I'll See You in Paris

by Michelle Gable

  “Jesus, don’t do me any favors,” Mrs. Spencer grumbled.

  “Hello there,” a man said and stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, Laurel. The name’s Gads.”

  Pru smiled wide and shook his hand. Gads was short and raggy-haired, every bit the aging scamp she pictured. She adored him on sight.

  “George,” his brother warned. The man was a duke but looked like an ordinary bloke, including the “terminally weak chin” Mrs. Spencer described. “I’ve asked you seven times not to get involved.”

  “As Lady Marlborough’s solicitor,” Gads said. “It’s my very duty to get involved. Now, dear brother, I have to ask you to leave the premises.”

  “If she is the Duchess of Marlborough, then I am the duke, and that makes all of this mine.”

  “And mine as well,” said the ex-wife.

  “Sorry to report, but you’re wrong, both of you. This property belongs to Gladys Deacon alone. I have the paperwork right here.”

  Gads tapped his briefcase.

  “You two,” Mrs. Spencer said, pointing one craggy finger first at Win and then at Pru. “Are supposed to be in Paris.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that when you stabbed me in the rear with a pitchfork,” Win said.

  “If you’re here about your stupid book…”

  “What book?” the duke said.

  “Don’t worry, my darling grandson,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Merely a thorough detailing of my past. You are featured prominently and in bad light. Seton.” She punched at the ground with her cane. “I’ll help you finish your precious life’s work, but you and Miss Valentine must leave. Now. Go back to Paris. And don’t tarry. Time is of the essence.”

  “While we’re at it,” Gads said. “The rest of you should likewise decamp.”

  “I’m not leaving until I get what’s owed to me,” said the ex-wife, sniffling up to the duke. “And you know exactly what that is.”

  “Stop it!” Mrs. Spencer yelled, clonking the cane again, this time right beside the ex-wife’s foot, which caused her to pop a half meter off the ground.

  The duke’s former wife was already besieged by a nervous disorder and all that pounding and shrieking only compounded the problem.

  “Stop it right now!” Mrs. Spencer said. “Everybody stop grabbing at the people and things in this house!”

  She reached for her holster. Like a receding tide, everyone in the room stepped back in chorus. Everyone, that is, except for Win and Pru. They were used to this show and knew Mrs. Spencer was, for the most part, all mouth and no trousers. And sometimes the no-trouser situation was literal to boot. Also, they recognized that of the people in that room they had the least chance of getting shot.

  “You.” Mrs. Spencer pointed at Pru with the gun. “You, you, and you.” Win, Gads, and Murray. “You stay here.”

  “I thought you wanted us to go to Paris?” Win said.

  “To you remaining cretins,” she went on, ignoring Win as she loved to do. “Find a place to stay. The Banbury Inn. The Chacombe Motor Hotel. In the bushes, for all I care. Return at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll sort out everything then. My attorney Gads will supervise the proceedings.”

  “I’m not leaving,” the ex-wife said again. “I’m not setting foot off this property until I take possession of my rightful assets.”

  “Which are a subset of my rightful assets,” the duke reminded her.

  “What assets are you people talking about!” Pru said with uncharacteristic gusto.

  Usually, with folks like these, she was content to remain in the background, especially if possible deportation was in the offing.

  “Do you people have eyeballs?” Pru asked. “Look around! This place is a dump! No offense, Mrs. Spencer.”

  “I’m very offended but am rather enjoying this, so carry on.”

  “Don’t you people live in Blenheim? With fountains and grottos?”

  “As if anyone cares about this crap house,” the ex-wife said. “We’re here for the art.”

  “Art?” Pru said. “What art?”

  “You tell her, Peter,” she said to a solicitor. “The art Gladys acquired after she became the duchess is ours. In other words, everything collected in the last forty years.”

  “Yes. Well. That’s an argument to make,” this Peter said and then, remembering his audience, added, “and it shan’t be too challenging to prove!”

  “These people have the ridiculous notion that I’m sequestering priceless art,” Mrs. Spencer said.

