He had brought her up to see it once after putting her through an over-complicated and very solemn oath of secrecy.
It’s always been mine, you see, he had explained to her. The only place in the world that’s completely mine. So you understand how momentous it is that I am sharing it with you.
I do, she said.
He had brought her up the steep, narrow steps to the trapdoor that allowed access to it, then tiptoed across the dusty floorboards, beckoning to her to do the same. Around them, steamer trunks and hatboxes were stacked to the roof-beams, old worn-out bureaus that were nevertheless too much part of the family history to discard were shoved into corners, and the entire mess was lit by a row of bare lightbulbs hanging from the apex of the roof.
Ronnie came to an armoire that must have dated back to the beginning of the previous century and carefully slid between it and the wall.
So much easier when I was young and spry, he said.
You’re a pathetic wreck at twenty-two, she agreed, turning sideways and following him.
A small space, maybe six feet by four, had been cleared in front of a dormer window, which lit the area nicely. A bookcase stood by it, filled with adventure novels. There was an easel with an unfinished water colour of a biplane, and a tiny table with a pair of stools on either side.
On the table was a small box.
Oh, dear, said Gwen when she saw it. Is that what I think it is?
Well, now that you’ve seen my innermost sanctum, I’m afraid I have no other choice, he said, picking it up and kneeling before her. Marry me, Gwen.
She hadn’t been up there since he had left the last time. She wondered if it was still intact.
She wondered if his spirit forgave her for kissing another man today.
An impulse drew her up the flights of stairs until she reached the trapdoor. It gave before her without creaking. She climbed into the attic and felt for the thin chain that turned on the lights.
She couldn’t remember the layout of the trunks. There seemed to be fewer—whether it was due to Lord Bainbridge’s travels or the conflation of her memories, she couldn’t say.
But there was the armoire, still in place. She walked—no, she tiptoed, honouring that long-ago oath, until she reached it, then slid through the gap. Not as easily as one once had, she thought, but one has had a baby since then, and there are changes as a result.
It was all there. The book case. The easel, empty now. The table.
There was an envelope on the table.
Her hand trembling, she picked it up and held it to the light.
It had her name on it.
She didn’t want to tear it open and destroy any part of it. She eased her way back into the main part of the attic, then carefully tiptoed back to the stairs, pausing to turn off the lights before she descended.
Once down, she ran the rest of the way to her room and dug a letter opener out of the desk. She slit the edge of the envelope with the care of a surgeon. Inside was a letter, and another, smaller envelope with For Ronnie, my son written on it.
She opened the letter and began to read.
My dearest Gwen,
I’ve always taken illicit pride in the fact that, unlike so many of our married friends, we never gave each other obnoxiously cute pet names. I would hate to have you crying at my funeral ‘Moopsy! My beloved Moopsy’ or some equally ghastly sobriquet. Gwen and Ronnie, Ronnie and Gwen—the pairing suits me fine.
If you are reading this, then I have either bought the farm or have come home and completely forgotten to destroy it. If the latter, bring it to me in a rage and devise whatever punishment you deem appropriate, and I shall humbly beg your forgiveness, and you shall sweetly forgive.
There is a will, and you and Little Ronnie will be provided for. I write this for the things that don’t belong in a will. Call them wishes.
I wish that you will mourn me to the hilt, out-Niobe Niobe with your tears, and wear a stunning black dress that will be so much the envy of our female friends that they will secretly yearn for the deaths of their husbands so that they may give you a run for the money in their widow’s weeds.
And then remarry, Gwen. Don’t waste time wanting me alive. You’re too young, too vibrant a lass to abandon the world to placate my ghost. I promise not to haunt anyone, apart from the occasional benevolent look down (I may be presumptuous as to the direction) to reassure myself that you and Ronnie are happy.
As for our son, the most important wish I have is this: DO NOT LET THEM SEND HIM TO ST. FRIDESWIDE’S! They will bully you. They will invoke family tradition. They may even stoop so low as to say that I would have wanted it. I do not. It was a miserable, cold, sadistic place, and I want our son to be joyous above all things. Keep him in London, where he can go to the museums and the zoo and the parks and have real friends, not be in some aristocratic chain-gang.
Tell him stories about me, Gwen, and not just the good ones. I don’t want him to put me on a pedestal. Let him know that, all in all, I was only human, although I tried my best to be a good one. I left him a letter. Don’t give it to him until he’s old enough to understand. Twelve would be the right age, I think. Don’t give it to him on his birthday—I’d hate to spoil it. Wait until a week or two after.
It occurs to me that I write this not knowing the outcome of this stupid war. I am maintaining my optimism. My last wish for Ronnie is an alternative. If England prevails, tell him to grow into a man who will find a way to keep others from dying in battle.
But if England falls, Gwen, tell him to join the Resistance. And if there isn’t one to join, to start his own.
I have left this in our place, what was once my place. Let our son share it when he can safely sneak up those steps.
Until we meet in Heaven, I remain yours,
Ronnie
She reread it five times, laughing through her tears. Then she walked out of her room and down the hallway until she came to her mother-in-law’s room. She knocked softly.
