Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) (26 page)

How Jamie had managed to juggle so many figurative balls with such proficiency she truly did not understand. It also gave her a feeling of great accomplishment every time something that had seemed entirely incomprehensible only a week before suddenly became, if not simple, at least clear.

She saw that Jamie had laid the foundation for this for some time. That many of their conversations and much of what he had taught her, shown her and guided her through, had been in readiness for this possibility. Often as she looked through contracts, approval papers, bank transfers and assorted other pieces of Jamie’s daily routine, she would hear the echo of his voice in her ear, feel his finger guiding her eyes to the line she was missing, and honing her instinct for this world out of its dormancy. She had always known Jamie ruled an empire, but just how far its tendrils spread across the globe, she’d been less knowledgeable about.

Robert was always on hand to explain the legal intricacies and to stop her from making snap judgments. On the days that she sat in Jamie’s study, they took tea together while Conor was down for his nap in the afternoons. She was growing quite fond of the prim Scotsman with the mind of an arrow in flight. It was clear why Jamie had hired him to look after his affairs in his absence. It was this absence that hung most heavily in the air between them. As the weeks went by and the worry could no longer be put aside, she saw clearly that what Jamie had ultimately prepared her for was life without him.

It was on a dark, windy afternoon late in the month that Robert came to her looking as though he had a lime stored in one cheek and a chunk of bitter gall in the other. She knew whatever he was about to say would not be pleasant.

Pleasant it was not, even before he spoke. For on the desk he laid a thick white vellum envelope with her name in Jamie’s elegant handwriting across the front. On the back was his seal with the bold imprint of the Kirkpatrick insignia.

He sat on the other side of the desk, then rose, taking the decanter of Connemara Mist and placing it on the desk between them. Teetotaler that he was, Robert couldn’t possibly have taken any action that would have panicked her more. Being Scots, mind you, he had the profound good sense to know that whiskey should be administered before shock.

“In my instructions,” he said, pouring them each a generous three fingers, “Lord Kirkpatrick asked that this letter be given to you should he not arrive home by a certain date. As that date,” he passed her the glass and she clutched it gratefully, the fumes alone providing a homely comfort, “passed one week ago, I felt the letter needed to be given to you. Of course, you will want to read it later when you’re alone.”

She took a good swallow of the drink, knowing she needed the fortitude, though she wasn’t a whiskey drinker by nature. Both Casey and Jamie had taught her the medicinal value of the drink in times of stress.

“Now,” Robert took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses on his nose, “that dispensed with, I think it’s time I spoke to you about your situation.”

“Just how much whiskey do I need in me for this chat?” she asked, wishing she had started in on the bottle straight after lunch.

Robert merely cleared his throat in answer, which told her nothing. He could be the most inscrutable man when he so chose, which likely was a good part of why Jamie had hired him.

“There are several things we’re going to need to go over, first of which are certain household items that need to be dealt with,” Robert said. “Things that you will have to decide. Small things to be certain, but nevertheless decisions that can no longer be held off. The time has passed now that Lord Kirkpatrick set out as the terms under which all decision-making would be handed over to you.”

Pamela found herself wanting to shake the stoic little Scotsman until he made some form of sense.

“What do you mean,
all
decision-making? It’s one thing for me to sign papers as long as you explain them to me clearly first, but to take on decisions about the house seems rather more personal. Besides, Maggie has a much better handle on these things than I possibly could.”

“I think you misunderstand,” the Scotsman said quietly. “Because all of it, Mrs. Riordan, was left to you from the time you first came here. I believe you were nineteen at the time? Or was it eighteen? Should Lord Kirkpatrick fail to come home, this house belongs to you.”

“What?!” She pushed her glass across to Robert and he obligingly re-filled it.

“Yes, when I said everything I meant
everything—
the titles to the land, the house, the stables, the other homes he owns, the distilleries, the linen mills—and every other interest he has overseas. There’s far too much to absorb in one sitting. That’s only the bare bones of his assets.”

