Gladys Deacon Spencer-Churchill
SELF-PROVING AFFIDAVIT
The instrument, consisting of this and two (2) typewritten pages was signed and acknowledged by Testator as her Last Will and Testament in our presence, and we, at her request, and in her presence, and in the presence of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses.
We, the undersigned Testator and witnesses declare:
1. That the Testator executed this instrument as her Will;
2. That in the presence of witnesses, the Testator signed or acknowledged her signature already made;
3. That the Testator executed the Will as a free and voluntary act for the purposes expressed in it;
4. That each of the witnesses, in the presence of the Testator and of each other, signed the Will as witness;
5. That the Testator was of sound mind; and
6. That the Testator was at the time eighteen (18) or more years of age.
All of which is attested to this 5th day of March 1973.
HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH
GLADYS DEACON SPENCER-CHURCHILL, Testator
TOMASZ KOSINSKI, Witness
GEORGE WILLIAM COLIN SPENCER-CHURCHILL, Witness
Seventy-seven
?LE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
NOVEMBER 2001
“So they left right after reading the will?” Annie asked as Jamie pulled a long glass dish from the oven.
Meat on the bottom, mashed potatoes on the top: Parisian cooking wasn’t so snobby. Or maybe Jamie shared her pedestrian tastes. He was the untitled brother, Annie thought with a smirk.
“Yes’m, that’s when they left,” Jamie said and refilled her wineglass. “They read the will and then Mrs. Spencer kicked them out in the middle of the night.”
“Guess they didn’t need to borrow your luggage after all. So, why was Mrs. Spencer trying to get rid of them so urgently?”
“She had her reasons.”
“Which were?”
“My dear, we’ve not approached that part of the story.”
“You’re as bad as your brother,” Annie groused.
“An insult, but I won’t protest,” Jamie said with a grin. “For now, let’s just say Mrs. Spencer had great foresight. She understood Win and she understood your mum.”
“Well, that makes one of us. I barely recognize her from the story. It’s like she left every ounce of romance and whimsy back at the Grange. Or in Paris.”
“It was the time,” Jamie said. “The era. Things were more fluid then, the people more adventurous, even those who weren’t by nature. It’s why your mum absconded to Paris with my brother, threat of immigration charges and all. She wasn’t convinced Gads could keep Mrs. Spencer out of the loony bin, but at least a visa violation and its ensuing jail time would impress her old Berkeley chums, or so she joked.”
“It’s hard to picture my mom at Berkeley. To me she’s all headbands, collared shirts, and Wellesley.”
“People change. Or they try to anyway.”
“So everything was in the apartment?” Annie said, her stomach grumbling.
When, exactly, did Jamie plan to serve the food?
“The entire collection was in your house?” she asked.
“Was it ever,” Jamie said and blew back his hair. “You would not believe the scene. Somehow the old bird crammed eight large crates of artwork into that bedroom. Tom was obviously involved. How or when, though, we never knew. I was working and Laurel and Win were so inexorably … how do I phrase this?”
“In love? Wrapped up with each other? Heads lodged up their asses?”
“Yes! Ha!” Jamie snapped his fingers. “The last one. Now you’re getting it.”
He pulled a spatula from the drawer.
“What happened to the artwork?” Annie asked.
“It stayed in my damned flat for six years. My then-fiancée-now-wife thought I was some kind of nutter when she accidentally stumbled upon it.” Jamie cleared his throat. “‘Yes, dear, just holding on to priceless art for a duchess until she finally kicks it! And then it’s into the hands of my wastrel of a brother and the peculiar American fairy-nymph he adores.’ It’s a wonder she didn’t ditch me on the spot.”
“And after Mrs. Spencer died? Did Win—Gus—and my mom take possession of their requisite pieces?”
Annie thought of their farm in Virginia and its uninspired décor, the excessively ordinary art hanging on the walls. She couldn’t recall a single piece that didn’t feature a horse jumping over something.
“Yes, they did,” Jamie said. “The two nabbed their chosen pieces, donated the rest, and proceeded on their not-so-merry ways.”
“I wonder which ones my mom chose, and where they went. They’re definitely not in our house.”
“You’d have to ask her,” he said with a shrug. “According to Gads, he ended up needing to invoke the ‘Trustee has the final say’ clause.”
“They argued?” Annie crinkled her face. “Over art? That does not sound like my mother.”