  “Don’t let them search your home,” Pru said, at once thinking of the Boldini as well as the Monets and everything else Win saw when he first came through the property. “They have no right. Gads, tell her. She’s not obligated…”

  “Sweet girl, it’s fine,” Mrs. Spencer said, smiling prettily. This action was somehow more threatening than if she’d drawn a gun. “They are free to snoop about until their snaky hearts are content. They won’t find a thing.”

  Mrs. Spencer gave a wink and that’s when Pru remembered the crates in Paris, piled up in the spare bedroom. No wonder she needed the cane. The old broad was no doubt quite sore from moving things about. Pru smiled in admiration. Mrs. Spencer knew what she was doing. She almost always did.

  “Tom will be pleased to show you out,” Mrs. Spencer said, brandishing her weapon once more. “Don’t stall! Unless you want to be shot in the knees!”

  After much squalling, the assemblage of nimrods and mutton heads collected itself. Win and Pru watched as Tom frog-marched the crew outside. Gads waved farewell and slammed the door behind them.

  “Well, old buddy,” he said and turned toward his friend. “You’re looking positively adequate, which is an upgrade from the last time I saw you.”

  “Thanks, ya bastard,” Win said, eyes sparking. “You always make a guy feel like a million quid. Which is funny since you wouldn’t know a thousand quid if it bit you in the arse.”

  “Wait until you see my bill for these shenanigans. We’ll keep the tourists out of Blenheim yet. Laurel,” Gads said and gave her a quick hug. “Or Pru. Or whatever my half-witted friend calls you. I’m chuffed to meet you, despite your wretched taste in men. Shall I take your luggage upstairs?”

  “They need to get out of here!” Mrs. Spencer said. “Posthaste!”

  “All right, all right. But we have some matters to discuss first. Come, let’s conference in the library. Lady Marlborough tells me you two are sneaky little bookworms. How appropriate. I’ve brought you one helluva read.”

  Seventy-six

  THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF

  HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH

  GLADYS DEACON SPENCER-CHURCHILL

  I, Gladys Deacon Spencer-Churchill, an adult residing at 4 Banbury Road, Banbury, Oxfordshire, England, being of sound mind and marginally serviceable body, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.

  1. I revoke all wills and codicils previously made by me.

  2. I appoint my stepgrandson Lord George William Colin Spencer-Churchill, known colloquially as “Gads” for some inexplicable reason, as the executor and trustee of this will (hereafter referred to as “my Trustee”).

  3. To each living direct descendant of my late husband Charles Richard John Spencer-Churchill, the ninth Duke of Marlborough, Earl of Sunderland, and Marquess of Blandford, I give the sum of ten thousand pounds, free of tax, but only to those descendants who have not yet reached the age of twenty-five at the time of my death.

  4. To my longtime handyman Tomasz Kosinski I bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, free of tax.

  5. To Laurel Innamorati I bequeath the primary residence at 4 Banbury Road (hereafter referred to as the “Primary Residence”) located in Oxfordshire, England, as well as all objects and personal effects remaining therein, including but not limited to my collection of literature. This Primary Residence is circled in red on the map provided in Appendix A to this will.

  6. To Jerome Casper Augustine Seton, Earl of Winton, I
bequeath the land surrounding the Primary Residence and all ancillary buildings, barns, outhouses, artist studios, and other structures not considered the Primary Residence. This parcel is outlined in green on the map provided in Appendix A to this will.

  7. To Laurel Innamorati and Jerome Casper Augustine Seton, Earl of Winton, I bequeath the thirty-three Impressionist and other paintings (the “Collection”) enumerated in Appendix B to this will, subject to the stipulations outlined in clause 8. All thirty-three pieces of the Collection are currently housed at Lord Winton’s residence at 24 Quai de Béthune, Paris, France. Miss Innamorati and Lord Winton shall give to Mr. Kosinski one painting of his choosing as repayment for his assistance in transporting the Collection to Lord Winton’s residence.

