Chapter Ten
After the prerequisite paperwork and forms came through for the complexities of two foreigners being joined together as one, we were married in Verona — no fuss, no guests, only the necessary witnesses and our vows.
We exchanged rings from a local jewelry shop afterwards; then had gelato in the afternoon sun as we walked back to the hotel I had booked for us in the city — not that the anonymity of my name mattered, since Sidney”s had now been recorded with his home government for requesting documents pertaining to identity and marital status. Another reason he couldn”t linger in this city.
Only two days together afterwards in the city of Romeo and Juliet, before time ran out for Sidney”s money and incognito status. He was leaving, and I was staying, at least for another day or two. Then I would go back to England for a couple of weeks and focus on Arnold”s to-do list for an author at the top of the game; Sidney would settle into his new hiding place, and redouble his writing efforts.
I woke the morning of his departure, when the sun flooded through the curtains and touched my face. My eyes opened to white sheets, rich damask drapes, and luxurious walls of coral pink. A vase of lilies on the table beside an empty champagne bottle and two glasses. A room with me as its only occupant. I had a vague awareness of movement in the early hours, the sound of a duffel bag zipped, and a goodbye kiss on my cheek that had tried not to wake me.
The pillow that still had the indent of another”s head, and the traces of another”s scent. I folded it against me in an embrace, my left thumb experimentally twisting the matching gold band on my finger, which still felt new and unfamiliar.
It was identical to the one Sidney now wore, except for the custom engraving inside each one.”If I had time and words enough”was inscribed in mine, for his deliberate poetical misquote about what he could never have enough of to express his feelings.
On the inside of his, the significant words of Poe to express how it was given:”With a love that was more than love”.
I sat up, brushing back my hair, tucking it back from my face. His luggage was gone, the bag of clothes and the typewriter”s case, and only a note was left behind on the table, surrounded by a heart he had formed from the rose petals which had accompanied the hotel”s complimentary bottle of champagne.
”I didn”t want to wake you to say goodbye. Call me when you leave for England. I”ll call you when I”m sure of my plans and the place I”m going, even if I”m tossing a coin to decide. Come join me when your whirlwind book tour is over, if I don”t come back to you before then. In the meantime, you know where my heart is, and where it wants to be, always.
With all my love, Sidney
I folded the note again, and sat back on the bed, the soft mattress of a four-star hotel suite. Euphoria of love versus reality of circumstance. I was missing him already, and the flood of emotions was rising fast. I knew he was weighing his options somewhere, unsure whether to call an old friend or buy a tent and pitch it in on the commons of some warm climate.
A deep exhale came from my chest. I should have taken down the names of his friends, the few from uni to whom he might turn. I was going to have to wait for his decision, and endure the needles of that suspense inside me.
One more day of walking around the historic streets, thinking of Shakespeare”s tragic play and the lines of his sonnets, before I knew I was ready to go home. I had told Arnold that I would stop in Cornwall before I came into town to do the vlog interview for the casting decision for the movie version ofThe Celestine Man, and the much-dreaded Q and A and book signing, scheduled at Pond Books. No reason to linger remained to me, with Sidney gone, perhaps to somewhere in England if I was lucky.
I packed my things the following morning at the break of day, and took the first train that would take me to the first flight to England. When it touched down in Heathrow, I made my way from the exit gate to the train station platform to Paddington.
Sidney”s mobile didn”t connect, meaning he was out of range, as I feared. ”It”s me, just calling to say I”m in the city again. I”ll try again later, before I catch my next train.”
He would have reception again, I told myself, trying not to feel as if that note was the last contact I would have with him for some time.You know how spotty his satellite connection is in some parts of the world.So maybe Morocco was one of them.
By evening, I would be making tea in Dean”s kitchen, feeding the dogs and Yo-Yo their dinner, and settling down with another chapter ofMarianaor the notes for my next novel. It should take shape nicely somewhere between the melodramatic chick lit, the fresh loss, and the feeling of being so in love with another person that I could feel its pulse through every avenue of my life at present.
Like champagne to the blood, it was charging through my system, that first realization of what I had done, and what it all meant. The moment that began with the star flower from the grass concluded in the absolute confession of love. It had become an indelible living memory, from the smell of shrubbery outside the door toGuarienti Hall to the laughter of two children who had showered us with rose petals from an upstairs window, when we left hand in hand. No longer two lives totally independent of each other.
I had texted my mom.I have big news — good news — coming in the next few days.I didn”t want to call her yet in the midst of all this, not to tell her that I had eloped with Sidney.
