Chapter 26 The Clippings
THE CLIPPINGS
I was out in the studio, studying a picture of Harmony alongside a picture of Charlie.
It was Tuesday, a week and two days after we got back from the wedding.
Battle and Tempie were in London.
They were returning together tomorrow evening, because the folks from the auction house were coming to get the stuff from the attics, and since it was such a huge job, Tempie wanted to help Prue oversee that, and Prue wanted Tempie’s help.
Battle was coming home because he still worked from The Downs half a week, no longer to be there to look after Chassie, but to be close to me.
And yes, him making that effort, changing his work schedule like that, made me feel all squidgy.
I’d arrived at a place in my book where it was now time to turn my attention to the ill-fated love affair of a duke’s daughter and an injured American soldier.
And for the first time, I was seeing something eerie.
The pictures were in black and white, but even so, Harmony was blonde.
Like me.
She was also not petite or dainty.
Like I wasn’t.
And Great-Granddad Charlie was dark-haired, dark-eyed, tall, fit and handsome.
Like Battle.
Those were the only similarities.
I didn’t look like Harmony, and Great-Granddad Charlie didn’t look like Battle.
But Harmony didn’t resemble any of the other Talyns (and from perusing many pictures, this seemed a trait in that family).
More to the point, I looked not a thing like Great-Granddad Charlie. Neither did Mom or Solène.
I dropped the photos to the desk, telling Snowball, “Now I’m just looking for weird shit to get to me.”
Snowball had no response.
But I knew I was being stupid.
Nothing the least bit strange had happened since the cats tripped me into falling into Chassie’s room, and so much time had passed, I was now feeling like a huge dork that I thought there was anything weird about it.
I gazed out the windows at the rainy, dreary day (Prue told me May and September were usually very fine, but June, July and August were hit and miss, a lot of miss, and the weather was proving her right).
I was doing this gazing while trying to decide if I should go back to my laptop or call the house for an afternoon snack and a Fanta orange, when my phone vibrated.
It was Battle.
I took the call. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied.
My I’m-speaking-to-the-love-of-my-life antennae zinged at the tone in his voice.
Before I could ask after it, he asked his own question.
“Are you writing?”
“No. I was about to call to the house for a snack.”
“So I’m not interrupting?”
Oh yeah.
That tone was still in his voice. I’d just never heard him sound like that before—flat, dull—so it was tweaking me.
“Yes, I can descend into a book,” I reiterated. “Yes, it would annoy me if I was consistently interrupted while writing it. But no, even if I was writing, I’d want to hear from you just because I always want to hear from you. So…what’s up?”
“Mum rang.”
My head shook so violently at this news, I might have given myself whiplash.
But I couldn’t concentrate on having possibly given myself a neck injury.
“Your mother called you?”
“I haven’t heard from her in twenty-two years. But, yes. I just got off the phone with her.”
“Oh my God, Battle. What the fuck? What did she say?”
“Apparently, she had some friends at Rally and Court’s wedding.
One of them called to chat and shared that her children were there, and even though Tempie was very with Hamish, and Chassie was with Christian, the only thing Mum cared about was that her friend told her we seemed very close.
Therefore, she phoned in order to understand, should I marry, if she can continue to use her title. ”
I sat, stunned silent.
No, I sat, pissed-off silent.
Called to chat and shared that her children were there?
What kind of person was a friend who casually dropped, “Hey, saw your kids you haven’t bothered yourself with in decades. Don’t worry about the youngest three, but the eldest is seriously hooked up. So you might want to check the status of your title.”
Scratch that.
What kind of person could be a friend to a woman who would desert her children so she could frolic in Greece and make everyone call her duchess?
“Vivi, have I lost you?” he called.
“You’re telling me,”—my voice was vibrating with fury—“that woman phoned you after decades of desertion, solely to learn if she can continue to be a duchess after you get married?”
“Yes.”
“You have to be joking!” I shouted.
Snowball glared at me, but I was too incensed to check how Gingerface and Baby Blue, snuggled together on the chaise, responded to me suddenly shouting.
“Sweetheart—”
“Fuck her,” I spat. “What a fucking bitch.”
“Yes, darling, and as lovely as your response is on my behalf, if you’d calm down, I can share I’m calling to ask if you think I should tell the girls she phoned.”
“Fuck no,” I bit.
“Vivi—”
“Did she ask after them?”
“No.”
“Then, again, fuck no.”
“I’ve thought about it, and if she called one of them, I’d want to know,” he shared.
