The man felt a troublesome sensation across his chest. Regret? Sorrow? The realization that this was all a big joke, that he could never hope to be in the position of fending off her advances?
Not that Win had designs on the girl, not exactly. She was indeed beautiful and he’d welcome the flattery of her attentions. But he’d never try to outright seduce the poor thing. She was too forbiddingly innocent for one, so ethereal with that flowing, glossy hair and her bright eyes.
And liberal education aside, the girl lacked a certain practicality. It wasn’t exactly a dearth of sophistication, but something close to it. Pru was polite and mannered, but in the way a schoolgirl might be, as though she were told how to act and had not yet learned it for herself.
Of course Win didn’t know about the dead fiancé, or the things she was trying to get over. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have mistaken her brave and quiet self-confidence for ordinary cluelessness.
“I’m only playing,” Win said at last. He felt bad, as if he’d been caught teasing a scared little girl. “Miss Valentine has acted appropriately at every turn. As you can see, we are both fully dressed.”
“You are in your shorts!” Mrs. Spencer said. “I can see the outline of your willy!”
Pru blushed hard and turned to face the window. She didn’t want Win to notice that she was giggling. But notice he did. She could feel his grin from clear across the room.
“The outline of my willy? Heavens!” Win swung his legs off the side of the bed. “Well, do enlighten me, Mrs. Spencer. How does my willy compare to, say, the Crown Prince of Prussia? The man who owned the Hope diamond? I can assure you its abilities leave women sparkling far more than the diamond itself.”
“Oh please!” Pru said, and bonked her head on the desk. “Dream on!”
Win hobbled toward her, his bones tired from spending all night maintaining an appropriate distance from his unexpected companion. As he walked, Pru tried her mightiest not to catch sight of his legs, which were bare and muscled in a way that brought to mind D. H. Lawrence’s book of explicit renderings.
“Up,” he said.
“Um, what?”
She could not stop staring at his legs. Better those than the “outline of his willy,” of course.
“Up out of my chair, you plotting vixen. I can’t be distracted by your sexual aggressions. I have to write my book.”
“You’re disgusting,” Pru said and tried, once again, for the door. Mrs. Spencer swatted her away.
“I can’t have this,” the old woman said, her voice scratchier by the syllable. “Two of my employees fornicating in my home! We have to contend with enough litters in this place. I’m not sheltering whatever godforsaken offspring the two of you might produce.”
“Which would be far less special than the spaniels,” Win said, and rolled a piece of paper into his typewriter.
“You don’t need to tell me that!”
“Relax, everyone,” Win said. “This is all in good fun. I’m merely trying to get a rise out of the two of you.”
“Getting a rise is precisely my concern!”
“You don’t need to worry about the hired help shagging,” he said. “What you see before you are the aftereffects of a couple of mates sharing a bottle of cheap wine and then promptly passing out. Plus whatever Miss Valentine said about my crack-up. That is also true.”
“Well, I’m delighted to learn you have so much excess time for drinking and losing the plot. I thought you were writing a book. You’re both here to work, by the by.”
“I can’t speak for the innocent young lodger, but as for me, I do swear by the Church on the Hill,” Win said and winked at Pru, “that I’m working hard as I can.”
“Church on the Hill? Not Winston again,” Mrs. Spencer said with a snort.
“Here’s the rub, though,” Win said. “You’ve given me so little to work with I often find myself facing gobs of free time. Can you blame me for befriending the only other employee of the Grange? I’m quite bored and Miss Valentine makes for excellent company.”
“Oh, I’ll bet she does,” Mrs. Spencer huffed. She sat on the bed. Pru inched toward the door. “You’re supposed to be writing my story, Seton. Paying attention to me.”
“Lady, that’s what I’ve been trying to do. Problem is, you’re not giving me the chance.”
Forty-four
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
“Fine. Have it your way,” Mrs. Spencer said, and took to roost at the end of Win’s bed, same as the chickens. “I’ll answer whatever questions you please. Though, as I said, I’m no duchess. Where’s your tape recorder, Seton?”
“Tape recorder?” Win said, stunned and buggy-eyed. “To be honest, I’d rather transcribe our discussions. I’ve grown, shall we say, rather embittered by the recorder. Just ask Miss Valentine over there.”