I’m sorry things are off with your mom. Maybe she really doesn’t remember the book? It might be hard for a big-brained reader like you to grasp but sometimes books are just a bunch of papers between two thicker pieces of paper. You should probably dump me on the spot for that kind of talk. Good thing I’m not there in person. That’s probably blasphemy in the eyes of Annabelle Jane Haley.
But of course I’m not with you. I’m here, on an MEU. Traveling fifth-class to Kandahar, which I can’t picture even though I’ve seen pictures and videos. It still feels like fiction to me, a place described in a book. I don’t know what to expect when we get there. It’s a brave new world, even for those of us who are trying to fix it.
I love you, Annie. Be safe.
Eric
Twelve
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
In Paris, Gladys’s mother met her match with famed homme fatal émile Fran?ois Abeille. Abeille was a relatively plain figure made dashing by his family’s Suez Canal–acquired wealth. Also he had a deep voice. A very deep voice. An associate who knew him said it “went all the way down to his goolies.” The yacht and access to Paris’s most private clubs topped off his charms.
Florence and Abeille met because of a past-due bill, which was generally the only type of bill Florence Deacon bothered to have. When Abeille heard the married—but “open”—beauty had rung up quite the tab at Doucet’s, the most fashionable atelier of the day, Abeille telegrammed Mrs. Deacon with a message.
If the lovely Florence was willing to meet at his private apartment, he’d gladly pay off the debt, plus any that might follow. It was a very fair trade from Mrs. Deacon’s view. Her daughters were starting to come up in age. If she were to be the mother of a duchess or a princess, she would have to dress the part.
A casual observer might think, why, this woman sounds like a prostitute. And, if you want to get to the nuts of it (so to speak), that’s exactly what she was. A prostitute with a short, highly discriminating client list. It was a job that paid exceedingly well.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
“Nicola?”
“Oh! Crumbs!”
The woman fluttered a hand against her neck as she reluctantly ripped her eyes away from an episode of Coronation Street, which was playing on a small television behind the front desk.
“You scared the bejeezus out of me,” Nicola said, fixing an engine-red curl that had gone rogue near her cheek. “Oh dear! Look at you. Alone again. Why’d your mother bring you all this way if she was going to strand you so repeatedly?”
“It’s fine,” Annie said. “I don’t mind being alone. I wanted to ask you about this book I found…”
“You know, I can accompany you on some sightseeing adventures, if you’d like!”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to take you away from the inn.”
“Not a problem. My cousin is staying with us. A real do-nothing if you ask me.” Nicola rolled her eyes. “He can sit at the desk for a spell while you and I paint the town.”
“Really, it’s fine,” Annie said again. “Listen, I came across this biography.”
She passed the book to Nicola.
“Have you read it?” Annie asked.
“Where’d you get this? Trudy’s place?”
“Yes. Trudy’s. Where else?”
Gus. Her mother. Now Nicola. If any of these people decided to ask Trudy about her number one customer, she’d be in a hell of a tight spot.
“Ahh, Trudy,” Nicola said. “We’ve known each other since we were girls.”
“Yeah, she’s a peach.”
As Nicola squinted at the cover, Annie realized the book seemed more beat-up than it had the day before. The blue was grayer, the pages more yellowed.
She snatched it back.
“Have you heard of it?” Annie asked. “Or the woman it’s about?”
“Honey, if you don’t let me see the book, I can’t answer.”
“Sorry. It’s just fragile. Old.”
“Aren’t we all?” Nicola said. “Come now, show me the thing. Who’s it about, did you say?”
She passed it back.
“The Missing Duchess…” Nicola read, showing little-to-no recognition whatsoever.
“She lived here,” Annie said, cringing as Nicola’s fingers made teeny grease spots on the linen. “Or so the story goes.”
Was it possible the woman hadn’t been the town terror or its most noteworthy citizen? Annie half expected Nicola to react like Gus, identifying the book on sight.
“The Duchess of Marlborough disappeared from her palace in the thirties,” Annie said. “And was found in Banbury forty years later. Does any of this ring a bell?”
“Well, everyone knows Blenheim Palace and its celebrated Marlboroughs.”
“Then you must know of the duchess?” Annie pressed. “Her real name was Gladys Deacon but she called herself Mrs. Spencer? Passed away in her nineties. Probably around 1978 or 1979?”
Nicola looped a strand of hair around her pinkie, mouth twisted in contemplation.
“I was under the impression the duchess was well-known in Banbury,” Annie said. “Is that not true?”
“Could be. I grew up in Banbury but I didn’t really live here, if you catch my meaning.”