The Importance of Being Alice (21 page)

“Are you sure he's not having one of his sisters play a prank on you?” Patrick's voice was sleepy and irritated. “He might be trying t'get rid of you, and feels this is the best way of doing it.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Elliott loves me. The real kind of love, not your pale imitation thereof. What am I going to do, Patrick? I don't know the number of his house to call so I can talk to his mom. Or even Gunner. Do you have Gunner's number?”

“No. Jane would, but she's blocking my calls. I can give you her number, but she's very touchy about her privacy, and I don't know that she'd give his number t'you without Elliott or Gunner first introducing you.” He was silent for a moment. I clutched my hands together and thought seriously of breaking down. “I can get the number for Ainslie Castle easily enough—it's bound t'be online—but if he's truly been hurt, then you will want t'be there.”

“Yes, yes I do. I should be there. Oh my god, Patrick.” My voice broke as the tears burned in my eyes.

“Steady,” he said warningly. “Crying won't do Elliott any good. Can you get on a plane to London?”

I mentally totted up the balance on my credit card. “Probably.”

“Then I tell you what you should do. Do you have something t'write with?”

I scrambled for a pen and grabbed my journal. He proceeded to give me details on how to take the train from
Heathrow to Ainston. “Once you get there, call the castle and tell them who you are. Someone will no doubt be sent t'take you t'the hospital.”

“Thanks, Patrick. I appreciate the fact that you're not being a dick about this.”

“My dear, Elliott is one of my oldest friends.” I waited, knowing there was more to come. “Besides, I've decided Jane is, in fact, the one that I want, not you, so it behooves me t'keep on his good side. And speaking of that good lady, I believe I shall go find her in order t'tell her of this terrible event. Let us hope she won't have me thrown out of the hotel again.”

I promised to keep him up-to-date, and then hurried out of the cabin, intent on finding Tiffany, horrible images of death and dismemberment lurking in the back of my head.

What happened to Elliott? And why hadn't he told me he was going to
England?

Diary of Alice Wood

Day Six, aka Day of Sheer and Utter Hell

I
've never felt as alone in the world as I did during the twenty-two hours that followed. Tiffany was sympathetic when I woke her up and begged her to help me, but short of handing over my passport, she was of no use to me.

“Unfortunately, my ability to help is governed by the terms of our insurance, and they do not allow me to assist passengers to book flights to countries that are not their own. That does not, alas, fall under the term ‘medical emergency,'” she told me, standing at her cabin door.

“It's for Elliott!”

“Yes, but the insurance company would not recognize you as married. Thus you would not be able to take advantage of our accident assistance, not to mention the fact that he was not injured on a Manny van Bris tour,
but was apparently out of the country when he suffered this mysterious calamity that you cannot describe.”

“I can't describe it because I don't know what happened to him. At least can you refund the rest of the tour price to me? I checked with the airlines, and I'm short the price of a ticket.”

“Tickets are nonrefundable,” she said firmly. “I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do.”

I slumped away, falling into a chair in the dark lounge. A few tears did sneak down my cheeks then. I felt as if the world had been stripped of the sun—everything was darkness and gloom. Solitary gloom. Mentally, I ran over my list of friends, wondering if I could hit up any of them for the money needed for a plane ticket. Unfortunately, no one came to mind. Maybe the U.S. embassy? I shook my head. Even if I knew where one was, I doubted if they'd help send me to England.

Patrick was the only person I knew who had any money to spare. Reluctantly, I tried his number, mentally rehearsing a plea. It was wasted, however. . . . His voice mail answered. I left a message and told him to call me back, but after another hellish hour passed with no word from him—and he still wasn't answering his phone—I decided that enough was enough.

I'd been on my own for what seemed like my entire life—as usual, I'd have to rely on my own self.

I decided that traveling light was going to be easier than hauling along my big suitcase, and the second bag that had started to fill with souvenirs, including one giant hookah. Accordingly, I left the bulk of my luggage on the ship, with a note taped to the top explaining that I'd pick it up after the tour, and giving the address of Ainslie Castle in case they wanted to forward it to me.

I stepped off the ship in the cool light of dawn, silvery gray fingers of fog drifting along the river, and wrapping the normally bustling Nuremberg in silence. I glanced back at the ship, giving it a sad, but fond, smile. It still looked like a bucket of rusted bolts, but our cabin had been a little haven of happiness.

Would I ever have that happiness again? What if Elliott . . . I choked aloud, a hard lump of tears making my throat ache.

“Stop it,” I told myself, hoisting my day bag and marching resolutely toward the train station. “He's going to be fine. He has to be fine. I don't want to be a widow before I'm even legally a wife.”

