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He can’t see me roll my eyes, but I’m sure he senses it. “Sorry.”
“I told you, you can call any time.”
“You say that, but you’re going to be cranky if I wake you up at three a.m.”
“The alternative makes me crankier,” he argues. “In other words, I’d like to hear from my kid more than once or twice a month.”
“I’m not that bad,” I argue back. “Besides, we both know you’d like to hear from me more than once or twice aday.”
“It’s a father’s prerogative.”
“Yeah, nice try. It’s a daughter’s prerogative to have a life. Quote me on that and tell it to Dr. Wu at your next session.”
“Cut your old man some slack,” he says with that guilt trip tone that is way too effective. “I miss you, baby girl. This house is empty without you around.”
“I wish I could come home for Thanksgiving, but I have a test that week. There’s no way I can miss it.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
The unhappiness in his voice gnaws at me. This is hard on him. More so than he anticipated maybe. I should probably be more sensitive to that.
“How about this?” I suggest. “We’ll FaceTime for Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll do a turkey and everything.”
“That’d be real nice. I’d like that.”
“It’s a plan then.”
We say goodbye as I reach campus and hustle to my first class. Amelia is already there when I take my usual seat. She can’t wait to tell me about the newspaper article she found describing the unusual brutality of one of her research subjects.
“Fifty-seven lashes with a poisoned blade,” she reads from the article she’s managed to translate with her rough understanding of French and a language app. “Have you ever heard of anything so outrageous?”
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “My arm would have gotten tired after thirty lashes, tops.”
“I’m obsessed.”
Amelia is in full-on homicidal girl crush territory. And I’m happy for her, I guess?
Today we’re updating our professor on the progress of our research projects. In my case, I’m forced to report I’ve stalled on Josephine. But I can’t dock myself a point for effort—I’ve exhausted myself on library research and endless internet searches through academic catalogs, running to ground every loose lead or obscure reference.
It’s as if Josephine was scrubbed clean from history except for one painting released from a dusty attic. After weeks on this fruitless venture, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little disappointed in myself. Not to mention kicking myself for picking such a difficult and elusive subject. Why not another investigation of Jack the Ripper, the Solway Spaceman, or the Highgate Vampire? I could have saved myself all sorts of grief.
When it’s my turn to present, Professor Langford picks up on my frustration and suggests I rededicate my efforts to further study of the brothers.
“There’s a small museum and cemetery not far from the Tulley estate in Surrey,” she tells me. “I’d suggest availing yourself of their assistance.”
Huh. How’d I miss that? Especially after finding the gallery in Rye. I was so preoccupied with a connection to Josephine, I managed to ignore the obvious avenues on the family. Sorely missing a dose of perspective, it seems.
“Finding a primary source within the family would also be prudent,” my professor adds.
I breathe out a sharp laugh before I realize she’s serious. Primary sources are every historian’s best resource, of course. In this case, that’s not so easy. How the hell would I get the current duke and duchess to agree to an interview for some student’s class project ontheir ancestors’ personal tragedies and private embarrassments? Or even get close enough to ask?
Then I get a terrible idea.
After class, I give Jamie a call.
“Abbey, darling, settle an argument for me,” he says instead ofhello. “Should ketchup be consumed cold or at room temperature? We need an American perspective on this.”
“You don’t even eat ketchup.”