  8. Of the remaining thirty-two pieces in the Collection, Miss Innamorati and Lord Winton shall select exactly one dozen to bequeath to a museum or other nonprofit entity. There shall be no territorial, religious, or other restrictions as to the recipient of these donation(s). Miss Innamorati and Lord Winton shall then divvy up, at ten apiece, the remaining twenty pieces of the Collection as they see fit. If there is a dispute between parties as to which paintings shall be donated or to which organization(s), or the divvying amongst parties, my Trustee has the final say.

  9. Should either Miss Innamorati or Lord Winton not survive me by thirty days, his or her share shall be distributed to his or her then-surviving children in equal shares. If the deceased has no surviving children, his or her share shall be distributed to the other beneficiary.

  10. To the Marlborough family I bequeath the portrait of me as rendered by Giovanni Boldini, which shall be hung in the grand Saloon at Blenheim Palace so that the Marlborough family and the tourists who pay its bills will be permitted to gaze upon my face daily.

  11. Subject to the payment of my funeral and testamentary expenses and the legacies outlined in clauses 3 through 10 above, I give my residuary estate to the Oxfordshire Spaniel Sanctuary.

  12. I wish to be buried after a Roman Catholic service. During the service, the hymn “How Great Thou Art” shall be sung. I request a reception following in the grand Saloon at Blenheim Palace.

  To those reading this will, or benefiting from the will, or inspecting it for one’s own prurient interests, I shall close with a quote from my dear, departed friend Marcel Proust.

  “Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”

  Be happy. Love one another. Chase joy. There is so little of it to go around.

  Her Grace the Duchess of Marlborough

  Gladys Deacon Spencer-Churchill

  SELF-PROVING AFFIDAVIT

  The instrument, consisting of this and two (2) typewritten pages was signed and acknowledged by Testator as her Last Will and Testament in our presence, and we, at her request, and in her presence, and in the presence of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses.

  We, the undersigned Testator and witnesses declare:

  1. That the Testator executed this instrument as her Will;

  2. That in the presence of witnesses, the Testator signed or acknowledged her signature already made;

  3. That the Testator executed the Will as a free and voluntary act for the purposes expressed in it;

  4. That each of the witnesses, in the presence of the Testator and of each other, signed the Will as witness;

  5. That the Testator was of sound mind; and

  6. That the Testator was at the time eighteen (18) or more years of age.

  All of which is attested to this 5th day of March 1973.

  HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH

  GLADYS DEACON SPENCER-CHURCHILL, Testator

  TOMASZ KOSINSKI, Witness

  GEORGE WILLIAM COLIN SPENCER-CHURCHILL, Witness

  Seventy-seven

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS

  PARIS

  NOVEMBER 2001

  “So they left right after reading the will?” Annie asked as Jamie pulled a long glass dish from the oven.

  Meat on the bottom, mashed potatoes on the top: Parisian cooking wasn’t so snobby. Or maybe Jamie shared her pedestrian tastes. He was the untitled brother, Annie thought with a smirk.

  “Yes’m, that’s when they left,” Jamie said and refilled her wineglass. “They read the will and then Mrs. Spencer kicked them out in the middle of the night.”

  “Guess they didn’t need to borrow your luggage after all. So, why was Mrs. Spencer trying to get rid of them so urgently?”

  “She had her reasons.”

  “Which were?”

  “My dear, we’ve not approached that part of the story.”

  “You’re as bad as your brother,” Annie groused.

  “An insult, but I won’t protest,” Jamie said with a grin. “For now, let’s just say Mrs. Spencer had great foresight. She understood Win and she understood your mum.”

  “Well, that makes one of us. I barely recognize her from the story. It’s like she left every ounce of romance and whimsy back at the Grange. Or in Paris.”

  “It was the time,” Jamie said. “The era. Things were more fluid then, the people more adventurous, even those who weren’t by nature. It’s why your mum absconded to Paris with my brother, threat of immigration charges and all. She wasn’t convinced Gads could keep Mrs. Spencer out of the loony bin, but at least a visa violation and its ensuing jail time would impress her old Berkeley chums, or so she joked.”

  “It’s hard to picture my mom at Berkeley. To me she’s all headbands, collared shirts, and Wellesley.”

