by Leslie Meier
“If you want a ride back, meet me here at three,” Flora said.
“Three it is. See you then,” said Lucy, beginning the process of extricating herself from the tiny car. Then the two friends stood on the sidewalk and watched as Flora zoomed off.
“I wonder . . .” began Lucy.
“She’s a student, Lucy,” said Sue. “She has to meet her tutor. That’s how they do it here. More like independent study when we were in college.”
“Funny sort of tutorial,” insisted Lucy. “There was no sign of a book or a notebook or a laptop in that car. And why does a little rich girl like Flora buy her clothes at a secondhand shop?”
“Vintage is all the rage with young people,” said Sue. “Give it up, Lucy. You’re not Inspector Morse. I don’t know about you, but I can’t say I’m very excited about this Guy Fawkes.” She gave Lucy a serious look. “You may not know this, Lucy, but he was a very bad sort. He tried to blow up Parliament.”
“I do know,” said Lucy. “They remember him with bonfires every fifth of November on Guy Fawkes Day.”
“Well,” sniffed Sue, “there’s no accounting for tastes. As for that Alfred Jewel, it’s nothing at all you could wear. I saw a photo and it’s really a very ugly lumpish sort of thing.”
“I take it you don’t want to visit the museum,” said Lucy.
“No, and I don’t care about the musty old pub either. Eagles and children don’t go together very well.” She looked longingly at a sign pointing to the Covered Market. “I want to go shopping.”
“Okay,” agreed Lucy. “On one condition. We visit the Botanic Garden.”
“It seems rather far to walk,” began Sue, only to be silenced with a look from Lucy. “Okay. Okay.”
“Good,” said Lucy, who really didn’t mind skipping the museum. She was eager to find something to wear to the formal dinner and was grateful for Flora’s advice.
Secondhand Rose was just where Flora had said it was, and Lucy found an affordable long black skirt and a creamy lace top that Sue pronounced acceptable.
After visiting most of the shops, which offered designs aimed at college-aged girls, even Sue admitted defeat. She was able to satisfy her need to spend at a Boots drugstore, where she found a tempting array of bath and beauty products not available in the US, so the morning was not a complete loss for her.
They grabbed a quick lunch at a noisy pub mainly patronized by students, where Lucy ordered a sandwich and Sue opted for a liquid lunch of Guinness stout.
“It’s only got ninety calories and it’s awfully good for you,” she insisted, but Lucy wasn’t convinced.
Thus fortified, they made their way toward the Magdalen Bridge and the Botanic Garden, which Lucy found extremely familiar.
“I swear, half of those Morse episodes are filmed here,” she said as they strolled along a wide path that ran along the river. Eventually finding a bench, they sat down and took in the busy scene on the Cherwell River filled with boaters floating along in punts they’d rented from the boat hire on the other side of the Magdalen Bridge.
The sun was warm and they were both feeling tired after their long walk. It was quite delightful to simply sit and rest and soak up the sunshine. They dozed off.
Lucy woke with a start. Checking her watch, she found it was twenty to three. “Sue, Sue, wake up!” she cried, jumping to her feet.
“Wha’, wha’? I wasn’t sleeping,” protested Sue.
“Never mind. We have to go. It’s almost three.”
“Flora will wait for us,” said Sue, gathering her things together and strolling in the direction of the garden’s gift shop.
“I’m not sure she will. She might think we’ve made other plans,” said Lucy, more to herself than Sue.
Inside the shop, Lucy confronted the array of tempting garden merchandise and paused to examine a pair of rose gloves said to be thorn-proof.
Suddenly, it was Sue who was in a hurry. “Come, come, Lucy. You can get those at home, you know.”
Lucy reluctantly replaced the gloves. “I know.”
They exited the garden together, and Lucy insisted on taking a quick look at the famous Magdalen Bridge, which irritated Sue.
“I don’t want to have to hire a taxi or rent a car to get back,” she said.
“Look, it’s not that far to the tower,” said Lucy. “We have to cross the road anyway so we might as well do it here.”
