Pru was thinking the exact same thing.
“Mrs. Spencer,” she said. “Now is not a good time.”
“Actually…” Win glanced at Pru with a jittery smile. “I think you arrived at the optimal time. Saved by the bell. Close one, Miss Valentine. You’ll thank Mrs. Spencer later.”
“You really are something else,” Pru said.
She was not one for middle fingers but desperately wanted to use both right then. As usual, Win was under the boundless misconception that he had sufficient humor to get himself out of a thorny situation. With one well-timed joke, everyone might tee-hee along and forget what transpired. Unfortunately he’d never done the math, thus didn’t realize this worked for him zero percent of the time.
“Something strange is going on,” Mrs. Spencer noted.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Pru began.
“That’s nice. But I don’t actually care. I have bigger problems than the two of you.”
“I love him,” Pru blurted.
“Beg pardon?” Mrs. Spencer’s eyes bugged.
“That’s what he meant by ‘saved by the bell,’” Pru said. “I told Win that I loved him and he clammed up. You saved him from admitting he is capable of real, genuine feelings.”
“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Of course you love him. And he loves you. But if everyone can stop making googly-eyes at one another, we need to focus on me.”
“Look at him!” Pru said. “Just look at him! He has that stupid dumb look on his face. Ugh, I am so disgusted with myself.”
“He displays many dumb looks on his face, dear. And this type of behavior is why he’s unmarried and living with us.”
“Don’t mind me. You two carry on like I’m not here,” Win said. “Alas, it’s true, I’m a horrible, sophomoric individual who deserves the station in which I find myself.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Pru said.
“Now that we’re all in agreement,” he said. “Mrs. Spencer, what’s wrong? I’ve never seen you this out of sorts. And that’s saying something. Also, are you aware that your shirt is on backward?”
“I had to take my clothes off in town so they wouldn’t recognize me.”
“Great. Another visit from the police,” Pru moaned.
“Er, um … don’t you think disrobing might’ve had the opposite effect from what you intended?” Win asked.
He desperately wanted to share his astonishment with Pru, but of course she wouldn’t accept any of his lame attempts at camaraderie. He’d cocked up the whole thing as he so often did, their brief, tenuous friendship already strained.
“It was the only way to hide,” Mrs. Spencer said.
“Righto. Hide in the buff,” Win said with a firm nod. “Makes sense. Tell me, who were you hiding from, exactly?”
“The Marlboroughs!”
“Wait,” Pru said. “The Marlboroughs? Sunny’s family? I thought it was Edith Junior you were concerned about.”
“Her too. They’re in cahoots.”
“Are you sure?” Pru said. “Are you sure it was them?”
“I can diagnose that terminally weak Marlborough chin and lemon-frown anywhere. They’re here. They want me out of the way so they can wrest my things from me.”
“Your things?” Win said, eyes flicking around the room: to the books, the broken bed, the single typewriter, much abused. “What things?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Apparently I don’t.”
Suddenly they heard a distinct stumping noise, the sound of boots clomping up wooden stairs. Without a thought, Pru bolted to Win’s side and clutched his arm.
“Mrs. Spencer?” said a voice.
She gripped tighter. Win placed one hand over hers.
“Should we hide?” Pru whispered.
“The gun,” Win hissed. “Where’s the revolver?
“Calm down, you two,” Mrs. Spencer said, for once the voice of reason, the sole unruffled duck. “It’s only Tom.”
“Tom?”
Pru took in a giant swallow of air. Her heart pounded so hard it left little space to breathe. She tried to catch Win’s eyes but looked away again, remembering she was livid.
“Yes,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Tom, my Pole. Normally he stays in the barn but desperate times and all that. Oh, Tom! We’re in here! Come meet the rest of my staff!”
Sixty-three
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
FEBRUARY 1973
One might say Tom materialized in the room, but his entrance was more lumbering than that.
The man was two meters tall, or six and a half feet by Yank standards. He was no rangy thing either, weighing in at around twenty stone, the size of an American football lineman. He moved like one too.
“Tom?” Pru said, gaping.
Tom the Pole was fair-skinned, made almost exclusively of beige. His brow bone was heavy, a hard shelf above his face.
“Tom?” she said again.
His eyes skipped over her with some degree of apprehension. He seemed nervous, almost. Interesting for a man whose hands were the size of Pru’s skull.