  “People change. Or they try to anyway.”

  “So everything was in the apartment?” Annie said, her stomach grumbling.

  When, exactly, did Jamie plan to serve the food?

  “The entire collection was in your house?” she asked.

  “Was it ever,” Jamie said and blew back his hair. “You would not believe the scene. Somehow the old bird crammed eight large crates of artwork into that bedroom. Tom was obviously involved. How or when, though, we never knew. I was working and Laurel and Win were so inexorably … how do I phrase this?”

  “In love? Wrapped up with each other? Heads lodged up their asses?”

  “Yes! Ha!” Jamie snapped his fingers. “The last one. Now you’re getting it.”

  He pulled a spatula from the drawer.

  “What happened to the artwork?” Annie asked.

  “It stayed in my damned flat for six years. My then-fiancée-now-wife thought I was some kind of nutter when she accidentally stumbled upon it.” Jamie cleared his throat. “‘Yes, dear, just holding on to priceless art for a duchess until she finally kicks it! And then it’s into the hands of my wastrel of a brother and the peculiar American fairy-nymph he adores.’ It’s a wonder she didn’t ditch me on the spot.”

  “And after Mrs. Spencer died? Did Win—Gus—and my mom take possession of their requisite pieces?”

  Annie thought of their farm in Virginia and its uninspired décor, the excessively ordinary art hanging on the walls. She couldn’t recall a single piece that didn’t feature a horse jumping over something.

  “Yes, they did,” Jamie said. “The two nabbed their chosen pieces, donated the rest, and proceeded on their not-so-merry ways.”

  “I wonder which ones my mom chose, and where they went. They’re definitely not in our house.”

  “You’d have to ask her,” he said with a shrug. “According to Gads, he ended up needing to invoke the ‘Trustee has the final say’ clause.”

  “They argued?” Annie crinkled her face. “Over art? That does not sound like my mother.”

  That did not sound like Win either, she nearly added.

  “Quite the opposite,” Jamie said. “They wouldn’t decide.” He pulled a salad bowl from the cabinet. “So Gads picked for them. A real pain in the backside, those two. Do you like anchovies?”

  “No, thanks,” Annie said, fiddling with a napkin.

  Jamie placed the sal
ad tongs on a paper towel and paused. He glared into the bowl as if trying to find meaning in the lettuce.

  “I have to ask,” he said. “Is your mum still married?”

  “My mom? God no. She has been extremely unmarried for my entire life. It’s absurd for me to even imagine her as anyone’s bride.”

  “So she didn’t stay with your father?”

  “I’ve never even met the guy. And he’s dead now. Apparently.”

  Jamie blanched.

  “He is?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. It’s not why the marriage ended, though she left him when she was pregnant with me. But, like I said, he’s dead now.”

  “Which was…?”

  “Which was what?”

  “When were you born?” Jamie asked and set two salad plates on the table.

  “Nineteen seventy-nine,” Annie said.

  “Interesting.”

  “Why is that interesting?”

  She glanced up. Jamie looked apprehensive, as though she’d caught him committing a minor crime.

  “Oh. Well,” he stuttered, and retrieved two more plates. “It’s hard to explain. And it’s not really my place…”

  All of a sudden they heard the click of a key in a hundred-year-old lock, followed by the creak of the door.

  “Do you…” Annie started. “Guests? Your wife?”

  “Well, Miss Haley,” Jamie said, and handed her a blue and white dish piled high with meat. “Here’s your hachis Parmentier. And that, I believe, is the sound of my brother.”

  Seventy-eight

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS

  PARIS

  NOVEMBER 2001

  Gus took one glimpse of Annie and looped back out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the front door.

  “Lord Winton!” Jamie yelled. “Get your arse back in here! Is that any way to treat a lady?”

  Jamie disappeared, the clunk of his footsteps echoing down the hall.

  Annie braced herself, heart thumping at a million beats per minute as sweat beaded along her hairline. If Jamie didn’t catch his brother, it was a-okay by her. Annie didn’t know what she could possibly say to the man.