Pru gave him a shaky smile.
“Another aunt soon followed,” she said. “Then a relative whose genealogy I can’t recall. My parents were viewed as vastly irresponsible but in my first nine years, I lived in one home. In the next nine years, I lived in eight.”
“Blimey, this old man’s heart can’t take it. It’s ripping apart at the mere thought of a wee Valentine amid all that loss and upheaval. Those big eyes, the sweet face. Gutted, I tell you. Simply gutted.”
“It’s fine,” Pru insisted. “Everyone was fine. Nothing was awful. At worst, the guardian-of-the-moment ignored me. Sometimes I got a hug, or a Christmas present. It was no love fest, but if you’re going to be a foster kid, it was a halfway decent fate.”
Pru shimmied out of his grip.
“So,” she said. “There you have it. My own story. I’ll bet you wish you stuck with the explicit drawings.”
“I’m having a hard time digesting this,” Win said, his eyes almost glassy. “God, you were an orphan, weren’t you? Straight out of a Dickens novel, impish and ragtag to boot.”
“A Dickens character?” Pru turned to face him, a smile breaking across her face. “Funny, I thought the same about you. I guess it’s no surprise we ended up in the same book.”
Forty-eight
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
They spent over two hours in the library that night, thumbing through books, quoting the masters, sniggering over Lawrence’s drawings. He had a knack for making the men appear perfect, the women contorted and deformed.
Finally, even Pru had had her fill.
“Might be time to call it a day,” she said. “I’m dizzy from all the books. Or the dust.”
Pru looked down at her hands. Her fingertips were shiny, bearing a slight silver sheen from the pages and the type. She wiped them on her trousers.
“What’s this?” Win said. “Even the highly literary Miss Valentine can tire of books?”
“I think my brain’s not used to all the words. Quick. Get me a spaniel to deworm.”
She nudged a first edition of The Jungle Book back into its shelf.
“What do you plan to do now?” Win asked.
“Uh. Go to bed? Like a normal person?”
“I was not aware normal and boring were synonymous,” Win said. “Come on. You can sleep when you’re dead. Let’s head out for a pop.”
“A pop? Of your dreadful family wine? No, thanks, I don’t want to suffer another three-day headache.”
“I don’t think you can blame the wine quality, it was more a matter of quantity,” he said. “But, no, I was thinking we grab a pint at a proper pub. In town.”
“In town?”
“Sure. The Royal Oak. The George and Dragon. Take your pick.”
Pru weighed the possibility. Other than getting flayed by Mrs. Spencer or ending up in Win’s bed a second time, what did she have to lose? Finishing the Wodehouse suddenly didn’t seem so important.
“You know what?” Pru said. “Let’s do it. Why not?”
“Why not. A jolly good question. Okay. Let’s go. No time to waste.”
Before Pru could regain her judgment, Win hastily ushered her from the library and out onto the road. Win hoped they’d keep a tab for him at the G&D because he didn’t want to bother scrounging up a few quid.
“Are we competing in a race or something?” Pru asked as they clipped along. “If so, I think we’re in the lead.”
“Ha! Funny as always! No, I only want to get there before last call.”
It was nine o’clock.
By the time they bumbled into the George & Dragon, Pru’s nose was running from the cold and also their brisk pace. She looked down and realized she had on slippers, lounging clothes, and no coat.
“Uh, Win,” she said. “We should probably turn around. Look at me! I’m not even properly dressed. This is a bad idea…”
“Of course it’s a bad idea, which is exactly why we’re doing it. Regardless.” He gave her a once-over. “You look rather charming. Quite cute.”
Pru blushed, right on time, and he led her to the back of the pub, ordering up two pints on the way.
“This place is very English,” Pru noted as they sat down.
“How curious. It’s not like we’re actually in England or anything.”
“And you were heckling me for my ‘comedy routine’?”
Without her asking for it, Win yanked off his sweater and tossed it her way.
“The old G and D is a seventeenth-century pub,” he said. “It has most of its original beams and fireplaces.”
“Well, I love it,” Pru said, wiggling into his sweater. “Much better than sitting in your room while you mope about in your underclothes.”
“And yet, last time I did that you stayed the night.”
Pru chuckled as the barkeep dropped off two pints. They each took a sip. Between the sweater and the beer, Pru thawed at once.
“So,” Win said and wiped a line of foam from his top lip. “You’ve told me about your parents, offered a touch of Berkeley to boot, now it’s time to fess up about the rest of it.”