THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. A CRISP breeze blows orange, yellow, and red across the sidewalks and into floating plumes turned up by the wake of morning rush-hour traffic. It’s late October. All of London is drenched in black coats and puffer jackets on my walk to campus.
“What was that?” my dad demands on the phone. “Is someone honking at you?”
“No. It’s just normal traffic noises, weirdo. I’m walking to class.”
I sip my coffee (I’ve still not learned to appreciate tea) and dodge TV camera crews that are about to go live from outside an iron fence in the ongoing saga of the royal philanderer. Apparently, Prince James remains staunch in his refusal to own up to his affairs, despite two swimsuit models recently coming forward with claims they had a threesome with the prince at a drunken yacht party in Monte Carlo.
“Anyway. What’s up?” I ask Dad.
It’s a rhetorical question. Same thing that’s always up.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while.” His disappointed voice has grown more insistent and accusatory over the last month or so.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m eyeballs-deep in solving this mystery of the portrait. I spend all day in class, then the library, then homework. The time difference makes things a real bitch.”
“Abbey.”
He can’t see me roll my eyes, but I’m sure he senses it. “Sorry.”
“I told you, you can call any time.”
“You say that, but you’re going to be cranky if I wake you up at three a.m.”
“The alternative makes me crankier,” he argues. “In other words, I’d like to hear from my kid more than once or twice a month.”
“I’m not that bad,” I argue back. “Besides, we both know you’d like to hear from me more than once or twice a day.”
“It’s a father’s prerogative.”
“Yeah, nice try. It’s a daughter’s prerogative to have a life. Quote me on that and tell it to Dr. Wu at your next session.”
“Cut your old man some slack,” he says with that guilt trip tone that is way too effective. “I miss you, baby girl. This house is empty without you around.”
“I wish I could come home for Thanksgiving, but I have a test that week. There’s no way I can miss it.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
The unhappiness in his voice gnaws at me. This is hard on him. More so than he anticipated maybe. I should probably be more sensitive to that.
“How about this?” I suggest. “We’ll FaceTime for Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll do a turkey and everything.”
“That’d be real nice. I’d like that.”
“It’s a plan then.”
We say goodbye as I reach campus and hustle to my first class. Amelia is already there when I take my usual seat. She can’t wait to tell me about the newspaper article she found describing the unusual brutality of one of her research subjects.
“Fifty-seven lashes with a poisoned blade,” she reads from the article she’s managed to translate with her rough understanding of French and a language app. “Have you ever heard of anything so outrageous?”
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “My arm would have gotten tired after thirty lashes, tops.”
“I’m obsessed.”
Amelia is in full-on homicidal girl crush territory. And I’m happy for her, I guess?
Today we’re updating our professor on the progress of our research projects. In my case, I’m forced to report I’ve stalled on Josephine. But I can’t dock myself a point for effort—I’ve exhausted myself on library research and endless internet searches through academic catalogs, running to ground every loose lead or obscure reference.
It’s as if Josephine was scrubbed clean from history except for one painting released from a dusty attic. After weeks on this fruitless venture, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little disappointed in myself. Not to mention kicking myself for picking such a difficult and elusive subject. Why not another investigation of Jack the Ripper, the Solway Spaceman, or the Highgate Vampire? I could have saved myself all sorts of grief.
When it’s my turn to present, Professor Langford picks up on my frustration and suggests I rededicate my efforts to further study of the brothers.
“There’s a small museum and cemetery not far from the Tulley estate in Surrey,” she tells me. “I’d suggest availing yourself of their assistance.”
Huh. How’d I miss that? Especially after finding the gallery in Rye. I was so preoccupied with a connection to Josephine, I managed to ignore the obvious avenues on the family. Sorely missing a dose of perspective, it seems.
“Finding a primary source within the family would also be prudent,” my professor adds.
I breathe out a sharp laugh before I realize she’s serious. Primary sources are every historian’s best resource, of course. In this case, that’s not so easy. How the hell would I get the current duke and duchess to agree to an interview for some student’s class project on their ancestors’ personal tragedies and private embarrassments? Or even get close enough to ask?
Then I get a terrible idea.
After class, I give Jamie a call.
“Abbey, darling, settle an argument for me,” he says instead of hello. “Should ketchup be consumed cold or at room temperature? We need an American perspective on this.”
“You don’t even eat ketchup.”
“Of course not. There’s nothing so hideous in all of creation,” he says, because, Jamie. “But if one did…”
“Room temp. Obviously.”
“Yeah, see,” he says away from the phone. “She says you’re barking, mate.”
“Hey, so listen,” I press. Jamie is a doll, but the boy is easily distracted.
“Right, sorry. What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor,” I confess. “A big one. Any chance you could get me an introduction to someone connected to the Tulleys?”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Well, you don’t make it easy on a bloke. This about the painting still?”
“Yeah. Bonus points if it’s a member of the family.”
“I see.” There’s a long pause with some indistinct chatter in the background mingled with the sounds of London traffic. Like me, he’s on campus across town today. “For you, Abbs, I’ll do my best. Give me some time.”
“You’re a peach,” I say in relief.
If anyone can swing it, it’s his lordship Jamie Kent.
“Tell me I’m your favorite roommate.”
“My very best favorite.”
That was easier than expected. Far from a done deal, however. In the event Jamie can’t manage a connection, I’ll need a fallback plan. As I’m typing some notes to myself on my phone, I receive a text.
My fingers freeze at the name on the screen.
Nate: How’s the hunt?
Holy shit.
I can’t believe he’s on my phone.
Like, the fucking nerve of this dude.
But also, I’m kind of okay with it.
Maybe more than okay.
I haven’t heard from him in weeks. So long now that our road trip seems almost a hallucination. I’d even started to wonder if I was the reason he’d been absent from the usual group outings.
Now he slides into my texts all cool and casual. Typical. He’s got that energy. The fleeting rogue, always asking forgiveness with a bashful smile and those brooding eyes. And we never say no because of course not. If their schtick didn’t work, their species would’ve died out generations ago.
I’m tempted to answer immediately, but I stop myself.
The sensible thing to do is respond with a polite but succinct yeah, good. Whatever his motivations in contacting me now, they’re definitely not the ones that I entertain in the whispering parts tucked way back in my own head. Reading more into a simple message says more about me than it does about him—or his intentions. The easiest way to let myself off the hook is not to lunge at it in the first place.
I, of course, do none of that.
Me: If you want to give me a lift to a cemetery in Surrey, I can fill you in.
Nate: Where are you now?
Me: Albert Hall at Pembridge.
Nate: Meet me out front in fifteen.
