was the shock, that’s all. I was every bit as surprised as you. Where on earth can the girl have gone?”
She had already decided not to say anything just yet about the scrap of gold silk. If Gladys reappeared with an explanation for her absence, she would speak to her privately about it. And if she didn’t, well, the torn silk was a clue to where the girl had been. It was the sort of thing that Charles, or the police, if it came to that, would want to know about. Kate found herself wishing that she’d had the presence of mind to scout around Rosamund’s Well for any other signs that Gladys had been there-Gladys and someone else. She somehow doubted that Gladys would have gone there alone.
“I have no idea where she might be,” Consuelo said miserably. “I must confess that she occasionally behaves… well, erratically. But she’s never just disappeared like this.” Her hand trembled, and she put down her cup on the small table beside her chair, as if she were afraid she might drop it. “May I… may I speak to you in confidence, Kate? I’m reluctant to burden you with my troubles, but there’s no one else, and I feel as if I will go mad if I can’t at least talk about it.” She looked away. “I’ve begun to feel as if you’re… well, a kindred spirit. After all, we are both Americans. And both married to Englishmen.”
With a soft sound, a coal fell in the grate. They might both be Americans, Kate thought, but they were separated by an enormous chasm of class and upbringing. Consuelo was a Vanderbilt, heiress to one of the largest fortunes in the world, while she herself had been raised on the Lower East Side of New York. ^2 But her Irish aunt and uncle had taught her to support herself by her own industry, while she suspected that Consuelo had been given few opportunities to make her own independent decisions or even to develop her own interests. And as to their both being married to Englishmen-well, Charles was nothing at all like the Duke of Marlborough, thank heavens. Kate could comfort herself with the thought that he hadn’t wanted her for her money (since she had none), while Consuelo was daily confonted with the fact that Marlborough had loved not her, but the Vanderbilt millions. All in all, there were a great many more differences between them than similarities.
But Kate said nothing of this. Instead, she replied softly, “Of course you may speak confidentially, Consuelo. Tell me anything you like. Your secrets will remain with me.”
“I used to talk to Gladys about the way I felt,” Consuelo said bleakly. “She’s an American, too, and we’ve been friends for several years. But recently, I’ve come to realize that-” She stopped, took out a lace handkerchief, and blew her nose. “That she is more my husband’s friend than mine.” She looked at Kate. “I suppose you’ve noticed.”
Not sure what she should say, Kate only nodded.
“They make no secret of it,” Consuelo said miserably. “Everyone must know. I hear whispers whenever I’m in London.”
Kate thought that gossip and rumor, real or perceived, must be very painful for the Duchess of Marlborough, who lived such a public life, herself and her marriage always on display. She felt a mix of emotions: pity for Consuelo’s pain, anger at the causes of it, fear that nothing could be done to make the situation any better.
But she kept all this from her voice as she said, “How long have they known each other?”
“They met in London after our first child was born, while I was still confined.” Consuelo gave a little laugh. “I was… well, naive, I suppose. For a time, I didn’t notice what was going on, and when I did, I thought it would fade. After all, Gladys was barely sixteen then, and Marlborough is a man of few passions. He was so fully immersed in Blenheim’s restoration that I honestly thought the flirtation would wear itself out.” She bit her lip. “It’s hard to know how Gladys feels, but his infatuation with her has only grown more intense.”
“I don’t suppose they are together that often,” Kate said thoughtfully. “She lives with her mother on the Continent, doesn’t she? And travels a good deal?”
“Marlborough invited her here several times last year, once for a full month. And earlier this spring, they were together in Paris.” She made a little face. “I know, because her mother-such a wicked, foolish woman-told a mutual friend that she was afraid that my husband and her daughter would… would run away together.” She said the words gingerly, as if to give them voice might make it happen.
“I’m quite sure the Duke would never do that,” Kate said firmly. “He hates scandal. And he is so deeply attached to Blenheim.” Then, fearing the omission had been hurtful, she added, “And to you and his sons, of course.”
