”

  Her eyes popped back open.

  “Intellectual curiosity,” she said. “I’m a researcher.”

  “Intruder more like. Or a nuisance.”

  “Nuisance? Ouch. I’m not that bad.”

  “A nuisance in the legal sense, as in a public nuisance.”

  “You’ve got me!” Annie threw her hands up. “I’m a trespasser. I’ve committed a crime. Why are you so bent out of shape about it? Do you own the house or something? If so, not to worry, I left everything intact.”

  Most everything anyway.

  “No. I do not own the house,” Gus said. “I simply think nosy young ‘scholars’ should do a better job of ingratiating themselves to locals. By the by, I’m not paying the bond following your inevitable arrest.”

  “I’m sorry I snuck in there,” Annie said, though she wasn’t, not particularly. She was only sorry that she’d irritated Gus. “I just wanted to have a look around. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “So, then, what did you see on this look-around? I hope you reaped some reward for your misadventures.”

  “Honestly, there wasn’t much to see. A few books. Some leftover pieces of furniture. It appears Seton’s desk and typewriter are still there.”

  “Really?” Gus’s face, formerly grumbly and squished, perked up. “His typewriter?”

  “Someone’s typewriter. It’s beside a window, in a room at the top of the stairs.”

  “His typewriter. Huh. That would be something.”

  “I also found these.”

  Annie wiggled out of her backpack and started to unzip the top before reconsidering. Gus would confiscate the pages, most likely. Not that he had any greater claim to the manuscript than she did, but at the very least he’d yell at her again.

  “Gosh darn it,” she said. “Guess I left them in the room.”

  She zipped it back up.

  “You left what in the room?”

  “Um. I think I came across, er, some transcripts? Interviews between Win and the Duchess?”

  “Brilliant. And in which room did you leave these filched pages?”

  “Well, mine.”

  “Blimey, Annie. You nicked them? Add it to your list of civil transgressions.”

  “Come on, Gus,” she said. “Ease up. It’s only scrap paper, left there for Lord knows how many years. Why are you such a hard-ass all of a sudden? I thought you were one of the good guys.”

  “I’m not sure how you ever acquired the notion that I’m good.”

  “I’ve never broken a law in my life,” Annie said, her voice starting to shake. “Maybe some underaged drinking ones, but not, like, real crimes. Nothing that’d hurt another living soul. Honestly, Gus, I’m a nice person!”

  He let her snivel and suffer for many more moments than were necessary, but probably the exact amount of time she deserved. Annie hated herself for being such a snoop. Eric would be appalled.

  “Gus, I’m sorry, I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Crumbs, Annie, I shouldn’t be so hard on you,” he said. “I’d just hate to see you get into any sort of legal mess, traveling ‘mostly alone’ as you are. Call it fatherly concern, not that I’d know the first thing about it.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “I understand.”

  She didn’t know the first thing about fatherly concern, either.

  “Oh, I wasn’t apologizing,” Gus said. “You are most certainly in the wrong. But tell me, what else did you see over at the Grange? Since a crime has already been committed you might as well reveal the results of your felonious behavior.”

  “Honestly, I was a little disappointed,” Annie admitted. “The house was dilapidated, as expected, the grounds around it nothing but weeds and overgrowth. But the inside? You said it was cluttered.”

  “I said?”

  “Well, your story. Plus it was in the biography. And while the place wouldn’t win any Good Housekeeping awards, I expected a lot more … crap.”

  “Crap, is it?” Gus said, letting free a smile. His usual ways were beginning to creep back in. “I’m sure Mrs. Spencer would appreciate the inference.”

  “Okay, wise guy, according to Win Seton, there was literal crap, of the spaniel and cat varieties.”

  “Touché, young criminal. Touché.”

  “That’s not what I meant, though,” she said. “The home was mostly em
pty. The furniture was gone. The dishes, removed. Artwork was pulled right off the walls.”

  “I told you they auctioned off the home’s contents upon the woman’s death. Anything with value would’ve been sold decades ago.”

  Annie thought of the papers in her backpack. Were those valueless? She assumed the market for first drafts of minimally read books wasn’t exactly the stuff of bidding wars, but the pages meant something to her. For Gus to call them worthless felt like an insult.

  “I’d like to see those transcripts,” Gus said, reading her mind, or more likely her face, which was never a decent fortress against her innermost thoughts.

  “Sure,” she said with a nod. “I’ll, uh, gather them up.”

  Suddenly the front door of the inn flung open. It cracked against the far wall. A squall of lavender and curls spiraled in their direction.

  “Annie!”

  Nicola came tearing down the walkway, her coat flying out behind her.

  “Annie! Miss Annie! Your mother’s been looking for you! She only just left.”

  “Mother?” Gus said archly. “I thought you were traveling alone?”

  “Mostly!” Annie said. “Mostly alone!”

  “Your mum left a message,” Nicola said, and jammed a peach-colored slip into Annie’s hand. She shot Gus a scrutinizing look.

  Annie smiled weakly at both of them as her eyes scanned the page.

  A—

  Why do I feel like I’m being punished? An early run? A suspicious tale if ever there was one. I’ll be tied up in meetings all day, but please be ready by six o’clock for dinner.

  Love you greatly. —Mom

  Annie crumpled up the note and shoved it into her backpack.

  “Thanks, Nicola,” she said.

  “Also, a message has come in, from your intended. I didn’t mean to pry but you left your e-mail open. Anyhoo, the computer is available if you’d like to use it.”

  “Okay. Thanks for letting me know. By the way, do you know my friend…”

  “Yes, we’re acquainted,” she said. “How’s your brother?”

  “’Bout the same,” Gus said. He turned to Annie. “The older brother might have the responsibilities but everyone loves the kid brother more.”