Not that she would be surprised, only reproachful about how. I could already hear the objections mixed in with the congratulations.”I wanted to see your happy day, I can”t believe you didn”t call me first .... Oh, baby, I”m so glad for you. I hope this is what you”ve always wanted.”Soon enough, those words would be reality on the other side of the pond, on the other end of a phone”s receiver.
The only trouble was, she would expect to speak with Sidney, who wasn”t available. That wouldn”t be easy to explain until I told her all the rest of the truth.
The shuttle train brought me to the next station, with time to spare before my next train. I wheeled my rolling suitcase through the crowd of passengers disembarking and boarding in separate waves of the human sea, making my way towards my next destination, the next train leaving for Newquay”s station.
Sidney and I had taken it together several times as of late, shuttling from London to Cornwall with our separate lives packed up from his flat and mine. Now, if things had been different, we might have taken this train together, taking that long ride to talk about what we were going to do with our lives joined as one.
I wished that the time together after that decision had not been so fleeting; that he didn”t have this desperate push inside himself to finish the book. Some of that pressure would have been lifted if Byron had only listened. Who couldn”t be content to leave him alone and let it happen the only way it could — the way it was meant to, not coming together in bits and pieces on the road, where no one could corner him for another tell-all interview about the past.
He wouldn”t listen to Sidney, but would he listen to someone else?Someone who had more authority in the literary world maybe, at least more of it than either Sidney or me.
I hadn”t been planning to stop in London yet, for a variety of reasons. The afternoon train to Cornwall was due soon, and it would take me home to the life to which Sidney was planning to return as soon as possible. Then we would figure out how to approach these things, together. There would be time to figure out the rest later, if we had to pick up more broken pieces of our hopes and plans.
That”s what I needed to do — go home, as we agreed. Only my mind, suddenly, was having trouble agreeing with the first step of that plan.
My feet edged back from my prime position on the train platform, although the Newquay train was due shortly. I reached down and extended my suitcase”s handle, turning and wheeling it back towards the exit. The Tube station was a stone”s throw away, but I thought I might take a cab instead. That was one of the perks of being a successful writer that Arnold was always telling me to embrace.
There was a cab waiting in a not-very-busy queue, and with my suitcase loaded in the boot, I slid into the back seat.
”Where to?” the driver asked.
”Saxx and Brighton Publishing House, please,” I said. ”In Golden Square.” I took a deep breath into my lungs, taking assessment of my situation. Raindrops had pattered my cheeks just before I climbed into the car, now drying slowly on my skin. It streaked down the glass as the windscreen wipers darted back and forth, the cab nosing its way through a crowded intersection”s stalemate.
The publisher”s HQ was an elegant brick facade in the same block as an upscale solicitor”s office and a private investment firm. Separate office facilities in the busy financial sector housed newer acquisitions, sub-branches, and a large part of the editorial staff, but this was the heart of the publishing house, where its chief editor and the top six editors for fiction and nonfiction worked with their assistants and close staff, including Helen Corton.
I shook the rain from my coat as the cab turned away. I was glad now that I was wearing my nice coat and a wool hat, as well as clothes that didn”t look too shabby, including the Mary Jane style shoes of tooled Spanish leather. Maybe I would look like someone who deserved an impromptu appointment — a writer of the extremely successful variety, not just one top-selling book.
I opened the door and walked into the main foyer, where a young man was switching between two digital screens and talking on a Bluetooth earpiece.
”May I help you?” he asked.
”Maybe,” I said. ”I was hoping to see Helen Corton today, if she”s in.”
”She is ... but she”s in a meeting with the publishing head today,” he said, in a reluctant tone of voice. ”No appointments available today, I”m afraid. She”s absolutely swamped this week. But I can take a message?”
Disappointment caught my tongue for a moment, although I should have expected it wouldn”t be easy to see someone of her stature. ”Um, I suppose,” I answered. ”I”ll be in town for another day, at least. Tell her Maisie Clark stopped by, and wanted to speak to her about something important.”
”Can do.” He made a note, and flashed me a bland smile. This was me being dismissed.
”Is there a good coffee shop nearby?” I asked. I felt chilled suddenly, from both the rain and my disappointment. Something to boost me afterwards would be helpful. ”Where it”s okay to sit and linger?”
”Try Bentley”s, one lane over,” he suggested. ”The Caribbean roast is good, and they have biscotti.” He answered the next phone call. ”Saxx and Brighton main office.”
