“Pru.”
“What?”
“Just … Pru…”
“You can’t keep doing this—”
Then suddenly, to his great surprise, and especially to hers, Win leaned forward and kissed her. He felt her gasp as their lips met.
It was a simple kiss, a sweet one, but Win thought that if he never had another in his lifetime, this one would suffice. Pru’s kiss was enough to carry him through the next ten thousand tomorrows.
Later, Win would remember this feeling and think maybe he turned it into his very own curse. One kiss. One chance. Perhaps the mere thought cemented their fate, launching Pru out of his grasp completely and forever.
Seventy-two
ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
MARCH 1973
When the kiss ended, Win wrapped both arms around Pru’s waist, replacing one contact with another, afraid to let go. The press of her body against his was almost too much to bear, even though their coats remained a barrier between them.
Without a word or even much thought, Win grabbed Pru’s hand, a tad gruffly, and led her off the bridge.
Control yourself, Win thought at the time, no proper woman wants her clothes ripped off in the middle of Paris.
Good thing it was so damned cold.
After crossing the bridge, they hurried along the quay, Pru too bewildered to speak. Win checked his watch. It was just after midnight. Would Jamie be awake? Fifty-fifty odds.
As for the duchess, she was probably gallivanting throughout the city. They’d already contemplated whether Mrs. Spencer might’ve chucked the biography idea altogether to instead reel out her days re-creating her former Parisian salons. The notion, it wasn’t half bad. Win was close to chucking the story, too.
When Win and Pru arrived in front of his building, they looked up together, searching for lights in windows, evidence of life. Win allowed himself to look at her then. With Pru’s eyes lifted heavenward and the moon illuminating her cheeks, Win found he couldn’t hold back a heartbeat longer. He grabbed Pru’s chin and turned her face toward his.
Then he kissed her. Harder this time, and Pru kissed back, no hesitation on her lips.
Still soundless, they made their way inside the building and up the marble staircase. Their legs felt shaky, anemic. The top floor seemed miles away.
Inside the apartment, all was calm, the only light from the hallway, the only sound the hum-tick of the old refrigerator. Win laughed in relief.
“Thank God,” Pru said, knowing his thoughts exactly.
Thank God. They were the first words spoken since their kiss.
In a flurry, they ditched their coats, their gloves, their scarves, and stumbled toward the back of the flat. Though they were still fully clothed, they felt almost naked, their top layers having been shed.
On that night Pru wore a long dress. It was semisheer and dotted with pinpoint flowers, the whole getup cinched around the waist with a belt of string she called “macramé.” The outfit was not appropriate for winter or, really, for any season in Paris. She was Win’s misplaced California girl and he loved her all the more for it.
“Stop,” he said as she removed her belt. “Stop.” His voice softened. “I want to see you like that.”
“Like this?” Pru laughed. “You realize I’m still dressed, right? Oh Lord, maybe you are gay.”
Still smiling, she undid the top two buttons of the dress, and then the third and fourth. Win tried to appear undaunted by the full, round tops of her breasts, breasts much fuller than he’d expect for someone of her tiny frame.
Eyes fixed on Pru, Win labored to extricate himself from his own clothes. His pants caught on his knees and he had to brace himself against a dresser to stay upright.
“You are outstandingly uncoordinated, aren’t you?” Pru said as she threw her dress overhead, revealing gauzy pink underpants beneath. As it turned out, she wore no bra.
Win was in his undergarments but it hardly mattered, so obvious was his, ahem, reaction to the display. Poor bastard, acting like a bloody rookie.
Within seconds they were both stripped to nothing and on the bed. Her skin, it was so damned warm. And soft. It almost tasted that way too. How she felt beneath him, and him atop her, it was as if they’d practiced, studied, and hired private tutors to get it so astoundingly right.
And then.
“Win!” said a voice, followed by a thud on the door. “Win! Open up!”
The couple froze. A piece of Win’s hair dropped down and tickled Pru’s forehead. She wiggled out from under him. He lifted up onto an elbow but kept one hand protectively on the soft, low part of her belly.
“Is that your brother?” she whispered.
“Jamie, now is not a good time,” Win barked. Then added: “The worst possible time, actually.”
“It’s important. Might I come in?”
He was already walking through the door as Win said, “Absolutely not.”
“Sorry, mate,” Jamie said. “You can get back to the shagging in a jiff.”
Pru groaned and threw both arms over her eyes.
“Someone had better be dying,” Win said.
“A very urgent-sounding fellow rang about an hour ago. Called himself Tom.”
“Tom?” Pru removed the arms from her face. She turned toward the tall, mop-haired figure in the doorway. “Tom? Mrs. Spencer’s handyman?”
“That’s the chap,” Jamie said. “He was calling from Banbury. And wouldn’t you know it, the old bird is there too.”
“Mrs. Spencer is in Banbury!” Pru gasped.
She looked at Win.
When was the last time they’d seen her? Neither could remember exactly. It could’ve been that morning, or last Tuesday. Pru was embarrassed by how myopic she’d been, traipsing around the city with Win. She was an employee of the Grange and there she was, in Paris, drawing a salary to flirt and dance.
