“No one calls me—”
“Anyway, Aunt Lavinia spotted Archie here and fell into a swoon. Quite elegantly done, too,” she said approvingly.
“Thank you. I thought I’d seen a ghost but, of course, now that I really look at this young man, whoever he is . . .” A sudden, unwelcome thought occurred to her and she motioned Lucy closer. “We’ve paid the phone bill this month, haven’t we?”
“Yes, dear. It’s quite all right. I’m not sure what Archie is doing here but doubtless given adequate time he will inform us.” She turned her head and gazed at him encouragingly.
“I have been trying to do so.”
She didn’t seem to take offense at his tone. She looked quite entertained, her hazel eyes sparkling and a smile threatening.
“No one told me as we was expecting company this afternoon.” A red-haired, teenaged girl with magnificently protruding ears had at some point joined their number. “Unless . . . You from the phone company?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, whoever you be, you’re dripping all over the carpet which means I’ll be on me knees sponging it all up, doesn’t it?”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry don’t—”
“Polly,” Bernice admonished. “Mr. Grant is our guest.”
“Guest? Should I make some sandwiches?” The prospect appeared to delight her.
“Well, dear,” Bernice said. “I’m not sure that would—”
“That would be lovely,” Lavinia announced, struggling into an upright position.
“And I’ll bring tea, too. Back in a jiff,” the girl promised and bustled back out of the room.
“What is a ‘jiff’?” he asked, intrigued. He’d picked up a bit of slang here and there from his students, and found their variations on what was often ancient argot fascinating. Sometimes he wondered why he studied civilizations in far-off countries when there was such a vast wealth of cultural curiosities amongst his own countrymen.
“Jiff,” Lucy repeated as though doing so would stir his knowledge of the word. It didn’t. “You know, make it snappy, shake a leg, get cracking.” She grinned at his befuddlement. “Hurry.”
“Ah!” Enlightenment dawned. “Hurry.”
“Exactly.”
“Enough is enough. Who are you, young man? And what are you doing here?” Bernice, who did not share their interest in this linguistic curiosity, demanded.
“Yes, what are you doing here, Archie?” Lucy asked.
“I have come,” he said very carefully, very patiently, “at the behest of my grandfather, Lord Barton. He has asked me to—”
“Your grandfather! Of course!” the woman named Lavinia exclaimed. “How could you be anyone else? You look the very image of him.”
The girl’s face lit with comprehension. “Aha! You said ‘John’ not ‘Tom.’ ”
“So you are what John Barton looked like,” the dumpling-like lady exclaimed. “Well, small wonder Lavini—”
“Bernice.” At Lavinia’s mortified utterance, the other woman fell silent.
Lavinia cleared her throat. “You were saying, young man?”
Based on admittedly short experience, he figured he had between five and eight seconds before something else siderailed the gathered company’s attention. Taking the metaphorical bull by the horns, he stepped forward and handed Lavinia the letter of introduction his grandfather had sent with him.
“This will explain.”
Lavinia looked about. “Do we have a letter opener around somewhere?”
“Yes,” Lucy said and, taking the envelope, ripped off the top of it, blew into the pocket, and withdrew the folded sheets from inside along with an additional smaller envelope addressed to Bernard DuPaul, Junior. “Here.”
Lavinia took the sheet and opened it, quickly reading over his grandfather’s cribbed scrawl. Emotions rippled across her countenance: anticipation, tenderness, surprise, disappointment, and finally uncertainty.
“What does it say?” the girl prompted.
“He says he is unable to make the trip to France.” She looked up, her eyes shadowed with worry. “Is he very ill?”
“Not in the least,” Ptolemy reassured her. “He has had a recurrence of gout in his foot and cannot tolerate any weight on it.”
“That’s all?” Lucy said, clearly surprised, and not in a good way.
“Lucy!”
“I’m sorry. But you have to admit it’s rather disappointing. After fifty years he writes to tell you he has gout? I should write back and tell him to go—”
“No, of course, that’s not all he said,” Lavinia broke in, her gaze still on the letter. “He writes that he is relinquishing his portion of the rubies. He says he hasn’t any need of them and instead wants me to have his share.”
