Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

"She's been around often enough, hasn 't she?"

"Yes, but not that often," I said.

"Hmm." She nodded slowly and then smiled. "I bet you're ravishingly hungry. We can stop along the way and get you some warm food, if you like. I know a nice new French restaurant that's not far. Do you like French food, dear?"

"I haven't eaten all that much of it," I said.

"Oh?"

"I'm really not that hungry," I said. "I ate enough on the plane. I'm okay!'

I wanted to be polite and look at her when she spoke, but I wanted to look out the window, too. Where were the places I had read about in my history books? The Tower of London, Big Ben, Parliament, the National Gallery?

"Just yesterday," she said, "at tea at Lady Bishop's, I told everyone I was getting an au pair from America. It's usually just the opposite," she bragged with a short laugh.

"Excuse me? Au pair?"

"A foreign girl exchanging housework for room and board," she explained.

"Oh." How strange it was to consider myself a foreign girl, but that's exactly who I am here, I thought.

"When we arrive at Endfield Place, I'll have Mary Margaret show you to your sleeping quarters, and then you'll meet Mrs. Chester, our cook. Boggs will describe your duties to you, however. My husband has made Boggs the staff manager.

"What do you think of my new hairstyle? It's the rage in Paris. See how this side looks like it's floating?" She patted the side of her hair softly.

"How old are you again?" she asked, before I could say anything.

"I'm eighteen," I said, smiling to myself at the way she flitted from topic to topic. She reminded me of a hummingbird, buzzing over one flower and then rushing off to the next. It was as if she was afraid of being tied down for even a moment. She was either someone pursued or someone in pursuit, I thought and wondered ill would ever discover which it was.

"Eighteen. Yes, it seems like yesterday," she said wistfully. "Oh, I do hope you don't smoke," she said with a firm face of warning. "Richard won't permit anyone to light a fag in our home and he can smell it a mile away, so don't try to sneak one?'

"Fag?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand. What's a fag?" I asked.

"Oh, it's what you Americans call a cigarette," she said, laughing. "I always forget whom I'm speaking to."

"Aren't you still an American?" I asked.

"Goodness, no. Richard wouldn't tolerate the idea." She gazed out the window and then turned back to me. "You're so lucky. We're having a week without showers, if you believe what you hear on the telly."

"Telly?"

"The televison set, of course. Richard says Americans can't live a day without the telly. I don't suppose you're hooked on one of those dreadful soap things, are you?"

"Oh. Television. No, ma'am, I'm not," I said.

"Good. Just look there," she said pointing to a woman pushing a shopping cart full of cans and bottles. "I don't know what this country is coming to these days. I see more and more aluminum miners foraging for recyclables to get food. Dreadful."

"Homeless people," I said looking back at the woman with the cart. "It's the same back in the States."

"Richard just rages and rages about them. He thinks the government should get them off the streets. Just the other day, he met with the P.M., you know, and gave him a bloody what for."

"Is that the Prime Minister of England?"

"Of course, dear. NowI'll stop talking and you tell me about yourself. Pretend you're telling the story of your life. Go on. Where were you born?" she asked, resting her arms on her lap and sitting back as if I was about to tell her a fairy tale.