Gerald returned with a first-aid kit, and after I’d cleansed and bandaged my little finger to his satisfaction, he set the kit on an end table and took a seat in the remaining armchair.
“I’m sorry to say that tea will be delayed,” he announced. “Mrs. Burweed insists on preparing a fresh batch of meringues to replace those left too long in the oven.” He removed his spectacles and returned them to his shirt pocket. “While we wait, perhaps you would continue with your story, Mademoiselle Gascon. I’m sure Miss Shepherd will be fascinated.” He leaned back comfortably in his chair and favored Nell with an amused, tolerant smile that vanished instantly when she exploded into tears.
“F-forgive me,” she said tremulously. “But Maman is so ill, and I was so hoping to find Grandpapa, to t-tell him that she n-needs him....” She gave a little moan, bowed her head, and wept as though her heart would break.
Gerald sat bolt upright, completely disconcerted. He looked distractedly at me, then pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to Nell, who waved it away and lapsed into a torrent of French in which the words for “death” and “despair” figured prominently. She was magnificent. Gerald patted her back and murmured soothing phrases, and by the time he’d persuaded her to accept his handkerchief, he looked as though he’d willingly believe anything Nell chose to tell him.
Which was just as well, because the tale Nell trotted out would have made a fine libretto for a tragic opera.
9.
For the next forty minutes I listened, awed and humbled by Nell’s daring and the depth of her conviction. Cousin Gerald seemed transfixed, and by the time Nell had brought her story to its stirring conclusion she had me half convinced that it was true.
Nicolette Gascon was nothing less than Willis, Sr.’s illegitimate granddaughter. Nicolette’s mother was Regina, Willis, Sr.’s only daughter, who’d run off to Paris to live in sin with Howard Gascon, a British exchange student and artist manqué she’d met while studying art history at Harvard.
Howard Gascon had abandoned Regina and Nicolette three years earlier—“because an artist must be libre,” Nell proclaimed, with the passionate conviction of an adoring daughter—but mother and child had managed well enough until six months ago, when Regina had been taken ill with something that sounded suspiciously like consumption.
Because of her illness, Regina had lost her job at the café near Montmartre and was sliding into abject poverty, but she couldn’t turn to her father for help-Willis, Sr., had disowned his daughter because of her scandalous behavior and to this day had neither seen nor acknowledged his only grandchild.
Nicolette had heard of her grandfather’s presence in England—“from one of the gentils men who visit Maman now and then”—and had hitchhiked from Paris to the Channel, where she’d spent her last centime to board the train that had taken her to London. There she hoped to confront Willis, Sr., and persuade him to do his duty by his daughter.
“I must make Grandpapa see reason,” she concluded. “Without his help, we will end up on the streets.” Nell’s eyes sought mine. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Miss Shepherd, but I was afraid. I thought you wouldn’t bring me with you if you knew who I really was.”
“And you work for William Willis?” Gerald asked, turning to me.
“I’m his executive assistant,” I answered glibly, inspired by Nell’s bravura performance. “Mr. Willis and I come to London regularly, on business. Nicolette showed up at our hotel this morning, minutes after my employer had left for Haslemere. I’d never heard of her, but since it was still the middle of the night back in Boston, I had no way of checking our records. Then papers arrived, requiring Mr. Willis’s immediate attention, and I couldn’t leave her in London on her own, so I ... I did try to telephone first.”
“But you couldn’t get through.” Gerald nodded. “The phone’s still not working properly. I was cut off in the middle of the first call to come through in three days.”
“I’m sorry to intrude like this,” I said, with complete sincerity. It seemed a shame to pull the wool over such beautiful eyes.
“Not at all. But I’m afraid I have bad news for you, ma petite,” he continued, laying a hand on Nell’s arm. “Your grandfather was here, but he left two hours ago.” Nell sighed expressively and Gerald gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. “I can tell you where he’s gone, though.”
“Vraiment?” Nell asked, her face brightening.
“I hate to say it, but he’s returned to London.”
“To London?” I exclaimed in dismay.
“I believe he intends to visit my cousins tomorrow,” Gerald explained. “Here, I’ll give you their address.” He got to his feet and went over to the battered wooden desk.