The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf

Chapter Fourteen

THEY FOUND ROOMS AT THE OLD PARSONAGE, AN inn on the Banbury Road better suited to Peter’s tastes than either the Malmaison Oxford — a boutique hotel in a former prison, all neon and pulsing music — or the anonymity of a Best Western. Jo was beginning to realize that small details mattered intensely to Peter: the quality of what he ate, what he wore, where he slept. Authenticity was his touchstone. That explained a good deal about how he’d ended up at Sotheby’s.

“They do a pub supper here that’s simple but brilliant,” he said as they parted on the stairs. “I’ll be downstairs in a quarter-hour, if you’re hungry.”

She tried to evaluate the neutrality of this statement: Did he want her company? Or was he hoping she’d crash for the night, order room service (if the Parsonage even offered such a thing), and leave him free to prowl after Margaux? It was impossible to interpret the good manners of Englishmen. In a sudden fit of petulance, she slammed the bedroom door behind her and threw her purse on the bed.

Her first call was to the Head Gardener’s office at Sissinghurst; she reached only an answering machine, and told Imogen she’d be back the following day, notebook in hand. Then she screwed up her courage and dialed Gray’s cell.

“Where are you?” he said.

It was his usual question, and the note of hope in his voice almost undid her.

“Oxford.”

There was silence.

“I had to consult this woman about the Woolf manuscript. Or the one I think might be Woolf’s. And that meant a road trip.”

“I see.” His tone was careful, now.

“I should be back in London tomorrow,” she said, “and I’m not expensing this sideline, Gray. I realize I’m not on your time clock right now. I hope you don’t think I’m abusing the privilege of being sent to England — ”

“Cut it out, Jo. What’s going on?” There was a rustle as Gray sat down on what she presumed was his bed. “What is it, with this notebook?”

“I tried to tell you earlier.”

“That you’re a hopeless romantic?”

“Not just that. Gray — I’ve never mentioned my grandfather. He… died… a few months ago.”

“I’m sorry.” The automatic response.

“He worked at Sissinghurst as a kid. I didn’t know that until I got here,” she added in a rush. “And when I found the notebook — it had his name on it.”

“ — On this book you think was written by Virginia Woolf,” he repeated, trying to understand.

“Exactly.”

“So your grandfather owned it?”

“I don’t know. He’s actually in it. Like a character. Or… someone she met. Someone she knew.”

“How is that possible?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Jo — ” He sounded exasperated, now. “Isn’t there a better way to go about this than chasing all over the English countryside? Couldn’t you talk to a… book expert of some kind?”

“That’s what I’m doing in Oxford, Gray.”

He considered this. “Did I scare the hell out of you?”

“Yes.” The word was out before she could stop it. “But I really meant to get back to London tonight. I wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s all we do,” he said. “Talk.”

This time, it was she who fell silent.

“Look — I’ve got to go. Dinner. With a British fund manager. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” From your plane, she wanted to say, or your hotel?

After that, Jo had no interest whatsoever in food. She called down to the bar for a glass of wine, drank it in the bathtub, and curled up in front of the BBC.

THE QUEEN, AS MARGAUX STRAND HAD CALLED IT, TURNED out to be a coffeehouse on the High Street, shoehorned between Queens’ College and St. Giles.

“Claims to be the oldest coffeehouse in England,” Peter confided, “but probably isn’t. And now that they’ve tarted up the place, it’s lost all character — might as well be a Starbucks. Used to be a claustrophobic hole. Did smashing fry-ups.”

He glanced disapprovingly around the Queen’s interior, which Jo gathered had suffered an expansion at some point in the past two decades, then sniffed at his coffee in its trendy glass mug. “Used to be filtered,” he observed. “Now it’s Americano. Can’t think why Margaux bothers. Must be habit. Or convenience — ”

Neither habit nor convenience seemed to drive Margaux this morning, however. She had ordered them to meet her at eight o’clock — Jo distinctly remembered her saying eight o’clock — but as the coffee drained from their mugs and the croissants were consumed, the doorway remained stubbornly Margaux free.

“Perhaps she meant nine,” Peter attempted, as half-past eight came and went.

“I think she’s blown us off.”

“Sorry?” Peter’s brow shot up, and his eyelids flickered; perhaps the phrase meant something nasty and sexual in England, Jo thought. But she was too furious to care at this point.

“Blown us off. Skipped her date. Gone elsewhere for breakfast,” she emphasized.

“Overslept, perhaps — ”

“Then it’s time we woke her.” Jo pushed back her chair from the table. “Know where she lives?”

“Of course. I’ll just ring first.”

He stabbed at his cell phone with nervous fingers. But Margaux, it appeared, wasn’t answering this morning.

“Peter,” Jo said with an effort at calm, “that woman has my notebook. Where is she?”

MARGAUX LIVED IN A VICTORIAN “TWO UP, TWO DOWN” terraced flat in a part of Oxford Peter referred to as Jericho, just outside the old city walls. The neighborhood was bohemian and chic, sought-after and expensive; a canal, lined with houseboats, bordered one side.

“This is Hardy’s bit of town,” he explained, as though he’d known Thomas Hardy in his student days. “There’s even a pub called Jude the Obscure. Sort of an homage.”

Jo knew little about Thomas Hardy, and cared less. As Peter tapped on the oak door, then walked gingerly around to Margaux’s front window, peering into the unlit room beyond, her anxiety mounted.

“She’s gone, hasn’t she?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” he replied with infuriating calm. “It’s a Tuesday. She’s got commitments. Obligations. Students.”

“She’s got our book.”

They stared at each other wordlessly. Then a window above their heads was thrust open.

“Looking for Margaux?”

The voice came from a curly black head now dangling over the sill. The face, Jo noticed, was unshaven, gorgeous, and about ten years younger than Professor Strand’s; what was visible of the body was unclothed.

“That would be the commitment,” Jo murmured. “Or maybe just the student.”

Something in Peter’s face changed. He stabbed at his glasses and called up belligerently, “Of course we’re bloody well looking for Margaux. She’s late for breakfast.”

“Must have slipped her mind,” the youth said, grinning. “She was off early, this morning. Barely had time for tea.”

“Do you know where she went?” Jo asked, fighting a desire to scream.

The Greek god shrugged. “Couldn’t say. You can step inside. Leave a note if you like. — Half a tick.”

He appeared at the door seconds later, his waist enshrined in a towel. “I’m Ian,” he told them cheerfully, offering his hand. “Classics. University College.”

Peter had apparently decided to ignore him; Jo introduced herself. A cursory glance around the sitting room and kitchen beyond did not reveal the notebook.

“I don’t suppose you noticed a small brown book anywhere upstairs?” she asked Ian. “Lying on a table, for instance?”

“The Woolf manuscript, you mean?” He smiled. “She took it with her, of course.”

“Where?” Peter’s word had the force of a bullet.

“Didn’t say.” Ian tightened his towel. “Very cagey this morning, our Margaux. And now, if you don’t mind — I’ve left the bathwater running.…”