“Nicky is a good man,” Diana said. “He—”
“Spare me,” Bertie said. “My son only cares about the next song that fancy boy writes. Do you know where he’s from?”
“You mean Byon?” Diana asked. “In spite of his posh accent, I think he probably came from the same place I did. The slums of London.”
“I believe you’re right.” Bertie chuckled smugly. “But at least you don’t pretend to be someone else. He’s a liar.”
“Aren’t we all?” Diana stroked the horse. “So when do we race him?”
“In six weeks.”
“Then we have a lot of work to do to get him ready.”
“You and Sean?” Bertie’s voice was soft, sounding like love. He never spoke of his son in that tone. “Look at the time. I must go.” Bertie left.
When it was quiet, Puck stepped into the light. She didn’t like to think of her special spots as hiding places. To her, they were small areas of safety.
Acting as though she’d just entered, she went to Diana. Of course she was in a horse stall, pitchfork in hand. Byon said Diana put horse urine in tiny bottles and used it as perfume—and Nicky’s father had been so enraptured that he was planning to deed her half his kingdom. His thinly veiled meaning was that Bertram was going to give her his son.
Diana didn’t ask what Puck was holding out to her. She stabbed the fork upright and quickly read the papers. She took a pen out of her shirt pocket, made a couple of corrections, and handed the document back to Puck. “Get this to Clive ASAP. It should go out today. What are they up to?”
“Mr. Byon hasn’t heard whether or not anyone is buying his new play,” Puck said. “Master Nicky says he should write about love but still have a sad ending.”
“Yeah,” Diana said. “Nicky loves sadness. How is Nadine with her father?”
“She’s to take riding lessons from Sean so she can become a lady.”
Diana laughed. “That’ll be fun to watch. Nadine has her father’s love of cars and Sean only likes what can love him back.”
Puck smiled at that. It was perfectly true. “Nadine’s new Aston Martin seems to love her.”
With a quick laugh, Diana looked up from forking the manure. “You’re in good form today. Been listening to Byon’s latest music?”
“Oh yes.” Puck’s eyes closed for a moment.
A noise at the door startled them. “Take that to Clive,” Diana whispered. “And don’t let him know—”
“Nicky told me.” Puck slipped out the narrow door at the side of the stable. When she realized she’d forgotten to ask Diana where Sean was, she almost went back. But she didn’t. She knew his favorite places so she’d find him.
As good as Puck was at not being seen, there was one person she never seemed able to hide from: Willa. Maybe that was because they were both so good at being invisible.
When Puck heard the “pssst” come from somewhere inside the overgrown, untrimmed hedge, she wanted to take off running and never stop.
Puck knew that the basic law of being a Secret Keeper was knowing who could be told what. She could tell Nadine and Diana what Nicky and Byon were up to and vice versa. Bertie was to be told nothing at all. Ever. She had to be selective about what she told Clive. Lying to him was acceptable but keep it simple. But the secret she couldn’t tell anyone was that Willa was madly, passionately, insanely in love with Clive.
Willa was a younger child of the second son of a baron. Not high up in the aristocratic world, but her father had made money through some wise investments. Although, some people unkindly said he’d bought Apple stock thinking he was purchasing an American orchard. So maybe his money was from dumb luck, not wisdom.
Whatever the truth, he’d made a fortune and Willa had a trust fund. She should have been a good catch for marriage but she wasn’t pretty and she was odd. Socially awkward. She tended to sit and stare at people.
Byon said she’d never had a creative thought or said anything interesting. “And that’s what I love about her. If I can entertain her, all of Blighty will be mine.”
It took them a while, but they got to know Willa. She was loyal, a good listener, and she adored the others. She was in awe of their talent and beauty. And Willa was protective of the people who’d befriended her. At university, a young man had dropped Nadine after a night when he got what he wanted from her. Three days later, he woke up in a bed full of stinging nettles and biting ants. He had to be hospitalized.
No one would have guessed that Willa had done it if Byon hadn’t seen the bites on her hands.
After that, Willa was a fully accepted member of their little group. “You’re ours, darling.” Byon kissed her cheek. “Even though we are quite terrified of you.”
The others nodded in agreement. Willa had cried in gratitude—then bought them a case of some very fine champagne. In fact, she was the one who paid for all their food and drink. A local van arrived on Friday nights and it was full to the brim with the best of everything. They had only to mention a food or beverage and it arrived. All bills went to Willa.
Puck tried not to grimace at this interruption. She had places she needed to go. She stepped through a web of dead privet to where Willa was waiting for her. There were remnants of formerly grand garden rooms all over Oxley Manor. But they were being allowed to go to seed. Bertie had no interest in gardens.
Behind the hedge, the grass was a foot high. A few feet away was a crumbling old marble statue. A bird nest was at the top.
“You’re going to him, aren’t you?” Willa whispered. She was short and round, pudgy and shapeless, no curves anywhere. Just like a good English sausage, Byon said. Her face was plain. One time Nadine spent hours doing a makeover on Willa—but it hadn’t worked. In a kind voice, Byon said, “You’ve made her into a drag queen. Do give her a bath.” Nadine had mumbled that Willa was “...beautiful as you are...” and no one ever again tried to change her.
Willa held out an envelope. It was thick and cream-colored, with brown engraving. She probably bought her stationery wherever the Queen did. “Would you give it to him?”
Puck didn’t know much about men but from what she’d seen, they wanted to do the pursuing.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Willa said. “I know I shouldn’t be so forward, but how’s he going to know what I feel unless I tell him? It’s a poem and I spent days on it. I had to, uh, borrow some bits, but it’s mostly mine. If nothing else, Clive will appreciate the literary merit of it. Maybe...” Her eyes widened. “Maybe I should show it to Byon.”