Стефани Баррон - The White Garden - A Novel of Virginia Woolf

Jo glanced at Peter, her excitement rising. “What did it say?”

“It is hereby noted that the Cambridge Conversazione Society, otherwise known as the Apostles, suspended all meetings for the academic year 1940, the membership being engaged in activities better suited to the defence of the realm,” Margaux recited. “A bloody great dead end. The same thing was in the box for ’41 as well. I knew there was something important about the Apostles — that phrase in the back of Woolf’s manuscript could only mean Cambridge — but I hadn’t the first idea how to sort it out. So I pocketed the papers and hoped I’d find someone who’d be willing to look at them.”

“And only succeeded in having yourself blacklisted from the Wren,” Peter mused. “Poor Margaux.”

“Poor Margaux!” Jo cried. “You actually believe her?”

He nodded distractedly. “It’s entirely typical. I told you she was no good at puzzles.”

But supremely adept , Jo raged without saying it, at managing you. Are you right about all this? Or has she got some missing piece of Ark information tucked tidily in her brassiere?

“Fair’s fair,” Margaux told them. “I told you what I found. Now it’s time to show me your treasure.”

She was holding out her hand. It was a beautiful hand, utterly unlike Jo’s earth-roughened one, with long, slender fingers and French-manicured nails.

There was a pause. Peter stared at Jo quizzically, offering no quarter, no refuge. Slowly, she reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew the oilskin package.

Margaux’s nose wrinkled. “Christ, you really did rob a grave, didn’t you?”

“I prefer to think of it as digging a hole in the garden,” Jo said; and was rewarded with one of Peter’s rare smiles.

“Draw up some chairs,” Margaux ordered. “I want to read this before we talk.”

“You sit, Jo,” Peter said. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

AND AS HE SWUNG OUT OF THE READING ROOM, WITH precision timing, Gray Westlake walked in.

“GOT A MINUTE?” HE ASKED.

“Gray…” Jo rose. “What are you doing here?”

“Let’s take a walk.”

Her eyes strayed to Margaux. The don was smiling to herself, fiercely intent upon Leonard Woolf’s letter, which she’d found tucked into the book and had removed from its envelope. Jo wasn’t fooled by appearances; the letter didn’t take that long to read. She found it interesting that Margaux was utterly indifferent to Gray. Almost as though she knew who he was — and had expected him to be there.

“I’m not comfortable leaving my stuff,” she told him.

“Then bring it with you.” He turned on his heel and made for the Reading Room door.

It was impossible for Jo to wrench the bound volume out of Margaux’s hands, now that she had it before her on the desk. And Peter was coming back…

Peter . Had he deliberately exited as Gray walked in? Was everybody in on this little meeting?

“How do you know Gray Westlake?” she demanded suddenly.

Margaux looked at her with cat’s eyes that revealed nothing. “I would call it more of an acquaintance, actually. Of very recent formation.”

Jo felt a spurt of anger; who the hell did Gray think he was, using Peter’s ex-wife to spy on her? Never mind how they’d met — what did Gray think he was doing, walking into the New Bodleian as though he owned the place, and demanding she follow him?

He had paused in the doorway and was staring at her grimly.

“You leave this room,” she snarled at Margaux, “and so help me God I’ll track you down and rip your head off, got it? Tell Peter I’ll be back in five.”

“Cheers,” Margaux replied, already engrossed in the bound volume.

GRAY TOOK HER BY THE ARM AND LED HER BRISKLY DOWN the stairs she’d just ascended.

“I’m not leaving,” she said through her teeth. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He did not reply, did not even look at her, but hustled her out of the New Bodleian door. It was there she succeeded in shaking him off, and stood rooted on the steps, glaring at him.

“This is ridiculous. You came all the way from London to drag me back against my will?”

“I came to talk to you. Since you’re incapable of picking up your phone.”

“I ran out of battery. I haven’t got my charger.”

“You’ve run out of a lot more than that, Jo. My patience, for instance. And time. You’re completely out of time.”

“Gray — ”

“I sent you here to work on plans for my garden.”

“Which I’ve done. And I told you the past few days were my own. A personal matter, having to do with my grandfather’s death. But you seem to have difficulty separating my life from yours.”

“The two have been pretty tangled lately,” he retorted with a harsh laugh.

“Did you pay that woman to track us down?”

His expression changed — from aggressive to careful.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, right . You just guessed I’d be in Oxford, at the Bodleian, this morning.”

“Actually,” he said evenly, “it was your friend Peter who called in to Sotheby’s and told them where you were. I gather he’s getting pretty tired of this jaunt all over England. Have you completely lost your mind , Jo, asking a complete stranger to run your errands for you?”

The words fell on her ears like shards of ice. Stinging. Unexpected. Unstoppable.

Peter . She’d had no idea what a pain in the ass she’d been. What a burden. When he’d probably been trying to get back to Margaux for days —

“Do you realize that but for me,” Gray continued tensely, “you’d have every cop in Great Britain trailing you right now?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That little prank you pulled, Jo. At Sissinghurst. When you were in my employ . Stealing from a National Trust house! Jesus — Imogen Cantwell is ready to start World War Three! If I hadn’t bought her off during a delicate round of negotiation, she’d have gone to the police.”

“I see.” Jo swallowed. Peter . “I should have communicated better. I left her a message — ”

“ — Before your battery ran out. Right.” Gray grinned at her humorlessly. “Between Imogen crying for blood and the head of Sotheby’s book department furious at your unfortunate friend, I’ve had my hands full. And you don’t even have the damn decency to get in touch.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. Peter . She needed to get far, far away from all of them and figure out how to crawl home. “It never occurred to me that you’d be involved in this. Why are you involved, Gray?”

“Because I care about you.” He took a step toward her. “I just want you to forget this whole mess and come home.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She shook her head, puzzling it out. “How did you meet Imogen? Why pose as a buyer? And you obviously know Margaux. This is all too weird.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it’s weird, and it’s time it ended. Leave the notebook with your friend from Sotheby’s, Jo, and come back to London. It’s time to let this adventure go.”

Let it go.

Why? a voice inside her asked. Why should I let Jock’s book go?

Gray’s arms had come around her and her head was against his shoulder. His hands smoothing her mangled ponytail. She was supposed to feel grateful, feel comforted, like a little girl rescued from a train wreck.

“Unh-unh,” she said stubbornly, and stepped away from him.

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You know, Jo, I can always tell Sotheby’s I’m not interested in the sale. And let you negotiate terms from a jail cell.”