Once a Queen, page 9
“Did Mrs. Fealston tell you?” Mum said to Grandmother from her place at the table. “Eva and I have decided to visit Cambridge.”
“Oh? Whatever for?” Grandmother seemed to be making a studied effort of not looking at me.
“To see Great-Aunt Bertie. I haven’t been there since…Well, it’s been too long.”
Grandmother poured herself some coffee at the sideboard and sat down. “Yes, well, the years haven’t been kind to Bertie, I’m afraid. Though her mind is sharp as ever.”
“That’s what Mrs. Fealston says. And still in the same old house, apparently. The place hasn’t changed much, I suppose?”
“No, unfortunately,” Grandmother said with a small shudder. Then she set down her cup and looked at Mum. “You mean, you’re going today?”
“That’s the idea.”
“But you’ve only just arrived! And anyway, I’m not sure I can spare Paxton. I have…plans.”
Watching the two of them over my toast and marmalade, I half suspected Grandmother had invented her “plans” on the spot. Two flushed circles appeared under her high cheekbones.
“I was intending to drive us myself,” Mum said.
Grandmother stared at her in blank astonishment. “The two of you, alone? But, Gwendolyn, it’s several hours. And you can’t drive.”
“Nonsense. Of course I can. What else do you think we do in the States?” Mum’s tone remained light and teasing, but there was that edge again. “We’ll take my old Mercedes. Paxton says it’s sound as a bell—he tuned it up yesterday, in fact. And we’ll be back by teatime on Friday.”
Escape. That’s what it felt like to leave Carrick Hall. Mum, in particular, behaved like a schoolgirl on holiday. As we left the Wolverns behind, she sang all the silliest songs she’d taught me as a child—to which I responded with epic eye rolls from the passenger seat. She insisted we play the alphabet game (“I’m going to Cambridge, and I’m taking a _____”), although, in our nerdy family, none of the words could be fewer than five syllables. I almost won, but there was no beating Mum in this mood.
Since we’d arrived in England, a rift had grown between us. Mostly due to her fraught relationship with Grandmother. Every topic I wanted to discuss felt off-limits. Now, in our first real stretch of time alone together, our usual camaraderie returned. This was the Mum I knew.
As we approached Cambridge, she grew even more giddy. “Oooh, you can see the spires, Eva!” And then, “Hmm, that museum is new.” And, “There’s the pub where your father and I had our first date.” Finally she pulled into a small parking lot off a side street, and we got out.
University campuses were nothing new to me, of course. But I’d never seen anything like Cambridge at the height of summer. Ivied halls, ancient spires, arched bridges, vaulted chapels, vast libraries, faculty in their academic robes, museums and galleries and gardens along the River Cam…No wonder Mum loved it.
As she strode happily down the sidewalks, she seemed to have shed about twenty years. She’d become a young college student again. In love with academia, in love with my dad, in love with life. It took my breath away.
What had happened between then and now? Something had closed her off, shut her down, made her pull into herself like a mouse into its hole. Even beneath her excitement was a sadness that wouldn’t go away.
We stayed overnight at a modest guesthouse off a large green within walking distance of her alma mater, Clare College. The next morning, before leaving for Aunt Bertie’s, we drove past some of the oldest colleges, eventually ending up at a row of quaint shops off another side street.
“Warren’s,” Mum said with a smile as we got out of the car. “The bookshop where your dad and I met.”
I peered through the bow window. For years my parents had told me about this place, with its quirky displays and crowded shelves, its dust and cobwebs and quiet. Somewhere down one of those aisles, during Mum’s first term at Clare, my parents had collided spectacularly. Mum dropped all her books, of course. Dad helped her retrieve them, of course. And that was the beginning of everything. Geekiest romance ever.
“Hasn’t changed much, I see,” Mum said, still smiling. “It’s come under new ownership in the last year or so: family by the name of Rastegar, from Iran. We’ve continued to order books from them. For your father’s research.”
She pushed the door open, and a bell rang faintly as we entered.
“Good dawning to thee, friend,” called a hearty voice from a back room. “Be right with you.”
