THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 1972
“What are you doing?” Pru yelled as she clambered across the wintered gardens. “Hey! You there! I see you!”
The figure disappeared.
“Might as well show yourself! Get back here!”
But the man had vanished. Like a ghost.
Pru stopped at the goose pond, its surface just starting to crackle and freeze. Where did he go? Behind a tree? Inside the barn? How did he even get onto the property in the first place? The boy hooligans had been trying for years, to no success.
“Hello?” Pru called out meekly.
She glanced down at her feet and the shabby, crummy slippers that covered them. Above the shoes, her legs were bare and speckled with fleabites. Farther up was the ratty gray nightgown last laundered on some other continent. Pru looked out across the orchard to the old house. The place was making her mad.
She turned to go.
Then: another rustle. Louder. Heavy-footed.
“I know you’re there!” she called. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all. Or not in that particular way. “We have guns!”
Pru scrambled toward the noise, tripping over branches and stones.
“I’m not screwing around here,” she said. Then mumbled, “As evidenced by the seriousness of my attire.”
The right words, as it happened. The would-be sneak thief couldn’t resist. He stepped out into the sunshine.
“There’s nothing wrong with your attire. Comfort first, I always say. The name’s Seton.”
He extended a hand.
Pru jumped and promptly backslid down an embankment toward the pond. She grabbed on to a tree branch to save herself from submersion, not to mention death by hypothermia. The pond was partially frozen and, worse, infested with goose excrement.
“Need some help there, miss?”
“How did you get through the gate?” Pru asked, huffing as she hoisted herself back up to safety.
“A little chicken wire never held me back,” the man said.
“You broke through the wire?”
“Sure.”
Truth was, he’d come through Tom’s mythical barn. The girl seemed pleasant enough but the man had seen something in the building. Maybe even something big. So he preferred to keep the information to himself. For now.
“Chicken wire’s like an old chum,” he added. “Mum used it around my cot to keep me inside.”
“Seriously?” Pru’s eyes went wide.
“Nah.” The man laughed. “Not that I can recall. But it does sound like something she might do. Anyhow. Like I said, the name’s Seton. Win Seton.”
He extended his hand again as Pru studied his face.
This Win Seton was on the youngish side, though definitely older than Pru. He was tall, his blond hair thick and cropped tightly to his head in a manner that surprised. Pru had grown accustomed to the shaggy mops at Berkeley. Even Charlie’s hair hung to his shoulders before he buzzed it off for the army.
Oh dear, Pru thought. This man must be old-fashioned. Nay, ancient.
In fact he was thirty-four and so her assumption was correct.
“Ah, the young lady is already softening toward me. I can tell. A relief to not be shot.”
“I’m not softening!” she said. “You still haven’t explained why you’re trespassing!”
“I do apologize. You startled me.”
“I startled you?”
“I thought the property was empty,” he said. “I saw the lady of the manor motor off into town in her little black car. She has a license to drive that thing?”
“She drives it all the time.” Pru sniffed.
“Yes, well, I’m quite certain I just saw her mow into a herd of schoolchildren. She was laughing. The children were not. So. You haven’t told me your name?”
“You’re trespassing on my property and you want a name?”
“Your property, is it?” he asked with a squinch.
“Well, I mean, not exactly. But I live here. Did I mention you’re a trespasser?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
He grinned, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Win was attractive, but in a lazy sort of way, like he’d never had to work too hard for anything. As though he’d been mollycoddled all his life, which was the general status of things.
“I’ll fess up,” he said. “I’m a trespasser. But also a writer, which means I’m a danger to no one but myself.”
“Okay, Seton,” she said. “Mr. Seton. If you’re a writer, why do you dress like you’re on a hunting safari?”
She pointed to his crisp white shirt and khaki trousers.
“The lady of the manor, as you call her,” Pru went on, “positively hates shooting animals for sport. In fact, before large hunts she used to sneak out at dawn and scare the animals from bushes and trees. So if you saw the ducks or foxes and think there’s shootable game on this property, think again. Also, it’s cold. You’ll probably catch pneumonia in that getup.”
Win laughed again.
“So sweet of you to be concerned with my health!” he said. “And I am familiar with the lady’s antihunting sentiment. She used her infinite spaniel collection to flush out the prey, did she not?”
“How did you know…”
“She has a million stories,” Win said. “A few of them might even be true. And her affinity for tall tales, fair one, is why you find me standing before you.”
“Come again?”
“As mentioned, I’m a writer. And I’m here to pen the biography of the woman who lives here.”
“Mrs. Spencer’s biography?” Pru said, a little baffled. “I must tell you, I don’t think she’d be too keen on the idea.”
“We’re all mates here.”
“Not exactly…”
“Enough with this ‘Spencer’ rubbish. Let’s call her what she is. Gladys Deacon. The dowager duchess. Lady Marlborough.”
“She insists she’s not the duchess.”
“Oh yes.” Win smirked. “I’m sure she does. Now, please kindly show me to the home. Let’s wait for your ‘Mrs. Spencer’ to return. She will not be shocked to see me.”