The road narrowed at the bridge, which was very much in use and carried a constant stream of traffic. They were able to dart between the slowed vehicles without too much trouble. Then they took a quick peek at the river below where people were lined up and waiting to rent punts. Turning around, they headed back up the busy High Street toward the agreed upon meeting place at the tower. Lucy looked back across the bridge for one last view of the river. It was then that she caught a glimpse of Flora on the opposite side of the bridge, standing and staring down at the river water below.
Something in the way she was standing and the way her attention was so fixed on the river worried Lucy. It was hard to believe the young woman who looked like a homeless person, with her shoulder blades clearly delineated beneath her oversized shirt and her unkempt hair, was a member of one of England’s most aristocratic families. “Look!” she told Sue, pointing through the traffic toward Flora. “We have to get over there.”
“Hold on, Lucy,” cautioned Sue. “We don’t want to embarrass her.”
“She might do something . . . desperate,” said Lucy, spotting a break in the traffic and dashing recklessly back across the roadway, getting a chorus of honks from angry drivers.
By the time she reached the sidewalk, she discovered Flora had moved on and was already some distance ahead of her, making her way toward the tower with her loose clothing flapping about her skeletal frame. Lucy continued along on the left side of the street, with Sue on the other, until she was able to safely cross over once again and join her.
“That was foolish, Lucy,” chided Sue. “You could have been killed.”
“There was just something in the way she was standing,” said Lucy. “It scared me. I was afraid she’d jump or something.”
Sue took her hand and squeezed it. “I know. I thought the same thing.”
“She knew that boy—the one who died. I’m sure of it,” said Lucy.
“Do you think she’s doing drugs?” asked Sue, thinking aloud. “It would explain a lot.”
“In addition to not eating. She’s definitely a troubled soul.”
“Poor Poppy is worried about her.”
“Maybe instead of worrying, she ought to do something,” suggested Lucy.
“I’m sure she tries,” said Sue. “It must be a terribly difficult situation.”
They were both relieved when they reached the tower and saw Flora waiting for them. She greeted them with a big smile and politely asked if they’d enjoyed their day in town then led them through narrow, winding streets to the parking lot where she’d left the Mini. Once they were in the car, however, she fell silent and seemed preoccupied with her thoughts, actually sailing through a red light.
“Watch out!” exclaimed Sue as they swerved around an approaching van and nearly collided with a bicyclist who twisted her front wheel sharply, causing her bike to tip over. She saved herself by hopping along on one foot until she was able to right her bike and continue on her way while raising a middle finger and shaking it at Flora.
“You could have killed that poor girl,” said Lucy, impressed by the cyclist’s coordination.
“If I had, they’d probably give me a medal,” declared Flora angrily. “Everyone agrees these cyclists are a menace. They’re always knocking over pedestrians.”
Neither Lucy nor Sue responded and they made the return drive in an uncomfortable silence. Lucy wondered if Flora’s outburst was due to embarrassment, but when she caught a glimpse of her expression in the rearview mirror she thought Flora looked terribly sad. When they finally arrived at the manor, Flora di
dn’t bother to park the Mini in the garage but left it in the middle of the stable yard. She hopped out and ran into one of the connected outbuildings, abandoning them without a word.
“Well, that was interesting,” said Lucy as they gathered their bags and got out of the car.
“You have to admit she had a point about those cyclists. We almost got run down a few times today.”
“I know,” agreed Lucy, “but that cyclist had the right-of-way and Flora wasn’t paying attention. That girl’s got something on her mind, and it’s not good.”
When they went inside, Sally told them they were just in time for the obligatory afternoon tea with Aunt Millicent and sent them upstairs to the family’s private living room. Lucy had expected Aunt Millicent to be a tall and forbidding Maggie Smith type, so she was surprised when they joined Perry and Poppy in the attractively furnished room and were introduced to a very short, very stout woman whose georgette dress smelled of moth balls. Her black, frizzy hair was obviously dyed and was thinning on top. Her Florentine gold necklace was much too tight for her plump neck.
