“Yes,” she said. “Something like that. Listen, Annie-bear, we need to get to bed or we’ll be dragging in the morning. Let’s talk more on the flight. Or once we are in Banbury. We’ll have plenty of heart-to-hearts, about property, marriages, whatever you want.”
Laurel looked at once tired, weary, and well beyond her age. For a moment Annie regretted pushing so hard.
“Mom, I’m sorry. It’s just with everything…”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Good night,” Laurel said, and rubbed a hand over Annie’s head. “I’m headed upstairs. See you in the morning. I love you.”
With a final sad smile, Laurel slipped out the door. Annie listened as her mother’s footsteps retreated.
Once the floorboards groaned and squeaked overhead, Annie scrambled over to the cardboard box. Inside were several bound sets of paper, legal documents mostly. On top of them sat the book, that ancient blue book. It niggled at her as she lifted it from the box.
“The Missing Duchess,” she read. “By J. Casper Augustine Seton.”
Annie fanned the pages beneath her nose. They were old and yellow, mustier than Goose Creek Hill itself. She let out a cough and flicked open a page.
They said you weren’t anyone until Giovanni Boldini painted you. But of all the famed women he rendered, the princesses and countesses and heiresses, the Duchess of Marlborough was deemed the most enchanting.
“Annie?” her mom called from the top of the stairs.
She jumped, fumbling and bobbling the book before ultimately saving it from a union with the floor.
“Are you coming upstairs?” Laurel asked. “Please turn out the lights.”
“Yes! I’m coming!”
Annie took one last glance at the foiled lettering on the cover. Then she slid the book into the back of her sweatpants and shut off the light.
Three
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 2001
The Duchess of Marlborough was born Gladys Deacon on 7 February 1881 at the Hotel Brighton in Paris. She was the eldest, and most beautiful, of four exceptionally lovely girls.
The Deacons were a stormy, storied crew. Gladys’s tortured, moonstruck father descended from the Boston Parkers, a family with more money than sense. Like any senseless gentry, the money soon matched their level of cunning. Which is to say, not much.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
The innkeeper was almost cartoon-grade British with her ruddy complexion and flat, uneven teeth.
“We’re known for our cakes!” she sang. “You have to try our cakes!”
Her name was Nicola. Annie couldn’t make out if she was closer in age to Laurel or to herself, one of those people who seemed young and old at the same time.
“There’s a bakery down on Parsons Street,” she said, fluffing pillows as Laurel and Annie filed in behind her. “Theirs are scrumptious but you can’t go wrong anywhere round here. Do you find this room suitable? I can move you, we’re not too busy. This is my favorite, though. It gets the best light. Plus they don’t make this pattern of bedspread anymore. It’s one of a kind!”
“The room is perfect,” Laurel said, and set her bags on the bed. Nicola promptly moved them to the suitcase stand. “A complete delight.”
Their room was all English countryside with its whitewashed wood floors, sloped ceilings, and matching wrought-iron twin beds. Annie could tell that Laurel wasn’t thrilled with the size of the beds but loved the room on sight.
The town was charming too, if not lacking a central square and featuring, according to Nicola, a “right mishmash of shops running higgledy-piggledy to and fro.” Annie saw through a dormer window what appeared to be the town’s focal point: the Banbury Cross, a tall stone spire erupting out of the middle of a roundabout.
“I knew you’d find it top-notch!” Nicola said. “I’ll let you two settle in. Ring if you need anything. I’m at the front desk all day and night. Alrighty then. Cheerio!”
Nicola spun around and jostled downstairs. Annie and Laurel smiled weakly at each other.
It was the first time they’d been truly alone since their clash in Laurel’s office. Was it resolved? Would they talk more? Get to the bottom of this father business? Or would they instead resume their usual ways? Annie wondered if she even cared. Right then the only feelings she could muster were of being tired and missing Eric. Seven months of not seeing him. How was she going to last?
“So here we are,” Laurel said. “And it’s raining. Of course.”
She began sorting through her handbag.
“I know we just arrived, but I have to leave in a few minutes,” Laurel went on. “A meeting with a solicitor. You’re welcome to join me, or you can hang out here. I can’t imagine my meeting will be of any interest whatsoever.”
Annie sighed, surprised her mother had an obligation so soon. This “vacation” was starting out on a real high.
“Maybe I’ll go with you,” Annie said, and slumped down onto the bed, physically exhausted though she’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours on her duff. “The weather’s for crap plus it’s not like I have anything else to do.”