“Did she take her luggage?” Win asked. “Her minks?”
“I checked her room and there’s not a personal effect in sight. But, here’s the kicker, the bloody place is socked in by wooden crates. A damned storage unit, right here in our home.”
“Christ,” Win said. “Do you know how long she’s been away?”
“Several days, apparently. All that and she’s had herself some visitors.”
“The Marlboroughs,” Win guessed.
“Righto. There’s also an American looking for you.”
He pointed at Pru.
“Shit!” she said.
Edith Junior. Come to take her home. Now Pru could never make a case that she was vital to Mrs. Spencer and had to stay on given that caregiver and charge were in two entirely different countries and Pru hadn’t even known.
“Goddamn it,” Pru said, inching up into a seated position. She pulled the sheet taut over her breasts. “She tricked us. Mrs. Spencer tricked us! I don’t know how or why, but she did!”
“Luv, it’s okay,” Win said and ran his hand along her leg. “I’m sure she had her reasons. Jamie, thanks for the information. Now feel free to take your leave.”
“Have fun, you two. But keep it down, would ya? I have an early morning.”
As Jamie slunk away, Pru turned toward Win.
“This is not good,” she said.
Pru was worried, and not only about her employment prospects or immigration status.
“Those people in Banbury,” she said. “Something’s not right. What if Mrs. Spencer gets taken advantage of? Or injured in some way?”
“You were the one who said she was being histrionic.”
“Well, they showed up, didn’t they? Just as she said. And she was also right about Edith and the Marlboroughs being in cahoots.”
“We don’t know that,” he said.
“They’ll take her away!”
“Why are you so up in arms? Having kittens over a few uninvited guests? No one wants to take her away. Even if they did, she’s probably better off under the care of a doctor. She
broke a leg three years ago and never got it fixed!”
“Don’t you get it, Seton?” Pru said. “If she goes, so do I. She’s the only reason I’m even here.”
Win jolted, as if slapped. He’d never considered a situation in which Pru would be gone.
“Have you and Gads worked things out?” Pru said, her voice climbing. “This mysterious plot you’re cooking? Because it’d be most helpful if Gads could tell us what’s going on. I’m afraid I’ll … I’m just afraid.”
“Er … I’ll ring him in the morning.”
Pru threw off the covers and stood.
“We have to go back!” she said. “To Banbury!”
“Pru…” Win reached for her arm.
“We can’t leave Mrs. Spencer alone there.”
“Please. Let’s forget about Mrs. Spencer and the Marlboroughs for tonight.” We’ll deal with this catastrophe tomorrow.
“Win, she’s alone!”
“Tom is there, remember? He’s scarier than we are anyhow. I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley, or even a lit one.”
Pru sighed and slumped down onto the bed.
“I guess you’re right,” she said.
“Of course I’m right.” As Win glided his hand up her side, she shivered. “We’ll engage that mob of nutters tomorrow. For now.” He skimmed his fingers across her left breast. “For now. Just us.”
Pru smiled, at once filled to the neck with a foreign, indescribable sensation. Perhaps, when you got right down to it, the feeling was exactly that, one of fullness, the emptiness finally gone.
“You’re right,” Pru said again and moved her body flush against Win’s. “We’ll handle it in the morning.”
And with that, Win and Pru took up from where they left off.
Seventy-three
ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
NOVEMBER 2001
“To leave a message for the guest in room five, please speak at the tone.”
“Hi, Mom? It’s me. You might be wondering where I am. Don’t freak out, but I’m in Paris. I hopped on a train right after you did.
“You might’ve heard me mention my friend from Banbury named Gus. Well, I just found out his full name is Jerome Casper Augustine Seton. He calls himself the Earl of Winton, mostly as a joke but it is also the truth. I am at his apartment now, with his brother Jamie. I think you know the place and the people I’m talking about.
“Honestly? I’m more confused than ever. About you. About me. Why did you keep this part of your life hidden? I feel like it has to do with my dad, but I just can’t get the math to pencil out. What happened in those years? Between when you left Paris and I was born?
“Mom, I’m not going back to Virginia until you come here first. You say I was an easy toddler, that I never threw a tantrum. Well, I’m doing it now. This is my tantrum. I’m planting my feet in Paris until you arrive.
“Okay, that’s it. Sorry for the long message. And sorry for doing it like this but there’s no other choice. So. You know where to find me … on Quai de Béthune. Good-bye, Mom. Miss Valentine. I’ll see you in Paris.”
Seventy-four
ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
NOVEMBER 2001
“To be clear,” Jamie said as he dumped a handful of diced shallots into the snapping skillet. “When I claimed to love cooking I did not promise to be especially talented.”
“Well, it smells great,” Annie said.
“Those are the shallots talking.”
She nodded absently, her mind on Gus’s tape, likewise the needless description of her mother’s underwear and naked breasts.
“Is it drafty in here?” Jamie asked, mistaking her shudder for a shiver. “I can crank up the heat.”
He opened a can of tomato paste, and then spooned it into the pan.
“The temperature’s perfect,” she said and sipped her Bordeaux. “Listen, Jamie, I have a confession to make.”