“He does?” Lucy exclaimed, her face clearing. “Well, I call that awfully spiffing of the old boy!”
“Lucy!” Lavinia scolded, but in a way that told Ptolemy she had uttered the girl’s name in just such a tone many, many times before and anticipated having to do so many, many more times in the future.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Lavinia.” She didn’t look in the least sorry. She looked unrepentantly winsome.
But Lavinia was not attending. “I’m not sure we ought to accept such generosity.”
“Oh, yes, you ought,” Lucy said without hesitation. “And at once, before he changes his mind.” She swung toward Ptolemy. “Is he likely to change his mind, do you think? I mean, is there any chance of his forgetting he made the offer? He isn’t gone off batty or something, is he?”
“Lucy,” Bernice said severely. “I am sure I do not know what that term means but I do know that I have repeatedly asked you not to use street argot.”
“Sorry,” she said yet again and then turned to him. “He isn’t, is he?”
“Not at all. He is in complete possession of his faculties. And finances.”
She turned to her aunt. “Well, there you have it. He doesn’t need it, he wants you to have it, and I am sure it would be selfish to disappoint the old darling by refusing.”
He started. The old darling? To his knowledge no one had ever been moved to call his grandfather an “old darling.”
“That is facile reasoning,” Lavinia said.
“So it is,” Lucy admitted. “But true, nonetheless.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“I think Lucy is right,” Bernice suddenly announced.
Lucy’s head snapped around, apparently unused to support from this particular corner. “You do?”
“Yes. It only makes sense. If Lord Barton doesn’t want the rubies, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have them. Better us than . . . who all is left of those who were at Patnimba did you say, Lucy?”
“Bento Oliveria and Luis Silva, the Portuguese lads.”
“Just so. If Lord Barton had wanted his share split up evenly, he needn’t have written otherwise. I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“All right,” Lavinia allowed after a long moment’s consideration, during which both Bernice and Lucy appeared to be holding their breath. They released it in unison. “But at least we won’t accept the offer of his grandson.”
“Lord Barton is offering us his grandson?” Lucy exclaimed, mischief sparking in her eyes. “Well, that is too generous. Because however will we afford to feed him? I mean, look at him! He has to be at least six feet tall. Not to mention how much keeping him decently clad is likely to set us back—”
“Lucy.”
“Sorry.”
He was beginning to develop an unexpected, and unwanted, and, he was sure, completely unnecessary sympathy for the girl. She only meant to have a spot of fun. Though highly inappropriate at the moment, he was certain she didn’t mean any harm by it.
“What I meant,” Lavinia said in crushing tones, “is that Lord Barton has sent his grandson to escort us to Saint-Girons. While thoughtful, such a gesture is quite unnecessary.”
“It is?” Ptolemy
asked in spite of himself.
He’d never considered his grandfather’s offer might be refused. He’d assumed the elderly woman would gratefully accept his escort and had reconciled himself to shepherding his grandfather’s old siegemate, if one could call her that, across France. He had even convinced Cornelia that the closeted environs of a train car would be the perfect place to prepare for his interview with Lord Blidderphenk.
He hadn’t bothered to mention that he also figured that while the authorities cleared up whatever paper was necessary to divide up the rubies he could hie himself off the short distance to Les Eyzies and have a look-in on some recently discovered cave paintings there. Then he’d escort Lavinia Litton back. All of which was to be completed within the course of a week or so. Possibly less.
He’d planned it all very neatly. Except now it appeared all his planning had been unnecessary and he found himself unaccountably disappointed.
“Yes,” Lavinia said. “Our niece has everything well in hand. She has already made the necessary travel arrangements.”
He was still trying to work through why he wasn’t pleased, or at least mildly relieved. Now he’d be able to attend Vice-Chancellor Litchfield’s yearly reception for the incoming professors.
His reaction suddenly made sense.
