Despite expectations to the contrary, Gladys Deacon Spencer-Churchill, Her Grace the Duchess of Marlborough, never made it to the century mark. She passed at ninety-seven in St. Andrew’s Hospital, one stepgrandson, one Pole, and one writer by her side.
Her lovers were many, her exploits vast, the storied lives that ran against hers already fill a thousand other books. And while it might seem sad, that all her passion resulted in but one very dry and bleak union, on her deathbed Gladys Deacon viewed it otherwise.
All she ever wanted was to be remembered. And she understood that memories happened in the mind but also in the heart. In the end, the love Lady Marlborough sought she gave instead. And that was enough for her.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton, final paragraph from
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
“He killed himself,” Annie said. “While you were gone.”
“Yes.”
Laurel did not try to stop the tears now running down her face
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Annie asked. “It’s a horrible story, but why?”
“It was the violence. The manner in which he died, taking poor Blanka with him. I didn’t want that to be your legacy. I was terrified of letting that shadow fall across our little family.”
“Wow,” was all Annie could say.
She wanted to tell her mom it would’ve been fine to confess the truth, that it wouldn’t have affected what was indeed a pretty life. But Annie understood about the shadow. Already she felt it cool against her skin.
“I never stepped into that apartment again,” Laurel said. “And so, as I had so many times before, I set off to a new home, with only the clothes in my pack.” She smiled. “Of course, this time I had you. That’s how I knew I’d be okay.”
“That and Gladys Deacon.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Thank God for Mrs. Spencer. It was a lot easier to move on by then because of her gifts. And I don’t only mean the monetary ones. I ended up giving more than half of the inheritance to Blanka’s family, not that it could bring her back. But I had to do something.”
“So you finished school,” Annie said, still dazed and picturing a one-legged man swinging from a shower rod, a poor maid with the unluckiest job in the world. “Despite everything that happened.”
“I did, somehow. Afterward I went to Georgetown Law and later took a job in D.C. We lived in a bitty, wonderful apartment in Arlington for a few years before I bought Goose Creek Hill. And that’s been our life ever since. You and me, kid. I’d like to think we’ve done okay.”
“More than okay,” Annie said and gave her mom a hug. After pulling back she asked, “But what about Charlie’s family? Did you ever keep in touch with them?”
“God no. They blamed me absolutely. Not that I didn’t blame myself, too. But they preferred to imagine I’d died along with their son and I was happy to let them.”
“How come you never went back?” Annie asked and looked toward Gus. “To England or to Paris? You must’ve thought about him given you owned the Grange together.”
“It didn’t take the Grange to make me think of him.”
“And I didn’t own it for long,” Gus said, his voice froggy. “I ended up transferring my share to my niece, Jamie’s daughter. She’s about your age, finishing up at university. When she’s not wrangling over property rights with phantoms from the past, that is.”
“That’s who you’ve been battling with?” Annie asked. “Gus’s niece?”
“When Gus himself wasn’t trying to get historical permits to slow the process down,” Jamie added with a smirk.
“And thank you for that extra aggravation,” Laurel said. “I knew the other party to the transaction was Clementine Seton, but I didn’t know if it was his daughter or wife or what. Gus did get involved, eventually. He heard I was being difficult.”
“It was like a siren’s song,” Gus joked.
No one said anything for several minutes. Annie closed her eyes, trying to put it all together.
Laurel had finally explained where she came from. She gave Annie what she’d wanted for so many years. And while Annie was grateful for the truth, what Laurel said those weeks ago was true. The past didn’t make her. Charlie Haley was not who Annie was.
“Now you know everything,” Laurel said, her shoulders relaxing for the first time that day, or even that decade. “Every last piece.”
“Actually,” Annie said. “That’s not true. I know the past, all the background stuff, but as far as I can tell we’re in the middle of the story. You have to tell me, Mom. Pru. What happens next?”
Eighty-eight
Subject:
Chapter One
From:
[email protected]
Date:
December 6, 2001 09:15
To:
[email protected]
While you were arriving in Afghanistan, I was going home. Alone.