I opened my little pocket umbrella and made my way into the weather again. Something Caribbean would be better than nothing. Biscotti from a London coffee house, however, would not be the same after tasting them from the bakery in Venice.
Sunny Italy was far away now. London”s drizzle was all mine today, as I sipped my coffee and wondered if I would have been better off sticking to the plan and taking the train to Newquay. The city wasn”t where I wanted to be, even if it was where I needed to be at present. Love made obligations hard.
My phone beeped.We should meet whilst you”re in the city — I think it”s time to talk details for the LA trip for the first week of filming. Also, the next manuscript, is that in the works? Hint hint? Fans of your book are mad for another story!It was Arnold”s usual cheer, which poked a little smile to my lips, even though the message below it in the inbox had one of Brad”s snarky email headings.
”I see you chose to linger. Fortunately for me.” The sound of Helen”s voice sent a ripple of shock through me. I looked up to find the editor standing by my table, armed against the weather with a smart-looking trenchcoat and waterproof shoulder bag. ”May I sit down?”
”Of course.” I moved aside my suitcase. ”I thought you were in a long meeting.”
”Let”s say that there are standard lines which a good assistant employs,” said Helen, with that inscrutable smile. ”He told me who wanted an appointment. I decided that if you needed to see me, it would be for a conversation worth having.”
She sat down, and ordered a small coffee. In the wake of surprise, I tried to gather my thoughts and make small talk out of them, to be polite leading into my purpose, then let them slip away. I folded my hands. It was better to begin at the first and important point that would make the rest happen.
”I want to talk to you about Alistair Davies,” I said.
”Really?” She seemed slightly amused — thinking, possibly, that I wanted a ”coffee and natter” with his artistic gatekeeper, much like the early days when I made her acquaintance whilst under Alli”s wing. That would be an irrational reason for anyone to summon an editor of her caliber on short notice, barring close camaraderie. She and I didn”t share that kind of connection, it goes without saying. So I owed her further explanation.
”More specifically, I need to talk to you about the person he really is,” I continued. ”The person I know.” Now that I had started, it was easier to keep going.
She was quiet. There was not a trace of surprise, although I imagined she probably felt it when this topic was raised. ”How do you know him?” she asked. ”Since the story was released? I presume so, since you were Alli”s protege when I met you, and undoubtedly, it didn”t take you long to speak to her about it.”
”I”ve known him for a long time,” I said. ”He told me before it came out about Alli. We”re very close. Strange as it might seem, actually.” I decided not to say how close, given how new my status was. Under the table, my finger twisted the ring I was wearing, which still felt loose in its new place.
Only the barest hint of surprise in Helen”s eyes for my confession. That masterful professional expression barely ruffled in response. ”It wasn”t the shock to you that it was to the rest of us, I see.”
I shook my head, then nodded. ”Last time I saw you, I knew you still had no idea,” I answered. ”He wanted it kept secret. It came out by accident.” I hesitated. ”I didn”t ask you then how you felt about it, but I knew that Alli”s revelation must have been a shock.”
I could see the change in Helen”s smile. ”Unexpected and enlightening might be better ways of putting it,” she answered. ”To confess, there were aspects of Alli”s facade that never fit the books I edited on her behalf which always troubled me. Finding out she wasn”t the real author provided answers as well as more questions. It was a relief to know that my instincts when it came to the writer didn”t fail me — they were as solid as my instinct regarding the books themselves.”
”Have you met him?” I asked. ”He”s been back to London. I never asked if he met with you.”
”No,” she said. ”I didn”t ask. Perhaps in the future he might decide to do it. I would like to meet him in person — to answer my curiosity about some aspects of his novels, if for no other reason. But I feel as if I know him in an indirect manner after so many years of close contact with his work.”
She changed the subject here. ”I know this may seem blunt, but I doubt you wanted to talk to me about this shocking revelation after months have passed,” she said. ”You must have had a different reason to come to my office, despite what you said.”
”I know. Some of it sounds hard to believe. It”s part of a long story, but I have to shorten it at present. Simply put, the real author — Alex — needs the contract clause about the fourth book to be waived. It”s not that he doesn”t want to finish the book — he does — but the pressure is intense, between the media explosion and his agent pushing him to make more out of the image. He doesn”t know if he can do it, and he wants another option to start over with — in case that”s the reality.”
