ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
FEBRUARY 1973
Pru chucked her bag into the closet and heaved herself onto the bed. She sighed and let her arms and legs sprawl the width of it.
“Any room on there for an old friend?” said Win’s voice from above her. She could nearly hear Mrs. Spencer tittering from down the hallway.
“Earl of Winton, huh?” Pru said, one arm thrown over her eyes. “Lord Winton. That is an interesting tidbit you managed to avoid.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“The ‘Earl of Winton’ doesn’t mean anything? The title has no significance whatsoever? Nothing?”
“To me it’s just a name. Something handed to me without any effort on my part. Why? Does the title matter to you? Do you find it important?”
“Oh yes. Endlessly so. As you have rightly assessed.”
Pru turned on her side to face a brown lacquered desk. That no woman lived in the home was abundantly clear. The place was filled with heavy, ornate antiques interspersed with pieces of cheap modular furniture. Between the shag rugs and velour upholstery, any visitor would be treated to a full compendium on the permutations of the color brown.
“Had I known it was an earl I was dealing with,” Pru said. “I would’ve expressed my unreturned devotion to no response three times instead of merely the two.”
“Don’t be like that, Laurel.”
She felt the bed sink with his weight.
“No problem there,” she said. “Being ‘like that’ was my first mistake.”
“You know how I feel.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“I can’t … you’re too young. Vibrant. You have the world ahead of you. It’d be wrong, don’t you see? To return the words? Even though I feel them?”
“Too young and vibrant. It’s Berenson and Mrs. Spencer all over again. Win, you know about Charlie. You know about my childhood. And because of this you know I’ve probably dealt with more hard knocks in my two decades than you have in three and a half.”
The bed shifted again. Pru inhaled and closed her eyes, as if fortifying herself against some kind of blow. She felt Win’s body inch closer to hers.
“Win,” she said. “What are we doing here? Why are we even in Paris?”
“It was GD’s idea, remember?”
“Right. Which makes all the sense in the world. Who wouldn’t let a ninety-year-old, marginally sane woman dictate what country they’re in? I think this is how adults end up missing.”
“It’s the Marlboroughs,” he said. “She’s afraid of them.”
“You see, this doesn’t sound like a real problem,” Pru said. “It sounds like paranoia. What would they be trying to steal from her anyway?”
“Tom exists. She was right about that.”
Win scooted closer, the barrier between them so thin it was more awkward than if they’d actually been touching. As a test, Win gently rested his fingers in the nook of her bent elbow. She did not shake him off.
Did Win love her? Of course he loved her, this girl who was some balled-up mix of innocence and wisdom, delicateness and strength. The truth was he loved her so damned much it went past that one trite feeling and into something else.
And because of that, there was no use pursuing it. The whole deal would go tits-up at some point and the poor girl would have to suffer yet another heartbreak. Not that Win fancied himself anywhere close to the league of Charlie but that bloke had reason for leaving.
“So what happens next?” Pru asked.
“Um…” Win glanced at his hand, and her skin below it. “I guess we wait.”
“Perfect. And how long will that take? To be clear, what are we waiting for? Mrs. Spencer to come to her senses? For her to die? What?”
“What’s the big hurry? Do you have someplace to be?”
“We can’t stay here forever,” she said.
Can’t we? Win thought.
“We obviously need to get her home,” Pru added.
“And how do you propose we accomplish that? Mrs. Spencer only does what she wants, nothing more. Which is why we find ourselves in Paris, by the by.”
“We need to assure her that there’s nothing to worry about,” Pru said. “That no one’s out to get her.”
“Don’t you think we should first make sure it’s true?”
“You could talk to them,” Pru said.
“Talk to whom?”
“The Marlboroughs. Convince them she doesn’t need hospitalization or whatever it is they’re thinking.”
“Once again, I ask, shouldn’t we make sure that’s true?”
“I don’t get it,” Pru said. “I understand why Edith would care about Mrs. Spencer’s mental health. Or at least feel some sort of obligation toward her. But why do the Marlboroughs care if she’s wasting away in some ramshackle house? Heck, you’d think they’d want her dead. A duchess no more.”
“You have compassion for miles.”
“I’m serious. Tell me, Win. Why do they care?”
“How am I to know?”
“Well, you are of their kind,” Pru said with a snort. “Seeing as how you’re a peer.”
“I’m not a duke. Furthermore, Marlborough and Winton are hardly the same. No Blenheim for this crew. Thank God.”
Pru jerked away. As Win reached for her, she rolled over to face him. Their noses were but five centimeters apart.
“Blenheim,” she said, green eyes shining in the stream of streetlight coming through the window. “You told me that place is a money pit.”
“Yes. Blenheim costs more to run than most countries. And it doesn’t even have its own army anymore. If the Grange is a money pit, Blenheim is ruinous.”
“Maybe that’s what they want,” Pru said. “Her money. You’ve seen the diamonds. And the minks.” She flicked her hand in the direction of the master bedroom. “If they declare her incompetent can they get access to her estate?”
“Huh, that’s not out of the question,” Win said, noodling on the concept.
“If those are her traveling diamonds, can you imagine her black-tie jewels? And the Grange might be a total heap but it has to be worth something.”
“And the paintings,” Win said. “Nearly incomprehensible value.”
“You mean the Boldini? The one that disappeared from the dining room?”
“Yes. That. But also.” His gut began to churn. “The barn. Tom’s. It’s, I think, filled with artwork. Pieces stacked wall to wall.”
“You went into Tom’s barn? You are even stupider than you look.”
“That barn is how I accessed the property the day I met you. Tom wasn’t in there, thank heavens. Probably would’ve bludgeoned me with a hammer if he had been. Nevertheless, given the nature of my visit—”
“Trespassing, you mean.”
“Precisely,” Win said, his smile glinting in the dark. “Due to the trespassing, I didn’t tarry. But along the way I pulled back a few drop cloths. Artwork, prime artwork, each with a personal note from the artist wedged into the frame. The first three I checked: Degas, Monet, Gauguin. One. Two. Three.”
“Holy crap,” Pru said.
“Holy crap is right.”
“Maybe that’s what the Marlboroughs want,” she said. “The sale of those pieces could keep the old homestead running for a few more years. Who knows, maybe even the books would draw a pretty penny. There must be thousands in that library of hers. Most are first editions, and signed.”
“An influx of cash would definitely be welcome by that crew. No more cafeteria lines and tourists in their backyard.”
“You have to talk to him!” Pru said. She swatted Win on the shoulder. “You have to call Gads tomorrow.”
“Gads? Why? Do you have a puppet show you’d like to produce?”
“Gads is a Marlborough! He can tell you what’s going on.”
Win deliberated this.
In addition to being a Marlborough, Gads was also a barrister. Whether he might be on the side of his family or on the side of law, Win couldn’t guess. Gads had never been particularly motivated by integrity. On the other hand, he called any gathering of three or more family members “the arse and pansy show.” And he was not above doing something out of spite.
“I’ll reach out to him in the morning,” Win said.
“Brilliant.” Pru yawned. “As you would say. Simply brilliant, ye olde bloke.”
“I would not say that.”
Pru let her eyes go heavy.
“You’re really going to sleep here?” she said and yawned again. “Next to me?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she said with another yawn, wider this time.
“Fair enough. Well, the answer is yes. I do plan to sleep here.”
She nodded, her hair scrunching against the pillow.
“Good night, Lord Winton,” she said.
“Good night, sweet Pru. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
A simple concept, a short-term promise, a word to throw away almost. If only Win and Pru had understood the problem with tomorrows. Namely, that they had so very few of them left.