“A confession?” He glanced over his shoulder and waggled his eyebrows. “One of my favorite things to hear.”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing steamy.”
Gus’s erection. Laurel nude. Annie was just about maxed out on “steamy.”
“It’s about your brother,” she said. “Gus. He’s been telling me the story behind the book, the story of Win and Pru.”
“Of your mum.”
“Yes, my mum,” Annie said, thinking of Laurel who was probably right then stepping into an empty hotel room and also into a cold panic. “I had no idea who Win was until about twenty minutes ago. I never realized Win and Gus were the same person. For a second there I thought Win was you.”
“Really?” Jamie turned to face her, his back pressed against the counter, a curious smile playing at his lips. “Me?”
“Only for a second.”
“The name didn’t tip you off?”
“J. Casper Augustine Seton?” Annie said. “I assumed the J was for James.”
“It’s for Jerome. Also, there’s a ‘Gus’ in there.”
Annie repeated the name in her head.
“Augustine?” she said. “That’s, like, barely a Gus.”
“Didn’t he tell you that he was the Earl of Winton?”
“Yes, but…”
Gus had told her that early on, but Annie thought it was a joke.
“It goes without saying Win refers to that,” Jamie said.
“Our nicknames are more straightforward in the States, I guess.”
She pictured Gus, sitting across the table, or beside her at the bar. Gus with his wavy, white hair, his pressed trousers, that slippery smile. She recalled how he’d tip his head toward her when getting to the good stuff, taking on and off his glasses as he spoke.
The glasses. He wore them to read the newspaper, or a transcript, or the bar tab from Ned. But he never needed glasses to read the book. He didn’t have to. The words were his.
“Damn,” she said. “I like to think of myself as pretty perceptive. But I honestly never figured it out.”
“No worries. The bloke’s a roguish sort.”
“In my defense,” Annie said. “Gus … Win … whatever his name is, he told me that the writer lives in Paris. Plus he was always so disdainful of the guy.”
“My brother is his own worst enemy.”
Annie reached deep into her pocket.
“Here,” she said and tossed the luggage tag onto the table. “I found this at the Grange. It appears to have your name on it.”
“No!” Jamie picked up the tag. He held it to the light. “Well, I’ll be. Those two bastards used my very nice set of matching baggage for their return trip to the Grange. Brought it back worse for the wear, as you can see.”
Jamie kissed the tag and then dropped it into his own pocket. Annie bristled. That was supposed to be her good-luck charm, even if his name was on it.
“So they went back?” she asked. “Win and Pru? To the Grange?”
Jamie nodded.
“They did,” he said.
“Because of Tom.”
“Criminy, I forgot about that old Pole.” Jamie chuckled. “That’s what old age will do to a person. But, yes, his call precipitated their return.”
“When they arrived,” Annie said, “were the Marlboroughs there, too?”
“Those are the events as I know ’em.”
Jamie moved to a larger pot and examined the potatoes boiling inside. This dinner was starting to look more Virginia and less Paris.
“So that was it, then?” Annie said and took another sip of wine. “They went to the Grange, end of story.”
“End of story?” Jamie said. “What makes you think that?”
“The Marlboroughs were at the Grange.”
“They were.”
“They—and Edith—wanted to have the duchess hospitalized.”
“They did.”
“If Mrs. Spencer ended up in a hospital, there was no reason for my mom to stick around. And we both know that
she ended up back in the States, alone.”
“Your mum did return to the States,” Jamie said. “But not right away. Their story went a little longer. You see, Win and Pru managed to find their way back to Paris. Thanks to a little help from a bloke named Gads.”
Seventy-five
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
MARCH 1973
The duchess was at sixes and sevens when she saw their two faces show up in her parlor-turned-veterinary-clinic.
“Get out! Scram!” she howled, chasing after Win and Pru with some ungodly combination of pitchfork, broom, and backhoe. “Get off my land!”
“Mrs. Spencer,” Pru pleaded. “It’s only us.”
“I know it’s you! What in Sam Hill are you doing in England? You think I dragged you to Paris for my own good health? You were supposed to stay there. ALONE. Jesus. How come people can’t accept a goddamned gift when they’re given one?”
The cleaning and yard implements were one thing, but the collection of guests was no less threatening. For one, there was Tom. And Gads. And a butler named Murray, there at the behest of the duchess’s niece. Pru recognized him from her initial trip to the Grange.
All that and Gads had with him his brother, the eleventh Duke of Marlborough, and the duke in turn had his crew of solicitors and physicians. Wife number two was also present due to some vagary of their prenuptial agreement. She herself brought her own legal battalion.
“Greetings, comrades!” Win said, grinning like a dope. “Holy hell. There are a lot of you.”
“Why are you here?” Mrs. Spencer demanded.
“We were worried about you,” Pru said. Her eyes scanned the room. “For good reason, it seems.”
“You should be worried about yourself! I can take care of these buffoons. You need to leave immediately. You’re so close to screwing everything up, you have no idea!”
“But, Mrs. Spencer, your niece hired me to look after you,” Pru said. “She expects me to be here. I apologize for my misstep but I’m sticking with you from here on out.”
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