He’d spent nearly his entire professional career in the field, far preferring it to the classroom and far, far preferring it to the drawing room. Once again, the prospect of spending a whole evening amongst insecure academics jockeying for position while Cornelia introduced him to “important men” loomed before him. Small wonder he was disappointed. It had nothing to do with not being able to provide a service for his grandfather or these elderly ladies.
Or the girl.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Lavinia said. “Lucy is quite extraordinarily capable.”
He looked at the admirably capable Lucy. She avoided his eye, remaining mute. Even on such a short acquaintance, he recognized this as an inauspicious sign.
“You’ve traveled extensively, have you, Miss Eastlake?”
“Some. Yes.”
“And doubtless you speak French?”
“Doubtless.”
“Fluently.”
“Hmm.”
“She had French lessons in town twice weekly from the age of eleven until she was fifteen,” Bernice said proudly. “She made the arrangements with the local tailor’s French wife, Madame de Barge, herself. As I said, she’s quite competent. Always has been.”
Something was amiss but he couldn’t quite say what it was. Something about Lucy, er, Miss Eastlake’s expression was shouting at him as loudly as if she’d spoken. He just couldn’t make out what it was saying . . . And then he had it: she didn’t speak French. He would have staked his reputation on it.
But he could hardly make such an accusation. Besides which for some reason this minor deception regarding the quite possibly fictional Madame de Barge was important to her—that, too, was clear to him in the same mysterious but indisputable way. He couldn’t expose her.
Lucy cleared her throat. “Ahem. You know, perhaps we should consider accepting Lord Barton’s offer. I mean, if he felt strongly that Archie here ought to accompany us—”
“Absolutely not,” Lavinia declared proudly, her chin high and her color higher. “We have gotten along very well without Lord Barton’s help until now and we shall continue to do so. I am sure Mr. Grant has better ways to spend his time than escorting three strangers across France.”
Of course he did. “Not at all. It would be my pleasure.”
“Such nice manners. But no. Thank your grandfather and”—Lavinia glanced away and the pink bloomed even brighter in her sunken cheeks,—“and give him my regards.”
It was a clearly a dismissal. So why did he hesitate? He glanced at Lucy. She was looking away from him. Forcefully away.
He couldn’t very well foist himself on them. With a murmured “good day,” he took his leave, exiting the house with the distinct sensation that he was doing someone a monumental disservice—and the very odd notion that that someone was very possibly himself.
“I tried. I swear it. But they were resolved.” Ptolemy raked his hand through his hair and muttered something under his breath as Lord Barton watched in amazement—and no small amount of relief—as his favorite grandson continued to wear a path in his Oriental rug.
Amongst the entire dismal, earnest, and pedantic brood of Grants, of which his daughter was not only the matriarch but chief pedant, Ptolemy—and why in the name of all that was holy would his daughter have clamped such a ridiculous moniker on the poor boy? Why not Jim? Or Tom?—was the only interesting one.
In Ptolemy, Lord Barton saw vestiges of his younger self, someone wary of passion and impulsiveness, having been indoctrinated into the belief that both inevitably led to a man’s ruin. Yet, despite Ptolemy’s dutiful efforts to eradicate these undesirable traits, he kept evincing disturbing symptoms of both. Disturbing to his parents, that is. For example, early on Ptolemy had politely but categorically disregarded their insistence that he pursue a purely academic career and instead followed his passion for obscure cultures out into the world.
Though he didn’t pretend to understand his grandson’s predilection, Lord Barton was happy he had one, and equally pleased that Ptolemy had often disappeared for months on end doing research in far-off corners of the globe, often without informing anyone of his whereabouts. Lord Barton wasn’t sure this was the result of absentmindedness or simply a brilliant strategy. Certainly he’d have liked his well-intentioned, humorless, and obstinately dutiful daughter to lose his own address from time to time.
Yes, he’d had high hopes for Ptolemy.
Had.
But then Cornelia Litchfield had come along.