“What?” she croaked again, feeling like a very stupid parrot.

Robert smiled at her, his wise-owl face sympathetic. “I can see all this will be a shock to you, so I’ll give you time to absorb it but then we will, I’m afraid, have to sit down and take a look at what all this means. Of course, there are certain stipulations as well, to do with his grandmother and her cottage at the bottom of the property.”

“Of course,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.

“I’m going to see about tea. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said kindly, and absented himself from the study. She knew he wasn’t going to see about tea. Maggie had never needed reminding and Robert knew that to so much as enquire was to risk his well-being and ability one day to reproduce. He had gone to give her a moment alone.

“Oh God,
Jamie—
what the hell were you thinking?!” she asked the air aloud.

Suddenly she bowed her head to the desk, throat tight with tears. She did not want this, didn’t want any of it, didn’t want the responsibilities, nor the rights and privileges that came with all this wealth and power. She didn’t want anything to do with something that meant Jamie was gone, never to return. And she found she was not only profoundly terrified that he was indeed gone, but also very, very angry with him for leaving all this to her. For leaving her.

She stood, unable to sit at his desk in this current state of mind, and walked to the shelves that held his books, all the volumes that had informed that beautiful light-ridden mind of his. How could he be gone, how could all the poetry and prose, the bawdy wit, the wine and the song, be no more? How could the man who had fed her knowledge as if it were no more than cake be gone? How could the howling darkness have finally overcome him? And where had he succumbed? How could the man who had taught her Latin, and how to sail a boat alone, the man who had given so generously of his time and heart, how could the man who loved her, be gone?

The letter lay like a ticking time bomb, guaranteed to blow this tidy world to smithereens if she should dare to open it. Well, she wouldn’t open it. She wouldn’t allow Jamie to do this. He would just have to return home, sound of body and mind, and tell her whatever he needed to tell her.

Her hands icy with fear, she pulled a book off the shelf, hoping as one does in such times that it would contain a prophecy as well as comfort.

A journey across many seas and through many nations
Has brought me here, brother, for these poor obsequies,
To let me address, all in vain, your silent ashes
And render you the last service for the dead…

No, not Catullus. He had never been a comforting poet—bawdy, witty, downright nasty and always entertaining, but not comforting. She moved along the shelf that contained the thoughts, great and otherwise, of the Romans. Her hand paused at Seneca. For comfort he was about right and his words were one of the bridges that had helped to form their friendship that long ago summer when she and Jamie first met.

It was an old, old volume and fell open naturally to its final page, where the great philosopher’s words lay gold upon the onionskin paper:

‘Death is not an evil. What is it then? The one law mankind has that is free of discrimination.’

Seneca was not so comforting either. What she wanted was Jamie himself, to tell her somehow that he was safe, to reach across time and space and give her an indication that he was still somewhere here on this earth, with terra firma beneath his feet and the same stars overhead that she gazed at each night. To tell her that on this chancy planet, in the darkness of night, she still had her dearest friend. Now she must be his friend and take the steps to find out where he was and what had happened to keep him so long silent. Whatever steps they might be, they must be faced with courage for his sake.

She took a deep breath, replaced Seneca on the shelf and turned toward the living for help. The phone number was one she knew and kept in reserve for just such a time.

She sat back down at Jamie’s desk and dialed.

In London a phone rang and was picked up. A voice said, ‘Hello’, managing to convey in those two small syllables a wealth of experience.

“Mr. Wexler,” she said, “my name is Pamela Riordan. I need to talk to you about Jamie.”

Chapter Twenty-one
Of Men and Angels

Jonathan Wexler arrived two nights later
. After initial formalities, Pamela preceded him to the study, where a fire was lit and tea soon to arrive. He stood on the Turkish rug and surveyed his surroundings with pleasure.

Casey was going to be late home from work and Conor was happily playing in the kitchen with Maggie’s pots and spoons. Maggie’s niece was visiting from Cork and had brought her two small daughters with her. They were fascinated by Conor and Conor in turn was happy to fascinate. So she was free for the moment to talk with John and see him settled here in Jamie’s home.