We wandered the aisles. Every shelf was scrupulously labeled in minuscule, elegant handwriting. Looking closer, I realized the labels were a detailed catalog of seemingly unrelated minutiae. Medieval Persian Recipes shared a bookcase with Edwardian Cabbies of Greater London, while Experimental Preparatory Schools flowed into Pear Varieties of Herefordshire. I felt like I’d been invited to play a trivia game in which all you’re given are the answers, not the questions.
“Still the same!” Mum whispered with delight.
“But how is it organized? Definitely not the Dewey decimal system.”
“That’s why it was originally called ‘The Warrens.’ It’s a veritable rabbit warren. Once you start chasing a category, you find yourself falling down and down into Wonderland.”
“I greet your honors,” said the voice, closer now. “And how may I help you?”
Behind the front counter, a short, balding, bespectacled man observed us with interest.
“We’re just browsing,” Mum said with her usual shyness. Then she seemed to change her mind and approached the counter. “Mr. Rastegar?”
The shopkeeper nodded. “At your service.”
Mum extended her hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you, sir. I’m Gwendolyn Joyce. You might remember my husband, Robert? We often order books from you, for shipment to Connecticut.”
Mr. Rastegar suddenly smiled and pumped her hand. “Good now, some excellent fortune! Welcome, Mrs. Joyce, best of customers, all the way from America.”
“Well, gracious!” Mum said, flushing pink. “How kind. And this is my daughter, Eva.”
A curtain toward the back of the store twitched aside, and a cautious face peered out.
“Mrs. Rastegar!” Mr. Rastegar waved toward the curtain. “Come meet our stalwart customer, Mrs. Gwendolyn Joyce, and her incomparable daughter. We are well met.”
A petite older woman, even smaller than Mrs. Fealston, slipped through the curtain. She carried a tray laden with pastries, which she set on the counter. Then she shook hands all around.
“Good cheer, ladies,” said her husband, gesturing toward the tray. It was piled high with perfectly shaped cream puffs. “Now turn we towards your comforts. My wife is the best baker in Cambridgeshire.”
“Please,” said his wife, smiling, “eat.”
“Oh! Lovely. Thank you.”
We each took a cream puff. I’m not sure what I was expecting—something yummy, certainly—but nothing like the explosion of deliciousness that was one of Mrs. Rastegar’s pastries.
“Gracious!” Mum said again.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had,” I said, and meant it.
“Small miracles, yes?” said Mr. Rastegar. “Now. What brings you to this side of the pond, as they say?”
Mum swallowed and brushed a crumb from her cheek. “Well, you see, my mother still lives in the West Midlands, so we’re staying with her for a few weeks—my husband is interviewing for faculty positions in the States. But I have a great-aunt in Cambridge. So we’re stopping in to see her.”
“Quite right, quite right. And how fares Professor Joyce and his research? I am always sure to make note, as he requested, of anything by Clifton. To help prove his theory, yes?”
“Clifton?” I interjected. “You mean, Kinchurch.” I looked at Mum.
“Oh, er…” Mum seemed suddenly flustered.
“Exactly,” Mr. Rastegar said to me with a wink. “It will all come clear one day, I am certain. A finer scholar than your father, I have yet to meet.”
Just then, the door from the street opened and a voice called, “Is that you, Gwenny?”
In the weeks that followed their discovery of the vale, Wefan and his company set out to explore it.
To the south rose the foothills of the Nisna Alps, from which they had come, high and formidable. From those lonely peaks flowed the River Ter, cold as snow, coursing down the valley. To the east lay the impassable forests of the Wilderlands, across which was their homeland, many leagues distant. To the north ran a range of downs, windswept and bare, surrounded by lowlands treacherous with fens and fogs.
And finally, the company followed the river westward to where it emptied into an uncharted sea. The chilly coastline stretched from north to south, with shale beaches buttressed by lofty cliffs. The Pathless Sea, they called it, for of its reaches they knew naught. And as yet, they had no ships.