It became quiet. Helen didn”t say anything, and I felt vulnerable suddenly, although the secret I was talking about was generally known. The part about writer”s block was only expressed in vague terms in the articles, but I already knew she suspected it. I hoped she believed that I was telling the truth and not exaggerating.
”His agent came to see him a couple of weeks ago,” I said. ”That”s when he explained things to Byron, who didn”t see any reason to help him. So I was wondering if you could help him somehow. Can you change the publishing house”s side of the deal?”
”I”m afraid I have no power over the contracts,” she answered. ”My hands are tied. Alistair Davies had a legitimate contract and more than ample time to review it before signing.”
”Isn”t there an exception for extenuating circumstances?” I asked. ”If the writer signed in good faith, but something goes wrong?”
”I suppose, but it isn”t my department,” she said. ”I could make inquiries, but the agent holds the responsibility. The publisher only needs to change it if they see fit to do so, usually through direct negotiations with the author”s representative only.”
More disappointment. I swallowed it, and did my best to look as if I accepted this reality. ”I understand,” I said. ”I only hoped ... maybe you could make an exception.”
”I”m sorry,” said Helen, quietly. ”I have the impression that you are close to him. I see why you would come here on his behalf. Even if he were with you, it wouldn”t be different, however.”
She sipped her coffee as we sat in another quiet patch of conversation. ”I must admit, I”m surprised by this situation,” she said to me. ”I remember when you were an unpublished writer asking me to give your work a fair evaluation. This wasn”t how I envisioned us meeting again someday.”
”I thought my status as a superfan wouldn”t make this all that surprising,” I said. ”I wanted to help him. He helped me — he even told Alli to help me, after he knew about her befriending me, but I turned it down. Still, I”m not crazy enough to think he”ll finish the fourth book because he feels he has no choice.”
”No, I meant because of how strongly you feel about your own work,” she said. ”You always fought your own battles. You doing it for another author, whilst noble, is in direct violation of your own code.”
”My code doesn”t apply to other people”s problems, just my own,” I said. ”Anyway, he doesn”t know. I”m doing this because he needs me to, and he doesn”t think there”s any chance to change things.”
Helen listened, her poker face giving me no clues. ”I withdraw my previous assessment,” she said. ”I think you may well be one of the most determined people I”ve met.”
I blushed. ”It”s not that, it”s mostly impulse and heedlessness,” I said. ”He doesn”t know where I am, he thinks I”m in Cornwall. I have no idea where he is, because he”s still trying to keep out of reach of the reporters for a little while.” My tone softened. ”That”s what I want to change, so he can avoid all the conflicts he never wanted after the book became famous.”
Helen”s hands cradled her porcelain cup, as if it contained answers and not merely coffee. ”You are a writer within and without,” she said. ”You live for the experience of the story and that is what makes you both a survivor of its wreckage when success failed you, and the victor hoisting the flag atop the heap now. That strength shouldn”t be wasted trying the impossible, but accepting challenges that are yours alone to face and conquer.”
”Maybe it”s not impossible,” I said. Quietly. ”And maybe this is my challenge. We”re talking about the future of someone I care about very deeply.” I swallowed. ”Words in a contract, or words that professionals say to each other, those aren”t carved into rock, or constitutional law.”
”Not if the parties are open-minded, no,” said Helen. ”But I know the editor in chief of Saxx and Brighton well enough to tell you that he sees writers as fickle. I don”t think you would change his mind, or that meeting the real Alistair Davies would, either. Not in the time frame you have in mind at any rate.”
She placed aside her coffee. ”Let me give you one more piece of advice,” she said, and touched my hand. ”If you want to solve this problem, find a way that”s within your reach. Doing something to make a difference can be as good as seeking the unattainable solution, even if it seems like the only one.”
”If only I could think of another one, I would,” I said. ”Believe me, I”m open to other suggestions.”
”I wish I had them,” said Helen, sympathetically. She rose, shouldering her bag again. ”Sometimes, time helps us see both our problems and our strengths in a different light, so don”t give up hope.”
She held out her hand and shook mine. ”Before I go, let me say also that I was disappointed by the reasons you wanted to see me.”
”You were?” I had thought she would be intrigued. I had envisioned her as an editor who would be keen to know more about Alistair Davies as a real person, and that he needed the help of his editor. If anybody had a stake in his future, it was the woman who brought his talent to the world”s attention.
”I was hoping you had come to see me about a different book,” she said. ”Yours.” She smiled. ”I suppose it isn”t meant to be, much like the elusive fourth novel that I”m no closer to reading.”