“Since you’re Americans, you won’t know the proper way to address me, so I better tell you,” she said, helping herself to a piece of cake from the plate Perry was passing around. “I’m Lady Wickham, but,” she added, as if conferring a special privilege, “you may call me Your Ladyship.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Wickham,” said Sue, accepting a cup of tea from Poppy.
“I hope you had a pleasant journey,” said Lucy, taking a seat among the plump pillows scattered on a Chesterfield sofa. “Did you come far?”
“Not far, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant,” said Lady Wickham. “Everyone drives so terribly fast these days.”
“Flora gave us a lovely tour of Oxford,” said Sue, sitting down next to Lucy.
“I hope you didn’t have to ride in that ridiculous Mini,” said Lady Wickham, raising her eyebrows.
“It was tons of fun,” said Lucy. “We had a fine day.”
“More cake, Aunt?” offered Perry.
“Oh, all right,” said Lady Wickham, taking a second piece. “Of course this walnut cake is nothing like it used to be when I was a girl. Then, we thought we’d died and gone to heaven if there was Fullers walnut cake for tea.”
“Fullers has been out of business for quite a while,” said Poppy.
“Times change, and not for the better, I find,” said Lady Wickham with a dismissive glance at the tea tray loaded with an abundant assortment of cakes, sandwiches, and scones, as well as Devonshire cream, butter, and various jams. “Take this marmalade, for instance. Store bought.” She sighed. “We always used to make our own with Lyle’s golden syrup.”
“I find Cooper’s does it better than I can,” said Perry.
“And why are you doing the cooking?” demanded Lady Wickham. “Can’t you afford a cook?”
“I enjoy it. It’s simple as that,” said Perry.
“And I suppose you enjoy accommodating your American guests in the servants’ quarters instead of proper guest rooms, and putting me in that dreadful Chinese torture chamber with writhing dragons climbing all over the walls.”
“Aunt,” began Poppy in a deliberately soothing tone, “you know that wallpaper is quite special. Art students come here to study it.”
“The countess’s bedroom is a feature of the house tour,” said Perry. “Our visitors expect to see it. That suite of furniture is quite remarkable.”
“You wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning with a crowd of people staring at you, would you?” asked Flora.
“Certainly not,” declared Lady Wickham, plucking a couple sandwiches from the tea tray. “If it were up to me, Moreton Manor would remain a private home, like my very own Fairleigh.”
“You’re very fortunate to be able to maintain Fairleigh,” said Perry. “We have to cope with roof repairs and death duties and all sorts of enormous expenses.”
“We consider ourselves fortunate to be able to keep Moreton from rack and ruin, and to share it with our visitors,” said Poppy, looking up as Winifred arrived, along with another woman. “And tonight we’re eating in the dining room. It will be quite like old times.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” began Winifred. “But Jane and I did want to have a word with you about the damaged painting.”
Lady Wickham pounced on this bit of information. “Damage? What painting?”
“The general,” said Perry. “He fell off the wall.”
“My goodness! How could that happen?”
“An accident, Aunt,” said Poppy. “Let me introduce Winifred Wynn our curator and her colleague Jane Sliptoe, who is here as a consultant from the National Gallery. She’s here to examine the damage and help us plan a course of action.”
“And since you’re here, would you care for some tea?” offered Perry.
“I would love a cup,” said Jane, who was dressed professionally in a crisp white shirt and black pantsuit. “Milk, no sugar.”
“Just a slice of lemon for me,” said Winifred.
Perry poured while the two women seated themselves.
Winifred accepted her cup, took a sip, and followed it with a deep breath, as if she were about to plunge into a deep pool. “Do you want the good news first or the bad?”
“Is the general done for?” asked Perry.
“No, no. The general can be fixed, and it won’t be too expensive, either. A bit of glue ought to do it.”
Poppy let out a great breath. “That is good news. What a relief.”
“So what is the bad news?” asked Perry.
