Tom Dolby - The Trust

“I quit last year,” he said, declining it. “So, what’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said. “Nick, you know the Society is very important to me. Of all the people in our class, I would say I take it more seriously than anyone. But I haven’t gotten a single advantage or privilege because of it. You have everything-you’re Nick Bell. Lauren has a jewelry line. Phoebe gets a gallery show. Patch can do whatever he damn well pleases. Of all of you, all fourteen of you, I’m the only one who really cares about the group.”

“Claire, I’m not really sure why you’re telling me this.”

“I know you’re going to be offered a leadership position in our class very soon,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the obvious choice. Your father is the Chairman. Your grandfather was Chairman Emeritus. You’re the next in line.”

“That’s not technically true. What about Henry and Benjamin?”

“I think that your father is more interested in grooming you,” she said. “Henry and Benjamin are easy. They’ve already fallen in with the group’s rules, and besides, they’re not Conscripts anymore. Your father wants to give you a leadership position so that you’ll stay loyal, so you’ll stop being the leader of the Infidels.”

Nick looked at her incredulously. “You think I’m the leader? And that name-someone else came up with that name, not us! Besides, how do you know any of this?”

She exhaled another stream of smoke. “My parents tell me everything. I’m not like the rest of you-I don’t see my parents as enemies. I trust them, and they trust me.”

“I don’t think they’d be too happy about you talking to me this way.”

“Hear me out. I think you’ll find that what I want makes sense. It’s pretty simple: I want your position in the Society. I want you to cede it to me.”

“Claire, I don’t have any position. Honestly, you’ve taken more of a leadership role than I have, by heading up the Junior Committee for the ball.”

Claire waved her hand at the suggestion, dispersing the smoke into the air. “That’s such typical sexism. Women get to run things like party committees while men get to head up task forces, get to make decisions that affect the world? I want more than the Junior Committee. Stuffing envelopes won’t exactly give me lessons in leadership.”

“Okay,” Nick said, “so what am I supposed to do?”

Claire looked surprised. “Wait, you’re going to do it?”

“Claire, clearly there’s so little that you understand about me and my friends.”

“What do you mean? All I know is that your friends don’t like me.”

“Come on, that’s not true.” He wasn’t really sure what to say to such an awkward statement.

She looked at him askance.

“Okay, so it’s a little bit true. But you’re not very nice to them.”

“I don’t really care. I’m not out to make friends.”

“Claire, just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Tell your father that I should be the next leader of the Conscripts. Charles has been fulfilling that role since the fall, and I know your father wants it to be you after him.”

“Fine.”

“Well, that was easy,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “I thought it was going to be ugly.”

“How would it be ugly?” He knew he probably shouldn’t ask this question, but he was curious.

Claire paused for a moment before speaking slowly. “I know things about you, about your family, that I don’t think you would want to be revealed. I know about Patch being your half brother. And I know that your father told you on New Year’s Eve. And that you never told Patch. Your father told my mother, and my mother told me.”

Claire was right. On the morning of New Year’s Eve, after that horrible, dreadful series of days on Isis Island, his father had drawn him aside. Parker had relayed the story of how he had an affair with Patch’s mother, Esme, and that he was Patch’s biological father. Nick had only started to heal his friendship with Patch the previous evening, and so he hadn’t wanted to tell him. He had wanted to say something ever since that morning in the library of the Great Cottage, but it never seemed to be the right time. After that day, he had blocked it out. It had been easier not to deal with it, to pretend the information didn’t exist. It was easier to believe it would become evident in due course, and he wasn’t responsible for it.

More than anything, Nick wanted his friendship with Patch to go back to how it used to be, when Nick was a Bell and Patch was an Evans and the two of them were best friends.

Instead, he had done the worst thing, something that Patch might never forgive him for: he had kept the truth from his friend. But this time, he wasn’t going to be afraid.

“So what about it?” Nick said.

“I thought I was going to have to tell Patch that you already knew,” she said. “I don’t exactly think you’d want him to find out, would you?”

Nick sighed. “Claire, has it ever occurred to you that it’s a bit tiresome living under all these secrets? I’m going to tell Patch soon. And he’ll take it for what it’s worth. But I’m not going to let you pretend to blackmail me over some stupid position in the Society. What you don’t realize is that you’re doing me a favor.”

“What do you mean?” She looked deflated for a moment.

“The last thing I would ever want is to head up the Conscripts. So you’re not really taking anything from me at all.”

“I really don’t think-” She stood up, seemingly flustered.

“Good night, Claire. I’ll tell my father about your wishes in the next few days. Please thank your parents for the lovely party.”

Nick turned around and left the library, walking down the hall to get his coat. He would have looked for Phoebe, but he sensed that he should give her some time to cool off. As he rode down in the elevator, he hoped he would never have to set foot in the Chilton apartment again.

Six days later, starting after midnight, three enormous trucks arrived at Eaton House in Southampton. Eight workers dressed in black who billed themselves as a “white-glove delivery service” loaded the artworks out a back entrance of the estate’s main house. The company was known for its discretion and didn’t question why it was taking sixteen historically significant paintings to a warehouse near Islip Airport on Long Island, where the pieces would be repackaged, addressed to their respective museums and owners, and sent via private air courier.

Two days later Nick saw that the story was on the front page of every major newspaper in the world. Because all the museums had issued amnesties on the return of each piece, no investigations would be started. Some of the museums wanted to identify the party who returned the artwork so that they could issue a reward, which, in at least one case amounted to five million dollars.

Not surprisingly, and much to the relief of the institutions, in the days that followed, no one came forward.

The day the story broke, Nick asked his father to meet him at the Society’s town house on East 66th Street. He remembered when he and Phoebe and Lauren had asked to meet his father at the town house in December, and how their request had been rejected. Charles Lawrence, the leader of the Conscripts, had met with them instead, which had given them no answers.

This time, Nick had written his father a note, leaving it on the desk in his study. Taped to the bottom of the note was a clipping from the New York Times about the return of the paintings.

That would, he thought, make the message clear.