Joan Smith by Never Let Me Go Page A

door, as I had been hoping. Emily answered it herself, wearing plaid slacks and a wilted heather sweater that she called a jumper.
    “Don’t you look nice, Belle!” she said. “I’ve put on this old jumper and slacks. Come in. I’ve got the kettle on."
    No servants were in evidence as she led me into a grand house that would require two or three to keep it in shape. And it was in good shape. The gray marble-floored hallway gleamed. A curved stairway to the left of the entrance also had marble steps and an ornate cast-iron railing. I peered into the main saloon at Persian carpets, long windows with gold satin, pelmeted draperies, what looked like an Adam fireplace, and good antique furnishings.
    “We’ll take tea in the morning parlor,” she said. “I had a small fire laid to take the chill off.”
    I followed her down the hallway to a cozy little parlor that looked out on a weedless garden. The shabbily comfortable room was done in what the decorating magazines call “English country” style, but more dilapidated. The carpet was quite bare, and the sofa sagged, but there were masses of fresh flowers on tables and an interesting grouping of nature prints on the wall.
    “Have a seat, Belle. We’ll sit by the fire. Millie will bring our tea presently. She’s my char; she comes in daily. Live-in servants are impossible to get nowadays. It’s like looking for the Holy Grail to find good servants.”
    Millie duly appeared, bearing a fine old silver tea service and sturdy mugs from Woolworth’s. There were no cucumber sandwiches. She served Fig Newtons, which I dislike. Millie was a teenager with a blond ponytail and a sullen expression. When she clattered the tea tray onto the table, I understood why Emily did not use fine china. Emily poured and handed me a cup.
    “I’m glad you dropped by, Belle,” she said, with a question in her eyes. She was wondering why I had.
    “How did the meeting go last night?” I asked. “Mollie mentioned you and Henry and she were meeting.”
    “It was only a partial success. We all agreed a spirit was trying to get through, but he could not make it. Very odd.”
    "The reason I came, Emily, I want to write something on the Arabella legend. Mollie mentioned you are some connection to her. I thought you might have some family papers.”
    “Oh no, dear. They were kept at Chêne Bay. Gord Throckley handed the whole thing over to some university. Oxford, I suppose it would be. He attended Oxford. You might find something at the Bodleian. But I can tell you there was nothing of Arabella’s in it. It was just boring old family documents about buying land and marriage records and that sort of thing.”
    “I hoped there might be some letters from Raventhorpe, or perhaps a diary.”
    “A poet like Vanejul must have written her marvelous love letters,” she sighed. “But I suppose when she jilted him, she gave them back to him. They did that in those days. The Vanejul papers are at Oldstead Abbey. They made them available to Dr. Thumm. If it is a serious, critical work you are doing, they might let you see them. They don’t encourage scandalmongers. You would have to send your resume and a letter from your editor.”
    I had no contract with any editor to write about Arabella. I doubted if my list of credits from half a dozen minor American magazines and one historical paperback novel would cut any ice with the Raventhorpes.
    “Of course, you couldn’t pester them at this time,” she continued. “You heard about young Adam’s accident?”
    “Lord Raventhorpe? Yes, I heard it on the TV last night.”
    “Lily, Lady Raventhorpe, is in London. The father is dead. It’s touch and go with Adam. I must send Lily a note.”
    “Does Adam look anything like Vanejul?”
    “I see some family resemblance around the eyes and hairline, but he is not as dashing as Vanejul.”
    She poured another cup of tea, nibbled a Fig Newton, then spoke. “Mollie feels you are psychic,” she said,