Eventually the small clearing on the River Ter became the village of Wefanford and then a cluster of villages along the valley. And their settlements spread northward to the downs, westward along the river to the shores of the Pathless, and southward into the wooded foothills of the Nisnas toward the headwaters of the Ter. But to the forests of the East Wilderlands they dared not go, save to hunt, and it remained a trackless waste.
Chapter
18
Into the bookshop strode one of the most elegant men I’d ever seen. Tall, tanned, impeccably dressed in breezy linens, he approached Mum with an enormous toothy smile. “By Jove, it is you!”
Mum flushed deeply and dropped a small curtsy. “Lord Edward!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said. “Just plain old Edward to you. Always have been, always will be. And who is this?” He flashed his smile at me. I felt my neck grow warm.
“This is Eva, my daughter. Eva, meet Lord Edward Heapworth. Friend of the family.”
I froze, uncertain whether to curtsy or what. Lord Edward shook my hand with mock solemnity. “That’s it. You’ve got the right idea. None of this curtsying business.”
“What on earth brings you to Cambridge, Edward? Mother seemed to think you were still in London.”
“Ah, my fame precedes me! Yes, well, as it happens, I rang up your mum this morning because I’d heard you were back in England at last. And dear old Mrs. T. told me you were coming here to see Bertie. But also, as it happens, Eddie, my oldest, is at Magdalene.”
He pronounced it “maudlin,” which at first made me wonder why his son Eddie was sad. But no, Lord Edward meant Magdalene College here in Cambridge.
“Anyway, I’d a feeling you might stop by Warren’s—saw your Mercedes outside just now, in fact. What luck, eh?”
He then turned to the Rastegars.
“Splendid to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Rastegar!”
“We are well met, my lord,” said the shopkeeper. “How does my good Lord Edward?”
“Please,” said Mrs. Rastegar, pushing the plate of cream puffs in his direction.
Lord Edward popped an entire pastry into his mouth and closed his eyes. “Heaven. Absolute heaven. You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Rastegar. Thank you! Now, don’t forget what I’ve said about setting up shop in Upper Wolvern someday. Bookshop and tea shop together, eh? Consider me your first investor.” He turned to Mum and me with a flourish. “What you may not know, dear ladies, is that Mr. Rastegar is actually Professor Rastegar—and he was once Iran’s foremost expert on Shakespeare.”
“A plague on both your houses!” said the professor, beaming.
“Hamlet!” crowed Lord Edward.
“Romeo and Juliet,” said the other three grown-ups in unison.
“Right you are,” Heapworth said cheerfully. “I knew it was one of the tragedies, eh? Here, Gwenny: I’m starving. What d’you say we all grab a bite at the pub next door? My treat. How about it, Professor?”
“We thank your grace,” said the shopkeeper, “but alas, we must keep the shop.”
Lord Edward smacked his forehead. “But of course. Silly me. Cheerio!”
“Take pains,” Professor Rastegar said, “be perfect, adieu!”
Before Mum could protest, Lord Edward Heapworth swept us out the door. In short order, we were seated at a corner table in the pub, where he breezily ordered a round of fish-and-chips—including a batch to be sent next door for the Rastegars. He never once asked what we wanted, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. Mum leaned back in her seat and exhaled.
“Ah, jolly good,” said Heapworth as he returned from the counter with our drinks. “London is much too posh—and dirty and hot. So, Gwenny, tell me everything.”
Mum laughed. “What’s there to tell? I went off to America, like I said I would. Finished my degrees, like I said I would. And married Robert Joyce—”
“Like you said you would,” he interrupted, grinning.
“And Robert finished his degrees—in fact, he’ll be tenured faculty soon. And we had Eva. But I’ll let her tell you about herself.”
I blushed and stammered something about liking school and the swim team and England. All the while, Heapworth rested his chin in his hands and nodded like I was the most interesting person in the world.
“All of that is wonderful,” he said to me, “but can we discuss this simply gorgeous outfit of yours? You know that color exactly suits your eyes, of course. But the pattern on that Venetian glass is too stunning for words.” He turned to my mother. “Gwendolyn Joyce, how on earth did you manage such a fashionable daughter?”
