“Portia, let me try to show you it doesn’t
have to be like that.”
“No, I won’t do that to you. You deserve to
be loved wholeheartedly.”
“Suppose I tell you I’m willing to take
whatever you can give me?”
“You’d settle for that, Jack?”
“I wouldn’t consider it settling.”
I put down the cup and reached for the
letters. “May I keep these?”
He sighed. “Of course. Why don’t you change?
I’ll call your airline and see about rescheduling your flight.”
* * * *
“I was sorry I couldn’t be in the States for
Nigel’s funeral,” he said as he waited with me at Heathrow for my
return flight. Father’s man stood some distance away, affording us
a measure of privacy. “I was helping Father with something in
Africa, and I didn’t learn of it until afterward. I hope you know
I’d have been there otherwise.”
“Yes, I know.” Although to tell the truth,
I’d been in such a fog of pain and grief that to this day I had no
idea who’d been there other than family.
“I liked him very much when I met him at
your wedding.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. It was kind of
your family to attend. I remember what a busy time of year that was
for Lord John.”
“I always envied Nigel. I thought he was a
very fortunate man to have won you.”
“We were fortunate to have run into each
other.”
“Portia, may I…may I call on you the next
time I’m in the States?” he asked. “Just to take you to dinner, or
perhaps a show?”
“All right, Jack.” I did enjoy his company,
even though I’d never been attracted to him. “Do that.”
* * * *
We lost Mother the following year. We were
all at her bedside, even Quinton, whose “travels” had been cut
short when we realized how ill she was.
Mother had been fading in and out of
consciousness, but at the last, she opened her eyes, gazed at
Jefferson, and smiled. “Albert.”
And then she was gone.
“I…I wish I knew why she saddled me with a
middle name like that,” he mumbled as he reached for a
handkerchief. Ludovic put an arm around his shoulders.
Bryan stood by the window, staring out onto
the side lawn. “Johanna will come to the funeral, of course.”
“Billy and Libby?”
He shook his head without bothering to look
around. “Billy’s attending college in upstate New York. The only
time his mother sees him is when she flies up to Alfred. As for
Libby…well, she’s in Mexico getting her third divorce.” He sighed
heavily. “I’d better go downstairs and call Johanna.”
Tony waited until he left before snarling,
“What the
hell
was he thinking?”
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself,”
Jefferson said.
Tony shook his head. “It’s not my
business.”
“She’s a beautiful woman,” Ludovic
murmured.
Until you got to know her.
“Tony, do you want to inform Father?” I
asked. “I’ll call the funeral home and let them know they can come
pick her up.”
* * * *
Eight months later, on a cold December night
the week before Christmas, Father passed away in his sleep. In
spite of his age, we hadn’t been expecting it, so we were all in
our homes when Henry Plum, who had replaced his father as Father’s
butler, called us.
Once again, Bryan had to summon Quinton
home. Once again, neither of Bryan’s stepchildren cared enough to
attend.
Most of Father’s friends were gone—after
all, he was ninety-five—and only a few of his colleagues were able
to attend the service. President Reagan was kind enough to send a
representative.
There were four vaguely familiar faces at
the back of the church, but the two men and two women made no
effort to approach us. My brothers exchanged glances, and Tony went
to talk to them. He returned after a few minutes, pale and his
mouth in a grim line.
“No, leave them be,” he said when Quinton,
Jefferson, and Bryan would have gone to confront them. “I’ll tell
you about it later.”
Father was interred beside Mother in the
plot of land on the farm where Sebrings had been buried since the
17
th
Century.
* * * *
“All right, Tony. Who were those
people?”
He looked tired. “Our half-brothers and
sisters.”
“
What
?” Bryan’s voice dropped two
octaves as he tried to contain his surprise.
“Tony, what the fuck are you talking about?
Uh…sorry, Portia.”
“Not at all, Jefferson. You saved me from
saying it.”
Tony scrubbed his face. “You remember me
telling you Father was on the verge of marrying someone else,” he
said to Bryan.
“She was a Ziegfeld girl,” I murmured.
“You knew?” My brothers looked nonplussed,
while Quinton just shook his head.
