Homaweigh, the summer estate of the
Van Pelt dynasty shone resplendent in the afternoon sun. Dazzling window panes
of amethyst, rose quartz and yellow jasper cut into thinnest sheets by
forgotten artisans evoked a hint of the splendor within. Griffin Carstairs
strode across the cobblestoned courtyard and entered the grand double doored
foyer.
The 2 PM tour was just starting.
Griffin secured his admission tag to his blazer button and joined a group
clustered around a slender woman with long black hair twisted into a soft braid
down her back. She gazed up at an enormous bejeweled clock announcing the hour
with mechanized songbirds in choreographed flight around its tree-like case.
When she turned he noted her name, Melchiora Taverstock, printed on her golden badge.
He frowned. He’d hoped to hear another guide’s impressions and possible
additional information on this tour. He had seen the manse six months before,
and wished to view its treasures once again.
“Four generations of Van Pelts wiled
away leisure hours in this majestic home, each contributing to its wealth of
artifacts. We start with the six formal rooms on the main floor, each dedicated
to a different form of amusement.”
Standard fare, thought Griffin. He’d
have to construct questions to add a bit of spice to the tour.
“Lenora Van Pelt fancied herself an
actress, though thwarted from seeking roles by family disapproval. To quell her
disappointment, her father, Fritz, had this small theater built in the East
wing. Plays were commissioned by established playwrights with cameos built in
for Lenora. An elaborate backstage area with dressing rooms and a costume vault
are through the door to the left of the orchestra pit.”
“What playwrights exactly?”
Melchiora turned to the tall, spare
man with a black sling supporting his right arm. A heckler?
“Wilkie Collins, Douglas Jerrolds,
and George Eliot.”
“Wilkie Collins of Moonstone fame? He would have pandered
to a wealthy family in America?”
She’d pegged it. She could spot them
a mile away.
“Collins had a penchant for
actresses, though Lenora was not officially of the stage. They became
correspondents when she wrote to congratulate him on The Woman in White. He even watched her perform here during his
speaking tour across the United States.” So there. Silenced by more than enough
information.
Melchiora led the group to the next
point of interest, the Roman Baths. Cool marble pools with functioning
fountains glittered with sunlight from the sky lights.
“I suppose Esther Williams performed
here for family entertainment?”
Melchiora closed her eyes for a
microsecond before turning once again to her compromised visitor.
“Esther couldn’t make it. Instead, a
flock of swans that lived on the grounds would be brought in to grace the pools
for some events. It took the pool attendants six hours during the night to
clean the pools for the next day’s frivolity.” Animal stories were always crowd
pleasers.
In the ballroom Melchiora gave her
visitors a few moments to admire the murals of dancers at a Viennese waltz on the
walls.
“How did you hurt your arm?” a voice
in the crowd asked.
Melchiora listened to Griffin’s
reply.
“I’m a storm chaser. It’s one of my
favorite hobbies. I got too close to a tornado in Texas and got thrown in a
tree. Hazard of the game.”
His listener oohed and aahed.
Melchiora narrowed her eyes. She had seen him use that same arm to reach up to
adjust his glasses.
“This ballroom is large enough to
house the twelve cars of the typical steam locomotive once prevalent in the
1800s,” stated Melchiora, ready to resume her tour. The wonderment of the group
was disturbed by Griffin’s next comment.
“How did they know? Did the family
have them installed here just for the fun of it?”
Melchiora ignored him.
The group approached the Egyptian
tomb.
“This ancient gentleman was acquired
from the thriving black market that traded in Egyptian antiquities. The Van
Pelts ascertained that he had been a high-ranking official, possibly a relative
of royalty. Therefore, besides installing him in this sumptuous chamber, they
treated him as a celebrated guest. At dinner parties with other notables he was
afforded a seat at the grand dining table. His coffin was propped on an angle
in a specially constructed rolling chair.”
Melchiora paused to scan her
audience. Raised eyebrows, widened eyes, gritted teeth, self-hugging. Perfect.
Until she swung her gaze to Griffin, who sported a wide, toothy smile.
Disturbing.
He had her now. “A surprising tale.
It was different last I was here, six months ago, however.”
“Ah, every guide has a slightly
different presentation,” said Melchiora smoothly.
“I would assume so, except that you
were the guide on that day,” returned Griffin with the slightest laugh in his
voice.
The group had already begun to file
into the atrium. Melchiora and Griffin had lagged behind. He hesitated, allowing
her to go ahead of him. As she did so her right foot deftly loosened the wedge
holding open the heavy gilt door, which swung directly against Griffon’s black
sling with a thud. Melchiora turned sharply to observe his reaction. Griffin
held the door afar with his right arm, no apparent worry about its violent
contact with his current injury.
“A tornado was it? And an arm was
all you broke?” gloated Melchiora, staring up into Griffin’s face.
“You question my veracity when half
of your tour has been fiction?” parried Griffin, looking down into her eyes.
They waited, breathing heavily. A
communion of recognition passed between them.
The remainder of the tour passed
without incident. The visitors came away with renewed notions of how eccentric
the uber rich could be.
“Coffee and pastry is available in
the former billiard room,” intoned Melchiora brightly as they finished their
thanks.
“Let me treat you to a latte. I’ll
tell you how I injured my arm.”
(978 words)
No comments:
Post a Comment