“Did she give any inkling her call was a clumsy attempt to reach out and maybe begin communicating with you again?”
“Not an inkling.”
“What did you tell her about the duchess thing?”
“Strictly speaking, since they never divorced, she’ll always hold that title. Though it has a dowager in front of it, she doesn’t have to use that bit.”
“And you told her that?”
“No, I told her Tempie is very much in love, and I was too, Chassie was dating a fine man, and Prue was on the cusp of signing a lucrative publishing contract. I further told her I hoped she was healthy, wished her well, and hung up on her.”
“Good,” I said shortly.
“Vivienne.”
Okay, he needed me, and he didn’t need me to be an angry shrew.
I blew out an irate breath and said, “Yes. Okay. You’re right. You should tell them. But do it somewhere safe and good, like during Sunday lunch.”
“You think I should wait that long?”
“I think Hamish and Christian should be there to temper Tempie’s tantrum, and soothe Chassie’s hurt feelings, and we can see to Prue.”
“I knew you’d have a wise response,” he murmured.
That almost made me smile.
Almost.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
I heard his deep sigh, before, “My concern is, I just don’t care.”
I looked to the picture of my mom and dad.
I didn’t even remember my dad, but seeing them, young and happy and on the verge of a beautiful life, one that would tragically be cut short for both, I felt the shaft of pain drive through my heart, like it always did.
This was also always followed by a squeeze of tenderness, because at least they had that time, and I hated it was so short, but I loved they’d found each other, experienced it, and Mom was left with a part of him: Solène and me.
I couldn’t imagine not giving a shit your mom phoned, be it just to ask you over for dinner, or after decades of absence.
“I hate that for you, even if I think it’s healthy,” I replied.
“Healthy not to give a damn I spoke to my mother after two decades?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not angry. I’m not hurt. I’m not anything, except worrying about how my sisters will react, Vivi.”
“When someone gives you nothing, it stands to reason you won’t miss it when it’s gone.”
“She’s my mother, love.”
“She’s a womb that nurtured you,” I retorted.
“I know that’s harsh, but it’s true, and no matter how much it deeply sucks, somewhere along the line, you’ve come to terms with it, and that, Battle, is healthy.
Perhaps your sisters have done the same.
But we’ll be there to look after them if they haven’t. ”
“We’ll be there,” he said softly.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“I very much love you, darling.”
Okay.
Now I felt better.
“I very much love you too,” I replied.
And I hoped he felt better.
“We’ll do it over Sunday lunch,” he decided.
“Terrific,” I lied.
I heard a smile in his voice when he said, “It’ll be fine.”
At least I could agree to that.
“It will.”
“Right, you ring for your snack. I’ll text before bed and see you tomorrow.”
“All right, honey. I’m glad you called and worked that out with me.”
“I am too. Get back to work.”
So bossy.
“Will do. Love you.”
“And you.”
He rang off.
I put my phone down and wondered if I could sneak to Greece to deliver an all-mighty bitch slap and get back before Battle returned home tomorrow evening.
Since I couldn’t, I swiveled in my chair to nab the house phone and called for a snack.
* * *
I’d gotten into it.
Thus, it was late.
Just after midnight.
And I was bleary-eyed and drooping.
I needed to drag myself (and the cats) to the house, brush my teeth, wash my face and fall into bed so I could keep this clip up tomorrow.
Decision made, I was calling to the cats, heading out, about to flip the light switch, when my eyes fell on the box of stuff by the door, which Harry brought out earlier in the day.
It was the forgotten box of stuff Prue told me about ages ago that she found in the attics. The stuff she thought might be useful since it was from the time period I was writing about.
I spied a cloth-covered diary with tattered edges in the box, and my natural curiosity had me reaching to pull it out.
There was a gold 1946 stamped in the corner.
Goosebumps suddenly covered my skin as I moved to flip through it.
But as I did, newspaper clippings dropped to the floor.
I bent and retrieved the folded pieces, straightened, unfolded one, and those goosebumps became full body tingles.
The headline said, Viscount Still Missing, Police Scratching Heads, and there was a picture of Lord Arthur Hughes-Davies with his pomaded hair and Clark Gable pencil mustache above his supercilious smile.
Completely awake now, I wandered blindly back to my desk and sat down.
There were seven clippings in all, the totality of them about the missing viscount.
“Holy shit, shit, shit,” I whispered, dropping the clippings to the desk and frantically flipping to the date in that diary that corresponded to the one where Marie recorded the dire news.