If only you knew.It was a strange feeling to hear her say that about my own work. Had Helen the eminent editor hoped that my career”s path had led me to her?
”I”m sure I”ll see you again in the future,” said Helen. ”Until then, I wish you luck. I doubt you need it, however. I think you”re too resourceful.” She smiled again. ”Give my greetings to the real Alistair. Tell him I hope to meet him someday.”
She paid for her coffee. I gazed down at my own, preferring not to watch the rain drizzle down the windows.
I had struck out, not that it was surprising. I held hope that I might be able to at least stir Helen”s pity to offer some advice on bending the ear of someone who could help. The fourth novel seemed to have an inexplicable allure, a kind of power that held the parties transfixed by its potential. Whether it was money, literary greatness, or a winning journalism scoop depended on which person was being asked to give up the dream of it and support a different one in its place.
Maybe this is no different than being the reader who wanted desperately for him to become a writer again, when he could have followed a different path.That was not my real feeling on the matter, although I had to consider the possibility in case I was in denial. Had I been as supportive in reality of his Norway option as I thought I was? Perhaps Byron and the publisher were simply more blatant and honest in their fixation on the prize than I was.
The coffee felt cold, not that I had sipped very much of it in the past few minutes, when Helen was here. I could think of no other options to help Sidney, whose location was still unknown. I wondered if he had heard my message.
I switched it on and checked it again. One message from Sidney, a lengthy text cramming in all its details against reason and expense.”Call won”t go through. Didn”t catch train to Morocco. I”m going to the place Dean would have chosen instead. I”ll send the address when my signal comes back. Are u safe? Text and tell me.
I switched open the message blank.Are you there? In London, left you a voicemail. Where is the place you”ve chosen? You didn”t say.He had referred to it once as the ”option” Dean preferred or had in mind, but I had failed to ask him what this meant, exactly, unless he was talking about staying with the Greshams. They would certainly keep quiet about him joining them — somehow I had a feeling this was not what he meant, however.
A long sigh escaped me. Dean”s cottage would be dank smelling from being empty except for Yo-Yo, whose spilled food would go unswept by Callum, who was only checking in for necessary purposes, but would be tidied by Mrs. Graves if she came by. By now, the dogs were probably getting worried that neither I nor Sidney was coming back. But I couldn”t take the late train, because there was something else I needed to do in this city.
My cab drove me to the posh Kensington neighborhood where I had not been in some weeks, letting me out in front of the townhouse”s front door. I reached for my suitcase and carried it with me, as if pretending it could be taken for a large carryall instead of an obvious sign that I was in town to stay for a brief time. Maybe I wouldn”t be invited in and it would save me the trouble of making an excuse.
I rang the door”s buzzer and waited, putting on my most polite smile. Inside, my stomach churned, thinking of the last time I had been here, when I had stormed out. Would that be the first thought in Adele”s mind? Would she suspect I came back for a rematch?
I expected either Hollis or Erin to answer, but it was Adele herself instead. She gazed at me, impassively, as I tried to find the words to tell her why exactly I was here. She saved me the trouble of it, her gaze falling squarely on my left hand.
”So he was telling the truth on the phone,” she said. Flatly. Without another word, she turned and retreated, leaving me standing in front of the open door to the hall.
So much for the need to confess what we had done.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, assuming the command to enter was implied by the door being left as it was. The foyer”s tasteful artisan wallpaper and oppressively-large floral arrangement closed around me, as if trying to squeeze me out. I could smell the lightly-scented potpourri that brought back dozens of dinner parties here, when I was Sidney”s unwanted girlfriend. Being the woman he chose for a lifetime was not going to improve the welcome.
I breathed out, another sigh, as I set my bag on the hall carpet. ”I am the new Mrs. de Winter,” I murmured.
________________________
Adele was in the sitting room, gazing out the windows facing the back garden. I hesitated before I entered the room. ”I take it Sidney — Alex — called you,” I said.
She gave me a look. Cold and insolent, as I expected, probably for the stupidity of my question. ”Never mind, I was just making polite conversation,” I said. ”I only wanted to come by and tell you on my way home, in case you didn”t know. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
”To gloat, I imagine.” Her tone was dry.
”No, not at all,” I answered. ”This isn”t one big competition, Adele. You haven”t lost anything.”
A short laugh rasped from her throat. ”Haven”t I?” she answered. ”Only my son”s last chance for sanity in life, which may seem trivial enough to you.”