Ptolemy had introduced them a year ago. Within five minutes Lord Barton had taken Miss Litchfield’s measure: a natural-born manager. Within ten, he’d learned everything else he needed to know to realize the danger she represented to his grandson.
She’d spent her youth burnishing her illustrious widowed father’s reputation and at the same time polishing her own skills as hostess and adviser. Then, upon reaching her midtwenties, perhaps out of some vague reaction to society’s assumption that all women ought to have families but more likely because she realized her current project had reached its zenith, she’d decided to cast her nets into new water. And it was there that she’d landed Ptolemy.
In Lord Barton’s handsome, brilliant, oblivious grandson, she’d detected someone worthy of her gifts, someone whose career she could bolster, whose star she could lift higher.
Lord Barton did not doubt Miss Litchfield was a worthy young woman and that she sincerely wanted the best for Ptolemy. The problem was she had no imagination and therefore could not conceive of anything being best for Ptolemy that wasn’t best for her.
But Lord Barton could. Rather a lot, actually.
Even then, had Lord Barton divined any real attachment between Ptolemy and Cornelia he could have been satisfied. He was not so narrow-minded as to believe that everyone loved with the same depth of passion and faithfulness as he had. But he could not glean any bit of tenderness or pleasure or delight in their feelings for one another.
Indeed, Lord Barton had the distinct impression that Ptolemy had not so much fallen in love with Cornelia Eastlake as fallen into the habit of her. And now, unless he missed his guess, his grandson wasn’t exactly sure how, or even if, he should extract himself from the situation. Ptolemy could be excruciatingly and wrongheadedly honorable.
Much like he’d been at that age.
And there was nothing Lord Barton could do except despair.
Yet now, watching Ptolemy dishevel his hair with another careless, exasperated gesture, he felt the distinct stirring of hope. Lord Barton wasn’t sure how, but his simple request that Ptolemy escort Lavinia Litton through France had stirred a fire in the lad that had been lying dormant far too lo
ng.
“And she doesn’t speak French. I’d stake my reputation on it,” Ptolemy suddenly said.
“Miss Litton? I should think she has some gentrified schoolroom French. True, she might be a bit rusty but—”
“Not Miss Litton,” Ptolemy said in a tone that suggested Lord Barton hadn’t been listening. “Her. The niece. Miss Eastlake.”
Lord Barton folded his hands in his lap. “Pray, excuse my dull-wittedness. Age, I suspect, has robbed me of my ability to read minds.”
This comment brokered nary a glance, confounding Lord Barton even more. Generally speaking Ptolemy was quick to pick up on his grandfather’s sarcasm. Instead, he stood scowling out the window.
Lord Barton tried again. “Let me see if I have this right. The Litton sisters have a niece, a Miss Eastlake, who does not speak French.”
“Not a girl. The girl. Didn’t I tell you this?”
“The girl?”
“Yes, yes.” Ptolemy crossed the room and sank down on his haunches in front of Lord Barton’s chair. “The girl, Grandfather. The girl from the Savoy. The one who stole my pen. She’s Lavinia Litton’s great-niece.”
All the pieces slipped into place as neatly as tumblers turning in a well-oiled lock. Somehow Lord Barton managed not to grin. “Oh. That girl.”
“Yes.” Ptolemy leapt to his feet and began pacing again. “Exactly. That girl. And she does not speak French and yet her two elderly relatives are trusting this girl, this inexperienced, impetuous, green girl, to see them safely across France.”
“Preposterous.”
Ptolemy swung around, snapping his fingers and pointing at Lord Barton as if he were a student in his classroom who’d just given the right answer to a difficult question. “That’s it! It’s preposterous. Absurd.”
Of course, it wasn’t really. France was hardly the wilds of Borneo. And as Miss Eastlake had enough savvy to turn his brilliant grandson’s world upside down in the course of one short evening, she might not be as inexperienced or green as Ptolemy believed. Indeed, the fact that she’d been singing from a perch atop the Savoy’s bar strongly suggested otherwise. But far be it from Lord Barton to point this out.
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