“What I want is to stay longer than a day.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do it. We have to go home. I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”
“It’s the writer, isn’t it?” Annie said. “Memories of him. The home you’re giving up. I think you feel guilty.”
Laurel shook her head, then nodded. She sighed and shook her head again.
“Guilty’s not the right word,” Laurel said. “It’d be silly to hang on to a house just because of a few good months.” She snorted. “They weren’t even that good. It’s a miracle I didn’t end up with pneumonia or Lyme disease.”
“Mom, I have to ask,” Annie said. “Do you know where he is? The writer? Have you tried to track him down?”
“I did try once,” she said. “Long ago. It ended badly.”
“That sounds like something Mrs. Sp—the duchess would say.”
“Oh, Bernard Berenson? Yes, that did not end well. Quick, let’s change the subject.”
“Ha,” Laurel said. “You’re right. She would say that.”
“Do you think the duchess loved Berenson?” Annie asked.
“What?” Laurel wrinkled her forehead. “Berenson? Where is this coming from?”
“You thought she loved Berenson, didn’t you? The art critic not the duke.”
Laurel nodded.
“That’s what I believed, yes. Still believe, I suppose, though I haven’t thought about it in years. But, you’re correct. In my opinion, Gladys Deacon only married the duke because she’d acted as his mistress for so many years. And she only did that because Berenson chose to move to the States with his wife.” Laurel exhaled, blowing a long, wavy lock of hair from her face. “But who knows. It’s only a theory. And probably a biased one at that.”
“Well, I have my own theory,” Annie said as her mom glimpsed repeatedly at the board.
“Honey, I have to get to the track…”
“Here’s what I think. In the end, the duchess didn’t love either. She wanted to love one or both, to love anyone really, but after a hundred years came up short.”
“Wow,” Laurel said. “That’s depressing.”
“It happens.”
“Geez, I’d expect a newly engaged girl to have a more idealistic view of the world.” Laurel reached in for a hug. “I’m sorry. I have to run. My train is arriving.”
As Laurel squeezed her, Annie felt like she was touching some other person, not the woman she’d lived with for a lifetime.
“Do something fun,” Laurel said. “You have the credit card. Use it however you want.”
“Bye, Mom,” Annie said, confused and hurt and not sure why. “Safe travels.”
As Laurel walked away, marching at her typical Laurel Haley quick clip, Annie remained in place, staring at the departures board.
Kings Sutton.
Bicester North.
Haddenham & Thame Parkway.
She turned and walked toward the ticket booth.
“Hello there,” she said to a woman in a blue smock. “Do you have a train to Paris?”
The woman snickered.
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” she said. “I’d love a one-way ticket to Paris myself right about now. No, dear, if you want to get to Paris, it requires a bit of a rigmarole.”
She leaned out her window and pulled a map from its bin on the wall.
“Here.” She laid it out in front of Annie, and then made several circles with a black Sharpie. “First you take the train to London Marylebone. About an hour’s ride. Then Marylebone to St. Pancras. Change trains there and two and a half hours later you’ll find yourself at Gare du Nord in Paris!”
“That doesn’t sound too complex,” Annie said and folded up the map. “When’s the next train to Marylebone?”
“We have a 10:40.”
“Oh! No! That’s too soon.”
Annie didn’t want to risk running into Laurel at the station.
“Okay…” the woman said, eyeing her dubiously. “There’s also the 11:04, and the 11:40…”
Paris. Could Annie really go to Paris? Gus said the writer was there, and she still had Win’s luggage tag in her jeans.
“Would you like a ticket, dear?” the woman asked.
“Um…”
So far there was Gus’s story on the one hand, and Laurel’s on the other, but what about Win’s? His story was in print but The Missing Duchess and the tapes in Annie’s backpack were surely not all he had to say.
“Miss? There’s a queue forming behind you. If you don’t mind terribly—”
“You know what?” Annie thwacked her mom’s credit card on the counter. “Yes. Please. One ticket to Gare du Nord by way of London. Paris, here I come.”
Sixty-two
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
FEBRUARY 1973
“Miss Valentine! Seton!”
Mrs. Spencer stood in the doorway, looking rabid.
“They’re here! The people! They’re back!”
Pru was in no mood for another one of Mrs. Spencer’s fits. She’d just told Win that she loved him and he’d given no response. How was it possible for a full-grown man to be so thick?
“You don’t have anything to say?” Mrs. Spencer howled.