I was more than a little surprised when a familiar face was waiting for me at the train station platform. Anthony sat on one of the benches, luggage at his feet, his nose buried in a magazine.

He looked up, startled, when I stopped next to him. “Comrade Alice! You've left the cruise? Going to meet up with comrade Elliott, are you?”

“No, he—” I stopped, not wanting to speak of Elliott in case I lost it, emotionally speaking. “I have somewhere else I have to be. What are you doing here?”

“Ah.” If he was disconcerted by the question, he didn't show it. “I'm afraid that Dahl and I have had a slight parting of the ways, and I thought it best to continue my research on my own.”

“That's . . . sudden,” I said, not wanting to point out that his excuse sounded lame, lest he point out that mine was just as bad. “I'm sorry that you and Dahl broke up.”

He shrugged. “It wasn't a breakup per se, but I thought now would be a good time for a little period of solitary reflection. You are returning to America?”

“No, actually, I'm going to England.” I held his gaze, willing him to make a snarky comment about following Elliott.

“Indeed. I'm headed to London, myself. Are you flying, or taking the train the entire way?”

“Train. It's cheaper.”

“It is that. I am, as well.” He made a little grimace. “I dislike flying, and avoid it whenever possible. Well, it looks as if we shall be traveling companions. How exciting for us both.”

“Uh-huh.” I was anything but excited by the prospect of spending so much time with Anthony, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

In the end, he turned out to be a pleasant travel companion. He chatted politely with me about my life back home, and then Elliott, and how I would cope with living in a different country. By the time we exhausted that subject, several hours had passed, and we had traveled through Germany and France, up to Belgium, where we had a two-hour delay before we could catch a ferry from Ostend to Dover.

Every now and again I'd sneak away from Anthony and call the hospital, but they continued to refuse information. Nor did I have any luck with Patrick. Either he had connected with Elliott's sister Jane, or he had turned off his phone for another reason. By the time I reached England, my phone battery was dead, and I was down to just a few dollars.

“Well, here is where we part,” Anthony said with a smile only slightly touched with salaciousness. We emerged from the ferry with the hundreds of other passengers, buffeted and jostled as everyone headed for the taxis and train station. “I can honestly say that you've made the
journey quite pleasant, comrade, and I wish you and comrade Elliott only the best in your future life together.”

“Thank you, I'll pass that along to him.” In a moment of sentiment, I patted his arm. “And thank you for not hitting on me. That was really getting old. It's been nice knowing you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. Who knows?” he said, donning a cap and pulling out the handle on his wheelie suitcase. “We may see each other again someday.”

“That would have been such a good parting line if you could have managed it without ogling my breasts,” I told him.

He laughed aloud. “I didn't want you to think I wasn't open to a little life experience if you were. Au revoir, comrade Alice.”

“See ya.” I watched him leave, a sense of sadness gripping me as he melted into the crowd heading for the trains. I stumbled forward feeling as if the weight of the world had settled unceremoniously smack-dab on top of my shoulders.

It was afternoon by the time I got off the train in the town of Ainston, and it took nearly another hour for me to find my way to the hospital. Ainston wasn't a large town, but the hospital evidently served several nearby communities, which meant I had to take a couple of buses before I finally staggered in the door, by now exhausted from lack of sleep and food, and an overabundance of worry.

“Hello,” I said to the woman at the reception desk. “My name is Alice Wood Ainslie. My husband was admitted a day or so ago. I've been in Germany, and just got here. Can you please point me to his room?”

“Ainslie?” A little frown appeared on her forehead as
she tapped at a keyboard. After a few moments, she gave me a critical look over the top of the monitor. “Lord Ainslie's family is with him. I have a note here that someone has been calling repeatedly inquiring for information, claiming to be his wife. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?”

“That was me,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. It wasn't a lot, considering how tired and travel-worn I was.

“I thought it might be.” She tapped at the computer again. “Unfortunately, Lady Ainslie has no knowledge of you, so I'm afraid that we can't let you bother his lordship.”

“She doesn't know about me because Elliott—Lord Ainslie—and I were just married yesterday. No, day before that. In Germany. At the Bishops' Palace, to be exact.”

“Indeed.” She looked bored.

I rubbed my forehead. I was so tired and worn down I just wanted to crawl in a hole. “Look, ask Elliott. He'll tell you who I am.”

“Unfortunately, Lord Ainslie has only just been taken to his room from recovery and is not available.”

Fear clutched my heart. “Oh my god, I didn't know. He was in surgery that long? What happened to him? Is he OK? Please, you have to let me see him. I need to know he's all right.”

