AS ALBERT CARTED AWAY his treasure, Jeffrey was writing to his mother back home.
In coming to Waverley Court, Jeffrey had found himself in an Anglophile’s heaven. Having completed his B.A. in English back in the United States, he had found himself in the same position as all newly minted English majors-that is, unemployed and unemployable. He had mooned around his mother’s house in Minnesota for a while-Jeffrey’s father, who had emigrated from Britain, had died when Jeffrey was a toddler-implementing various of her DIY projects with decidedly mixed results. Then one day, bored and broke, he had joined the Air Force, beguiled by a recruiting poster showing hard-jawed men and women at the controls of F-15s. The Air Force had taught him Russian and transported him and his duffel bag to England, where he spent the next four years with headphones clamped to his head, translating risqué jokes swapped by Russian pilots cruising over the Baltics.
Not surprisingly, four years of this experience also left him unfit for gainful employment. But his first May week in England-one of those flawless, golden weeks only England could produce-had made him decide he must remain in the country forever-somehow. He responded to every promising advertisement in the Times without result until one day he saw an ad posted by the recruitment agency employed by Sir Adrian. That had led, by some miracle of good fortune, to his current position in the Beauclerk-Fisk household.
The woman at the agency had done her best to quell Jeffrey’s enthusiasm for the post.
“You’re the fifth one this year, you know.” It was then July.
“Then I’ll be the last,” Jeffrey had replied, with all of the optimism and determination imbued in his blood by pioneer ancestors.
The woman, Mrs. Crumpsall-middle-aged, tired, and ready for her afternoon tea-had removed her glasses, regarding him with basset-hound eyes. She felt it must be something in the American diet-all that corn, perhaps-that made them this way. But then-Sir Adrian had flattened every British specimen she’d sent his way. Perhaps Jeffrey’s unbounded, puppyish enthusiasm would see him through.
The building provided Jeffrey for his lodging predated the main house by many decades. It was a wattle-and-daub, timber-framed building that may once have housed people before being turned over to livestock in a later century. His rooms had only recently been nicely modernized into a self-contained unit over what were now the Waverley Court garages. The little flat came complete with kitchen, washing machine, and the snarl of cables required for television and Internet communication. Apart from the fact he still drove an American-model car the size of a UFO, Jeffrey had adapted admirably to his new environment.
He stared now at his laptop screen, rereading what he had written, not quite satisfied that he had conveyed in full the adventure of his new life in England:
Dear Mother:
How are you? I am fine. I just received your letter…
(This was not quite true, but she would blame the delay in his response on the overseas mail service, which she seemed to believe was still being conducted via whaling ship.)
… and was, as always, glad to hear you are feeling well…
(This was also not quite true, as Mrs. Spencer’s letters tended to be one long and tedious recitation of her various imagined ailments.
Jeffrey had found that sympathizing with these ailments only made the recitations in her toilsomely penned replies longer.)
… You asked what kind of ‘boss’ Sir Adrian was. Liege Lord is more like it, with myself in the role of vassal. Let’s just say Sir Adrian is quite a challenging employer. He cannot write a line without rewriting it a dozen times, which makes him cross. I must be the only living person who can decipher the resulting mess of a manuscript, which does at least offer me some form of job security. Yes, he writes everything by hand, unbelievable in the era of the PC…
(Here Jeffrey backspaced, realizing that she probably wouldn’t know what PC meant, substituting the word “computer” instead.)
…and passes along the resulting chicken scratch to me. I think sometimes I will go blind from trying to decipher what it is he means to say, but whatever he’s been working on lately he’s been keeping awfully close to his vest, which gives me some free time.
His family are all at Waverley Court at the moment-quite interesting for me, of course, to see them all together at last. They arrived last night.
Ruthven, Sir Adrian’s eldest son, arrived first, with his wife, Lillian. She looks a bit standoffish…
(Jeffrey didn’t feel he could tell his mother Lillian looked like a prize-winning Rottweiler.)
… but Sir Adrian’s daughter, Sarah, is quite a jolly girl.
(Well, Jeffrey felt she had the potential to be jolly, although rather skittish at the moment.)
There is George, who is the second son, and Albert, the youngest. Both are quite well-known in London circles. George brought a young friend with him. She’s extraordinarily beautiful, perhaps in her early-to-mid thirties, sensible-looking, yet graceful as a swan.
Satisfied with what he had so far written, he resumed typing:
But the person here who is causing the most speculation is Sir Adrian’s ‘intended.’ I wrote you about her earlier. Her appearance, at long last, has been an occasion for rampant speculation among the staff. She arrived just hours before the others, which is odd in itself-that I hadn’t seen her before. I caught just a glimpse, but there is no question she is a strikingly attractive woman, for her age, slim and dark-haired…
He paused. Something had raised a flag in his mind, but he couldn’t think what the matter was-what elusive thought or memory had surfaced as he tapped away unselfconsciously. It had submerged itself again so quickly he couldn’t spear it now, whatever it was. Then he remembered his mother was probably the same age as the bride and backspaced diplomatically over the potentially offending phrase referring to her age.
Jeffrey paused, rereading, hoping he had failed to convey the toxic atmosphere he felt brewing within the house. Mrs. Romano had told him at length about her own trepidations. She had taken a liking to Jeffrey ever since she’d learned he’d been in the service. In her mind, Jeffrey was one with the World War II American servicemen who had marched through her native Italy, dispensing food, chewing gum, and hope.
“I never,” she had told Jeffrey “saw anything like this family. I suppose Sir Adrian can marry who he wants, but… She cannot possibly love him-do you think?”
They had sat in the kitchen late the night before over a brandy and coffee, a ritual they occasionally shared when there was gossip to go around.
He found himself wondering if there weren’t a little jealousy behind her words. She and Sir Adrian had been together a long time.
“How did they meet?” he asked.
“He says in London, at a dinner party given by his publisher.”
“He says?”
“You know Sir Adrian. It may or may not be true. But however they met, it is clear this is what they call a whirlpool romance.”
“Whirlwind. I rather think the word you want is whirlwind.”
“I think I had it right the first time.”
Jeffrey laughed.
“Well, you know, Mrs. R, at his age, it’s not right he should be alone.”
“He’s not alone. He has his work. He has people he can trust around to take care of him.”
“You mean his family? Yes, of course, that’s a blessing-”
“No,” she said simply. “I mean me. And Paulo, of course. This family of his, it is no blessing.”
Jeffrey, who had yet to speak with most of the key players in this drama, wasn’t quite sure what she meant. But he trusted Mrs. Romano’s instincts, and some of her anxiety had rubbed off on him as well.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” he’d said.
But now, having seen them all and gained some definite first impressions, he wondered. George, he felt sure, was no prize. And he rather had the idea Albert drank.
Omitting these impressions, he was concluding his letter with a reiterated promise to return home at Easter for a visit, a promise he had only vague intentions of keeping. He liked being just where he was, more so than before. As he reached across his desk for an envelope, his eye caught a movement beyond the sheltering evergreen trees outside his window. It was Paulo, carrying a plastic bag of rubbish out to the gardening shed.
He didn’t pause to wonder why Paulo would be carrying rubbish to, not from, the shed: There was a dumpster affair hidden near the kitchen wall. But he did pause to think that Paulo, despite his mother, was a man he wouldn’t trust an inch.