The Brontë Plot (13 page)

She caught Helen's voice, speaking to the man who was probably her own age. He had straight brown hair, cut short, almost military-style, and light-brown eyes. Lucy couldn't help but compare them to James's—30 percent chocolate. And he was pale.
Welcome to England
, she thought.

Helen continued talking. “Delighted you're on time. Thank you. And what is your name?”

“Dillon, ma'am.” He reached behind Lucy to take the bags, glancing quickly into her eyes.

“Hi, Dillon. I'm Lucy.” She thrust out her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Lucy.” He squeezed and winked before turning to the bags.

Lucy drew her hair over her shoulder, pulling it smooth through her fingertips. It felt nice, if a little silly, to have someone flirt with her.

“If you'll follow me this way, the car is parked right outside.” Dillon nodded to Helen and wove them through the crowds.

The car wasn't like any limousine Lucy had ever seen—old, black, and always made by Lincoln. This was a deep-brown stretch Mercedes with cream leather seats that smelled like a fine, newly bound leather book and enveloped her just as thoroughly. Her body felt weary, but her mind buzzed as Dillon pulled out onto the highway on the wrong side of the road.

“This is so odd. I knew about it, but it's so . . . so wrong,” Lucy said, her eyes glued to the traffic.

“You get used to it,” Helen replied. “It's the right-hand turns, which feel like our lefts, that trip you up. Charles felt comfortable driving over here, but I never did. In fact, the only time I ever drove I went
ping, ping, ping
down a narrow street, popping off side view mirrors. It was horrible.”

Lucy grinned at the image. “What happened?”

“Charles went door-to-door to make it right. It took him hours, but I was too humiliated to show my face. I didn't leave the hotel for two days until we flew out.”

The day was bright and moving at full speed. The streets were soaked, but the morning sunshine burst through as if it had only recently escaped and wanted to flood down and assert its presence. Cars spit up water, horns blared, and as they approached Central London, the traffic tightened in a chaotic jumble. Motorcycles weaved between cars like pinballs shot through a machine.

“Are they allowed to do that?” Lucy exclaimed, diving back as one buzzed her window.

“If they can manage it. Some blokes are too bold though.” Dillon turned and caught her eyes.

“It's crazy.” Lucy watched another dodge through the traffic.

“We'll cross through Leicester Square then Regent Street to get to your hotel.”

“The West End! We didn't even think of a show. Did you want to see any?” Lucy reached for her bag.

“I hadn't thought of it myself, but I think not. There is enough on our list.”

The car then swung around a tight corner, passing between and underneath buildings. Lucy grasped her door's side rail and cringed, certain they wouldn't fit through the impossibly tight opening. Whizzing between the buildings, they emerged unscathed into a lovely courtyard.

“Here we are. Dukes Hotel.” Dillon pulled alongside a Rolls-Royce. No other cars could fit into the tiny turn space.

A bellman materialized at Helen's door as Dillon shot from his seat. He waved the dark-blue stiffly clad man away and held Helen's door himself, reaching in to assist her onto the step. “Shall I wait to take you on to lunch, ma'am?”

The bellman walked around to open Lucy's door.

“I would like to rest a few hours, but then Lucy has our itinerary. She'll let you know.”

Lucy noted Helen's drawn expression. Her eyes, usually flashing between sky and steel, seemed leached of color. Sid would call it #841
Snow Angel,
a color he never chose. He'd once commented,
Lacks conviction. Is it white or blue?
when she'd suggested it.

“Go ahead and park, Dillon, while I check us in.” Lucy dashed past them both and hurried into the hotel.

She expected something grand like The Four Seasons or many of the hotel lobbies that dotted Chicago's Michigan Avenue. Instead, the coziness of a lobby that could only hold a petite sofa and two delicate upholstered chairs enchanted her. The soft blues, bold yellows, and golds mixed with a few modern elements made it feel rich, intimate, and royal. She wanted to curl up and admire it.

After checking them in, she spun to find Helen seated in one of the chairs directly behind her.

