“Unless what?” I asked.
“Unless William thinks Uncle Williston knows something about those papers,” Nell replied. “The papers Lucy sent to Aunt Anthea up in Yorkshire.”
“Funny about those papers ...” I took another bite of red pudding and washed it down with a swig of mineral water. “Odd that they should disappear from London just before William shows up, asking questions. I wonder if the deed to number three is as authentic as Lucy claims?”
“Do you think number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, might really belong to William?” Nell asked, her eyes widening.
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone had faked a document to get what he—or she—wanted,” I told her. “I run into it once in a while when I’m hunting rare books for Stan Finderman.” I finished the first pudding and started in on the second. “But why would William want Lucy’s building? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Nell, but my father-in-law isn’t exactly strapped for cash. If he wants an office building in London, he can buy one without blinking.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t want just any office building,” Nell suggested. “William’s awfully fond of tradition. He might want Lucy’s building because it’s been in the family for such a long time.”
“So he can hand it down to his son?” I snorted derisively. “As if Bill would ever give up his empire in Boston ...” I regretted the words the moment they were out, not because I didn’t mean them, but because I hadn’t meant Nell to hear them. She ducked her head and looked quickly out of the window, as though I’d wounded her, and the reproachful glint in Reg’s eyes was enough to make me reach for the telephone. “Speaking of whom,” I said brightly, “I still haven’t returned Bill’s call. I think I’ll do it now.”
Nell glanced at me worriedly. “That’s a very good idea.”
As I dialed Bill’s number at Little Moose Lake, I steeled myself to perform the role of the patient wife—for Nell’s benefit much more than Bill‘s—but the performance was canceled before it began, because there was no answer. None. Not even a frigid “Good evening” from a snooty servant.
Perplexed, I telephoned Bill’s secretary, who’d remained in Boston. He informed me that a potent summer gale had swept inland from the Maine coast, downing power lines and severing communications between certain rural areas and the outside world. He hadn’t heard from Bill all day and had no idea when telephone service would be restored. Nature, it seemed, had joined Fate in a tag-team assault on my marriage.
My frustration was leavened by a tiny grain of malicious pleasure at the thought of my city-bred husband roughing it in a Biddiford-infested wilderness. Even as I explained. the situation to Nell, I savored an image of Bill gnawing doggedly on a piece of beef jerky in the dark. It smacked of divine justice.
Nell seemed reassured, however, so the exercise hadn’t been entirely in vain. “I liked Lucy, didn’t you?” she asked, returning to what I considered to be a far pleasanter topic.
“Very much,” I replied. “I admire her, too. She hasn’t let that creep Douglas get to her, the way he got to Anthea. She’s just starched her upper lip and carried on.” My admiration for Lucy was mingled with a measure of genuine concern. Now that Gerald was gone, she had no one to depend on but two inexperienced younger sisters and that sweet-natured bumbler, Arthur. She was already beginning to fray around the edges. How much longer would it be before she cracked?
“I think Julia Louise would be proud of her,” Nell commented. Giving me a sidelong look, she added, “I also think Lucy’s in love with Gerald.”
I felt myself blush, but nodded my agreement. “I think you’re right. Wish I knew what he’d done to make her so angry with him.”
“There’s that woman he’s seeing at the Flamborough,” Nell reminded me.
“Oh, come on, Nell,” I objected. “You’ve met Gerald. Do you really believe he’d choose a little round dumpling of a woman when he could have his pick of the litter? And who in his right mind would have a tawdry love affair at the Flamborough? Arthur said it himself—it’s the kind of place Lucy takes clients to dine.”
“Used to take clients to dine,” Nell corrected.
“Whatever. I don’t buy it.” I settled back to finish the last of my greasy chips and give the matter some serious consideration. It stood to reason that something was going on between Gerald and the Dumpling, but did it have to be an affair? The Dumpling might as easily be a former colleague. Miss Kingsley and Arthur could have misinterpreted a casual meeting between old friends—Miss Kingsley because of a natural prudishness, and Arthur because his philandering uncle Douglas had predisposed him to see Gerald in the same light.
Gerald might even have encouraged the misunderstanding. He could be using the Dumpling as an excuse to keep Lucy at bay. He and Lucy were first cousins, after all, and though marriages between close relations weren’t unheard of in England, Gerald might have good reason to avoid one in this case. Inbreeding could produce serious complications—Uncle Williston being a prime example.
It was also possible, I acknowledged with curiously mixed emotions, that Gerald didn’t love Lucy. The pressure of working closely with someone whose deepest affections he couldn’t return might have become too much for him. Once his father, Anthea, and Williston had retreated from the scene, things might have gotten too close for comfort. He might have gone to Haslemere to spare himself, and Lucy, further pain.
I felt my heart swell as yet another possibility occurred to me: What if Gerald had made those alleged errors in judgment on purpose? What if he’d sent himself into exile as a gallant way of shielding his lovelorn cousin from humiliation ? I had no trouble believing in that scenario. Gerald had treated me with such tenderness that I couldn’t conceive of his being anything less than honorable where Lucy or the firm was concerned.
Then again, I thought, catching sight of Reginald’s knowing gaze, perhaps I wasn’t an entirely disinterested observer.
Unsettled, I popped the last of the greasy chips into my mouth and rested my head against the back of the seat. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why, with so much else to think about, I was dwelling on Gerald.
Gerald had paid attention. He’d sensed that something was troubling me and gone out of his way to find out what it was, and what he could do to help. Maybe, when all was said and done, that was where love began and what kept it alive: the simple, everyday act of paying attention. Too bad I hadn’t included it in my marriage vows.
Why talk Willis, Sr., out of moving to England? I asked myself suddenly. Why not move with him? I could live with a fax machine at the cottage. I could even live with a photocopier. But I wasn’t sure I could go on living with a husband who no longer paid attention.
Paul’s voice came over the intercom. “Scenic or direct, madam?”
I glanced out of the tinted windows and realized that we’d reached the M25, the great ring road around London ; I had to make a decision about our route. “Direct,” I answered. “How long will it take us to get to Cloverly House?”
“Two hours, barring road works,” Paul replied.
I glanced at my watch. “I hope we get there before closing time.”
“What difference does it make, as long as we find William?” Nell asked.
“Oh, we won’t find William,” I said, slouching against the glove-leather upholstery. “Mark my words. By the time we get there, he’ll be gone and we’ll have to play hunt-the-journal-page again. I wonder If they’ll let us in to see Uncle Williston?” I put my head back and gave a tremendous yawn. I’d expected the food to wake me up, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. Or maybe it was simply the oppression that settled over me when I contemplated my failing marriage. Whatever the reason, I could hardly keep my eyes open.