“Well,” began Jane. “Winifred asked me to take a look around the gallery where you’re having the hat show. She was particularly interested in several Italian paintings attributed to Veronese and Titian.”
“Attributed?” asked Poppy suspiciously.
“Wrongly, I’m afraid,” said Jane. “They’re copies. The sort of thing a young nobleman would collect on a grand tour. Actually quite a good example of that sort of stuff. Very high quality . . .”
“But not originals,” said Poppy with a sigh.
“I took a look ’round the chapel, too,” said Winifred, setting her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “There’s a very good gold reliquary in there. I suspect it’s a Bonnan-otte and quite a nice one.”
“I could use it in the hat show,” exclaimed Perry. “It would go terribly well with that bishop’s miter.”
“Or we could sell it to pay for those, um, other repairs,” said Poppy.
“What repairs?” demanded Lady Wickham, her eyebrows shooting up.
“Oh dear. Just look at the time,” said Perry, pointing to his watch.
“Yes!” exclaimed Poppy. “It is getting late and we have to dress for dinner.”
That was the signal that afternoon tea was over. The others went their separate ways, but Lucy and Sue stayed to help Perry collect the cups and saucers and load them into the dishwasher before they went to their rooms to change into their finery for the formal dinner in the manor’s grand dining room.
* * *
In general, Lucy was skeptical of enterprises that required new clothes, but when she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she descended the magnificent staircase in the hall, she decided this was a lifestyle she could definitely get used to. She felt as if she were in a movie when she stepped into the salon she’d seen earlier on the tour with Maurice and accepted a glass of sherry from Dishy Geoff togged out in crisp white shirt and black jacket with tails. She paused for a moment, taking sips of sherry and admiring the spacious room, which felt rather like an enormous tent because the ceiling was draped with yards and yards of rich, red, paisley fabric. The parquet floor was dotted with Persian rugs and the furniture was largely French, with curved legs and plenty of gilding.
She looked for Sue, who had gone ahead, and found her standing in front of an embossed leather screen, talking with Perry. Poppy was helping her elderly aunt adjust her shawl, a
process that seemed to be hopelessly complicated, and Gerald was in a corner with the leggy blonde she’d seen at the folly. She was wearing a strapless red number that showed a great deal of bosom that rose and fell with every breath.
“Lucy, I don’t think you know Vickie Prior-Keyes,” said Flora, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her across the room. She was dressed head to toe in black, which made her look rather like Morticia Addams . . . if Morticia had been on a starvation diet. “Vickie is a buddy of mine from school.”
Gerald didn’t seem particularly pleased by the interruption and neither did Vickie.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” she said with an expression that belied her words. “Now, Flora, I’ve been telling your dad that heritage is a valuable tool for image makers, and you have heritage to spare.”
“What do you mean?” asked Quimby, who had joined the group and was clearly enthralled by Vickie’s décol-letage.
“Corporate sponsors, of course,” said Vickie.
“Corporate sponsors?” asked Poppy, taking her husband’s arm in a possessive way. “Like who?”
“Anyone, really. Take the tea you serve in the café. Whatever it is.”
“Twining’s, I believe,” said Poppy.
“Well, I would suggest approaching them to see if they will pay for the right to mention that in an ad—Twining’s, the tea served at Moreton Manor.”
“Rather weak tea, I think,” said Poppy with a chuckle. “Since they’ve got a royal warrant.”
“Well, perhaps that wasn’t the best example,” said Vickie, allowing her breasts to rise and fall rather dramatically. “It’s the idea of the thing. Ketchup or mustard or carpet cleaner—there are numerous possibilities.”
“In my day,” declared Lady Wickham from the throne-like chair where she was holding court with Maurice and Winifred, “commerce was never discussed at the dinner table.”
Maurice, ever the sycophant, was beaming with pleasure, apparently thrilled to be talking with a countess, but Winifred seemed to be looking for an escape route. It came in the form of a black man in a clerical collar, who was entering the room holding hands with a white woman.