“How are you doing?” Lucy perched in the chair next to her.

“I don't pull all-nighters like I used to,” Helen quipped.

“Well, I'll carry your monstrosity of a key for you and we'll get you to your room.” Lucy held up two oversize brass keys dangling from matching tags. “She said we should drop them in that box when we leave. Thank goodness we don't have to carry them around. They're larger than my phone.”

“I always liked those. They feel special. Not like those key cards or how you use your cell phone some places.”

“See, I kinda like that.” Lucy stood and reached for Helen's arm. “Our rooms are right at the top of those stairs or there's an elevator. Which would you prefer?”

“The stairs. I need to get some blood moving.”

The bellman passed the elevator and escorted them to a single flight of stairs. He moved quickly, and Helen stopped halfway up.

Lucy stilled behind her.

“I just need to catch my breath.” Helen's voice came out on a cough. She waved her hand to shoo Lucy on.

Lucy vacillated a moment before obeying. By the time the bellman had opened the door and rested her suitcase on the rack, Helen entered the room. She trembled slightly and her face looked a degree paler.

Lucy turned to the bellman and handed him a few pound coins as he backed out of the room. She quickly crossed the room to Helen. “Please sit. I'll get you a glass of water.”

Helen dropped into the chair before the writing desk and cleared her throat. “I hate having everyone know I'm so old.”

“I think you're remarkable.” Lucy poured a glass of water, handed it to her, and waited for the color to return to her face.
“When I sent your son our itinerary, he sent an e-mail back with a list of your medications.”

“Did he?” Helen's voice held humor and a touch of annoyance.

“I'm sorry I didn't mention it.”

“He worries well, doesn't he?”

“Is there anything I can do for you now? Let me recheck the list.”

“I'm simply old and, yes, dying. Let's be honest enough to name it. But there's nothing to do. You don't need to recheck his list. I'll take my medications like a good girl and it will suffice.” She pressed her chest with one finger. “I'm aging more rapidly by the day. Do you think that happens? That time speeds up?”

Lucy plopped on the bed across from her. “I wouldn't mind that. The days seem interminably long to me.”

Helen reached over and pushed Lucy's bangs aside, holding her head within her palm. “That's because you were in love.”

“Still am.” Lucy caught her words and her head shot straight up. “That's weird. I'm sorry I said that.”

“It's not weird. After listening to James go on and on about you, I should hope you loved him. I'm simply sorry it turned out the way it did. And I did promise not to comment or play matchmaker, so I'm safe.” She zipped her lips. “No tattling to James.”

“Good to know, but there's nothing to say. We're done.”

Helen lifted her finger under Lucy's chin. “Keep your chin up. There's always a bend in the road.”

Chapter 13

W
hy did you say that?
Lucy repeated the question, the indictment, over and over as she unlocked the door to her room. What was Helen supposed to say to such an admission? Defend her grandson? Tell her that James was better off without her? Admonish her for lying, for altering her books, and for anything else she might suspect? Instead, Helen had been kind and told her to have hope.
Hope.

Lucy quietly shut her door and examined her room. It was a mirror image of Helen's with a double bed, a dresser, and a striking deep-red chair positioned before the petite writing desk. The cream walls and deep-blue carpet were so crisp and clean. The effect carried into the bathroom as well with its white marble and classic hardware. Lucy flopped down on the bed, spread her arms wide, and closed her eyes. With each inhalation, she willed the tension of the week to dissolve around her, into the ocean between home and here. Between James and herself.

You can reinvent yourself anywhere
. She recalled how her dad had always closed his eyes when he said that, his voice
carrying a dreamlike quality,
as
if he could see those new horizons. Lucy's eyes flickered open with the realization that the memories, of his voice and of this saying and others, were losing their fuzzy edges and softer notes. The colors of his accent and actions pressed dark and heavy on her.

Suddenly restless, Lucy popped up and pulled back the sheers. The room flooded with light. She quickly unpacked, brushed her teeth and hair, and placed her toiletries around the bathroom. Satisfied with the job, she picked up her key and headed to the lobby.

