“Banbury?” Annie blurted, astonished.
She glanced out the window at the Banbury Cross. Sentence number one and already she was getting somewhere. Or, rather, she was there already.
It was cold and wet, she read on, as Banbury preferred to be.
After checking into an inn of middling regard, I stopped by a pub, figuring it was the exact kind of place where news gathered. I ordered a Watneys Red Barrel and set to work.
Four
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 2001
A background for the uninitiated.
By age ten Gladys Deacon had lived in four different countries.
At eleven she was placed in the custody of a convicted murderer. She was kidnapped at twelve.
At sixteen she debuted in London where she met her future husband, who was already married.
By twenty-one she was living independently in Paris, in an apartment she owned alone.
In 1906, at the age of twenty-five, Gladys cemented her friendship with Marcel Proust, which led to friendships with the most eminent writers of the era: Hardy, Wharton, Waugh. And of course Henry James.
Then there were the men, her incalculable lovers, too many to list as the index to a book should never be longer than the story itself. It suffices to say that by the time she married, Gladys had run through a roster of bachelors, eligible and otherwise. She dated the Duke of Norfolk, Roffredo Caetani, the Duke of Camastra, poet Robert Trevelyan, French politician Aristide Briand, General Joffre, and Lord Francis Pelham-Clinton-Hope, owner of the Hope diamond. Unfortunately forty-five carats was not sufficient diamond weight when the suitor also had a wonky leg.
For a time Gladys Deacon was engaged to the Crown Prince of Prussia, a tall, blond, shy sally of a man. The arrangement fell apart because she was not a princess and did not like being reminded of it. A shame, that. Their marriage would’ve created a German-American alliance and, they say, prevented the First World War.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
They’d been in Banbury for three days.
The land deal was already rocky, the terms changing by the hour. Laurel attended one meeting after another. Annie considered tagging along as there were only so many quaint streets to meander, a limited number of townsfolk to chat up. The limestone cottages were cute, yes, but there were so damned many of them.
“Castles,” Laurel said. “There are some beautiful castles nearby. Plus, London! We have to do London. I promise we’ll act like proper tourists soon. I even brought a fanny pack and a list of ways to embarrass you.”
Castles were fine, fanny packs or not. London would be exciting. But at that point Annie would’ve settled for a few meals that weren’t rushed, one conversation that didn’t involve rumination on negotiating tactics. Her mother promised sightseeing. She promised bonding and “plenty of time for heart-to-hearts.” Laurel’s heart didn’t seem to be in it. Her mother had never felt so far away.
“Could we get married on the farm?” Annie tried over breakfast one morning. “We’ll keep it low-key, of course. A real bootstrap kind of affair.”
Best to broach prickly topics with talk of budgets, she decided. Laurel wouldn’t be able to resist such levelheadedness and thrift.
“You never have to ask to use the farm,” Laurel said. “It’s as much yours as it is mine. In any case let’s not worry about that now. When we go to London, what plays do you want to see?”
“We’ll keep it small. The wedding. Close friends, family. Not that we have much of either.”
Annie had been awake most of the night, trying to figure out how she’d track down her father’s side of the family to invite them to the wedding. Maybe she’d get Oprah involved, though illegitimate horse farm girls were not so sad a tale.
“Annabelle, what’s that face?”
She mentally cursed Eric and his sweet-talking, married-three-decades parents. She had met them once, at a semidisastrous meal in Georgetown. Over a plate of fried calamari, they asked what her daddy did. Annie admitted she didn’t know and the whisky pounding ensued. At the time she hadn’t even known he was dead.
“Are you all right?” Laurel asked.
“Oh, um. Yes. I’m fine.”
“Well, what’s your answer?”
“Answer? About what?”
“The shows you want to see! Are you sure everything’s okay? You don’t seem yourself.”
Funny. Laurel didn’t seem herself, either.
“Annie?”
“Yes, yes.” She shook her head. “Everything’s good. Whatever. We can see whatever. Just, uh, don’t make me see Les Miz again.”
She liked Les Miz, but what did it matter? Annie had very little faith the trip to London would happen at all.
Five
THE GEORGE & DRAGON
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
OCTOBER 2001
“Hello!” Annie stood in the doorway, searching for a host. She caught the bartender’s eye. “Table for one?”
“Sit wherever you’d like.”
He gestured to the room.