“Why does that surprise you?” Quinton came
to me and slid an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t you remember what
Mother used to do?”
“You’re not supposed to know that,
sweetheart.” I pinched his chin. “Apparently that young woman was
Father’s one.”
“I doubt it. He didn’t love her enough to go
against Grandfather’s wishes.” Tony met my gaze. “What did you say
when Father told you he didn’t think it was a good idea for you to
continue to see Mann?”
“You were aware of that? I told him I
thought it was a splendid idea and that I had no intention of
giving Nigel up.”
“Precisely. But when Grandfather more or
less said the same thing to him, what did Father do? He bought his
mistress a little house in San Francisco and gave her four
illegitimate children.”
“Jesus, is this a mess!” Jefferson’s face
was gray, and his gaze went from Tony to Bryan to me. “We could
have lost Shadow Brook. If he’d married her—they could have
inherited…I swear to God I’d kill to keep this house and this
land.”
“No need for violence,” Tony said.
“Grandfather would never allow something like that to happen. He
saw to it that his will was ironclad. Only the issue of Anthony
Sebring and Mary Blackburn stood to inherit Shadow Brook. As for
Father’s other family, they’ll each get a million dollars as well
as a portfolio of stocks.”
I didn’t ask how Tony knew that. When we
went to see the lawyer regarding the will, it would probably turn
out that he was the executor.
“I’ve got a headache,” Bryan said. “I’m
going to take a Tylenol and lie down for an hour before I start
home.”
“Bry, why don’t you stay the night?”
Jefferson ran his palm over the filial on the newel post. “Why
don’t we all stay the night? God knows the last thing any of us
needs is an accident.”
“I think I will. Johanna won’t ca-mind.”
She’d used the excuse of needing to be home for phone calls from
her children to avoid coming out to Shadow Brook. “Right now I’m
good for nothing. Someone wake me for dinner,” Bryan called over
his shoulder.
“Works for me.” Gregor looked around. “I’ll
go help Olive in the kitchen.”
“It’s a good thing we all have spare clothes
here.” I turned to my son. “Quinton?”
“There’s nowhere I have to be. I’m done
wandering, Mother,” he told me as he looped his arm through mine
and we began walking up the stairs. “I sent in my application to
Harvard, and I’ll start work on my master’s in January.”
Well, at least he’d be in the same
country.
* * * *
After Quinton obtained his master’s in
Political Science, he followed in his father’s and his uncles’
footsteps, and joined the family business, the CIA.
A few years earlier, at the age of
twenty-five, he’d been given access to the trust fund his father
and I had set up for him shortly after his birth. I’d also seen to
it that Nigel’s life insurance, which the Company had paid out to
me, was available to him if he so desired.
Quinton bought a townhouse in Alexandria; it
wasn’t too terribly far from Great Falls, and we went riding
together every Sunday whenever he was in the country.
On this particular Sunday, there was more I
wanted of him than to simply take a look at the bay mare I was
considering purchasing
“She’s quite a beauty, Mother.”
“Yes. And she’s is a sweet goer as well. Her
present owner calls her Pyrrhic Victory.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I have no idea.” I smiled and shrugged. “I
do like the name, though.”
“So you’ll buy her?”
“I think I will. I have something else about
which I need to speak to you, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Alyona is thinking about retiring.”
He nodded. “She’s told me that as soon as
she could find someone to take her place as housekeeper, she wants
to move up to New York to live near some cousins.”
I raised an eyebrow, and then sighed. “She
never did feel I could adequately take care of myself, and even
more so after your father…”
“Yes. I know you can, Mother, and yes, I
know I saw to it that your security system was updated with the
latest in Company technology, but I’d feel more comfortable knowing
you weren’t alone.”
“Oh?”
“You know I have my share of…people who
don’t look kindly upon me.”
I felt a shiver run up my spine, but that
was the life of an officer of the CIA, and even though I was long
out of the game, I might still be used as a pawn to get to my son.
“So you agree with her that Gregor should become my chief cook and
bottle washer?”
He laughed. “He’d hardly be that!”
“No, that’s true.”