“I'm sorry, but that's just not possible.” There was a note of finality in her voice that I ignored.

“This is so stupid! I've traveled all the way from Nuremberg to see my husband, and despite what Elliott's mom thinks, we really are married. If you just tell me where he is, I will explain it all to her.”

“I'm afraid not. Now, if you would please move away from the desk, there are others who wish assistance.”

“Gunner, then. Gunner knows me. Hell, he married us. He can tell everyone who I am.”

“Mr. Gunner Ainslie is not here. Next person, please.”

“No,” I said, clutching the counter with both hands. Stubbornness gave me strength. “I'm not moving until you tell me where my husband is.”

“Madam, you will please move, or I will be forced to take action,” the woman warned.

“Like what? You going to have me thrown out?” I held firm to the desk. “You're British. You guys don't do that sort of thing.”

As it turns out, they did. Two security men pried my hands off the counter, and hustled me out the door despite my pleading to be taken up to see Elliott. They were dispassionate and immovable as they frog-marched me off the property.

“If you return, we will be forced to call the police,” one of them warned before they went back inside.

“That's fine with me! Maybe the police will take me to see my lawfully wedded—in an Internet way—husband!” I yelled after them.

Neither responded. I slumped against a bus shelter, wondering how I was going to find Elliott. At the very least, I needed to find out how he was, and what happened to him.

“How am I going to do that if they think I'm some sort of baron stalker?”

I didn't realize I'd asked that aloud until the female who was slouched in the shelter, hiding in her hoodie, her nose almost touching the screen of her phone, turned to look at me and spoke.

“Wot?” she asked, lowering the phone.

“Sorry.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but the way her eyes widened in alarm told me much about my state. “I'm overtired, and when I get that way, all my inhibitions melt away to nothing.”

“Oh.” She glanced back at her phone. “You're American?”

“Yup.”

“You here for the castle?”

“No, I'm here for the castle's lord and mast—” As her words sank into my sleep-deprived brain, a lightbulb went off. “The castle!” I said loudly, spinning around to look at the bus schedule printed on the wall. “They would know what happened to him, right? I can explain who I am there, and they'll clear me with the hospital, and then I can see Elliott. Hell's bells, I don't know where these places are. Do you know how to get to Ainslie Castle?”

“Yais,” the girl said, burying her nose in the phone again. “Oi works there sometimes on weekends, cleaning up after you lot.”

“My lot? Americans, you mean?”

“Tourists.” She looked up long enough to nod across the street to another bus shelter. “Take the number four. It'll drop you at the grounds if you tell 'em where you want to go.”

I hurried across the road, taking up my place at a second bus shelter with renewed hope. Surely someone at the castle would help me. Elliott had spoken warmly of his family, and although they would have no idea who I was, I was confident I could make them understand.

The bus was another hour in coming, but at last it delivered me to the entrance to the castle grounds. I was
surprised to see so many cars filling a parking area that had been carved out of velvety lawns.

“Today's Tuesday,” the bus driver said as I asked him about the number of visitors. “Castle is open every Tuesday and Friday.”

“Gotcha. Thanks much.” I descended the bus steps, and started walking up the long drive that curved through an arch of willow trees. There were a few people walking with me, but most of the families were straggling back down the shaded drive toward the car park, their faces red with sun and exertion, many of them clutching little flags bearing the words “Ainslie Castle” that hung limp in the heat of the day. A few of the folks heading home bore shiny plastic bags, indicating the castle had a gift shop, as well. A little thrill of anticipation wormed its way through the heavy weight of worry when the treelined drive that obscured the house gave tantalizing little glimpses of it through the foliage.

“At last,” I said to myself. I was about to see Elliott's castle, his home, the home that would embrace me and welcome me and immediately become part of my very being.

I was home . . . if only someone but me would recognize that fact.

The warm yellow stone of the castle was the first thing I noticed. . . . The second was the extensive scaffolding that covered the front and right side of the building. Elliott had said there was restoration work going on, and he wasn't kidding. The builders weren't present at the moment—they probably didn't work when the castle was open to the public—but there was a vast amount of machinery and materials stacked neatly next to what appeared to be the stables. The castle itself was three stories,
and looked more like something out of
Downton Abbey
than what I thought of as a castle. There were no round crenellated towers with arrow slits, and murder holes out of which one could pour boiling oil, no moat, no drawbridge, not even a proper portcullis with spiky bits that one could drop on attackers. It looked like a glorious grand house. At least, most of it did. The left side looked like it had been bombed, with raw, jagged edges jutting out into space above a pile of rubble. That end of the house was roped off with bright pink tape, evidently to keep the tourists from getting into trouble—or taking souvenirs.