“I forget,” he said, “from one visit to the next, how beautiful Jamie’s home is—I do love it here.”

“It’s very peaceful. One can almost pretend the city below doesn’t exist.”

Kirkpatrick’s Folly had always been a place apart, a fairyland set upon a hill above a hard city. The front half was a Georgian beauty, with formally laid out grounds and lines that were as graceful as any perfect angle. The back half was pure Victorian whimsy, with fluted chimneys, leaded cupolas and octagonal windows. The grounds behind the house were filled with roses and vines and cottage flowers of every description. Further back was an ancient forest filled with storied trees: oaks, ash, elm, rowan and hazel. A bridle path ran through the woods down to the base of the mountain where the Kirkpatrick land ended. The house and grounds had a sense of timelessness, as though the world could be stopped and forgotten, and one would remain safe and content here amongst starlit rooms and roses.

Jamie’s study was to the right side of the back entry and stood alone in a small wilderness of ivy and oak trees which shaded it deeply on summer days, but as it was made of glass and wrought iron, it was always open to the heavens no matter the season. Hidden within the wilderness was a tiny courtyard, laden in summer with the scents of bee balm and lavender, though in December such scents were a mere memory amongst the barren stalks.

“We have met before, though you may not remember. It was the night of Jamie’s father’s funeral,” she began, but John held up one thin hand to stave off her explanation. He smiled wryly.

“I do remember you, dear girl—your entrance that night wasn’t something a man, no matter his inclinations, was likely to forget.”

John sat down in one of the buttery leather-covered wingbacks and stretched his feet toward the fire. He looked weary and far older than the picture of him her memory had held. “Would you happen to have a drink on hand, dear girl?”

“Connemara Mist straight?”

John inclined his head, hand adjusting his collar. “Your memory is faultless.”

She handed him the drink and poured herself one as well.

Maggie came in with a tray loaded down with teapot and cups and a heap of roast beef sandwiches. Pamela suddenly realized how hungry she was. She put a plate together for John and one for herself, and then poured them each a cup of the aromatic Earl Grey.

“As I said to you on the phone, the one meeting he keeps every year is in Russia with his friend, Andrei.”

“He has mentioned him a time or two,” Pamela said, “but I didn’t realize he went to see him. How is that even possible in the Soviet Union?”

“Andrei is an astrophysicist in the same league as Penrose and Sakharov. He’s not allowed too many privileges for the total use of his brain by the Soviet machine, but visiting Jamie once a year is one thing they do allow. He is extremely important to the Soviet space program so they allow him a few things ordinary citizens can only dream of.”

“He must be very dear to Jamie. It seems a rather risky thing to go inside the Russian border every year, permission notwithstanding.”

“You’ll hardly get a fair picture from me. I wasn’t overly fond of Andrei.”

“Why not?”

John took a deep drink of his whiskey without flinching and then sighed. “Because I was jealous. I was in love with Jamie, you see.”

“I didn’t know,” she replied softly.

“No reason you should. I don’t imagine it’s something Jamie talks about over tea. He’s been my dearest friend for many years and has allowed me to be one of his, but he’s never been comfortable with the other feelings I have for him. I blurted it out one night when I’d had too much to drink and was, admittedly, angry with Jamie. I felt Andrei had stolen him away from me and that I had become little more than a figure of fun for the two of them. Oh, you needn’t give me that look. I know well enough that Jamie isn’t the sort to do that, but jealousy is hardly a rational state, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” she said, wondering just how much this man knew about her own history with Jamie.

He laid his head against the high chair back, stretching his feet toward the fire. “Oh, to see the two of them. I was near eaten with jealousy. So well matched—fiery angels, the two of them—burning everything and everyone in their vicinity,” John said bitterly, lines like bite marks around his mouth. “But Andrei’s flame burned far colder than did Jamie’s. I always told him to go wary there.