Girl Abroad

I’VE BEEN A DISASTER ALL DAY. POURED COFFEE IN MY CEREAL AND squeezed hand lotion onto my toothbrush. I didn’t see Jack this morning, and I’m not sure if that made it better or worse. On my way to campus, I ran headlong into an angry Italian tourist because I was so distracted with replaying and reexamining the kiss that I didn’t see her until I had a mouthful of her scarf.

Even now as I sit in class, I stare at my notes and realize I’d written the date three times but not a word of what the professor has said for the last forty minutes.

Who does that? Sneaks up on a girl to lay a kiss on her with no context and then saunters off to bed?

It’s infuriating is what it is.

He’s got some nerve.

Stop acting like you hated it.

Fine. I didn’t hate the kiss. Not even a little bit.

But I had put the notion of Jack being an option out of my head. House rules and all. So what the hell do I do with these feelings he’s implanted in me? And thanks to him avoiding me this morning, I have no clue how he feels about it either. Then again, what else is new? I never know what Jack’s feeling.

Most likely, he’ll completely brush this incident off. Crack some joke to the boys about how I jumped him while he was weak and inebriated. Laugh the whole thing off as a drunken gag. Which is why I should stop obsessing over it. I’m meeting Benjamin Tulley for lunch this afternoon, and I can’t show up a hot mess. When class lets out, I pop into the restroom to fix my hair and makeup, then give myself a silent pep talk.

We will not embarrass ourselves in front of a lord.

We will not make Jamie look bad for getting us this meeting.

We absolutely will not show up with toilet paper stuck to our shoe.

Yeah. Good talk.

The restaurant where we’re supposed to meet is in a hotel about two miles away. It’s a trek, cutting through Hyde Park, but on a brisk October day, it’s a pleasant walk. The Lanesborough is a gorgeous Greek revival building near the Wellington Arch. I’m certain I’m underdressed when two doormen in formal attire greet me at the entrance. Inside, I’m astounded at the opulence of shiny marble floors, tall columns, and ornate carved ceilings. I’m tempted to snap a few photos until I catch a man at the front desk watching me and think better of it.

“Excuse me,” I say, approaching him. “Which way is the restaurant? I’m meeting someone.”

“Your name?”

“Oh, uh, Abbey Bly— ”

“Abbey,” a brisk female voice says from behind me.

I turn to find a familiar brunette in a high-necked black dress approaching. I scan my brain trying to place her, then realize it’s the woman from the Tulley sale. What was her name again? Sophia?

“Sophie Brown,” she says, extending a hand. “We met several weeks ago. I’m Lord Tulley’s assistant.”

“Right. Sophie.” I was close with the name. I lean in to shake her hand. “It’s good to see you again. Are you joining us today?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m off to the office to pick up some paperwork. But Benjamin is here and waiting for you.”

Sophie nods toward the front desk, and instantly there’s another man at my side, dressed in three-piece formal attire like the desk clerk. With an outstretched arm, he beckons me to follow him.

I bid Sophie goodbye, and the man escorts me through the lobby and down a corridor into a breathtaking restaurant like I’ve only seen in movies. The decor is a Regency motif in soft shades of powder blue and gold, with tufted velvet furniture, crystal chandeliers, hand-painted wallpaper, and intricate scenes carved along the walls at the ceiling.

I’m ushered to a table where Lord Tulley is already seated, reading on his phone. I recognize him from the tabloid pictures online. He’s slender and impeccably dressed in a navy suit and folded pocket square. Handsome too, in a specific British kind of way. I read that he’s twenty-seven years old, but he looks much younger, like the college boys I pass on campus every day.

“Ms. Bly,” the hotel employee says by way of introduction. Then he hastily departs.

“Abbey.” Lord Tulley stands and greets me with an enthusiastic smile I don’t anticipate. He’s taller in person. “Quite pleased to meet you.” He gestures to a chair for me to sit. “I’d be delighted if you called me Ben.”

“All right. Ben. Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me. I know this is an odd request.”

Immediately, waiters in white gloves arrive to put my napkin in my lap, fill my water glass, and apparently swap out most of the silverware. The entire choreography is a bit overwhelming and sets me off-balance. Ben watches me as if he notices none of it.

“My office receives two dozen interview requests a day. Never from a student, however. And an American at that. You certainly piqued my interest.”