Lucy walked out the hotel's front door ready for an adventure. The sun was high and she could see a patch of blue between the buildings . . . It was time to chase it. She strode three steps and stalled.

“May I fetch you a cab, miss?”

“I'd rather walk, but I realized I have nowhere particular to go. I've got tons of places marked on my phone, on my maps, but I . . . I want to see everything.” She puffed out her cheeks then deflated them like a balloon. “I'm completely stymied.”

The doorman pointed out the courtyard. “I recommend you start with something close. If you turn right you will catch Marlborough Road. It dead-ends at The Mall. If you turn right again, you can see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.” He pulled back his sleeve and examined his watch. “You've got twenty minutes. You don't need to rush.”

“That's perfect. Thank you.”

Lucy passed through the narrow opening and came to the corner. The street was much wider and she got an impression of the city. The air, crisp and sharp, blew away the damp and dried
the streets right before her eyes, the cars acting like squeegees on a tennis court. So different from Chicago—foreign pollutants filled the air, diesel rather than gasoline; horns pitched to a higher tonality hit her eardrums; and the unfamiliar whirl of continuous motorcycles startled her. The cabs scurried like black beetles between lanes and stopped instantly the moment she stepped into the crosswalk. And in some ineffable fashion, it felt like home.

Lucy moved around St. James Palace on Marlborough Road, crossing each street slowly and carefully.
Right. Left. Right.
At the second crosswalk, she realized her mistake and glanced in the opposite direction.
Left. Right. Left.
Then she laughed at herself—again—as the cars and cabs stopped so quickly she felt safe crossing regardless where she looked.

“Wait up. Lucy, wait up.”

Lucy spun to find Dillon running behind her. “Hey, Dillon. Do you need me?”

“Not at all. I parked the car, but you hired me for the full two weeks. Do
you
need me?”

Lucy smiled, trying to decide if he was being solicitous or flirtatious—or both. “Not right now. Helen wanted a couple hours to rest so I'm headed to see the Changing of the Guard.”

“Can I join you?” He tilted his head to the palace.

“Of course.” She resumed walking and Dillon matched her stride.

“It's not so crowded now. This is actually one of the best times in the city. It'll start filling in the next month and be close to bursting all summer. You won't get anywhere near the gates then. But now the weather can be touchy.”

“I don't care; I think it's gorgeous.” Lucy lifted her face to the sun.

“The rain won't keep you from much in the city, but Haworth might be different. I took some women to Bath a few weeks ago and they were spitting nails. They wanted a real Jane Austen walking experience and they caught a three-day gusher. Saw nothing and complained a blue streak. You need to be ready for the weather to ruin some plans, and I don't—”

Lucy stopped. “If I promise not to blame you for the weather, will you stop being the only gray cloud in sight?”

Dillon held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough. I've given my disclaimers.” They walked in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I'm sorry about that.”

“You don't need to apologize; I get it. You don't want clients upset. Bosses too.” Lucy nodded. “Believe me, that, I understand. I've just never been here and I want to see and experience everything and the weather isn't going to get in the way of that. Nothing is.”

“Facing the wrong direction might.” Dillon glimpsed past her shoulder. “You're about to miss the guards.”

Lucy ran along the iron fence until she was near the front and could see the soldiers clearly. Movement had already begun beyond the gates. She hopped on the stone base and held tight to the cold black rails. She pressed her face between the bars, mimicking those around her.

“It's better, bigger, when the Queen is in town.”

“Dillon, again, if you want me to
not
complain, then you'll have to stop giving me things to complain about.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he agreed solemnly and climbed next to her.

Three officers on horseback rode into the courtyard beyond. A dozen foot soldiers followed. They marched in a line and turned at sharp angles, yelling calls back and forth until only three new guards remained by the gate.

At the end, Dillon jumped down and started walking toward the gate's outer post, following the blonde brick wall. “Follow me.”