“Geese and chickens,” Win said and turned off the tape. “Don’t forget the swans and speckled guinea fowl. Even an ornithologist would find the recordings insufferable.”
He sighed, cocked back an arm, and chucked the recorder. As it crashed against the wall, Pru jumped. She was accustomed to his grousing but did not expect any demonstration of mettle. It was reassuring, in its way. Win had some life in him yet.
“You should be careful,” she said, darting over to fetch the device. “I doubt Mrs. Spencer would buy you a new one.”
When she bent down, Pru noted the recorder was intact. Despite his (previously) brawny appearance and the backslapping ’allo-mate footballer attitude, the man didn’t seem to be much of an athlete. She’d witnessed more damaging tantrums committed by the toddlers who lolled around outside the Banbury crèche.
“No recorder?” Win said. “A tragedy because what on God’s green would I do without detailed information on yard chickens? You can keep it, Miss Valentine. I’m not sure what your hobbies are, or if you have any sort of education whatsoever. But surely you can record something of note. Lacking philosophical insight or quadratic formulas to solve, you could sing into it. Warble some Don McLean. You, the Grange’s own Miss American Pie.”
“I’ve never met a man so ensnared in his own self-pity. You’re like a damned rat that keeps returning to the same trap. And yes, I do have some education ‘whatsoever.’ I went to Berkeley.” Pru raised a fist. “Fight the man. Here.”
She thrust the recorder in his direction.
“Take the damned thing,” she said. “You’ll need it. At some point.”
“Will I?” Win sighed again. More deeply this time, as if he wanted to be sure all of the Cotswolds heard. “Sit down.”
He patted the spot beside him.
“Why would I do that?” she asked.
“You’re done for the day, aren’t you?” he said. “The spaniels are washed, clipped, nursed, and neutered…”
“If only they were neutered.”
“The old lady’s about to retire for the night. Come. Join me.” He patted the bed a second time. “We’re housemates, in this mess together and all that. We might as well be friends.”
“You’ve been quite into the wine, I gather.”
“We can toast to my ongoing failure.”
With a sigh, Pru plunked down onto the bed.
“I can stay,” she said. “For a minute.”
She wasn’t “done for the day” but Win was more interesting than shoveling dog feces, which was the very best she could say about him.
“Here,” he said and passed her the wine. “Bottoms up.”
Pru took the bottle and peered into it. Might there be glasses downstairs? Or was she supposed to guzzle straight from the top? Pru wasn’t the persnickety type but some stemware would’ve been nice.
“Where’d you get this?” she asked.
“Brought a few liters with me.” He released a silent, though pungent, burp. “My family owns a winery. Welsh Wine. It’s for shit and I advise you never to put it near an open flame. But, alas, it is wine. And sometimes that’s all you need.”
Pru was never a wine drinker. She enjoyed the occasional beer in college, a few tokes on a periodic joint, but that was the extent of it. However, she was now holed up in a haunted house, her only human companions a writer and a lunatic. Wine seemed like a damned logical medicine to take.
“Well, here goes nothing,” she said and downed a gulp.
As it slid into her throat, hot and slightly burning, Pru immediately understood his comment about the open flame. Within seconds, her belly loosened. Pru tipped the bottle back again.
Win might’ve been a little drunk, but he was a lot befuddled. It was a remarkable situation to have a female exactly where he wanted her. In this case, voluntarily entertaining his attempts at conversation.
And Pru was something more than most, different from the ordinary gals he met at university and in not-so-subtle setups arranged around his parents’ supper table. All those Imogens and Rosalies and So-and-So Poppleswell-Hawkes, not a one as appealing as Pru.
Oh yes, he’d noticed, she’d be surprised to learn. Though seemingly on a one-way journey to Duchess-ville, Win Seton had developed no small regard for Pru. She was lovely and smart and had a wicked snap of humor beneath all the jitters and nerves. He didn’t know her well but the truth was Pru intrigued him from the start. Now that she sat beside him, the big problem was what to do with her, the bigger yet how he might entice her to stay.
Thirty-six
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
“So, my fair American,” Win said as they passed the wine back and forth between them. “What are you doing here?”
“Delivering your food, same as always. But if you want me to leave…”
Pru rose to her feet. Already her legs were warm and weak.
“No,” Win said, and pushed her back onto the bed gently.