picked up one of the books and leafed quickly through it. The paper was yellowed on the edges and scalped by erasures. The darkest areas of type were those with overstrikes and crossed out words. She chose a page at random. “Portrait of William, 18th Earl of Sutherland. By Winterhalter. Purchased from Lord Alistair Sutherland-Leveson-Gower, London, 1898.” Yes, she remembered that particular portrait, a lantern-jawed individual wearing a scarlet jacket and kilt. It was in the fourth floor hallway outside the door of Michael’s room.
Eric asked, “Satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes. Very helpful.” She shut the book and laid it back on the table. Bits of the black paper cover stuck to her hand.
They stood smiling at each other; his eyes, she saw, were smoky gray. Michael set the candlestick down with a thunk. Dorothy turned around. Darnley squeezed through the railings of the piper’s gallery, leaped onto the sideboard and then to the floor, landing just beside Eric. Eric jumped.
“Got you, too,” Rebecca laughed. “The house likes to startle people.”
The cat twined around his ankles, sniffing curiously at his shiny shoes. Eric’s face went ashen. Dorothy, puckered with disapproval, seized the little animal and tossed him out onto the landing. “Shoo,” she stage-whispered. “You know Mr. Adler doesn’t like cats.” Darnley trotted away, his tail an exclamation point of disgruntlement.
For just a moment Rebecca thought a cold sweat glistened on Eric’s forehead. Some people had a phobia about cats… . He collected himself and laughed a slightly forced laugh. “Please forgive me. I— I have nothing against the animal, you understand, but I have bad allergies.”
“What a shame.” Rebecca shot a severe glance at Michael’s simpering expression, evidently meant to imitate a Victorian lady having the vapors.
Eric, tanned complexion and equilibrium restored, pulled a long, narrow sack from his briefcase. “Here’s a small housewarming gift. Surely, in your profession, you’ve enjoyed single-malt Scotch.”
Rebecca accepted the bag and pulled out a bottle. “Laphroaig! My favorite brand! What a treat— how thoughtful. Thank you.”
Eric’s smile broadened into a grin, savoring the effect he was having.
In the bowels of the castle the telephone rang. Dorothy bustled out, muttering about whiskey being the last resort of the alcoholic. Michael’s eyes fixed upon the bottle with a thirsty gleam and then, catching Rebecca’s jaundiced look, bent hurriedly over a set of silver spoons. She set the bottle down well out of his reach.
“Becky,” called Dorothy up the staircase. “You’re wanted on the phone. Jan Sorenson.”
Rebecca’s brothers were larger than she was; they could call her “Becky” and live. Through gritted teeth she said, “Excuse me, please, Eric,” and when she passed Dorothy on the stairs, “I prefer Rebecca, Mrs. Garst.”
Dorothy shrugged. “It’s just a nickname. People call me Dottie, and it never hurt me none.”
Rebecca grabbed a dry piece of toast from the kitchen counter and picked up the receiver. “Jan? Hi!”
Her friend’s voice sounded a continent away. “Sorry to interrupt, I know you must be busy, but Peter and I were wondering if you’d like to come for dinner and some human companionship tomorrow. Bring the Scottish prof, if you think he’d be comfortable with the kids.”
“Love to,” replied Rebecca, snapping off a bite of toast. “I haven’t decided yet if Dr. Campbell fills the bill as human.”
“Oh? One of those shriveled up little characters like the old major on Fawlty Towers ?”
“Oh no. Not at all.” Rebecca sighed. “If he’s as grateful for the invitation as he ought to be, you can see for yourself. Thanks.”
“I’d go nuts slaving away in the dust all alone out there.”
“I’m not slaving, it’s not very dusty, and it’s like Grand Central Station. The lawyer, the gardener, the handyman, the housekeeper.”
“I
Eric asked, “Satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes. Very helpful.” She shut the book and laid it back on the table. Bits of the black paper cover stuck to her hand.
They stood smiling at each other; his eyes, she saw, were smoky gray. Michael set the candlestick down with a thunk. Dorothy turned around. Darnley squeezed through the railings of the piper’s gallery, leaped onto the sideboard and then to the floor, landing just beside Eric. Eric jumped.
“Got you, too,” Rebecca laughed. “The house likes to startle people.”
The cat twined around his ankles, sniffing curiously at his shiny shoes. Eric’s face went ashen. Dorothy, puckered with disapproval, seized the little animal and tossed him out onto the landing. “Shoo,” she stage-whispered. “You know Mr. Adler doesn’t like cats.” Darnley trotted away, his tail an exclamation point of disgruntlement.
For just a moment Rebecca thought a cold sweat glistened on Eric’s forehead. Some people had a phobia about cats… . He collected himself and laughed a slightly forced laugh. “Please forgive me. I— I have nothing against the animal, you understand, but I have bad allergies.”
“What a shame.” Rebecca shot a severe glance at Michael’s simpering expression, evidently meant to imitate a Victorian lady having the vapors.
Eric, tanned complexion and equilibrium restored, pulled a long, narrow sack from his briefcase. “Here’s a small housewarming gift. Surely, in your profession, you’ve enjoyed single-malt Scotch.”
Rebecca accepted the bag and pulled out a bottle. “Laphroaig! My favorite brand! What a treat— how thoughtful. Thank you.”
Eric’s smile broadened into a grin, savoring the effect he was having.
In the bowels of the castle the telephone rang. Dorothy bustled out, muttering about whiskey being the last resort of the alcoholic. Michael’s eyes fixed upon the bottle with a thirsty gleam and then, catching Rebecca’s jaundiced look, bent hurriedly over a set of silver spoons. She set the bottle down well out of his reach.
“Becky,” called Dorothy up the staircase. “You’re wanted on the phone. Jan Sorenson.”
Rebecca’s brothers were larger than she was; they could call her “Becky” and live. Through gritted teeth she said, “Excuse me, please, Eric,” and when she passed Dorothy on the stairs, “I prefer Rebecca, Mrs. Garst.”
Dorothy shrugged. “It’s just a nickname. People call me Dottie, and it never hurt me none.”
Rebecca grabbed a dry piece of toast from the kitchen counter and picked up the receiver. “Jan? Hi!”
Her friend’s voice sounded a continent away. “Sorry to interrupt, I know you must be busy, but Peter and I were wondering if you’d like to come for dinner and some human companionship tomorrow. Bring the Scottish prof, if you think he’d be comfortable with the kids.”
“Love to,” replied Rebecca, snapping off a bite of toast. “I haven’t decided yet if Dr. Campbell fills the bill as human.”
“Oh? One of those shriveled up little characters like the old major on Fawlty Towers ?”
“Oh no. Not at all.” Rebecca sighed. “If he’s as grateful for the invitation as he ought to be, you can see for yourself. Thanks.”
“I’d go nuts slaving away in the dust all alone out there.”
“I’m not slaving, it’s not very dusty, and it’s like Grand Central Station. The lawyer, the gardener, the handyman, the housekeeper.”
“I
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