“That too. But I’ll merrily take it all, even if she is still a bit cagey about her title. Tell me, what do you think of our old gal? Prostitution? Kidnappings? Murders? To name the things she was exposed to prior to age twelve.”
“Ironic,” Pru said. “Given she accused me of being fast and a bad influence. But, personally, I prefer Mrs. Spencer’s later years. Like her relationship with Proust.”
“A friendship for the ages.”
“I adore the fact that he chased her around the globe, obsessed with befriending her. Demanding it, really!”
“But she relished the chase.”
“Without question,” Pru said. “Though she did have the good sense to be galled when his dogged pursuit landed her in a Roman jail.”
“Well, it was illegal for priceless art to leave the city,” Win said with a laugh. “And Proust had to find some way to slow Gladys down. He was something, wasn’t he? The neurotic basket case that holed up in a cork-lined bedroom for months at a time. What a spectacle those two must’ve been together.”
“I was telling Mrs. Spencer that a few months back I read à la recherche du temps perdu—”
“Ha! You’re one for slim tomes,” Win said, smiling, eyes wrinkling in the sunlight. “You probably read it in French to boot. I never made it through that unwieldy book, though not for lack of trying. Too many pages, too little plot.”
“Don’t let Mrs. Spencer hear you say that! Proust is not my favorite, but with him, the plot is not the point!”
“Then what is the point?”
“In Search of Lost Time is a study on mankind,” Pru said, her view on the writer softening thanks to Mrs. Spencer. “Quite revolutionary for its day, or even for now. One of my professors insisted it’s hands down the best novel of the twentieth century so far.”
“Count Robert de Montesquiou called it ‘a mixture of litanies and sperm.’”
“I think that’s meant as a compliment, coming from a dandy like him.”
“You know the best bit?” Win asked. “Of her stories and anecdotes and tales?”
He skipped another stone across the pond. The geese squawked and flapped.
“The best part is,” he said. “I think most of it is true.”
Pru chuckled.
“I hope so,” she said. “It’d be a shame for the world to miss out on her.”
Pru extended a hand and Win placed another rock in her palm. She turned and sent it skittering farther and straighter than even his best shot.
“But she hasn’t admitted she’s the duchess,” Pru said. “Which is annoying and strange.”
“But she’s opening up, so for now I don’t mind. And you…” He pointed at her. “I have you to thank for everything.”
“Me? All I did was wake up in your bed, looking like a harlot.”
“Precisely. Lady M. is a jealous cat. Bernard Berenson said about her…” He closed his eyes, remembering. “Among other things, he said that she had ‘the need to dominate, to crush under her heel the heads of those who were weaker than she. Thus no sooner would she see a possible victim than she forgot everything else, even her deepest interests, and would set out to pursue him until she had led him to his end.’”
“So you’re the one she’s pursuing,” Pru said and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “How big of you to think so.”
“It’s not a testament to me. Only to my gender. The duchess wanted nothing more than to be loved. By everyone. Always.”
“Not so unique a wish, when you think about it,” Pru said. “It must’ve hurt, those words coming from Berenson. She loved him so deeply. For a time anyway.”
Win made a face.
“Nah,” he said. “She looked up to him, surely, but it was more akin to a father-daughter, mentor-mentee relationship.”
“He almost left his wife for her!”
“Which makes him about as unique as a housefly. Gladys Deacon wanted every man to love her, even if she didn’t return the sentiment. With Berenson, she had no romantic schemes whatsoever. She simply wanted him to have schemes on her.”
“Rubbish, as you would say. Why else would she spend so much time with him?” Pru asked.
“Gladys Deacon deemed herself the most intelligent and cultured woman in existence but her artistic credentials were feeble. In her mind, Berenson was the only person capable of teaching her something new. She used him for her own benefit, to broaden her mind, and develop new skills to trot out at the salons.”
“She didn’t need Berenson for that,” Pru said. “She was friends with Monet! Degas! Name your artist! No, the Old Masters enthusiasm was a ruse to spend time with Berenson. You can tell by the way she says his name. She’s never once insulted his sexual abilities. She’s insulted Proust’s and he was gay!”
“You’re living in too many novels, sweet Pru. Those two were eons apart in age. Almost fifteen years.”
The same amount of years, as it happened, between Win and Pru.
“Wasn’t Sunny eleven years older?” she asked. “And they got married.”
“To resounding success.”