GD:…
WS: Quoting from this same article. “At midnight Deacon goes to the door of his wife’s rooms and hears a noise which convinces him that she is not alone. He returns to his own room to get a revolver. At the same time he warns the secretary of the hotel, who goes with him. At Madame’s door they wait three minutes. Madame opens the door in her night toilet, holding a candle in her hand. Thinking it is his duty, he enters, despite the resistance of his wife. He discovers a man whom he recognizes as Abeille and fires at him thrice.” Thrice. You have mentioned this to me prior. Three times through the couch and whatnot.
GD: A coincidence. Everyone knows there are only three plots in this world.
WS: A rather specific plot, this.
GD: I’m not sure why you want to spend so much time and attention on an assassin.
WS: Are you referring to your father? Or the man from the article?
GD: My father. [Audible sighing] Both. I’m not sure what you want me to say.
WS: It must’ve been an onerous situation for your family.
GD: I was … away at school. Anyhow, in the end, my father only served a year’s sentence. And got himself a nice cell besides. All’s well.
WS: “Well” is probably not the most accurate word, I’d reckon.
GD: True, he was a tragic figure but even now it comforts me to remember his last words before being carted off. “Take care of the children.” Said to his brother.
WS: So his last thoughts were of you.
GD: Yes. My father, for all his problems, did love us. He loved Mum, too.
WS: But he cut her out of his will?
GD. He did. It rankled her something fierce, of course, but at least he left the four of us girls with trusts and income for life.
WS: Even Dorothy? The bastard child?
GD: Please don’t speak of my sister that way. She cannot help where she came from. But, yes. Illegitimate. Out of wedlock. Love child. And so on. Dorothy was allotted the same as the rest of us.
WS: How did your mother react to the change in beneficiaries?
GD: The lack of income hurt, certainly. Mum was somehow the richest woman I’ve ever known whilst also never having a cent to her name. On top of that, as soon as Father was released and the divorce finalized, he earned custody of us.
WS: Many would find it unconscionable that the court released children into the home of a convicted murderer.
GD: Convicted unlawful injurer. Murders aside, as a man, Father was deemed a much better guardian than some wanton sex-obsessed slag, as Mum was no doubt considered.
WS: Your mother must’ve been gutted.
GD: Thoroughly, yes. But Mummy always found a way around her troubles. And a way to maintain her gilded lifestyle.
WS: When I used the word “gutted,” I was referring to the loss of her children.
GD: Oh, that. Well, the custody situation didn’t last. She kidnapped us from his home before too long. So everything turned out fine.
WS: Other than for your father, who died in a sanitarium. Note to manuscript. Mrs. Spencer is shrugging, but also tearing up.
GD: My eyes are watering on account of your gamey scent. When exactly was the last time you showered?
WS: You’re not the first to ask. Mrs. Spencer, I can understand why it’s hard for you to talk about this.
GD: Hard? Not necessarily. While the situation presented a unique set of challenges, one must contemplate whether it was for the best.
WS: If what was for the best? The shooting? Or the kidnapping?
GD: All of it. Every last miserable detail. It resulted in my parents’ divorce, for one, which was beneficial to everyone involved.
WS: Including you, who received all that money.
GD: I won’t apologize for my father’s generosity.
WS: I’m not asking you to.
GD: On top of that, the scandal forced Mother into a different sense of purpose.
WS: How so?
GD: In a blink, her options were limited. She could no longer portray herself as the toast of Paris. Or of Rome. Her time in the limelight ended swiftly and so she focused on finding partners for her daughters instead.
WS: A sacrifice in a way.
GD: Not that she became asexual, mind you. Mother had to pay the bills somehow. But before the “event” she tried to sop up all of the attention, like a spotlight-seeking sponge. After the shooting and the divorce and the kidnapping, she decided to let us shine instead.
WS: Perhaps I wouldn’t be sitting here, then, if your father hadn’t shot someone.
GD: Hmm. Yes. Perhaps if not for that, you’d be pestering some other woman, mistaking HER for the duchess.
WS: Do you ever miss him, your father? I know you’ve mourned your mother since the day you learned she’d passed. But what about your dad?
GD: My father left me his name. He left me his money. But mostly he remains a shadowy figure. I know he was a cavalry officer in the Civil War. He was dark and fiercely intelligent. He made quick friends with those he met. But mostly I remember he was a very good shot.
Thirty-two
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001