Someone to Love Read online

  “Oh?” she asked. “And what is that?”

  “I like England.” He glanced at her. “It’s wet and cold, and eccentric doesn’t begin to describe the people, but there’s something about this place that appeals to me.”

  She was looking at him hard.

  “My grandmother has been saying for years that someone should write the history of our family. We go back a long way and there have been some unusual characters in our family. We know all this by word-of-mouth tradition and through some old trunks full of letters and uniforms and family documents. But no one has ever written a complete story about my ancestors.”

  She waited for him to continue, but he was silent. “You mean you’re thinking of writing your family history?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “And living in England while you do it.”

  “It did go through my mind.”

  “And you’d live in Priory House?”

  “Heavens no!” he said. “I thought I’d buy a little house somewhere. Something old and nice, but something that could be heated.”

  “A Queen Anne former rectory,” she said, her voice dreamy.

  “Sounds great to me,” he said. “In fact, it sounds perfect. But it would have to have a garden.”

  “And a conservatory. It must have a conservatory. You know something? Writing has been something that I thought I might like to do too.”

  “Really? What would you write?”

  “About what I’ve seen. And I’d do some ghostwriting.” She gave him a quick glance. “Not that kind of ghost, the other kind. I’ve met some old reporters who had fantastic stories to tell. There was one old guy who’d seen everything since World War Two, and what he could tell wasn’t to be believed.”

  “Tell? He didn’t write it down?”

  “Not a word. To him, every word he did write was a chore. He could dictate a thousand words over the phone, but he couldn’t sit and write anything. And all the good stories he knew couldn’t be told—at least not then, that is. Now he could tell what he saw during the many wars he’s been through.”

  “Does he want to write his memoirs?”

  Nigh snorted. “What do you think reporters live on if it isn’t ego?”

  “Bourbon?” he asked innocently and she laughed.

  They talked all the way to the trailhead, then kept talking while they got their packs and started walking. They talked a great deal about their dream houses and what they had to have, but never once did they speak of the house as belonging to the two of them and of their living in it together. Nor did they speak of the fact that they were thinking of changing their lives in a way so they could live together.

  At noon they sat down on a rock by the side of the trail and ate the ham sandwiches Mrs. Browne had prepared and drank their Thermoses of tea. Nigh had peeled off her sweatshirt an hour before and it was tied around her waist. She leaned against a tree as they ate in companionable silence, the sun warm on them.

  “The Raider,” she said. “That sounds like my kind of man.” She was referring to the story Jace had told her about one of his ancestors. During the American Revolutionary War a young man had disguised himself and fought for the freedom of his country. It didn’t bother her that he’d fought against the English.

  Jace kept looking ahead at the forest. They were surrounded by trees, the birds singing. They were alone. “Besides men wearing masks, what is your kind of man?”

  Nigh had to take a drink of tea to keep from saying you. “Big, brawny, rugby player,” she said. “Or polo. I really like polo.”

  “I have a cousin who plays polo.”

  “What’s his name? Maybe you’ll introduce us.”

  “Lillian.”

  They laughed together and minutes later they picked up everything and started walking again. They went about a mile when Nigh called a halt. “I don’t know how you stand this,” she said, looking at his heavy shirt as she put her pack on the ground. “I’m about to burn up.”

  “This is nothing. You should spend a summer in the American South. How did you stand the Middle East if you don’t like hot weather?”

  “Dry heat,” she said, pulling her long-sleeved shirt over her head. “And—” She broke off because Jace was staring at her chest with wide eyes and open mouth. She had worn the tiny T-shirt to get his attention, but this was ridiculous! Hadn’t he ever seen…

  She looked down at her shirt and realized he was staring at the logo on her T-shirt. “What is it?”

  “That,” he whispered and raised his hand to point at her chest. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s from Queen Jane’s School,” she said. “It’s a posh little public—to you, private—boarding school about two miles from Priory House. It’s astronomically expensive and I don’t know anyone in Margate who has ever gone there. Gladys Arnold works there.”

  “Stacy had a shirt like that,” Jace whispered.

  “So does everyone who lives within thirty miles of here. The school puts on fund-raisers and sells things with the logo on them. We used to buy things from them until—”

  Jace was still looking at her with wide eyes. “You don’t think Stacy went there, do you?” Nigh asked. “She could have bought the shirt in several places. They sell them in a few shops in London.”

  “I don’t know,” Jace said, “but it’s a lead. We have to go back. We have to find out if she did go to that school. We have to—” He stopped talking and started going back the way they’d come at double speed.

  For a moment Nigh stood where she was. “So much for a romantic day out,” she said, then hitched up her pack and ran after him.

  It took them only forty-five minutes to get down the trail and back to the car, then Jace drove back to Margate as quickly as he could.

  “Turn here,” Nigh said and Jace took the turn so quickly Nigh grabbed the handle over the window. “I’m assuming you want to see Queen Jane’s School.”

  “Yes,” was all Jace said, which was the most he’d said the whole way back.

  “Turn up this dirt road,” she directed and he followed her instructions. When they came to a dead end, he stopped the car, got out, and looked down over the house and grounds below.

  Nigh stood beside him. The school was in an enormous old Victorian house, rather pretty, with manicured, treeless lawns that were divided into various playing fields. There were girls of high school age running about with balls or hockey sticks, all wearing the school colors of green and white.

  “So how do I find out if Stacy went there?” Jace asked.

  “I guess we could go and ask them. I’m sure they have records. But…”

  He looked at her. “But they must have heard that a Stacy Evans died in a pub not ten miles from their school and if they didn’t say anything then, they aren’t going to want to get involved now.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” she said.

  “Maybe we could try the Internet. They may have an alumni association.”

  “They do, but it’s sealed. You have to be an alumni to get into the thing.”

  Jace looked at her as though to ask how she knew that.

  Nigh shrugged. “Sometimes the girls deign to come into Margate to see how villagers live. The locals always want to know which one is the daughter of a duke, or an earl, so we used to look them up. The school found out about it and sealed the records from outsiders. And now the girls are rarely allowed into Margate, so that’s why you didn’t see the logo around town. It’s become very much a separation of them and us.”

  “So how do we find out?” Jace asked. “You’re the journalist. How do we see if Stacy went to this school?”

  “Short of breaking into the records office, I have no idea.” When she saw Jace’s face, she took a step backward. “I was joking. You can’t break into the school. Maybe if it weren’t in session you could do it, but there are three hundred girls living there now.”

  Jace stared at her a moment, then started back to the car, Nigh right