Mum laughed again. I was both flattered and unnerved by this curiously attentive yet inattentive man.
“Your turn, Edward,” Mum said. “How are your children? Three, I think?”
“Yes, heaven help me: two boys and a girl. They’re just terrible, terrible. Eddie is spectacular at everything. Puts me to shame. The youngest, Aurora, is dazzling everyone at primary school. And the middle one, Charlie, is slogging his way through prep school. Might not make it, either, unless old Dad here smooths things over with the head.”
“That bad, is it?” Mum said mischievously. “Charlie sounds rather like you, I’d say.”
“Too true, alas. I’ve thought about sending him to Wolvern instead—if they’ll let him in. But can you imagine? Lord Edward Heapworth’s son, from Wolvern Court, at Wolvern College?”
“In the Wolvern Hills,” Mum added.
He groaned. “The poor head wouldn’t know which way was up.”
“Oh, he’d manage, I’m sure. Especially if there was money involved.”
Heapworth roared with laughter. “You know, I’ve missed that about you, Gwenny. Absolutely forthright. You’ve been away far too long.”
“And your wife?” Mum quickly changed the subject. “Is she with you?”
“My wife? You mean Vicky or Liz?” At Mum’s confused expression, he grinned again. “Sorry, Gwenny—the look on your face! No, Vicky and I divorced—long, boring story—and then I married Liz. We lasted about a year. No partner at present.”
“What about the art scene, Edward? I imagine you’ve got a number of clients.”
“Oh, is that what they’re called? Clients? Yes, I suppose. It’s ridiculous sport, but some of those tapestries auction for millions, you know.”
Mum turned to me. “Lord Edward knows more about medieval tapestries than anyone you’ll ever meet.”
He shook his head. “Ah, you flatter me, my dear. Look, I’m blushing. But yes, I’m up to my neck in the auction scene. Which reminds me: I’d love to have a look around your mother’s pile sometime—still some very fine works there, I imagine.”
“You’re right. Although she’s decided to sell a few.”
“Shame,” he said. “Not the tapestry of the hunting scene in the dining room, I hope.”
“No, that’s still there. It’s a fixture of the tour.”
“Oh, good show. And please tell me she’s kept that other framed tapestry, the one with the dryads? Even as a child I knew there was something special about it.”
I was suddenly on high alert. Dryads?
Lord Edward turned to me. “We used to pretend, as kids, that the tapestry came alive, you know—like in the fairy tales. We’d try to climb through it.” He winked.
“Alas, Edward,” Mum said, ignoring him, “Father sold it when I was maybe thirteen, fourteen, don’t you remember? Mother couldn’t stand the thing.”
“Shame,” he repeated and pursed his lips.
Before I could form a coherent question, our food arrived. Heapworth sniffed luxuriously, flourished his silverware, and cut into his fried fish with a fork and knife. I’d never seen anyone but Mum eat fried food with utensils.
Mum’s expression now looked strained, as if the topic of the tapestry had unsettled her—or maybe it was all this socializing. She ate quickly and soon said, “Well, I suppose we should be heading to Bertie’s. Her housekeeper must wonder if we’ve gotten lost. So kind of you to treat us to lunch, Edward. Do ring us up when you’re back in the Wolverns, will you?”
“I’d be mad if I didn’t.”
“You’re mad anyway,” she said with a smile and rose from her seat. He laughed loudly and stood to bid Mum farewell with a kiss on both cheeks. He pumped my hand, opened the pub door for us, and waved us off down the street.
When we climbed back into the car, I finally found my voice. “Okay, I can’t stand it anymore. I have to know. What’s all this about a tapestry of dryads? And what did Professor Rastegar mean about Clifton? And who the heck was that guy—your old boyfriend or something?”
She sighed with exasperation. “I’d rather not ruin this afternoon by dredging up the past, darling.”
“I’m not the one dredging up the past!” My voice rose. “The past is dredging up itself. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So you can either tell me, or I’ll pester other people till I find out.”