“I should probably start by saying I’m not here to embarrass you in any way. My interest is purely historical.”

Ben smiles, cocking his head just so. “My mother’s seen my bare backside on the front page of a tabloid. I’m not sure I’m capable of further embarrassment.”

I smother a laugh. “Good point.”

“We can relate in that regard, as I understand it.”

Waiters arrive with an artful green salad that I hesitate to ruin by eating it. The kind of plate that would break Instagram and now I’m certain my dad’s going to blow up my phone when he sees this credit card bill.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Ben says. “I took the liberty of ordering for us.”

“Thank you. And I take it you looked me up.”

“I do my homework as well,” he says lightly.

He’s charming. Approachable and disarming. Given what’s been written about him in the British press, I’d prepared myself for a real prick. So far, he’s quite gracious.

“It wasn’t easy, of course. You haven’t any social media that Sophie could find.”

“No. I learned that lesson in high school. It’s either completely toxic, full of people trying to get close to my dad, or trolled by sleazy celebrity press zooming in on pictures of a fourteen-year-old girl’s cellulite. I cleansed myself of the hassle and never looked back.”

“Well done.” He barely glances away, and a waiter appears to pour two glasses of wine for us. Ben raises his at me. “To self-preservation.”

“Cheers,” I say, clinking his glass before taking a sip.

“Enjoy that. It’s one of the last bottles the Tulley winery ever produced.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were in the wine business.”

“One of several ventures we’ve had to retire in the current”—he pauses to consider his words—“restructuring of our financial affairs.”

“I’ll savor it then.”

“It’s shit,” he laughs with self-deprecating humor. “My great-grandfather understood even less about wine than he did finance. It’s a metaphor, if you will, for the spectacular decline of the entire estate. Lawrence Tulley spent an outrageous fortune on some slick git to tell him to buy this thing or that. Spent another absurd fortune to procure it without the slightest notion of what he was doing. Then promptly ran it into the ground.”

“Is that where you believe the slide began? With Lawrence?”

“Between you, me, and the flatware,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “Though my father isn’t much better. Every few years, he’d come up with some fool scheme. Dad’s an easy mark for bad investments and doomed business ventures. Plenty have attempted to make him see reason, but he’s a stubborn old mule. I’m not convinced he’s noticed they’re selling the country house out from under him. He spends most of the year on his yacht in the Med or the chalet in the Alps. We’ve flats in London and all over the world that I doubt he’s even seen since he was my age.”

“I know the feeling. A few years ago, I was cleaning out my closet and found dolls I hadn’t played with in years,” I say, deadpan.

“Yes, quite,” he answers with a chuckle. “You understand.”

Ben’s a good sport, not at all touchy about the reality of his family’s situation. If anything, I get the sense he’s frustrated by his lack of status to do anything to stop the bleeding. Not that he’s living a frugal existence by any means. I think he’d be happy to rearrange the entire estate if allowed to. Modernize their portfolio and try to do something productive with what’s left. As it is, by the time he inherits the title, it won’t be much more than a piece of paper.

“You didn’t come to hear a bitter posh lament his vanishing inheritance,” he says then. “Please, the floor is yours. How can I be of service?”

The waiters clear our plates as we finish our salads. It allows me a moment to gather my thoughts and prime them with another sip of critically endangered wine.

“If you’ll forgive the faux pas,” I begin, “I was browsing the estate sale at your family’s home in Surrey…”

He smiles wryly. “This isn’t about my baby pictures, I hope.”

“No. It’s someone else’s picture, actually. I’m interested in this portrait of a woman.” I reach into my bag, then hand him a printout of a photo I took and a scanned copy of the letter. “I’m operating under the assumption that she is the Josephine from the letter. I found it hidden in the backing of the portrait.”

Ben looks startled. “You bought this from the sale?”

I nod.

He examines the photo closely. “Interesting. Please, go on.”

“Okay, well, I haven’t managed to identify her or her relation to your family. Believe me, I exhausted so many other avenues before requesting this meeting. I’ve been to Franklin Astor Dyce’s hometown in Rye, to the museum there. They assure me the work is authentic. I went back to the museum in Surrey. Spent hours scrounging through every archive in the Talbot Library.”

“There isn’t much you don’t know about us at this point.” Ben studies the letter. “You don’t know who this letter was meant for?”