Gregor had been promoted to special agent,
and he had a good many awards and commendations, which he never
mentioned, since he was a modest man. He’d been injured in the line
of duty a couple of years ago and lost almost a yard of his small
intestine. Rather than retire he’d taken a desk job in the
Manhattan office. It kept him involved in all things FBI, and every
day he’d take the number six subway to Federal Plaza.
I knew from random comments that he missed
being in the field, but I still wondered if he’d be willing to come
home.
“I’m just afraid he might find life in Great
Falls a little dull.”
“I’m sure Alyona thinks dull would be
good.”
“Oh, yes. She says excitement is what almost
got him killed.” I remembered her telling me her man—little more
than a boy—had been killed fighting with the Resistance during
World War II. They’d been young and thought they’d live forever,
only he hadn’t. And when Nigel had died, that had only reinforced
her belief that dull was good.
“So you’ll give him the position?”
“I’ll offer it to him, and if he wants it,
it’s his.” I glanced over at him. “Did you doubt it? He’s as much a
part of the family as Alyona.”
“He is. He’s been there for me as much as
any of my uncles.”
“I wonder why he never married. I know he’s
been involved with some very attractive women.”
“Well, according to Alyona, why buy the cow
if the milk is free?”
“Yes, she was from that generation.”
“And no, I haven’t found anyone yet,
Mother.”
“I’m cut to the quick that you’d think I’d
question you about your lady friends, Quinton!”
“Of course. Forgive me.” He grinned and
touched his gelding’s sides with his heels, and both horses broke
into a canter.
And so when his sister retired, Gregor was
more than willing to take her place in my household. He became my
majordomo, my butler, my chauffeur, my chef.
What no one knew was that the former FBI
agent was also my bodyguard.
* * * *
The year 2001 was going to be busy. Quinton
often traveled to Europe and South America, but for the most part
his assignments were confined to the contiguous forty-eight
states.
As for me, I continued with my
charities.
Gregor drove me into Baltimore where I was
going to have lunch with the ladies on one of the charities I
chaired.
“Will you have something to keep you
occupied until this luncheon is over?” I asked him.
“Sure. I was thinking of visiting the FBI
office here.”
Just then, my cell phone rang. “Excuse me.
Hello?”
“Mrs. Mann? This is Louis Buonfiglio. You
don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your son. We work together at
the CIA. I thought I’d better tell you—Mann’s been shot.”
I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. This
man might be many things, but a friend of Quinton’s wasn’t one of
them. “How bad is it?” In all the years Quinton had worked for the
CIA, he’d never been shot on the job.
“The wound is to his thigh, and it bled like
a son of a—it bled a lot. It could have been a hell of a lot
worse,” he hurried to assure me. “That bastard, Mark Vincent, was
involved. Mann lucked out—Vincent’s aim was off. Mann’s at the U of
Maryland Medical Center. I don’t know if they plan to admit him,
but I thought you’d want to be available in case they did.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Keep me posted,
please. If he’s admitted, I’ll drive up to see him.”
“Thank you again.” I hung up.
“Gregor…Quinton’s been shot in the leg, apparently by someone named
Mark Vincent.”
“
Goddammit
! Where is he?”
“The University of Maryland Medical Center.
At least, according to Buonfiglio.”
“That was him on the phone? That son of a
bitch! Sorry, Portia.”
“Please don’t apologize. We both know
Buonfiglio’s reputation.” The man was as unctuous as Uriah Heep,
and Bryan had mentioned in passing that Buonfiglio’s ambition
seemed to be becoming indispensable to any of the various directors
of counterintelligence. To date he hadn’t been successful. I dialed
another number. “It’s Portia Mann. I understand my son was brought
to your ER with a gunshot wound. I want to know how he is.”
“Mrs. Mann! I’m so sorry! Just give me a
moment. I’ll see what I can learn.” For five minutes I listened to
a voice telling me how important my call was, and that they’d be
right with me. Finally, “Mrs. Mann? Mr. Mann will be all right. The
bullet didn’t hit anything vital, and his doctor feels it was
caused by a ricochet. He will have a scar, I’m afraid, but it
shouldn’t be too large, and he can always have plastic surgery done
on it.”