“Thomas Hardy.” Mrs. Spencer nudged her in the side. Pru reopened her eyes. “Do you like Hardy?”
“Yes, of course. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Far from the Madding Crowd. ‘And at home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there will be you.’”
A shudder ran through Pru’s chest.
“Oh good Lord,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Don’t get maudlin on me.”
“That’s a quote from Far from the Madding Crowd,” Pru said as tears pooled in her eyes.
“Of course I know what book it’s from! Hardy was a friend of mine. Please. Your crying. I can’t take it.”
“‘I shall do one thing in this life—one thing certain—this is, love you, and long for you, and—’”
“‘Keep wanting you till I die,’” Mrs. Spencer finished. “Yes. We know.”
She made a gagging sound as Pru let the tears run down her cheeks.
“Stop it!” Mrs. Spencer ordered. “Stop it right now! You must put the boy out of your head. It’s not worth the agony. You didn’t want to marry him in the first place.”
“Yes. I did. With every part of me.”
“Very well, then. Hang on to your romantic Hardy quotes but I have a few myself. ‘People go on marrying because they can’t resist natural forces, although many of them may know perfectly well that they are possibly buying a month’s pleasure with a life’s discomfort.’”
“We would’ve been different,” Pru whispered, her voice thin as a strand of hair.
“Knock it off, Miss Valentine. I can’t tolerate the mewling. What about Proust?” Mrs. Spencer said, her words fast and sharp like a poke in the ribs. “Do you like Proust?”
“Excuse me?”
“Proust. Marcel Proust. What are your thoughts on him, O erudite literary major?”
“To be honest, I haven’t studied much Proust,” Pru said, sniffling.
“YOU HAVEN’T STUDIED MUCH PROUST?”
“I mean, I have. Some. But he’s not really my thing. I like Hardy. Wharton. Evelyn Waugh. Henry James.”
“I knew all of them. Personally. And they have nothing on Marcel. You have no opinion on the man? Not a single thought? And you consider yourself well read?”
“Naturally, I admire à la recherche. A new way to approach the novel, its own genre and whatnot. So, he’s decent. But, in general, Proust not my bag.”
“Not your bag? Marcel and I are closer than siblings. I won’t mention you said that.”
“Isn’t he dead?”
“For a time he was my dearest friend,” Mrs. Spencer said, her voice slowing, her body falling more heavily into the bed. “Any reader should appreciate what Proust meant to the literary world. He made us cognizant of the importance of memory when reading a book, how pivotal the setting and circumstance. So whatever sentimental notions Edith’s advertisement conjured, whatever visions you had of moping about the Cotswolds, book in hand, were planted first by Proust.”
“You seem to have led a fascinating life, Mrs. Spencer.” Pru pulled the blanket up to her chin to ward off the chill. “I look forward to getting to know you better.”
“It’s too late for anyone to know me. Oh, Marcel! I miss him so! He and I, we brightened the salons of Paris! The Ritz conservatory. All up and down the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. Hardy. You love Hardy? Here’s your next literature essay, Miss Valentine, a use for your sole talent. Why not explore the French versus English spirit as shown in prose? With Hardy as testament on the latter?”
“Okay, I’ll take it under advisement.”
“I had the most heated discussion with Lily de Clermont-Tonnerre on the very topic one night at Thérèse’s salon. Comtesse Thérèse Murat’s salon, if you must know.”
“Sure, Comtesse Murat,” Pru said with a yawn.
“Cocteau was there, too. Got his bloomers in a right knot over it, that poor drug-addled maniac. Such splendid times! Of course Mother hated these exploits of mine. She thought all the flitting about salons hurt my ability to make a proper match. But as I told her, ‘I go there for the conversation, not the mating.’”
Pru chuckled sleepily.
“I’ve lived in the most glorious places,” Mrs. Spencer went on. “My prior home was every centimeter as monumental as Versailles. But oh, Miss Valentine, you should’ve seen Paris.”
Pru’s mind began to hum as Mrs. Spencer spoke on, recounting the parties and salons and debates with Europe’s brightest literary minds, its shiniest artistic talents.
Before long Pru nodded off to the woman’s dulcet voice, her head filled with images of the Parisian streets at midnight, its gaslamps hanging in arcades, dancing the people home.
Ten
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 2001