“No, but I have a theory. The curator at the Rye museum agreed to a time frame of late 1940s to early ’50s, which is about the same time Robert Tulley disappeared and William Tulley died in the Victoria disaster.”

“You believe this girl was involved with the brothers?”

“It’s a stretch, maybe. I know. I haven’t found a single reference to a woman who would match her age or description for this time period, though. Not if she’s a relative or closely associated with the family. But why else would this portrait have sat in the house for so many decades if she wasn’t connected to your family?”

“I’ve never seen it before. That’s not itself remarkable.”

“It’s a long shot, but I hoped you might have some idea. Or at least give me a clue to follow. I’m at the end of my rope on this hunt.”

Our main course arrives. A delicate piece of fish over veggies, the presentation so refined and immaculate I’m almost embarrassed it has to go in my stomach with my morning Cheerios.

“May I keep these?” he asks, gesturing to the photo and copied letter.

“Yes, of course.”

“This is a bizarre sort of mystery. There isn’t a reason I can think of the family would have commissioned a portrait if not to mark some formal occasion. A wedding or anniversary, certainly. A significant birthday. Still, it would only be done for a member of the family or close inner circle. I admit, your theory is intriguing.”

“Do you know much about your great-grandfather’s brothers?”

“Not as much as I should, I’m afraid. They died, Robert presumably, before Lawrence inherited the title. It’s generally said the brothers weren’t close. I do remember, years ago, there was a row about a documentary that wanted to explore the Victoria tragedy. Granddad forbid the family from participating. Over the years, there have been requests by someone or another investigating what happened to Robert. He was never interested in lending his time to that either.”

“Like I said, it was a long shot.” I’ve stopped getting my hopes up for a major breakthrough. Every minor step forward now comes in smaller increments. “I do appreciate your time in humoring me.”

“Don’t think you’re getting away that easy.” Ben pours the remnants of wine in our glasses. He waves off a waiter who lurches to save him the effort. “You have me well intrigued. I’m afraid I won’t be satisfied until I know how the story ends.”

“We might be waiting a long time.”

The alcohol has seeped its way into my pores, heating my face with the warmth of a midafternoon buzz. I’ve never been day drunk before. And probably never will be again at this price point. So I take another gulp of wine, because I might as well enjoy myself.

“I’m not sure there are any leads left to pursue. You were sort of my last resort.”

“Then we cannot in good conscience surrender the fight,” he says with amused earnestness. “You’ve captured my curiosity, Abbey. I’d very much like to help you.”Têxt belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

“Really? What do you suggest?”

“There are some boxes of old documents stashed away at one of our summer homes on the coast. I’ll speak to my father about getting access. If he permits it, I’ll have Sophie ship them to you. Can’t promise there will be anything of relevance, but I’ve a hunch that if there’s anything to be found, it’ll be in there.”

I don’t even try to hide my excitement. “That’d be fantastic. Thank you. Anything at all about Robert, William, or a woman who could be Josephine would be so helpful.”

I’m not sure why Ben gets such a bad rap in the press. Based on this lunch, I’ve found him delightful. He has no reason to accommodate my inquisition or waste his time entertaining my curiosity, yet he’s been more than courteous. Friendly, even.

The check arrives. Ben places his hand over it when I try to steal a peek. I glimpse what looks like a total of four hundred pounds before he slides it away from me.

“Please. I’d be a dreadful host if I didn’t treat. You’ve been a welcomed distraction to my day, Abbey.”

“You’re sure?” It’s a feeble offer. Inside, I’m relieved. Dad would’ve lost his shit when he got the alert that I’d spent a fortune on lunch. “I feel bad I can’t offer anything in return for your help. I’ve taken so much of your time.”

“There is something you could do,” he says, passing off the check to the waiter. “Let us finish our conversation. I’d be interested in what else you’ve learned about Josephine and my family’s history. I’m to attend a ball for Princess Alexandra’s engagement in a couple of weeks. I’d be delighted if you’d join me.”

Holy shit.

“Wow. Um, thank you.”

I foresee a frantic eruption of flying fabric in my future. Already picturing Lee propelled to next-level fashion monster.

“Feel free to bring a friend, of course. I know how the ladies are obsessed with royalty.”

I wouldn’t know.

Despite my indifference to the monarchy, though, I would never miss an opportunity for a good story. And this is one for the books. I just had lunch with a lord, and now I’m going to a royal ball.

How is this even my life?