“Mostly. Plus everyone was anxious about what state he’d be in, this Tom, in the barn for twenty years or more.”
“What did they imagine?” she asked. “A dead body? A live, withered one chained to a wall?”
“Yes and yes.”
“I assume Pru didn’t know about him. Or any of the other threats.”
“No, she did not,” Gus said. “It’s why Edith Junior settled on the diaphanous young American. She’d tried to hire a half-dozen staid British-governess types but they all sussed out the situation and declined the post. The family was lucky, really. Pru had no experience but was the exact right person for the job.”
Eight
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 1972
“Hello, Mrs. Spencer,” the attaché said. “This is your new companion, Miss Valentine.”
“Valentine. What a name.”
“Perchance you might put on a shirt. Display a little polish.”
“What the hell do I need with polish at my age, Reginald?” The old woman slipped the revolver into an ankle holster and hitched up her trousers. “Or a companion for that matter?”
“My name is Murray. As I’ve told you countless times.”
“Hello there, I’m…”
Pru went to shake Mrs. Spencer’s hand but the woman yanked all appendages out of reach, contorting her face as if Pru might be riddled with disease.
“Your manners are immaculate, Mrs. Spencer. It’s always so nice to be reminded.”
The attaché, named Murray as it turned out, sighed and placed his briefcase on the hall table atop a pile of clipped-out newspaper articles. There were more articles spread across the floor—hundreds, thousands perhaps. As wind gusted through the broken windows, the papers fluttered like leaves.
“Regarding your new companion, m’dear,” Murray said. “There’ve been myriad complaints from the locals plus a well-placed call from the head of the county. Everyone’s concerned about your welfare. Plus no one’s keen on witnessing accidental gun deployments.”
“There’s nothing accidental about my shot.”
Pru would’ve snickered if she hadn’t been so stupefied by the woman and her house.
“So I need to be ‘dealt with,’ you’re telling me,” Mrs. Spencer said.
“Precisely. As such, your options are admission to the local sanitarium or the company of a lovely young woman with impeccable references. Ergo, our Miss Valentine.”
Pru flashed him a look, eyebrows punched up into her hairline.
Impeccable references? Admittedly, she dropped some big names during the interview, but as far as she understood, no references were verified. If the aunt had checked, it’s unlikely Pru would’ve gotten the job.
“She knows the Kellogg family,” Murray went on. “Are you familiar with the dry goods people?”
The woman, this Mrs. Spencer, removed her straw hat and dropped it on Murray’s briefcase. She shook out her hair, which was fine, translucent, and hung halfway down her back.
“The dry goods people,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Is that right?”
Her eyes were an arresting and startling shade of blue, like glaciers. When they met gazes, Pru felt a sting of cold across her chest. How would she ever get warm in a place like that?
“That’s them,” Pru said, her mouth dry.
Was it possible that Charlie’s family had uttered a single nice comment about her, or even a neutral one? She couldn’t picture them recommending her. Then again, they probably just wanted Pru out of the country.
She’d done nothing wrong per se but what kind of woman couldn’t keep her man at home? They were Berkeley students, for Christ’s sake. University of hippies and draft dodgers, a school filled with nonpatriots. At the very least, she could’ve gotten “accidentally” knocked up and guilted their golden boy into remaining stateside.
“The Kellogg family adores our Miss Valentine,” Murray said, and lightly tapped Pru on the shoulder. “Go on. Tell her.”
“I, uh, have known them for about two years—”
“Save your breath,” Mrs. Spencer said. “As if I give a shit about the Kelloggs. Come. Follow me. The both of you.”
Pru gave a muted smile as they made their way deeper into the home. Who gave a shit, indeed. Well, she gave one. But she didn’t want to.
The Grange was imposing from the outside, not due to size but because it carried a palpable moodiness, as though it produced its own dark weather. But once inside, the home grew more foreboding and expansive with every step. As Pru moved along, the ceilings rose above her, walls jumped out of her grasp.
“Try to keep up!” Mrs. Spencer bellowed.
The woman quickened her pace, just for fun, just so Pru and Murray would have to jog.
“Crap!” Pru yelped as she tripped over a hole in the parquet floor. She leaped to avoid falling into a second one. “What the hell?”
“Excuse her language,” Murray said. “Americans. You know.”