“Oh, I’m not sure,” says Suze. “Twenty-eight? Half of them are crumbling away, though. We never even go into them.”
“Twenty-eight,” echoes Alicia. “Imagine that. Twenty-eight bedrooms.”
They must be talking about Letherby Hall. Poor Suze. She gets so bored when people start pestering her for details about Letherby Hall. Especially historical experts, who start saying things like, I believe you mean seventeen fifteen, in a supercilious way. I was once in the local greengrocer’s with Suze when some old man accosted her. He started quizzing her on some important fireplace in the Great Hall and putting her right on every detail. He was actually quite aggressive about which of Tarkie’s ancestors had commissioned it (I mean, who cares?), and in the end I had to deliberately knock over a stack of tangerines and cause a distraction so Suze could run away.
“And is it one of those houses that has a title attached?”
“I think so,” says Suze, sounding uninterested. “ ‘Lord of the Manor.’ ”
“Right.” Alicia delicately wrinkles her brow. “So anyone who owns the house is entitled to call himself ‘Lord.’ ”
“I suppose.” Suze looks vague. “I mean, in our case it doesn’t arise, because Tarkie has this other title anyway.”
The truth is, Tarkie has about six other titles, although Suze is far too modest to bring that up. In fact, she hates talking about this stuff altogether. I, on the other hand, once looked it all up on a website, because I quite fancy being “Lady Brandon of Somewhere.” The titles don’t even cost that much. They’re, like, a few hundred pounds, for something that lasts your whole life. I mean, in a way, why not be Lady Brandon?
(Only then Luke caught me and teased me about it for a week.)
As Suze pops to the loo, I glance at Alicia. Her eyes are distant and thoughtful. And, OK, I know I’m supposed to be channeling Pollyanna, but my brain won’t do it. Instead of thinking, Golly-gosh! I bet Alicia’s a sweetheart, really; maybe we could have milkshakes together, I’m thinking, Huh. What’s she up to now?
Maybe I’m just naturally a negative, suspicious person, I think morosely. Maybe I need therapy before I can get on with Alicia. I have a sudden image of us in couples counseling, being forced to hold each other’s hands, and I let out a strange little snort. Meanwhile, as soon as Suze returns, Alicia resumes quizzing her on Letherby Hall.
“My husband would love to see the place,” she says. “He’s such an Anglophile.”
“He’s welcome to!” Suze rolls her eyes ruefully. “It costs a fortune to run. We’re always trying to think of new ways to make money out of it. You’ll see when you come to stay.”
“Is Alicia coming to stay with you?” I ask, trying to sound as though this is a super-fab idea. “When’s that?”
“We don’t know yet, obviously,” says Suze, her brow darkening as though I’m insensitive even to ask. “We’ll have to wait until everything with Tarkie is cleared up.”
“Great,” I manage. “That sounds perfect.”
I sit for a bit, saying nothing, watching the landscape, thoughts bombing miserably round my brain. I’m getting so tired of my own suspicious mind. I’m supposed to be Pollyanna, I remind myself. Pollyanna. And there’s no reason to be suspicious of Alicia. None.
But, oh God. Alicia has always been up to something, ever since I’ve known her, and I just can’t help wondering what might be in this for her. Suze is so unsuspicious and her guard is down and Alicia knows it….
And then I sit up. Wait a minute. Wilton Merrelle is an Anglophile. A predatory, aggressive Anglophile who decides he wants something and gets it. And here’s Alicia, interrogating Suze about Letherby Hall….What if Wilton Merrelle has decided the next thing he wants is a stately home and a title? What if he wants to be Lord Merrelle of Letherby Hall?
For about the next twenty miles, I’m silent, considering this theory. It’s a ridiculous idea. Suze and Tarkie would never sell their ancestral home, even if they were put under pressure. Surely they wouldn’t.
Surely?
I glance sidelong at Suze. Her hair is always scrunched in a knot these days, like she doesn’t care about anything. Her lips are chapped and her face is strained. The truth is, I don’t know what I think anymore. Suze and Tarkie aren’t in a good place; Tarkie finds Letherby Hall hard to run; Suze isn’t thinking straight right now….
But they can’t sell. That house has been in their family for a zillion years. Just the thought gives me a horrible pang. And to Alicia Bitch Long-legs, of all people? I can just see Alicia wearing a tiara and making all the villagers curtsy while some little girl gives her a posy and whispers, You’re so beautiful, Princess Alicia. Ugh. It can’t happen. It can’t.
From: dsmeath@locostinternet.com
To: Brandon, Rebecca
Subject: Re: Disaster
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your email. I’m so sorry to hear that your efforts to bond with Ms. Bitch Long-legs failed. I am also sorry to hear you feel so powerless and “like everything’s impossible.”
If I may be so bold, Mrs. Brandon, I would say, “Don’t give up.” Positive action boosts the soul.
In all our years of knowing each other, I have observed with admiration your dynamic approach to life’s problems and innate sense of justice. This has empowered you before and I feel certain it will again.
Things may seem difficult at the moment, but I feel sure that you will prevail.
With kindest best wishes,
Derek Smeath
TEN
The only disadvantage to a road trip, I’ve decided, is the actual road bit. Everything else is brilliant—the RV, the diners, the views, the country music. (I made Luke tune in to a country-music radio station for a bit, and, God, country singers understand how you feel. One song, called “Only Your Oldest Friend,” almost made me cry.)
But the roads are a total pain. They’re too long. I mean, it’s ridiculous. Someone should rethink them. Plus the map is very deceptive and sneaky. It lures you in. It makes you think, Oh, I’ll just zip along that bit of freeway—it’s only one centimeter, it can’t take long. Ha! One centimeter? One whole day out of your life, more like.
It’s quite a distance to Tucson, Arizona, it turns out. It’s even more of a distance when you realize that the ranch you’re after is beyond Tucson. By the time we roll up at the Red Ranch, Cactus Creek, Arizona, we’ve been on the road practically all day. We’ve taken turns driving, and we’re all stiff, exhausted, and out of conversation. Plus my head is ringing with the tunes of Aladdin, which Minnie has just forced me to watch along with her, with headphones on.
Before we got out, I brushed my hair, but it still feels all flat and weird from where I’ve been resting my head. My legs feel like they’ve seized up, and my lungs are desperate for some fresh air.
As I glance around, no one else looks in great shape either. Mum and Janice are staggering around on the dusty ground, like cattle let out of a lorry into the light. Suze and Alicia are swigging Tylenol and water. Danny is doing a series of complicated yoga stretches. Minnie is the only one who’s full of beans. She’s trying to skip round a massive great boulder, only she can’t skip yet, so she’s basically just running and whirling her arms. As I watch, she stops dead, reaches down, and picks the tiniest little white flower. Then she brings it to me, looking all pink and pleased with herself.