“Very much,” I replied. “I admire her, too. She hasn’t let that creep Douglas get to her, the way he got to Anthea. She’s just starched her upper lip and carried on.” My admiration for Lucy was mingled with a measure of genuine concern. Now that Gerald was gone, she had no one to depend on but two inexperienced younger sisters and that sweet-natured bumbler, Arthur. She was already beginning to fray around the edges. How much longer would it be before she cracked?
“I think Julia Louise would be proud of her,” Nell commented. Giving me a sidelong look, she added, “I also think Lucy’s in love with Gerald.”
I felt myself blush, but nodded my agreement. “I think you’re right. Wish I knew what he’d done to make her so angry with him.”
“There’s that woman he’s seeing at the Flamborough,” Nell reminded me.
“Oh, come on, Nell,” I objected. “You’ve met Gerald. Do you really believe he’d choose a little round dumpling of a woman when he could have his pick of the litter? And who in his right mind would have a tawdry love affair at the Flamborough? Arthur said it himself—it’s the kind of place Lucy takes clients to dine.”
“Used to take clients to dine,” Nell corrected.
“Whatever. I don’t buy it.” I settled back to finish the last of my greasy chips and give the matter some serious consideration. It stood to reason that something was going on between Gerald and the Dumpling, but did it have to be an affair? The Dumpling might as easily be a former colleague. Miss Kingsley and Arthur could have misinterpreted a casual meeting between old friends—Miss Kingsley because of a natural prudishness, and Arthur because his philandering uncle Douglas had predisposed him to see Gerald in the same light.
Gerald might even have encouraged the misunderstanding. He could be using the Dumpling as an excuse to keep Lucy at bay. He and Lucy were first cousins, after all, and though marriages between close relations weren’t unheard of in England, Gerald might have good reason to avoid one in this case. Inbreeding could produce serious complications—Uncle Williston being a prime example.
It was also possible, I acknowledged with curiously mixed emotions, that Gerald didn’t love Lucy. The pressure of working closely with someone whose deepest affections he couldn’t return might have become too much for him. Once his father, Anthea, and Williston had retreated from the scene, things might have gotten too close for comfort. He might have gone to Haslemere to spare himself, and Lucy, further pain.
I felt my heart swell as yet another possibility occurred to me: What if Gerald had made those alleged errors in judgment on purpose? What if he’d sent himself into exile as a gallant way of shielding his lovelorn cousin from humiliation ? I had no trouble believing in that scenario. Gerald had treated me with such tenderness that I couldn’t conceive of his being anything less than honorable where Lucy or the firm was concerned.
Then again, I thought, catching sight of Reginald’s knowing gaze, perhaps I wasn’t an entirely disinterested observer.
Unsettled, I popped the last of the greasy chips into my mouth and rested my head against the back of the seat. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why, with so much else to think about, I was dwelling on Gerald.
Gerald had paid attention. He’d sensed that something was troubling me and gone out of his way to find out what it was, and what he could do to help. Maybe, when all was said and done, that was where love began and what kept it alive: the simple, everyday act of paying attention. Too bad I hadn’t included it in my marriage vows.
Why talk Willis, Sr., out of moving to England? I asked myself suddenly. Why not move with him? I could live with a fax machine at the cottage. I could even live with a photocopier. But I wasn’t sure I could go on living with a husband who no longer paid attention.
Paul’s voice came over the intercom. “Scenic or direct, madam?”
I glanced out of the tinted windows and realized that we’d reached the M25, the great ring road around London ; I had to make a decision about our route. “Direct,” I answered. “How long will it take us to get to Cloverly House?”
“Two hours, barring road works,” Paul replied.
I glanced at my watch. “I hope we get there before closing time.”
“What difference does it make, as long as we find William?” Nell asked.
“Oh, we won’t find William,” I said, slouching against the glove-leather upholstery. “Mark my words. By the time we get there, he’ll be gone and we’ll have to play hunt-the-journal-page again. I wonder If they’ll let us in to see Uncle Williston?” I put my head back and gave a tremendous yawn. I’d expected the food to wake me up, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. Or maybe it was simply the oppression that settled over me when I contemplated my failing marriage. Whatever the reason, I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Nell pulled a tartan blanket from under the seat, shook it out, and spread it over my lap. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she soothed. “I’ll think of a way to see Uncle Williston.”
“Okay,” I said sleepily, “but keep it legal....”
17.