“To his sons, yes,” Consuelo said, “since they represent the next generation of Churchills.” Her voice became bitter. “He keeps reminding me that we are merely links in a long chain that stretches back into the past and ahead into the future. A chain,” she said, with a sudden, angry emphasis. “A chain, yes, exactly, Kate! I feel as if I am chained to this awful place, and to this marriage. As if I live in a hideous cage, and I’ll never break free. Can you understand that?”
“I think I can,” Kate replied. “It must be a terrible thing, to feel imprisoned.” She hesitated. “Have you spoken to Gladys about it? Or to the Duke?”
“Not to Gladys,” Consuelo said dispiritedly. “I don’t blame her, not really, you know. For all her sophistication, she’s still an innocent child.”
Kate stared at her, remembering the flirtatious, seductive Gladys she had seen at dinner the night before. An innocent child? It seemed to her that the Duchess was the innocent one, trustful and accepting, protected throughout her life from anyone who might want to harm her and without the experience that would help her see that her young friend Gladys was capable of betraying her.
“But I do blame Marlborough,” Consuelo was going on sadly, “who is misbehaving badly. I’ve tried several times to talk to him about it, as recently as last week. But I’m not very good at confrontation, you see. He just gives me that… that hooded look of his, as if there’s nothing behind his eyes, or if there is, he’s hiding it from me. He refuses to talk. He says there’s nothing wrong. Nothing to be said between us.”
It was time, Kate thought, to say what she thought. “If you don’t mind my speaking frankly, Consuelo, we see this situation from different points of view. I don’t believe that Gladys is at all innocent. She’s deliberately toying with Botsy Northcote, and casting eyes at Winston as well. And she’s scarcely a child, although she loves to play the jeune fille.” She paused. “I’m sorry to say this, Consuelo, but I think she’s… well, dangerous. She’s put your marriage in jeopardy and your happiness.”
“Do you think so?” Consuelo’s mouth twisted. “Oh, God, Kate,” she said wretchedly. “My life is such an appalling chaos.” Her voice rose. “What am I to do? I’m trapped. I’m chained. I want more than anything to be free, but that is a hopeless dream. The law makes divorce nearly impossible. And even if it didn’t, Marlborough would never agree because of the scandal. And the money.” She paused. “It’s the money, more than anything.”
“We can only take things a day at a time,” Kate said, knowing that the words, offered no real comfort. “But at the moment, there is something we really must do. We must find Gladys.”
“You’re right, of course.” Consuelo blew her nose again. “But where can we start?”
Kate thought for a moment. Charles had said that he was going out for the morning and would not be back until lunch, so she could not ask his help or advice. She would have to deal with this herself.
“What about the Duke?” she asked. “Shouldn’t he be told that Gladys is gone?” She paused, seeing the look of wrenching pain on Consuelo’s face, and she softened her tone. “Whatever else the girl is to him, you know, she is a guest in his house. You will have to tell him-and the sooner the better, I should think.”
Consuelo seemed to brace herself against the thought. “You’re right, of course. But I don’t think I can face Marlborough alone, and I think he might find it easier if you’re there.” A smile ghosted across her mouth. “At the least he might feel that he has to make a civil answer. Will you come with me?”
“Of course,” Kate said. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. The morning was more than half gone. “Where do you suppose we’ll find him?”
“He spends several hours every morning in the office, with Mr. Meloy, his estate agent,” Consuelo said. She stood. “It’s in the East Court.” Her lips tipped into a wry smile. “No more than a half-mile from here, actually. Oh, Kate, this awful place is so inhumanely huge. Whatever could they have been thinking about when they built it?”
Kate managed a laugh. “Perhaps Gladys has spent the night wandering around the palace,” she said in a joking tone. “I’ve been here since Monday, and I’m just now able to find my way to my bedroom without getting lost.”
The estate office certainly was a distance, through the endless corridors of the private residence, down the stairs, and across the paved East Court to the far side. But when they reached it, the estate agent-a broad- shouldered man with graying mutton-chop whiskers, dressed in green tweeds and boots-was alone.
He rose when he saw them in the doorway. “Good morning, Your Grace.” He inclined his head to Kate.