“Who is it?” asked Lady Carolyne.
“It’s Gwen. I need to show you something.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“It’s something that you’ll want to see. Please, Carolyne.”
She heard a soft padding, then the door opened and Lady Carolyne peered up at her over her reading glasses.
Without makeup and with her hair down, she looked more human than Gwen had ever seen her. For the first time, she saw features that Ronnie had inherited. That Little Ronnie had now.
“Well?” asked Lady Carolyne.
“I found a letter,” said Gwen. “From Ronnie.”
“Little Ronnie wrote—”
“Our Ronnie. My husband. Your son.”
She held it up so that Lady Carolyne could see the writing.
“Where was it?”
“In a place known to him and me that I haven’t looked at in a very long time.”
“May I read it?”
“That is why I’m here.”
“Come in.”
She took the letter over to her desk and turned on the lamp. She read it slowly, then read it again. When she was done, she folded it carefully and handed it back to Gwen.
“He never said anything about hating St. Frideswide’s,” she said. “Not once in the eight years that he was there.”
“It’s hard for a child to tell his parents that he hates something they gave him,” said Gwen. “He would have felt that he had failed you.”
“I had no idea,” said Lady Carolyne. “And now, it’s too late to tell him that I’m sorry.”
“You can make it up to him by keeping your grandson here.”
“Harold won’t like it.”
“There are two of us. And we have the letter.”
“Do you consider us allies now?” Lady Carolyne asked.
“In this matter, yes,” said Gwen. “I do intend to regain legal custody of my son. Will you be my adversary in that? I think that I have proved myself worthy, capable
, and sane enough.”
“Will you take us to court if we do not agree?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Lady Carolyne smiled.
“We shall speak more on that when Harold returns,” she said. “I make no promises. But until then, I shall look into local schools.”
“Do not put him in one without consulting me,” Gwen warned her.
“Good night, Gwendolyn.”
“Good night, Lady Carolyne.”
* * *
Iris looked up as Gwen came into the office.
“You’re late,” she said. “You’ve never been late before. Is everything all right?”
“I took a long route to get here,” said Gwen. “I’m strategizing.”
“Without me?”
“I may ask your advice.”
“That’s fine. How was your date with Des?”
“It wasn’t a date. It was an apology.”
“Will there be another apology later this week?”
“No. I told him that I couldn’t get involved.”
“Why? He seems like a decent catch.”
“I’m not fishing at the moment. Not until my son is mine again.”
“And then you’ll call Des?”
“Iris, there are so many differences between our lives.”
“Because he’s a carpenter? May I remind you that Jesus was a carpenter?”
“Jesus didn’t date.”
“Yes, bad example, I see that, now. But why not pursue Des some more?”
“Look, say you didn’t know either of us, and had interviewed both him and me and reduced us to a pair of index cards in those boxes. Would you then have matched us up?”
“No,” said Iris. “But it’s not a perfect system.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” said Gwen. “Our livelihood depends on people believing that it works.”
TWO WEEKS LATER
They had been working hard all morning, interviewing prospects, matching others, and sending out letters. When lunchtime arrived, Iris swiveled to face Gwen.
“Did you bring it?” she asked.
Gwen reached into her handbag and pulled out a small book of coupons. Iris produced an identical one from her desk.
“Right, here we go,” said Iris, reading from hers. “‘This Clothing Book must be detached immediately from the Food Ration Book; and the holder’s name, full postal address and National Registration number written in the spaces provided on page 1 in INK.’”
“Detaching now,” said Gwen as she pulled it out.
“They capitalized ‘INK,’” said Iris. “They’re very serious about it.”
“Name, address, ident,” said Gwen as she filled it out.
“‘All the coupons in this book do not become valid at once. IT IS ILLEGAL TO USE ANY COUPON UNTIL IT HAS BEEN DECLARED VALID,’” continued Iris. “That last was completely capitalized. They’re very serious.”
“I solemnly swear not to use any coupon prematurely,” declared Gwen, her hand on her heart.
“‘This book is the property of H. M. Government and may only be used by or on behalf of the person for whom it is issued. TAKE GREAT CARE NOT TO LOSE IT.’”
“Capitalized again?”
“You better believe it, sister.”
“One date with a spiv, and you think you’re a gangster,” sighed Gwen. “Well, we have successfully waded through the bureaucracy. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” said Iris, rising to her feet. “Let’s go shopping.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Allison Montclair grew up devouring hand-me-down Agatha Christie paperbacks and James Bond movies. As a result of this deplorable upbringing, Montclair became addicted to tales of crime, intrigue, and espionage. She now spends her spare time poking through the corners, nooks, and crannies of history, searching for the odd mysterious bits and transforming them into novels of her own. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin's Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Two Weeks Later
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE RIGHT SORT OF MAN. Copyright © 2019 by Allison Montclair. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Mick Wiggins
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-17836-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-17837-4 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250178374
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: June 2019
The Right Sort of Man Page 30