“It’s not Marlborough?”
“No. It’s Spencer. Well, Spencer-Churchill to be specific. And isn’t sloughing off the Churchill the very thing our dear friend would do? Winston was no Hitler, after all.”
Thirty-eight
GD: He was the worst. The absolute worst.
WS: I’m not sure why you have such prejudices against Churchill.
GD: Because he was not a great man! And everyone erroneously thought he was. Which only served to puff him up.
WS: But how well did you know him?
GD: I knew him well enough. He used to come to that place where we were.
WS: Blenheim, you mean?
GD: He liked to lay down the law! No compassion. The man was incapable of love. He was in love with his own image—his reflection in the mirror. Coon thought he was tiring, too.
WS: To be clear, you’re talking about his visits to Blenheim.
GD: Yes, of course I am.
WS: Your family seat.
GD: They’re not my family.
WS: Churchill was your husband’s cousin. His best friend.
GD: I’m telling you he’s not my family.
Thirty-nine
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
When her father passed, he left each of his daughters a sizable trust. Naturally, this sudden influx of riches rendered Gladys Deacon ever more attractive to potential suitors. The “cash for class” business was thriving, this a term invented by Consuelo Vanderbilt herself. Old Coon was quite aware of her position in that particular exchange.
Despite a revolving door of paramours, Gladys saw in the dollars not a dowry but her chance at freedom. She bought her very own Parisian apartment at the Trocadéro and flitted about the best salons, not a care to be had. On weekends she visited Monet in Giverny and consorted with the likes of Renoir, Rodin, and Degas.
Because of this freedom, Gladys endeavored to improve herself in every conceivable way. She understood beauty and money would disappear long before she had a chance to appreciate either. But knowledge, education, and the ability to dazzle at salons, these were qualities age and bad decisions could not erase.
Already a skilled mathematician and almost grotesquely well read, Gladys set out to better understand the art world, an education garnered via a close father-daughter relationship with renowned art critic Bernard Berenson.
What happened to their friendship leaves room for conjecture. They went from touring the world together for months at a time to a permanent severing of communication. Whatever caused the rift must’ve been monstrous given the friendship ended with such bitter finality. On the plus side, not a single person was shot.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
“Bite me, Gus,” Annie said to herself as she climbed up into the windowsill, breaking and entering without compunction. “And you too, Mom, while we’re at it.”
She didn’t mean it, not really, but it was comforting to say. Gus who told her only half the story, then made her feel silly for wanting the other half.
“So they slept together?” she’d asked, when he finished his tale about the wine-slugging.
“I didn’t say that,” he replied.
“So they didn’t sleep together.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Thanks, jerk.
And then there was Laurel, who’d promised a memorable mother-daughter adventure yet they’d spent more time apart than together. Not that their separation didn’t have certain advantages, like more time for Annie to snoop.
With a sigh, she hopped down from the window and scanned the room. Everything appeared the same as before. Using much less caution and far more haste than her first visit, Annie made a straight line toward the opposite end of the house, where she bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“All right, Seton,” Annie said as she stepped into his room. She dropped to her knees and peered beneath the bed with a flashlight. “What did I miss the last time through?”
Among the dust and bug carcasses, Annie uncovered little, only a few more sheets of paper, which she dragged toward her with a stick. Another look indicated there was nothing else to find, at least not beneath the bed. Annie leaped to her feet and crammed the transcripts into her backpack.
“What next?” she said with a small hack. Already her throat felt sore and scratchy, her eyes swollen. She’d have to get out of there soon.
Approaching the typewriter, Annie noticed a half-torn, ragged sheet of paper lodged inside. She turned the knob, which caught on its own rust. Using both hands, she pried and jerked until she finally released the words.
“Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well-you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me.”
—Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth
“I have nearly died three times since morning.”