I bit my lip, refraining from a reply. ”Before you accuse me of eloping with him, I didn”t,” I said. ”He”s been in Italy for weeks now. He proposed to me when I came to see him and I accepted.”
”I am to assume from this he”s still squatting in some tenement in Rome, or wherever he”s been living as of late.” To my surprise, she opened a cigarette case from the window table”s drawer. Adelesmoking?
I was momentarily taken aback, not by this, but by her words, which put me in an uncomfortable position. ”No, he”s left Italy,” I said. ”I think he”s planning to come back to England, possibly. He needed to change his plans so he could avoid more press prying into the story.”
”I”m aware of their prying without having it pointed out to me,” said Adele. A tone in itself like pointed slivers of glass.
I heard a footfall behind me and moved aside as Hollis entered. ”There is a suitcase in the hall, Ma”am,” he said. ”I trust it belongs to your visitor?”
”It does,” said Adele. ”Miss Clark — my apologies ...Ms.Davison ... will be staying, I assume. You may take it upstairs.” She removed a cigarette lighter from the little antique Asian jewelry box on the table, and paused. ”Calling you ”Miss Clark” is hardly permissible at this juncture. I assume, that is.”
I didn”t suppose it was, although I hadn”t thought about it. Would I change my name? Was it legally changed already?
”Maybe it”s time for you to call me ”Maisie,”” I suggested. ”I would still like it if you would.” Maybe there was there still a chance we could be friends — or enemies with a truce — as doubtful as it seemed.
”It isn”t a choice now, is it?” That sharp tone was doing its best to cut me. ”I assume you”ll be staying until Alex turns up. Whenever that may be.” She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. I wondered if her doctor knew about this covert habit, and how inappropriate it was with regards to her health condition. Had we driven her to this — Sidney telling her we were married? Her final hopes for a suitable wife dashed?
”Not that long,” I answered her. ”I”m leaving in a day or two. I only stopped off because I had some business in the city before I take the train to Cornwall.”
”So you are staying. Won”t that be lovely.” The tone was definitely succeeding in its efforts to hurt. Adele exhaled a long breath. ”I”ll tell Erin to expect an additional guest at dinner.” She stubbed her cigarette out, as if realizing she”d given in to a terrible urge. ”Poppy is in the living room if you care to join her.”
She left me alone in the room, going off to find the cook in the kitchen, presumably. I watched the smoke curl up from the onyx ash tray by the fireplace, then went through to the hall again, and into the living room which had played host to all the pre-and-post-dinner cocktails of my recent past.
Poppy, Sidney”s ”sort of” cousin was at the window seat”s nook, unboxing a delivery package with a pair of folding pocket scissors. She turned as I came in, and gave me a sympathetic grimace.
”Poor darling,” she said. ”I heard the smash up from here when you arrived.”
”It wasn”t the most welcoming committee,” I conceded. ”But ... I can”t say I blame her. It was probably a shock. Hearing he married someone without telling her beforehand.”
”Alex texted.” Poppy removed her purchase, a set of driving gloves. ”He told me to be an ally to you. Seeing as I”m practically family, and all the willing part of it he can rely on.”
She placed the box beside the ornate little rubbish can. ”You must be shattered after such a long trip,” she said. ”Would you like some tea? I”ll ring for Erin.”
I shook my head. ”No, thanks, I”m fine.” I realized suddenly that I was now, legally-speaking, on equal terms with this unofficial clan of Adele. A strange thought, after I had grown used to feeling inferior, like the outcast on the fringe of their circle.I am the new Mrs. de Winter, after all.
”Aunt Adele will grow used to it, you know,” she said.
”Will she?” My reply was that of chagrin.
”It”s not as if she had absolutely no warning. It was obvious that he was besotted with you from the moment you arrived at Lewiston for his party. When you came back, I suspected it was the death knell for any notions she had about that girl Annette she was so keen on him finding desirable ... or that Scandinavian one she fancied so mightily at the last.”
”So ... you don”t mind that I married Alex,” I said.
”It isn”t as if it”s my business, is it?” Poppy sounded mystified that I would even ask. ”Anyway, Alex always does whatever he decides once his mind is set, and he”s certainly old enough to marry whomever he wants. I only hope you”ll both be very happy.”
She rose, and gave me a dry little kiss on the cheek. ”Better dress for dinner,” she said. ”Aunt Adele rather expects it of the city crowd who dines on Thursdays. She”ll be livid otherwise.”
She brushed past me and exited the room. Forget about the change of name or status — I felt exactly as I always did in this house.